Back in Greece, I watched several college-age kids ride up the ramp of our ferry on motorcycles ready to cross the Adriatic Sea. I regretted not taking time off during my college years to backpack around Europe. I was always working.

As it turns out, traveling with a wife and two kids throughout Europe in a small SUV, while checking in and out of hotel rooms, is a lot like college.

The Levi Principle— After six months on the road, I catch myself saying things like, “I’ve gotten nine days out of this pair of jeans. They look pretty good, except for that red-sauce stain on the back pocket. Maybe I can get to Madrid before they need to be washed.”

Keg Party Aftermath— Traveling on a budget has made me appreciate “family rooms.” Many hotels over here have rooms with a full-sized bed and two twin beds or bunk beds. I take advantage of these at every opportunity because it means I don’t have to buy two rooms for the night. But after two days with a 14 year-old girl (who over packed), a 10-year old (who has no concept of neatness and organization), and a third member of the family who shall remain nameless for the sake of marital bliss (but one who also over packed), the room begins to look like a college apartment after an three-day Homecoming party.

Clothes are scattered everywhere, remains of leftover food are on any available flat surface. Soft drink cans overflow out of the tiny hotel-sized trashcan. Clean towels are on the floor and dirty towels are hanging from the rack in the bathroom.

I’ve been dog-cussed in seven different countries, in eight different languages, while passing housekeepers in the hallway. I think one even put a gypsy curse on me.

The Dorm Shower Challenge— I spent an entire semester in my college dormitory never taking a relaxing shower. A shower should be peaceful and serene, a time to wind down. In my dorm the shower room backed up to the toilet room, and anytime someone flushed, it created a scalding effect in the shower room. This caused everyone to spend brief bursts of a few seconds each under the showerhead, just getting enough water to wet or rinse as was absolutely needed.

In Europe the plumbing is different from country to country. Hot is on one side in Italy and on the other in Austria. Many of the showers have those hand-held nozzles that tend to challenge ones dexterity, as it’s hard to wash with just one hand.

And speaking of washing, that brings us to the next example:

The No-Wash Cloth Dilemma— I am not sure what happened to my washcloths after I went to college. There weren’t any. I know my mother packed an assortment. Maybe I used a few of them for napkins. I probably spent seven years just rubbing a bar of Dial soap on my body. Actually, I rubbed whatever soap was available and laying around in the general vicinity of the bathroom.

My sophomore year I knew three guys who moved into a large rental home that was infested with fleas. Two of the guys kept fleas on their shoes, socks, and legs until they fogged the house. Another never had a bug land on him. They found out later, he had been bathing with the bar of flea soap left in his bathroom by the previous occupants, conclusively proving college boys will bathe with anything.

It’s the same here. In Europe, they don’t use washcloths. Seriously, there are no washcloths to be found. For me, a washcloth is a must. In the beginning of the trip I just used a hand towel from the hotel, which at first was like a giant washcloth, but eventually became too cumbersome.

After a month, my wife found these shower glove-type things that are portable and quick drying, but are about as soft as a coarse sheet of 60-grit sandpaper. She bought four color-coded pair— one for each member of the family. My son lost his after a week, and it was a month later that I realized that he had been sharing mine.

I remove several layers of dermis during daily showers. My wife calls it exfoliating. I call it painful.

The Great Towel Hoard— In places where we will stay more than a few days, we usually rent an apartment. It’s been a hit and miss proposition. In Venice, we couldn’t have asked for a better space. In Budapest, we found ourselves on the edge of the Hungarian slums, in a place that made my college apartments look like The Ritz. In such locations, a family of four is allotted four towels for the length of their stay.

I am spoiled. At home I use a towel once and then put it in the hamper. In college, I could stretch the use of a towel for days, weeks even.

Traveling with a family is different, however. People tend to not respect the man of the house’s towel allocation program, and no one follows the everyone-must-use-their-own-towel rule. It’s a mad dash at bath time trying to find the one clean towel that might have dried out from the previous day, and one that the 10-year old didn’t leave crumpled on the floor under the sink.

