Ten Days in Puglia, Part 3: The Heel of the Boot

This was the first time I had booked a vacation home online, sight-unseen. I was a little wary as photographs online or in brochures occasionally accentuate the positive to the point of distortion. But I was also quite intrigued. When I contacted Bruno, the owner of “La Grica” where we stayed just outside of Tricase in southern Puglia, via the HomeAwayUK website, he sent me a link (www.lagritca.it) providing additional information on the location and amenities.

Upon arrival we thought, perfect! This is exactly what we expected based on the photos on the website! The house had whitewashed walls, blue shutters and painted tiles, a thatched roof protecting the large terrace surrounded by olive and fig trees. It reminded me of postcards from Santorini and had the same view to boot – an unobstructed 180 degree panorama of the Adriatic sprawled out before it. I typed “sea view” into my house hunt criteria on the HomeAway site and sea view is precisely what we got.

The inside was basic but sufficient and clean. The terrace was really so amazing that we didn’t spend much time inside. There was even an outdoor shower and a clay pizza oven and grill.

The beach was not right out the front door but was accessible. Being on the Adriatic side of the “heel”, we were on the rockier, untamed side. There were steep winding staircases carved into the rockface every few kilometers where swimmers can make their way down to the intensely turquoise water below. For divers or snorkelers, it is a dream; for parents with young children, it’s a bit of a nightmare. The pathways were steep in places and windy conditions meant strong waves which made getting in and out of the water tricky. Kids would do better on the sandier shores of the Ionian side between Santa Maria di Leuca and Gallipoli.

Speaking of kids, if we were to bring the kids back with us next time, I unfortunately would have to say that we probably would not choose to stay here again – as much as I would LOVE to. The house is located just off of a busy road (although you don’t notice this because the house itself is situated down a windy set of stairs, far below) and while the terrace was perfect for my husband and myself, it would be a bit limited for a few small children who would want to run around and kick balls – all of which would fly over the railing and roll 100 meters through olive groves toward the sea below. Easy beach access or a nice yard would be much more ideal for children. Basically, its not the kind of place you as a parent could relax and let the kids run around unsupervised: steep steps, busy roads, vertical drops – it’s the kind of place where you would want to have your kid on a dog leash. But for 2-4 adults – it is an absolute dream. If we can cajole the grandparents into taking the kids again, we would love to get a couple of friends together and come back here.

Or more. The house has two parts; the lower part was rented out to another couple, a middle aged Italian couple from Rome. We said hello in the mornings and they shared a few restaurant tips with us but otherwise, we were very respectful of each other’s space and we rarely noticed someone else was there.

Bruno rented the house on a weekly basis, from Saturday – Saturday. We explained to him that we would have to leave Thursday, two days early, as we had stashed the kids away with their grandparents and need to get back and he gave us a 100€ discount on the weekly rate – which was incredibly nice of him, as he didn’t have to do that.

Speaking of Bruno, he had the keys waiting in the door for us when we arrived. He came up shortly thereafter to introduce himself, see if we had any questions and clue us in as to where to find groceries, the nearest gas station, and the best restaurant in the area. His house was situated about 100 meters below ours and he instructed us to come see him if we had any questions or problems.

About Puglia itself...

Puglia is best undertaken with a car. Public transport is limited and bicycles require serious quadriceps for the gorgeous cliff-hugging roads. Small, charming towns like Otranto, Gallipoli, Santa Maria di Leuca on the coast offer incredible seafood, nighttime passegiatas that take one back in time through the old winding streets of the walled cities, and soft sandy beaches with turquoise water that locals liken to the Maldives. Small villages on the interior like Specchia, Taviano, and Tricase provide a peek at everyday life on the Salento where visitors can stock up on local produce from nearby farms (Puglia is famous for its vegetable antipasti), homemade salami and cured meats and legendary fresh cheeses like Puglian burrata. At A Casa Tu Martinu, diners (like us) sit al fresco in a gorgeous courtyard garden sampling the bread dipped in vino cotto, a cooked wine sauce, bruschetta melanzane, discs of fried eggplant a top a pomodorini salsa, fresh handmade orrchiette with stewed greens or pasta all ceci, pasta with chickpeas. Fresh produce is also the star on the menu at the many messerie in the area. Messerie are former or current farming estates that boast some of the freshest fare in the Salento.

