Part 12 (2/2)

'Ciao, you come back soon. We have more eating to do.'

With that, he hopped back on his bike and sped off into tl: night, waving over his shoulder as he weaved unsteadily into'^ the distance. I just said a silent prayer of thanks for the fact I was still alive and for the opportunity to see Sicily through one of its native sons.

All Roads Lead to Rome 'Veni, vidi, vici.'

Or at least, that's how it should have been when I entered Rome, in triumph. I had been, I had seen and I had eaten. Rome was the last official stop on the trip before I headed off to meet up with TGS for a wine-sodden 'end of the adventure' week back in Spain.

I had been to twenty-nine countries. I had eaten thousands of meals, met hundreds of people and completed a task that had not even entered my mind eighteen months earlier. I should have stormed into Italy's historic capital more unbearable than ever, stayed in a fine hotel sipping on the best wines while unutterably attractive Roman girls gave me shoulder rubs, peeled me grapes and applauded my achievements, all the time whispering in my ear 'You are not a G.o.d'.

Cut to picture of shambling forty-something hobbling up five flights of stairs to a tiny room in a grubby hotel, throwing Big Red on the floor and collapsing on the bed in tears. 1 had developed the tiredness equivalent of a water table, and it only took a small amount of effort to push me over the top into physical meltdown. 1 had not slept the night before, on my last night in Sicily, and the headache of my grappa-induced hangover had kept me awake on the plane. My foot, which had begun to ache as I reached Palermo, was now beating out constant and painful rhythms that convinced me that it was indeed fractured. 1 winced as I pulled off my walking shoes and socks and looked at the bright red swollen lump that was now where my foot used to be.

My only previous visit to Rome had been in 1980, a last, reluctant, childhood holiday with my parents at the age of sixteen. They had both been in their pomp - my father a successful surgeon, my mother the local magistrate - and true to form, Gwen Majumdar, who had experienced a secure but modest upbringing, was doing nothing by halves. We stayed in one of the better hotels, ate meals at expensive restaurants, and my father, who remained besotted with my mother from the day they met until the day she died, surprised her with lavish gifts of jewellery. Now, nearly thirty years later, I was far from my pomp and filled with fear.

What was going to happen now I had finished? Did 1 start looking for another job in publis.h.i.+ng? I would certainly need the money. Or was this, as so many people had told me along the way, the beginning of a new chapter? I didn't know, I had not even thought about it much during the trip, but now I would have to. Added to all the other things I was experiencing, my worries began to escape me in floods of salt water.

By the time the waterworks had dried up, I was feeling better, or at least spent. I stripped and had a shower, swallowed a fistful of painkillers to numb the pain in my foot, and took out my guidebook and notes. I may not have been in any shape to conquer Rome, but I was going to have a go.

It is, of course, impossible to do the Eternal City justice when you only have two full days and you can't walk. Not that such impediments could seemingly stop the coachloads of elderly American tourists I encountered at every turn and at every major sight as I hobbled around the town. At the Colosseum I was battered out of the way by a wave of blue-rinsed women who made their way to the front of the queue using their walking frames as a handy weapon, and I saw the same group at the Palatine Hill and in the Forum. It was overhearing the description of the latter as 'a cute bunch of rocks' that made me think I should have some lunch before I said something that would make me a marked man in senior centres all over the USA.

ITALY: ROME.

I headed up Via Cavour, dived into a trattoria that I recognized from my internet research and ordered half a litre of house red before my backside hit the leatherette seat cover. Like all other Italians, Romans are obsessive about food and have their own specialities. In particular, they like their pizza, and pizzerias are dotted all over the city, from the corner shop selling it by weight from square blocks with different toppings to the smartest restaurants with wood-fired ovens and the finest ingredients. I have expounded my 'snot on toast' theory about pizza before in this book, so I won't repeat it here, but it is fair to say it is normally something I avoid.