This practice led me to resort to cloak-and-dagger tactics with towels. You would be surprised at how many places there are to hide a towel in a tiny European apartment. It took me a few months, but I got sneakier and more stealth-like the longer we traveled. As I type, my towel is drying in a closet hidden behind several suitcases. Shhhh.

The Road Trip— Traversing Europe by car is exactly like a college road trip: Everyone loads in at the last minute, the vehicle is crammed full with blaring buffoons, it’s loud, no one is comfortable, strange smells emanate from seemingly nowhere, and the driver is the only person who has a vague idea of the end destination.

These days I catch myself saying things I never thought I’d say. Things such as, “Alright, who ate a croissant while sitting on the toilet?” On second thought, maybe I did the right thing skipping the college backpacking-around-Europe thing, after all.

Oh, and by the way, the Louvre is amazing, Versailles is beautiful, and French food is remarkable.

Before we left our home and said goodbye to life as we knew it, my friend Chris said, “I’ve been to a lot of places, but if I could live anywhere in the world, it would be Switzerland.” I wrote the remark off as a geologist in love with giant rock formations.

If we’ve learned anything on this five-month European adventure, it’s that as soon as we say “This is our favorite country/city/site/museum or the most beautiful place we’ve seen, or the most awe-inspiring scenery we’ve witnessed, or, ‘this is our favorite, so far,’” we stand before something new that takes it’s place. Hello Swiss Alps.

We have seen some beautiful things in the last five months. Back in September, during a drive through the Brenner Pass at dusk, we saw the first snow of the year as it barely capped the Dolomites. We’ve seen sunsets over the Tuscan countryside and sunrises over the French Riviera. I stood in awe of the ceiling and walls of the Sistine Chapel, Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus,” the cobalt-blue waters on the island of Mykonos and the Amalfi Coast in Italy, Germany’s Black Forest west of Neuschwanstein, Michelangelo’s David, Gehry’s Museum in Bilbao, massive marble-filled cathedrals in Budapest, Vienna, Siena, Milan, Seville, and Rome. But if God or man has made anything more beautiful than the Alps mountain range in Switzerland and France I have yet to see it.

I have always been attracted to snow-capped mountains. At home, I prefer the green, wooded Smokies to the rough, jagged Rockies. The Alps seem to provide the best of what those two American ranges offer.

My family has spent the last two days driving the scenic and winding roads in and around Mount Blanc. We had no pre-set destination in mind, and no mission other than the desire to let the kids see some snow. We were awestruck at almost every turn.

Geneva has suited our needs, well. It is a very accessible city and has everything one looks for in a large European metropolis. The bonus is that it’s a short, picturesque one-hour drive to the highest peak in all of Western Europe.

When one is on the road for an extended period, he or she looks for different things in a city or locale. Geneva was the right place at the right time. In another life, I would have insisted on a view of the lake and accessibility to shops.

The things that makes me grateful, as I sit and type on my tiny desk at the Edelweiss Hotel— three blocks from the lake and a mile from any boutiques of note— is that within a one-block area there is a seamstress, and laundry, and an auto-repair garage. Heaven.

A family of four can go through a major amount of laundry in a 10-day period. Many towns and cities don’t have laundromats as we know them. Hotel prices for cleaning are prohibitive, so budget-minded travelers must find an alternative. That is never easy. In Ostuni, a remote Italian village of 30,000 mostly non-English speaking people, I lost my wife for several hours while on my way back to pick her up at the only laundromat in town. In Madrid, with no laundromats available, we had to go to the food market to find a lady who could launder clothes. She was located behind a fresh-produce booth (which had excellent Clementine oranges, by the way).

Here in Geneva, a half block from the hotel, we found a laundry. It’s just across the street from the seamstress who is hemming my son’s jeans, and two doors down from the auto garage where our car is finally getting a long overdue service.

I am 6,000 miles past due for an oil change. It’s not because I have been an irresponsible automobile owner, it’s that there are no garages near hotels in European city centers. I found a place in Segovia, Spain several weeks ago, but the language barrier challenge arose, and— after a 10-minute game of charades, and a lengthy conversation with the man’s wife over the telephone— we had to get back on the road.