We usually spent the mornings gasping at the view from our terrace over thick slices of succulent watermelon and strong shots of espresso. By the time we managed to tear ourselves away, it was nearly noon and we would explore one of the nearby towns while everyone was at home having lunch, avoiding the mid-day heat. We would escape the heat at one of the gorgeous beaches – Baia dei Turquie north of Otranto or Baia Verde, otherwise known as the Italian Maldives, south of Gallipoli – from 3 pm onwards. One afternoon, we opted to rent a boat and explored the gorgeous rocky coastline around the Baia dei Zagare, south of Otranto and the cliffs and coves north of Leuca.

Gorgeous beaches, delicious fresh fish and vegetables, stunning views and a very relaxed local vibe is what we experienced in the Salento. Thanks again HomeAwayUK for the opportunity to stay in one of your amazing properties. We will definitely be staying with you again soon!

Ten Days in Puglia, Part 2: A Basilicata Seque and Southward

Lovely, limestoney, Trani welcomed us into a gorgeous old monestary and fed us fresh fish and creamy gelato.

Had we been staying in an apartment instead of a hotel, we would have hit up this charming fisherman and his selection of langoustine, pulpo, sea urchins and fresh fish.

Sometimes you just stop, right there in the middle of the street, and admire. But keep an ear out for oncoming Vespas. They'll sneak up on you, fast.



In case you've thought about doing one of those "Leaning Tower of Pisa" poses on other monuments, you might want to reconsider, as Ingo cheerfully demonstrates at the Castel del Monte, about an hour outside of Trani and high on Ingo's, "Must see before I die" list.

So, Matera. In all honesty, I had never heard about Matera until I read this article. I am not sure if the city, particularly the former cave dwellings, referred to as the "Sassi" or stones, have attracted many tourists in the past or if the industry got a boost when Mel Gibson' filmed "The Passion of the Christ" here in 2004. But it appears that Matera is poised to become a sort of Disneyland for spelunking tourists. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1993, the old cave dwelling side of the city faces a gorgeous arid canyon. The caves were actually inhabited until the 1950s when the Italian government forced residents out because it was an "embarrassment" to have people living in such squalor in modern times. Government high rises were constructed and the former owners were begrudgingly relocated. Begrudgingly because these caves were kinda rad. They stayed cool in hot summers, boasted the first irrigation system in the city and offered membership into a sort of tight knit community that comes from living literally on top of each other.

We booked a room at the Sextantio Albergo Diffuso Le Grotte della Civita which coincidentally, is the primary focus of an article in the upcoming September issue of National Geographic Traveler Magazine entitled "The Towns Italy Forgot". (Another one of those DAMNIT!! WHY DIDN’T I WRITE THIS!! moments). As Miriam Murphy says in the article, it is a one-of-a-kind hotel and she speaks with the proprietors and provides interesting background on the architect’s vision for the hotel and other similar projects focused on resurrecting abandoned villages while preserving their architectual and historic integrity. And although Phillipe Starcke obviously wasn't around back in the day to design bathtubs for the cave dwellings like the one in our hotel room, they do use mostly locally sourced materials, like the dark woods used by local carpenters to make the closets and tables. Or old stone troughs used as sinks.

We wandered the city from one steep slippery stone walkway to the next. Which was a bit of a technical feat being that I was 6 months pregnant – meaning I had to haul around 20 extra pounds and my balance was off - and it was 95 degrees. But the views kept us going, every winding trail offered scenery more spectacular than the next. As much as “jaw-dropping” is an overused cliché, I can’t think of a better word to describe the Sassi.

