A Thanksgiving for Nomads

This morning I recieved a message from my dear friend Aleah. She was in London. “I love this city,” she wrote. “Maybe it’s all the memories from our travels. Do you remember our Thanksgiving chicken?”

Of course I remembered. Fresh out of high school Aleah and I went backpacking together across Europe. Beginning in Spain we ambled all over the continent, from Italy and Croatia, to France and the Czech Republic. We met up with friends, took epic train journeys, saw the sights, and spent an inordinate amount of time in the cafes of Europe—reading, talking, writing, drawing, and simply absorbing our surroundings.

During the final weeks of this odyssey we found ourselves in London, staying in my cousin’s apartment. It was late November and we were cold, sodden and thoroughly ready for home. Gone were the sun-drenched days spent wallowing in Spanish plazas and basking beside Italian fountains. Our backpacks, clothes, and shoes—smart and new months before—had become increasingly gray, tattered, and odiferous. And along with them our spirit of adventure was rapidly wearing thin.

“Do you realize it’s Thanksgiving today?” Aleah was indignant as she stared at her calendar. “Oh,” I replied mournfully, glaring down at my breakfast toast with renewed disgust.

We were both silent for a moment, wallowing in the pathos of our situation. Then Aleah went back to sketching, giving a momentary sniff and flare of the nostrils—demonstrative, I knew by now, of a fit of the grumps.

I brooded for a moment and then stood up. “Well, let’s make dinner then. We have Patrick’s kitchen, I’m sure he won’t mind . . . especially once he sees the leftovers.”

“You mean, buy and cook a whole turkey for the two of us?”

“Well, maybe a chicken,” I admitted, “but still, it’s better than nothing.”

So we made our way to the nearest shop with renewed enthusiasm, and bought the ingredients for a makeshift Thanksgiving meal: a fat chicken, potatoes to mash, carrots to glaze, wine to mull, apples for pie, and even a couple cheeses to start.

That afternoon was spent ensconced in my cousin’s kitchen, listening to music, reminiscing about Thanksgivings past, and preparing our feast. It was perfect day for the meal: a dull gray sky, fine drizzle of rain, and heavy chill to the air.

I don’t remember much about the meal itself (my activities in the kitchen at the time were more enthusiastic than skillful) but it was the idea—the mental image of a feast—that counted. We ate hungrily, drank liberally, and thoroughly revived our sagging spirits. It served as a reminder of where we were: at the culmination of an epic adventure. It was a journey we would remember and talk about for years, as much for the smelly, uncomfortable hostels and nights spent camping out on train stations as for the appropriately raucous nights and magnificent architecture.

This year I’ll be at home for Thanksgiving, but Aleah and her boyfriend will be abroad, installed in their little rental cottage in the Netherlands. I hope they will have a feast, perhaps another Thanksgiving chicken, a pile of creamy mashed potatoes, and a gravy rich enough to wash away even the most remote traces of homesickness.