Charades comes in very handy over here. For the most part, we have been able to get anything we need by acting things out. If my son doesn’t want onions in a dish at a restaurant, and I don’t know the German word for “onion,” my wife just acts out chopping with a knife, and shows tears streaming down her face. Nailed it.

Language has only been a slight problem. I have found that, as long as one smiles and is polite and respectful, one can communicate. Despite warnings to the contrary, almost everyone we have encountered has been friendly and accommodating. No matter the nationality, they want to help.

The problem these days is I am getting my pleasantries mixed up. I say “Ciao” when I should say “bonjour.” I “si” when I should “oui,” or say “grazi” when I should be saying “merci.” I find myself speaking some bastardized version of Italian-Spanish-French mixed with English and a little charade-laden Pig Latin thrown in for good measure.

Yesterday we fell in love with Megeve, a remote village in the French Alps. We will return. Last night we ate fondue. Today we drive to Paris and regretfully leave the Alps in our rear view.

Onward.

The answer was always twofold: Italy, because I was going to be working on a book with my friend Wyatt. And Spain, because of everything I had read and heard.

Italy was perfect. The architecture and historical landmarks were awe-inspiring, the people were kind, gracious, and passionate, and the food was fantastic. We are 16 countries into this journey, and I still haven’t been able to top the three-week experience of Tuscany and our week in Milan.

Spain, though, runs a close second. We kicked off the month of December on the high-energy streets of Barcelona, moved to the metropolitan splendor of Madrid, set up camp for two nights in historic Segovia, trekked through the olive groves that line the roads south to Seville, established Andalusian headquarters in the Mediterranean town of Malaga during the holidays, met the monkeys on Gibraltar, made our way up the coast though the orange groves of Valencia, back to Barcelona for a festive New Year’s Eve Catalonian style, and are kicking off 2012 in Basque environs of Bilbao waiting for the Guggenheim to open its doors tomorrow before we say “Adios” to Spain and “Bonjour” to France. If you thought that was a long, tiring sentence, you should have lived it.

There are many reasons to love Spain. The land is diverse, the people are caring and friendly, the architecture is impressive, and the food is inspirational.

Spain is the second-largest consumer of fresh seafood in the world— just behind Japan. To a boy who spent his summers on the Gulf of Mexico, that tweaks my palate perfectly. More than 80 percent of the olives grown in Europe come from an area south of Madrid and north of Seville. The orange groves north of Valencia skirting the Mediterranean towards Barcelona rival any I have seen in Florida or California.

Italy has prosciutto, but Spain has Jamon Iberico, possibly the best ham in the world.

During my stay in Seville, an expatriated Mississippian, Doug Inglis, took my son and me on a trek through the Spanish countryside where I followed the five-year process of Jamon Iberico from the shade of cork trees and holm oaks, where the black pigs forage for acorns, to the town of Jabugo (a municipality so dedicated to ham, the city square is named for it), to a curing facility where 100,000 hams were hanging in the cure house. Afterwards, Inglis, my son, and I ate Jamon Iberico Jabugo until we reached the point of porcine overdose.

As in Italy, the food differs greatly from north to south. High quality ham and fresh seafood is everywhere, but the geographical regions take precedent in the dishes, their contents, and especially their preparation. Obviously, here in the Basque country, French culture and cuisine sneak into the mix and establish a unique fusion.

In Seville, a city that can reach 130 degrees Fahrenheit in August, ovens are too hot to keep in a kitchen and are almost non-existent. Most of the cooked food is flash fried. That can get old quickly, even to a child of the Deep South. As in Naples and Amalfi across the Mediterranean to the west, citrus plays a key role in the cuisine of southern part of the country.

Though, unlike Italy and France where good quality breads can be found almost anywhere (even in petrol stations on toll ways), finely baked breads remained out of reach for the entire month. I did find a good bakery in Seville, but a French woman ran it.