In a country like Italy, there is very little left to “discover” – the famous works of art and architecture have all been found, documented, restored and displayed. The charming fishing villages have traded in shanties for boutique hotels and waterfront seafood restaurants, the best beaches are covered with “bagni” where it costs 20 euro a day to have the privilege of sitting under one of their umbrellas and on one of their beach chairs, the best restaurants have lines and waiting lists, as do the most significant cathedrals and now even the wild countryside of Tuscany and Umbria boast views that are blocked by sign after sign for the newest oldest agrotourismo accommodations and dining.

 

Our cave room

Don’t get me wrong, I love Italy. I fell madly deeply hopelessly in love with Italy when I was 16 and went abroad for the first time in my life on a Rotary exchange program. I spent the summer with two families, both of whom had a girl my age who I quickly called my best friend and both of who lived outside of Milan. I was enchanted by the animated language from the lyricism of the words that would be impossible to speak in a straight jacket for lack of use of the hands and entire body. I was thrilled that dinner started with a huge plate of pasta – just started! I looked forward to the afternoon lull following lunch where we’d lay around and watch bad talk shows or just talk. But most of all, I fell head over heels for Massimiliano. And let’s be honest, a short but sweet love affair will definitely taint your view of a place.

 

The common room

Massimiliano is long gone but my love for Italy remains deep. The way they stock legs of prosciutto and wheels of Grana in gas stations (!) and convenience stores (!), the repertoire of endearing names you are called by complete strangers and acquaintances (Ciao bella! Ciao stella! Ciao gioia!), the stand-up espresso counters and potato chip buffet apperitivi, the nonnas in their one-size-fits-all moomoo dresses and knee high stockings, the way the women will get made up, decked out, dressed up just to go out to the corner store for milk, the multitude of hand gestures that one must learn to actually understand the language, the tolerance for sexist talk shows that have not changed in 20 years. Even the annoying things – especially the annoying things – are endearing. That’s love.

And the touristy stuff is often endearing as well. But not always. If Italy had a Masai Mara, a Chang Mai hill people tour, an overtouristy, voyeuristic, over-hyped, something potentially interesting relegated to the ranks of banal, it would be Alberobello and “trulli” country. Please tell me I am wrong, I so wanted to be enchanted. And I preface my opinion by saying we had only 24 hours to spend in the Valle d’Istria – nowhere near enough time to explore it properly. I would have loved to spend a week in an artfully restored trullo somewhere in the countryside – and I don’t doubt there are many of them and that they are amazing. But I am atalking about Alberobello.

 
A typical trullo in Alberobello

Just skip it. Drive by. Snap a pic if you want. But don’t stay there. It’s the kind of place where you feel like you got suckered. You will be angry with yourself for falling prey to the trulli scam. At least, that is kinda how we felt. Go instead to Locotarondo for dinner, and stop in Martina Franca for granita at the M Betitto Sorbeteria.

An evening stroll through Martina Franca

Drive by the trullis in the fields, maybe stop by. But do yourself a favor and skip Alberobello. Maybe it’s because we just came from Matera, or maybe it was the family from Long Island who was walking around behind us with a heavily accented running commentary, but the town was just – meh. Everyone wants to sell you something, or provide you with an “authentic” stay in one of their trullis. Just avoid. Overall we were surprised by how “untouristy” Puglia is. At least, by foreigners. Italians discovered Puglia long ago and continue to appreciate its beaches, its food, its towns. But the rest of the world has only just started to catch on. And a great way to take it all in, is to set up shop there for a little while. Like we did. With our HomeAwayUK rental on the Adriatic coast just outside of Tricase, north of the southern most tip, Santa Maria de Leuca. Next and final installment: our amazing little house on a cliff and the southern tip.

Ten Days in Puglia, Part 1: Gargano

It was a bit of a serendipitous babymoon.  A soon-to-expire voucher for a free rental of a HomeAway UK property via this Grantourismo travel blogging contest and my in-laws volunteering without prompting to take the kids for a while was the equivalent of the stars aligning to offer us what will most likely be our last vacation as two before the impending arrival of baby number three for the foreseeable future. I mean, maybe we will be able to do this again when a) baby three is weened b) the grandparents feel up to the challenge of taking on three at once and c) at least one child is old enough to cook dinner, do the laundry and perform CPR, just in case. Until then, we will revel in the memories of a gorgeous ten day get away to Puglia, otherwise known as "the heel of the boot".

