Tasting the Journey: How Travel Writing Preserves Food and Memory
- Dec 3, 2025
- 6 min read
By Dirk Ebener - December 3, 2025
“Ultimately, travel is not determined by where your journey takes you. It is defined by how you choose to remember it.”
For more than forty-five years, I have crossed continents, tasted foods that once seemed unimaginable, and filled notebooks with uneven handwriting and hurried thoughts. These records are not neat. They are raw, clumsy at times, but indispensable. They remind me of the small, unpolished details that photographs alone cannot preserve. I know what is lost when experiences go unrecorded, and I know what endures when even a single sentence finds its way to the page. Enjoy reading "Tasting the Journey: How Travel Writing Preserves Food and Memory."
“Don’t look back.” The words echo from podiums and TED Talk stages, from self-help books and mentors eager to keep us moving forward. Their message is simple: progress lies ahead, not behind. In business, ambition, and daily life, that logic may ring true. But for the traveler, looking back is not a weakness. It is nourishment.
My first lesson in memory arrived not with grandeur but with pain. I was six years old, running barefoot along the beaches of Cesenatico, a fishing town on Italy’s Adriatic coast. Families strolled the promenade, fishermen prepared their boats, and the air carried the scent of sardines grilling nearby. For me, it was freedom: the endless blue of the sea, laughter rising with the breeze, sand sticking to my legs. Until my foot struck a rusty bottle cap buried in the sand. The sting left me crying and left a scar I would carry long after the wound healed.
It was a small injury, but I remember it more vividly than the postcard views of the canal designed by Leonardo da Vinci or the colorful sails of fishing boats in the harbor. That bottle cap—not the beauty—became the anchor of the trip. This marked my first glimpse of a truth revealed slowly over time: travel is not built solely on perfection. It is shaped by interruptions, flaws, and ordinary details that resist fading. Without them, trips blur into the same sandy beaches and sunsets. With them, they remain alive.
By sixteen, I had found a way to hold on to those details. As an exchange student, far from home and immersed in a culture that was both exhilarating and bewildering, I began writing nightly. Some days I filled pages with descriptions of new meals and friendships; other nights I managed only a line or two about fleeting moods. My journals were uneven but honest. Decades later, they still travel with me, a bridge back to those formative years. When I open them, I hear the voice of my younger self—awkward, eager, and learning what it meant to grow up abroad.
Those words bring me back to specific sensations: the taste of bread that seemed richer than anything I had known, the sting of embarrassment when I stumbled through a foreign phrase, and the warmth of laughter shared despite my hesitations. Without writing, those moments would have dissolved. With it, they remain vivid. Reflection, I learned, is not indulgence but preservation. Even a clumsy sentence can transform an ordinary moment into a permanent one.
Technology tempts us to believe memory is safe. A phone can capture thousands of images, each time-stamped and geotagged. Social media provides instant platforms for sharing. Yet months later, scrolling through those images, I often find only the broad outlines remain: the abbey, the curry, the pint. The emotion has slipped away. The sound of rain on cobblestones, the spice lingering on the tongue, the laughter spilling from a pub doorway—these cannot be scrolled back into existence. They must be written. As one writer once said, travelers are not different from anyone else; they simply take the time to write.
If one thing anchors memory more than any other, it is food. Meals root us to time and place in ways monuments never can. In Cesenatico, I remember sardines grilled by the sea, and cold watermelon slices at night. In Avignon, a croissant so buttery it stained my fingers, tied forever to a crisp autumn morning. In London, fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, grease seeping through, eaten while the rain beat steadily outside, and a pint of bitter cut the salt. Food is more than flavor; it is culture made edible, emotion made tangible.
Looking back through my journals, it is the food entries that stand out the most. A note about bread in a Tuscan village calls back not only the taste but the warmth of the bakery, the laughter of the man who served it, the light slanting across the floor. A scribble about dumplings in Shanghai recalls the noise of the market, steam rising from bamboo baskets, the thrill of discovering something new. To record a meal is to record a culture, a place, a connection.
Of course, not every moment deserves a postcard. Beds are uncomfortable, sandwiches are soggy, train connections and flights are missed. Yet these imperfections often become the stories we tell most fondly. I once wandered lost for hours in Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, overwhelmed by its endless alleys, and it remains one of my favorite memories. In Dublin, relentless rain left me drenched, but the warmth of a crowded pub that night glowed brighter for the chill that came before. In Tokyo, confusion led me to order the wrong dish—and I discovered something I loved. Travel’s imperfections are its authenticity, and authenticity is worth writing down.
London, more than any city, reminds me why writing in the moment matters. A day might begin at Westminster Abbey, continue with dinner in a small curry house, and end with a nightcap in a pub humming with laughter. Weeks later, the memory reduces to a list: abbey, curry, pint. Writing that night, though, means the details remain: the chill of stone inside the abbey, the fire of spices, the damp cobblestones gleaming under streetlamps, the Beatles drifting from a jukebox. These are not facts—they are experiences that live again when given words.
“It’s okay to capture it all,” I remind myself when doubt sets in, when I wonder if I’m recording too much. “Abbeys, plates, and pints tell your London story.” Writing it all down is not excessive. It is an act of care, a way to ensure journeys remain stories rather than fading impressions.
Looking back now, I realize the journals are more than personal keepsakes. They are also acknowledgments. By writing about a meal in a family-run trattoria or about a stranger’s kindness on a train, I am saying: you mattered. You shaped this moment. Travel is not a solo act. It is a collaboration with the people and places that host us. Writing is how I honor that collaboration.
So, I keep writing. Sometimes in detail, sometimes only in fragments. I scribble about food, about frustrations, about joy. Even when exhaustion tempts me to wait until tomorrow, I push for at least a sentence. Because tomorrow, the details may already be blurred. A phrase is often enough to bring it all back: the smell of bread, the sound of laughter, the way rain tapped against the window of a hotel room.
If you had ten minutes tonight, what moments from your travels would you record before it fades? Perhaps it would be the first bite of a meal that surprised you, the generosity of a stranger, or the view from a bus window. Whatever it is, write it down.
Final Thoughts - Recording your moments
Looking back does not mean clinging to the past. It means learning from it. It means carrying the richness of your journeys with you and shaping your future by preserving your memories through writing. By recording moments, meals, and connections, you move forward guided by the stories that make your travels meaningful. Reflection is not nostalgia, but a tool for living more fully.
Dirk Ebener is the founder and creator behind the Food Blogger Journey website, drawing on over 40 years of international travel across more than 60 countries. His global adventures have deepened his understanding of regional cuisines, local customs, and the powerful connection between food and culture. From bustling street markets in Asia to quiet vineyard dinners in Europe, Dirk captures authentic culinary experiences through immersive storytelling. Through Food Blogger Journey, he invites readers to explore the world one dish at a time.
© 2025 Food Blogger Journey. All rights reserved. The experiences, opinions, and photos this blog shares are based on personal travel and culinary exploration. Reproduction or distribution of content without written permission is prohibited.
Follow the journey on Instagram @FoodBloggerJourneys.
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