Tapas (pintxos in the Basque country) are a way of life, and that style of dining suits my tastes and eating habits, perfectly. I have always preferred several small-plate starters to a single appetizer and entrée. In America, the restaurant dishes that appeal to me most are usually at the beginning of the menu.

I ate over 90 meals in Spain during the month of December. During those meals I ate over 240 dishes and food items.

None of the meals were as inspiring, creative, and delicious as the ones I spent at Tapeo in Barcelona. It’s been a long time since I have taken as many notes, asked as many questions, and snapped as many photos as I did during my five meals at Tapeo. For me, it is— by far— the most inspirational restaurant concept I have visited in years.

To the average diner, there might not be anything exceptional or out of the ordinary at Tapeo. But something about the food in that place clicked with me. A young husband-and-wife team opened the small 37-seat concept just 18 months ago. Chef/owner Dani Rueda works alongside a sous chef, two server/bartenders, and a prep cook/dishwasher. Five people. That’s it. On busy nights Rueda’s wife, Natalie Ferran assists the two guys working the floor. All food is made a la minute (or whatever the Spanish word is for the process of cooking to order). The menu is surprisingly diverse considering his kitchen consists of a four-burner stove, 18-inch flattop griddle and a counter-top deep fryer. The chef smartly incorporates sous vide cooking in his limited space, a large portion of which is occupied by the typical Jamon Iberico presentation.

Rueda prepared a pork rib dish of which I ate a second helping every time I visited. He spent time teaching me the dish, and I am bringing it back home and putting on one of my menus the day after I arrive.

Earlier this year, while traveling through Denmark, Germany, Austria, Greece, Turkey, and Croatia I lost over 25 pounds. In Spain I found them.

Tomorrow we head to France, and with my lifelong bread addiction kicked in to full-crave mode after a month-long wheat drought in Spain, it looks like I will miss my goal of losing 30 pounds during this trip. Laps up and down the Eiffel and two weeks in England aren’t going to be enough to repair the damage done by the foods of the Iberian Peninsula.

Every year I publish a year-end top-ten list of the best meals I’ve enjoyed throughout the past year.

I’ve been eating my way through Europe for the last five months, but most of the culinary highlights have come from two countries. Though we dipped into France for a few days several weeks ago, Italy and Spain have been the shining stars on this trip, so far.

We return to France next week, and if any of those meals qualify, they will be on next year’s list.

It’s been a life-changing year so far. My love of food and the restaurant business has grown, my creative spirit has been re-energized, and I am on fire and ready to return home loaded with more ideas and energy than I’ve ever had before.

Here we go.

10.) Lunch on the terrace at our villa in Tuscany, Barbarino, Italy— We did this several times during our three-week stay. The lunches were simple and casual. The view was amazing— 180-degrees with the Tuscan mountains visible 20 miles to the west— and the weather was perfect. Even though we were at the end of the growing season, I ate the best grapes I have ever tasted. The pastries came from the Bagnoli Pasticceria in town, the cheese from the creamery down the road, the olive oil from trees at the villa, the pasta dishes from my sauté pan in the villa, and the view from God. Beautiful on all counts.

9.) El Tintero, Malaga, Spain— Family and friends came to visit for the Christmas holidays. I figured if I couldn’t do the typical and traditional turkey-and-dressing thing, I should move as far away from that family tradition as possible. I did. We ate our Christmas Eve dinner overlooking the Mediterranean on a long table while waiters walked through the dining room, loudly calling out the names of the freshly cooked plates of seafood they were carrying— lobster, squid, giant shrimp, several varieties of fish cooked several ways, and assorted other seafood items I didn’t recognize. At the end of the meal they counted the stack of plates on the table and handed me the check. Next to Teatro Del Sale (#5), this was one of my most unique dining experiences in Europe, and worthy of an entire column to describe it all.

8.) The Viola Club, Tavernelle, Italy— This was a small locals-only lunch spot in our town. We ate there often. There were always a few dozen men playing cards in the front room. A mother, aunt, and wife handled the cooking in the tiny kitchen. The son served the tables, and his father manned the bar and cash register. Euro for Euro, it’s been the best value on the trip, so far. Real, local food, served unadorned, by real, local people. I also spent a fun morning in their kitchen. Good stuff, that.