We left the kids with tears in our eyes on the beach with their grandparents not far from Ferrara. An hour later, the tears were dry and we had the stereo cranked, the windows down and we were free on the open highway, just me, my man and one baby minus 14 weeks. First stop: the gorgeous Gargano Promontory and the slippery-stoned, peninsula-topped, jaw-dropping view offering town of Peschici.

There were delicious discoveries like little almond paste cookies that Ingo took one bite of and declared too rich, and a sort of Puglian scone, the Pane del Pescatore, a dense bun with sweet raisins and salty almonds that filled us up for the rest of the day. There were also slices of hot dog and french fry foccaccia which we passed on this time around.

After an amazing meal at Porta di Basso where we sat at a table literally ON a CLIFF, I mean one step over the guard rail and it would have been 100 meters straight down into the sea, we headed out the next day to trace the promontory. Cruising by the trabucci, these old fishing nets that reminded me of the ones in Cochin, where you can sit and eat fish from the sea, into the pan and onto your plate.

Stopping over the lunch hour in sweet little Vieste, we continued tracing the coast, stopping occassionally to oggle the view, like this:

And periodically stopping to hike down to some little spot of beach like this:

And then on to the Baia delle Zagare, a little bay and incredible hotel that Ingo had been hearing about from his parents since childhood when they would dump him and his brother at his grandmother's and head down south for a few weeks on their own (sound familiar?). They would occasionally stay at this hotel, a gorgeous place perched up on a cliff with an elevator built into the rock to take guests down to this secluded little expanse of white sand. The only way to get to this bay is to stay at the hotel, have your own yacht to cruise up in OR if you are sneaky like us, talk to someone at the front desk and tell them you are looking for a hotel and wanted to look around the grounds. They instructed us to make ourselves at home and pointed us toward the elevator. The famous elevator! To the famous bay!

Totally dreamy.

Pulling ourselves away from the bay, we continued along the coast, passing exceedingly ugly industrial Manfredonia, which spit us off of the promontory and into Trani:

where we got in just in time to see the sun set over the harbor and cathedral from our hotel room at Hotel San Paolo al Convento, a former convent with limestone walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. Thanks for the tip, in-laws!

From Trani through Matera and the Valle d'Istria and on to the tip of the heel... next.

Sniff's Grantourismo Top Ten Travel Tales

Atop Petra

In random order...

Spending the day with Pol Pot's former Head of State, Khieu Samphan and his family at his home outside of Pailin, Cambodia, a stones throw from the Thai border. Khieu is currently sitting before the International Tribunal pleading not guilty for his role in the deaths of 1.7 million Cambodians during the Khmer Rouge regime. During our lunch at his house, he completed denied any responsibility for the events and claimed ignorance.

After an incredible day at Petra, Jordan, we climbed atop the old court building at closing time with my friend Anees and his Bedoin friend who grew up in Petra. We had the park all to ourselves as we made tea and watched the sunset – 300 meters up. Then scrambled down in the dark after the police called to say they found our car in the middle of no where and wanted us to come into the station. Sobering, ahem.

Sharing my first khinkali dumplings with Stalin’s great grandson in Tbilisi, Georgia.

Breaking fast with the men who shovel the coal that warms the bath water in a little cave adjacent to the hamam during Ramadan in Fez, Morocco. We ate stuffed dates while they showed us the hole in the wall where they spied on the naked ladies in the bath.

My three-day overland trip from Dakhla, Morocco via 50 car military convoy through the Western Sahara territory into Mauritania. We then continued from Nouadibou to Nouakchott – it too us four days to drive 400 km through dramatic sand dunes in a Mercedes van, pulling the plaques out, stuffing them under the wheels and jumping back in the van as it was moving, Little Miss Sunshine style.

