Sweet freedom served on a plate

Joys and not-joys of traveling solo

Traveling alone is a roller coaster of emotions. When I got on, I didn’t expect its tracks would take me through London.

The doors in London are all different colors. Maybe to distract from the gloomy weather, but it’s actually very sunny when I arrive, and the city feels brighter than many others I’ve visited so far.

Going where I please has allowed me to meet people from all over. I am surprised everywhere I go by those who graciously let me into their colorful doors. For a moment I get to see a slice of their world, and together we fill up on food and drinks. On my way out, I feel content and a bit full, the cozy kind that drags you to sleep fully clothed—walking out their colored doors, I forget that there are just clouds in the sky. When I wake up, I am always a little hungrier from the day before. Even after forty thousand steps, the hole in my stomach distracts me from the ache in my feet.

I dither between wanting stability and freedom. Freedom is a plate of sticky Basbousa which arrives first. I am warned beforehand of its potency. At the end of the meal, I’m afraid it’ll be a little too much, that one bite will send me over the edge into the realm of overindulgence. But I must try.

Yes, it is sweet, admittedly almost too sweet. The tiny grains of semolina are moist with syrup and holding it leaves my fingertips sticky, but its sweetness is so pure and so intoxicating that I finish it in two bites anyway.

I wonder if I can gorge myself on freedom the same way one eats too much Basbousa when they are young. If it is possible to have so much that a single glance will send me in a state of nausea, or if the next day I will just crave it again. There is a second piece on the plate. I could stuff the whole thing in my mouth if I wanted to, and I feel gluttonous shame because part of me does. So instead, I lick the syrup off my fingers and wrap the second one up in a napkin.

Later that night at my hostel, I ate it in one bite.