7.) Dinner with friends, Milan, Italy— Our friend Barbara invited us to a dinner in our honor at her friend Betty’s house. We had been traveling all day, and the first course wasn’t even served until 10:30. The food was typical of a Milan dinner party, and it was excellent. I sat next to a man who learned English by listening to Beatles records as a child, we spontaneously belted out Beatles songs throughout the dinner.

Possibly the best thing to happen on this trip is that we have secured new friendships with great people whom we love and admire. They will all be visiting the United States next December and I am going to take them on a culinary/music tour of the South.

6.) Nobu, Copenhagen, Denmark— This restaurant came at the perfect time. We had spent three weeks in the culinary deserts of Greece, Albania, and Croatia. While walking the streets of Copenhagen, after a lunch of goulash, I passed a sign for Nobu (my favorite New York sushi spot). The meal was so timely, and so good, I almost cried. Seriously.

5.) Cibreo, Florence, Italy— Fabio Pizzi is the top chef in Florence, and one of the most talented, creative, and enterprising business people in the country. This is his flagship. The food is upscale and among the best fine-dining meals I have eaten in several years. The entire experience was made better by our waiter/maître ‘d, Joseph, who served us tomato aspic, basil flan, veal tripe salad, a spicy fish soup, perfectly prepared sea bream, and the richest and best polenta I have ever eaten.

4.) Teatro Del Sale, Florence, Italy— Again, Fabio Picci. This is one of the most unique dining experiences I have ever enjoyed. Teatro Del Sale is located across the street from Cibreo, but is a mile away in theme and atmosphere. Where else in the world can one eat more than a dozen courses, personally served by the chef, and attend a show in a historic theatre, afterwards? I don’t use the word “must visit” often. But if you go to Florence and don’t eat here, you’re nuts.

3.) Tapeo, Barcelona, Spain— I returned to this restaurant three times during a four-day visit. I will eat there again two more times on my way north. It is still the leader for “Best Tapas In Spain” in my opinion. It’s a small, locals-only space run by a husband and wife. The dishes prepared by the chef/owner and one assistant kept me up for three nights, forcing me to make lists of small-plate items I plan to develop and serve when I return home.

2.) Ristorante L’Archibugio, Barbarino Val d’Elsa— The best pizza I have ever eaten. Period. End of story.

1.) Dinner at Annagloria’s house, Tavernelle, Val d’Pesa, Italy— This dinner marked a sea change for me. In one meal, I saw how simple and easy true Tuscan-Italian home cooking can be. It will be the one meal that will serve as the inspiration for all of the dishes that will be included in the new Italian cookbook. Our friend Annagloria, the owner of the villa we rented in Tuscany, invited us to her home for dinner. In about one hour, she prepared: Local Tuscan grapes wrapped in gorgonzola cheese, pear halves filled with marscapone and sweet gorganzola, potatoes filled with squid and pesto, vegetable gnocchi with fish, a spinach and squid entrée, and an amazing chocolate cake that took three minutes to make and nine minutes to bake. All will be in the book.

Onward.

A decade is a world away in Malaga, Spain.

I have worried about Christmas since August. The original itinerary had the family spending the entire month of December in England, with Christmas week in London. That was until my friend Nick, an expatriated Brit living in Atlanta, told me that December in England would be a terrible idea, “It’s cold and wet and starts getting dark at 3 p.m.”

Cold and wet aren’t necessarily a problem for my group, but the whole getting dark at 3 p.m. was a surprise. He’s a sharp guy, so I took his advice.

The new calendar and travel itinerary placed us in Spain during December, more specifically, the south of Spain. Our family and a few friends are coming over and we are all going to share a villa in the Andalusian countryside midway between Seville and Granada, just north of the Mediterranean and Malaga.