Getting caught in a rainstorm while sleeping on a rooftop in a small village in Dogon country, Mali. As we climbed down from the roof I burst into a rousing rendition of "Singing in the Rain" which turned into a medley of my favorites from "My Fair Lady", "Oliver" and "Sound of Music". The owners of the roof wanted to reciprocate so they cajoled the children into singing a traditional Malian song for us. They were fantastic and we gave them a thunderous round of applause.

My first trip abroad at 16, a month-long exchange in northern Italy. I fell in love with the food, the culture, the people... and Massimiliano.

My first summer in Cesky Krumlov, Czech Republic where my friend Vasek took us floating down the Vltava on inner tubes. We got out every five minutes or so, pulling over at a local bar to grab a Pilsner, a shot of Slivovitz and some head cheese. Then continuing the float, a lazy day around a gorgeous castle and lots of fire wire.

Standing on the rooftop of an old haveli in downtown Lahore, Pakistan during Basant, the annual kite festival, watching the kites dip and dance and fight. Cheering the winners who remained in the sky and sympathizing with the losers whose kites were cut and plummeting.

Driving around the Blue/Hazrat Ali Mosque in Mazar-e-Sharif, Afghanistan on Nowroz (New Years) only to find ourselves suddenly surrounded by a jubilant mob, singing and dancing and playing drums on the hood of our car. We were in standstill traffic, with euphoric revelers ten people thick surrounding us. There was a sudden moment of panic realizing that if this mob suddenly got out of hand, we could be in serious danger. But when we looked at the buzzing mob, we realized there was nothing but good will and good energy. And we were part of it.

This post has been entered into the Grantourismo-HomeAway UK travel writing competition for February. What are you favorite travel memories?

Home for the Holidays

My Polish sister-in-law, Kamila, sets an extra place at the table and heaps the would-be diner's plate high in keeping with the Polish tradition of preparing for an unexpected guest. Everyone takes a piece of wafer that is broken and distributed and we wish each other health and happiness in the New Year. Kamila's mother passes around homemade motsch, a gingerbread "soup", and makufki, poppyseed cake, both staples on the Polish Christmas table.

My Italian father-in-law pops open a bottle of prosecco and scrambles to stop it from overflowing. I set out a plate of cookies beneath the tree for Santa, my one insistence on an American tradition from my childhood.

Later, we dim the lights and assemble the German feuerzangenbowle - a pot of mulled wine straddled by a metal bridge supporting a sugar cone. Strong whiskey is ignited and ladled over the cone. The chemical reaction sends blue flames high enough to scourge the ladler's eyebrows and we ohh and ahh over the spectacle. As if this show of pyrotechnics was not enough, we light candles ON the tree - a German tradition that has always flabbergasted me. How these extremely practical, risk-adverse people could light a tree on fire is beyond me. But it's gorgeous and it glows as we sing a round of "O Tannenbaum".

Although some of us are far from our homelands, preserving our Christmas traditions by sharing them with our extended patchwork family makes it feel like I am home for the holidays. 

 

This post was entered into the Grantourismo HomeAwayUK travel blogging contest for December. We'd love to hear what you think. 

South Indian Local Spice

  Everyone on the bus is staring at me. I always managed to be the local attraction, despite the sari.

In preparation for my semester abroad in Madurai, India, I was given a crash course on customs and cultural differences; I learned to conduct myself as a respectable Indian girl. Upon arrival, my host family dressed me for the part—they wrapped me in vibrant saris with perfect pleats, sparkly stickers called bindis were placed on my forehead, and paisley swirls of henna decorated my body. My wanderings throughout the cavernous carved stone stalls of the Meenakshi Temple taught me how to barter and order sweet milky tea. I mastered the customary southern Indian head wobble, the respectful bow over hands pressed in prayer and only passed items with my right hand.