When in Rome, however - even if it does involve eating something resembling mucus. I ordered the Roman favourite, pizza margherita, which, although it actually originated in Naples and is in theory the most simple of all to make, with little more than tomato and mozzarella cheese, is a source of constant discussion among the Romans. While that was being prepared, I fortified myself with another favourite, bucatini all'amatriciana, a dish of tubular, hollow pasta with a sauce made from pork jowl, pancetta and tomatoes. This was much more to my taste, with a slight kick from a hot chilli used in the cooking and the zest from the addition of lemon juice before serving. I was famished and attacked the bowl in a way that won admiring glances from other tables and from the staff, who quickly brought me another bowl of bread when I finished the first one sopping up the sauce.

The pizza arrived. It looked as I imagine a good pizza should: the toppings bubbling and glistening under a sheen of juices and a drizzle of olive oil, the base crispy and cracking under the pressure from my knife. It was a good example of the genre; I just didn't like the genre and this was not going to change my mind. I nibbled at the crust and ate a bit from the centre, but my mind was still going back to the meaty, rich pasta dish. In the end I pushed the plate away, contents half-eaten, indicating that it was fulness rather than disgust that had caused me to fail.

The day, and indeed the trip, had caught up with me, and I decided to head back to my hotel room. I bought a bottle of good red wine and spent the evening drinking, reading and sleeping - all restorative acts that I hoped would at least bring me back to a semblance of normality.

I felt much more energized the next day and, because of my early night, was up and raring to go at 7 a.m. Stopping only for the prerequisite Italian pastry on the way, I found my way to the Vatican City and was the second person in the queue when the doors opened at St Peter's. I was able to stand in awe before Michelangelo's Pieta for twenty minutes before another soul appeared. I was not so lucky, however, when I headed out to the Vatican Museum, where already vast queues had begun to form. I was tempted to turn around, but it seemed silly to have gone all the way around the world and not to see one of the truly great pieces of art on my last stop. It was, of course, a hateful experience. Tour groups ruled, with, in these modern times, each tourist attached to a earpiece that made them look like a mismatched a.s.sortment of trainees for The Gap.

The solo tourist is the lowest in the pecking order, and I had to fight my way with considerable force until I found myself staring upwards at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It is, despite recent insensitive restorations, which make it look like it has been coloured in with crayons, as remarkable as I had imagined, doubly so because its majesty s.h.i.+nes through the pus.h.i.+ng and shoving of tourists and guides alike.

The Yorks.h.i.+re lad in me could not help but look up and think 'A bit of Artex would work a treat there'.

I found my way out of the building and hailed a cab, asking the driver to take me to the Piazza San Salvatore, where I had a likely spot for my last lunch in Rome. I had my mind set on two other Roman specialities and began with one of the most misunderstood of all pasta dishes, spaghetti carbonara, all too often a bowl of limp pasta swamped with cheese and cream, often from ajar. At its best, however, it is a beautiful mix of sauteed onions.

ITALY: ROME.

crispy Italian bacon, large amounts of pecorino and beaten eggs, which cook in the residual heat of the pasta.

To follow, it was just the time of year to order abbacchio, a dish of beautifully tender, slow-cooked spring lamb, seasoned heavily with lots of garlic, sage and rosemary before being spiced up with the addition of anchovies just before serving. It was a simple yet glorious meal, and I lingered over it for two or more hours while I treated myself to a bottle of Brunello, the smooth, subtle wine from Tuscany, some gelato for dessert and an unfeasibly large grappa to send me on my way, this time more with a slight swaying than a hobble.

I returned to my hotel for another early night. I had to fly to Spain the next morning to meet TGS. I had done a bit of sightseeing and had had at least two excellent meals, but I had scarcely done Rome justice. Mark it up as another place I have to return to one day. I had my excuses, though. General weariness, the sorest foot any human male has ever had to endure without having it amputated, and limited time. Whatever the excuses, it definitely was not a case of Veni, vidi, vici', more a case of T came, I saw, J conked out'.

-s

1.

41.

The End of the Road.

For a journey that had involved so many long-distance trips, the final flight was an anti-climax: a short hop fiom Bilbao, where I had finished a final few days touring La Rioja with TGS to celebrate the end of the journey.

