Chicken soup – there is perhaps no other unpretentious dish common to countless cultures that conjures such feelings of comfort and contentment, evokes nostalgic memories of grandmothers and snow-filled winter days and contains virtually mystic healing powers.  There is something magical about the smell of homemade chicken soup, the perfect combination of colors, textures and tastes.  Tender pieces of chicken, soft carrots and celery and just the right amount of herbs and seasonings.  As much as I disdain the routine and mundane it is rather soothing to prepare and savor this familiar fare.

We have recently returned from yet another roadtrip.  On this occasion our travels took us from southern Hungary through the hamlets of Croatia, across the snow-filled plains of Serbia, into the mountainous regions of Macedonia, up, down and around the craggy cliffs of eastern Greece before finally reaching Athens, birthplace of Western civilization and home to many of history’s greatest thinkers.  We walked on the shores of the Aegean Sea, stood on the Acropolis and gazed upon the awe-inspiring Parthenon, strolled through the ancient agora and marvelled at the site of the first modern Olympic games. 

Perhaps one of the reasons I thoroughly enjoy traveling is that it provides me the chance to escape from routine.  Traveling offers the opportunity to ignore a set schedule, throw propensity (and your watch) to the wind and enjoy the surprises and wonders that serendipitous exploration brings.  It is quite gratifying to reach that level at which not only the time but the day is lost to one’s memory.  

Yet, no matter how wonderfully relaxing, refreshing, invigorating and enlightening the vacation, it is always a comforting feeling to return home to the predictable, the known, the familiar.  It was these very emotions that propelled me on the seventeen hour return to Hungary.  Unlike the journey to Athens in which we stopped to rest for a night, the long haul home was marked by only a few very brief breaks to refuel.  After passing once again through the mountain passes, plains and hamlets we arrived at our final border crossing and were greeted by the, if not entirely comprehensible, recognizable language of Hungarian.  Shortly thereafter, we arrived in Pecs and were welcomed by familiar streets, shops, bus stops, trees, hills, apartments and parks - sights that soothed our spirits and assuaged our minds. 

Recently, as I stood over the stove, adding carrots, onions, celery, herbs and chicken to the large pot of boiling water,  I reflected upon the fact that while I haven’t lived in Hungary long enough to comprehend its vast array of social mores, manners and principles, I have grown familiar and feel much more at ease here.  Recalling the first few days and weeks of our arrival and the inherent challenges and obstacles we faced in adapting to a peculiar environment, I am now pleasantly surprised to discover that this country, in a few short months, has become as comforting and soothing as a savory bowl of homemade chicken soup. 

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