I stood out like a drag queen in church, and yet I felt my attempts to blend in with the locals were fairly successful—until I ate. With the first bite of my host mom’s cooking I was gripped by an intense panic that the inferno blazing inside my mouth was going to cause my head to spontaneously combust. My taste buds were under attack, my eyes burst from their sockets, a deluge of sweat washed over me.  The ability to pass chilies, so intense, from lips to stomach, would require months of pre-game training.

Riding a fresh wave of sweat, the bindi slid down my nose.

Stopping in mid-bite, jaws gaping; four dark brown faces stared at me with expressions of confusion and deep concern. Apparently, "turning pink and crying" while I ate was blowing my cover.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for November on the topic, "Living Like Locals". We'd love to hear your thoughts in the comment section.

As Local As I'll Never Be

I spent two years living with a family in a hut made of cow dung in Mauritania, West Africa. I learned to speak the village language, Soninké, enough discuss the Koran with my host “father”, shoot the shit with my teenage brother Moussa about American pop culture and talk to my moms about female circumcision. I worked in the millet fields, pulled water from the well and slept outside with my sisters.

The Peace Corps, in essence, is the ultimate exchange program. It’s an opportunity to live more local than you ever thought possible in the developing world, basically being adopted into a family.

One afternoon during the daily tea break, I made fun of Moussa with the requisite insult, “You eat beans!” Everyone laughed. “Ah, Laliya (my local name),” said my mom, Khujedji, “You really are one of us.”

“No she’s not," Moussa shot back. “If anything happens to her, they’ll fly her out of here and she’ll leave us behind.” Khujedji shushed him. But he was right. I had an out.

For me, this was novel; for them, it was real life. I might have lived in the same mud hut, but I would be evacuated if I became severely ill; I’d be flown to shelter in the event of civil unrest and I would never be dependent on a millet crop for my survival.

While I gained a better understanding of daily life than otherwise possible, I would never know what it’s really like to be local.

This post was entered into the Grantourismo - HomeAwayUK Travel Writing Competition for November on the topic, "Living Like Locals". We'd love to hear your thoughts in the comment section. 

Dia de los Muertos

Watching people mourn their loved ones, whether they are drinking tequila while doing it or not, seems like a bizarre way to spend an evening, but we were in Mexico and it was Dia de los Muertos, so that is what we set out to do.

The large indigenous population of Patzcuaro promised all-night cemetery vigils and ghoulish revelry—eating, drinking and dancing with the dead. Hoards of Mexican and international tourists flock to the colonial lakeside town every year, and we were among them—sitting in traffic, miles from our destination. Anxious to get out from under the shadow of the tour buses, we took a spontaneous turn down a narrow road, following close behind a mud crusted pickup truck over-flowing with bright orange marigolds. A canopy of colorful paper flags hung low over the crumbling residential street which dead ended at an inconspicuous cemetery.

Buzzing with activity, the cemetery had a cheerful mood. Families were scrubbing tombstones and landscaping graves with fresh flowers and candles in preparation for a night of remembrance and rejoice with their deceased loved ones. Adoration and tenderness were channeled through their deeds. A vibrant blanket of marigold petals was laid out to welcome the souls home. Our serendipitous turn had derailed us from the spectacle of Dia de los Muertos and gave us an intimate peek behind-the-scenes. Leaving the iconic glamorous skeletons and sugar skulls far behind, we had the privilege of experiencing the true spirit of the holiday.

This post has been entered into the HomeAway UK Grantourismo travel blogging contest for October. We would love to hear your comments.

Breaking Fast

The Fez medina

We didn’t intend to fast. Trolling Fez’s medina during the holy month of Ramadan, we found sweet shops shuttered and restaurants baron. Shortly before sundown, our rumbling stomachs encouraged us to follow a group of Moroccan women carrying Tupperware containers as they weaved through the narrow alleyways. Their final destination: a soup shack.