I arrived at my flat shortly before midnight and threw Big Red down on the floor. As it hit the surface, air was squeezed out through a small rip on the side that had appeared in the last two weeks. It sounded like a sigh, which was fair enough for a companion who had done as many miles as I had and in considerably less comfort. Like me. Big Red had endured nearly one hundred flights, almost thirty countries and had seen the inside of countless hotel rooms. It had been my constant companion - often my only companion. Airlines had tried to lose it, and crooks had tried to steal it, but together, in our own very British way, we had muddled through somehow.

I peeled my walking boots off” and tossed them to one side. I promised myself and my foot, still painful and swollen from the stress fracture, that I would not need them again for a little while, if ever. I made myself a large mug of builder's tea and sat down to check my e-mails. There were a handful that said 'well done', but otherwise the end of my journey seemed to have gone as little remarked upon as the day I handed in my notice. Not even a mention on the TV news, which was so desperate for stories that they were talking to a woman who claimed to have seen the face of Jesus in a piece of toast.

Had it been worthwhile? Had I actually achieved anything after all that time, effort and, of course, money?

Glancing up from my cup of steaming tea, into which I was dunking my second chocolate digestive biscuit, I saw an envelope propped up on the dining-room table. I opened it and a read the note inside. It was from Baba.

'Congratulations on finis.h.i.+ng your round-the-world trip. Mum would have been very proud.'

Of course, it had been worthwhile. I might have spent every penny I had in the bank and a little bit more, but it had been worth every last cent. I had made a journey that most people could only dream of but few will ever have the opportunity or inclination to embark upon. I may not have fulfilled my avowed aim to 'Go Everywhere, Eat Everything', but I had given it my best shot. I may not be the first person to have eaten rat in China, elk in Finland, barbecue in Texas, crickets in Manila or cod sperm sus.h.i.+ in Kyoto, but there are not too many people out there who can claim to have done so in a little over a year. One thing is for certain: I am the only Simon Majumdar to have done it, and that was good enough for me.

What about Simon Majumdar? Where does it leave him? Well, apparently it leaves him talking about himself in the third person, which, at the very least, sees a richly deserved slap in his near future if he keeps it up. It leaves me (that's better) broke but incredibly rich in experience. It leaves me with memories that few others will ever have, of standing on the Great Wall of China and riding the rails from Mongolia to Moscow, of the smells in the bodegas ofjerez and the smells of Chinese toilets, of the craziness of India and the rigidity of j.a.pan, of much-loved family members in India and New York and new family members in Manila.

It leaves me with over 12,000 images on my computer, most of the different things I have eaten in all those countries - food that, if I look at the pictures, can still summon up pleasing memories of the tastes and the smells and the circ.u.mstances in which it was eaten.

Most of all, it leaves me with hundreds of new people in far-flung corners of this globe that I can call 'friend' and mean it. People like Tomoko in Kyoto and Tana in Santa Cruz. People like Stan and Lisa Cohen in Philly and Bath in Senegal, the Den Dulks in South Africa and Pertti and the Prinsessa in Finland, the strangers who broke bread with me on a train in Morocco and the old friends who welcomed me into their homes all around the world.

A man whose view of the world could at best have been described as jaded before he set out had had his faith in the intrinsic goodness of people restored. That on its own is accomplishment enough, and I suspect it would have been enough to make Gwen Majumdar proud too. I am not sure I need, deserve or want any other accolade apart from knowing that my father is, and my mother would have been, proud of me.

So what now? Perhaps it is time to go back to being a grownup and get a real job involving a desk, a hole-puncher and a PC, on which I can play solitaire when people think I am working. Perhaps I could look for a different job, something in the food industry, going cap in hand to the many people I now know who do this for a living and asking them if they have room for a balding, forty-something with a dodgy foot.

Or perhaps, just perhaps, I should figure out a way to keep doing exactly what I have been doing for the last year. To keep finding ways to travel around this rapidly changing world of ours in search of the best food and the generosity of spirit that makes it taste so good. The offers and invitations are still flooding in - in fact, even more than when I first set out on the trip. There are still another ninety countries out there whose stamps I would love in my pa.s.sport, and, of course, there is so much food still to try. Perhaps Big Red and I aren't finished quite yet.

Any ideas?

end.

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