We nuzzled in between diners at the countertop and were promptly presently with a steaming bowl of harira. Behind the counter, a man stood over a 40-gallon tub, ladling spoonfuls into containers for the women to take home to their families; for those of us who didn’t have families waiting, the camaraderie at the countertop among fellow fasters emulated a familial bond. We spoke little as we sat elbow to elbow, spoons poised at our lips, eyes fixed on the setting of the sun, which was broadcast on the television screen above. As the last glimpse of the glowing orb disappeared, the cook exclaimed “Aiwa - Bismillah!” In the name of God! And 50 people crammed in a closet-sized restaurant simultaneously slurped.

As everyone handed in empty bowls and zipped up jackets, we smiled at each other. The cook asked if we had fasted all day too and when we said yes, the other diners nodded in approval. For a few minutes, we were part of a collective ritual of breaking fast, and in doing so were adopted into a new family - if only for the three minutes it took to slurp a bowl of soup.

This post has been entered into the HomeAway UK Grantourismo travel blogging contest for October. We would love to hear your comments. 

Afghan Heirlooms

Qabili pilau and sabzi

Technically I was not supposed to be there. My Afghan colleague Najla invited me to dinner and I gladly accepted the invitation. Riding in an unarmored car to her home in Karte Parwan, one of Kabul’s residential neighborhoods, where the outer walls were less than ten meters high and there were no armed guards outside, was breaking all the rules of security protocol.

Due to the volatile situation and cultural restrictions, I had limited contact with my Afghan counterparts despite the fact that I lived in Kabul. Therefore, this invitation was more than just dinner, it was a window into the lives of the people I worked with everyday, but otherwise had little access to.

Najla and I took a seat on the toshaks, cushions laid out on the floor in the living room. Her nieces ran in giggling, gracefully balancing trays with tea and sweets and depositing them on the floor in front of us. I attempted to follow Najla’s lead and gracefully fold my legs beneath me but wound up shifting every few minutes, uncomfortable and awkward.

“I didn’t tell you, but this is a bit of a special occasion,” Najla said. “My eldest brother has just returned from Pakistan. We are finally all together in Kabul again!” Najla’s family fled Kabul like so many other residents of the Afghan capital during the civil war that engulfed the city in the early 1990s. They made their way over the Pakistani border into Peshawar where they stayed in camps until they returned after the fall of the Taliban.

The room slowly filled with family members and everyone squeezed in around the plates that began pouring from the kitchen: dark green sabzi, stewed spinach, banjan borani, delicious fried eggplant topped with tangy yogurt and paprika; aushak and mantu, hand made dumplings filled with either leaks or ground meat and covered with yogurt, lentils and mint.

But the centerpiece of the meal was the qabili pilau, the dish that heralds a special occasion. The faint brown rice was redolent with spices including cardamom, cinnamon, nutmeg and anise. While the fragrance was synonymous with a special holiday meal, the combination of the soft carrot strings, the sweet, robust raisins and succulent chunks of lamb made this dish feel more like comfort food.

When I inquired about the spices, Najla was coy. “The exact mixture of spices in the pilau varies from family to family,” she said. “It’s always slightly different and,” she paused, “it’s top secret,” she smiled mysteriously. “What you are eating is my mother’s recipe, which she learned from her mother, which she learned from her mother….” She trailed off.

Passed on from generation to generation, the family qabili pilau recipe is an heirloom. It is an oral history, something that they carried with them when they left everything else behind. As most Afghans at some point in their lives have been internally displaced or refugees, like Najla and her family, this recipe is more than just a meal - it is remembrance. 

 Girls' School in Herat

  Shah-e Doh Shamshira Mosque, Old City, Kabul

Stunning Band-i-Amir lake, Bamiyan Province, Central Highlands

Buzkashi, game traditionally played on Nowroz, or New Years, with players on horseback and a headless goat as the ball

Women in burqas visiting the sick at the Blue Mosque in Mazar-i-Sharif

Outside boys' school, Herat

Shopkeepers at prayer, Jalalabad

 Herat's Friday Mosque

The "kite runners" - boys chasing kites at the King's Masoleum, Kabul

This post has been entered into the September Grantourismo HomeAwayUK travel blogging competition.