In August, while already on the road, I began second-guessing my plan. Why didn’t I book Germany during December? Maybe I should have chosen France for Christmas. And after spending three weeks in Tuscany, I regretted not re-booking that villa for the holidays.

Would the south of Spain, which was ruled by the Moors for over five centuries, know how to celebrate Christmas? Would there be Christmas carols? Lights? Would we be able to find a Christmas tree? Does Santa even know his way around in this part of the world? Suddenly, Spain seemed like the worst potential European country in which to spend a Christmas holiday.

I love Christmas. It’s a big deal for me. But I’ve got a 14 year-old daughter and 10 year-old son in tow. It’s an even bigger deal to them. I also have parents, in-laws, and friends traveling thousands of miles during the holidays to spend time in the location I chose. The pressure is on.

Many of the traditions we Americans celebrate during Christmas started in Germany and England. In October I thought about rebooking the entire holiday season and finding a small village near the Bavarian forest where it would be cold, with a chance of snow. There we would spend a Christmas holiday like we have never experienced.

But the changes were too expensive and I couldn’t settle on one place that would be the ultimate European Christmas spot. So we trudged onward towards Spain.

When we left Italy at the end of November, I began to worry that the entirety of Europe might not put as much importance on Christmas as we do back home. There were no decorations in the stores and no lights on the streets.

In France, during the first week of December, our yuletide prospects didn’t look much better. Once we left the Cote d’Azur and headed into Provence, we started to see a few hints of Christmas. Arles was dead. Aix En Provence had lights on the streets, but that was about it. I began preparing my apology speech to the family about booking a holiday vacation near the Mediterranean, in what seemed to me, like the least likely of all Christmas spots.

The first week in Barcelona began to look more promising. Colorful Christmas lights were everywhere. Even the smallest streets were lit for the holidays. There was energy on the sidewalks. It was cold and we were grateful for it. We moved further inland. Madrid in mid December seemed magical, and the hustle and bustle of the streets inspired me to break out the Christmas music on my iPod. Earlier this week, while spending a few days in Seville, I began to wonder why we don’t do more with Christmas lights on our streets back home. It seems so festive.

The pink elephant in the room was still the south coast of Spain. My father-in-law spent a few Christmases on tropical islands in the Baja peninsula and I thought he was nuts. Those places just don’t seem like Christmas places to me.

Yesterday, as I drove through thousands of acres of olive groves on our way to Malaga, I prepared to tender my resignation as chief travel planner. As we drew closer to the town center, I began to muster the courage to apologize to the troops for making them spend Christmas— of all of the locales in Europe— a few hundred miles from the shores of Morocco.

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear?

The deal was sealed our first night in Malaga. This town is like stepping into a Disney Christmas on steroids. The holiday lights on the streets and pedestrian walkways are so colorful and bright that it seems like the middle of the day at 10 p.m. A massive nativity scene in the town’s main roundabout is beautiful and constructed entirely out of flowers, leaves, and branches. Giant Christmas trees with colorful twinkling lights are placed all through the town.

Parades of carolers march down the sidewalks, one group after another. At the end of the sidewalk, near the square, each group steps onto a brilliantly lit stage and continues to sing carols. We don’t have any idea what they are singing, though some of the melodies we recognize, the intent is unmistakable. Like the man said, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”

As we walked along the sidewalk holiday market trying to find a couple of stockings to hang on the mantle of the villa, my wife said, “This place is more Christmassy than any we have visited. This is the perfect spot. It amazes me that you’ve known just where to go this entire trip.”

I just smiled and said, “I knew it all along.”

Feliz Navidad.

Over the years my kids have asked me, “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

I always answer, “Hattiesburg, Mississippi.” It’s true. I love the food, the proximity, the culture, and most of all, I love the people.

I was born with a natural wanderlust and I like being able to travel and see other places, meet new people, and experience different cultures. But home is Hattiesburg.

I state all of this to say that I might finally have an answer to the where-would-you-live-if-you-could-live-anywhere-in-the-world-question? Spain.

I will spend the rest of my life in Hattiesburg, Mississippi. My ashes will be spread at several locales throughout the state. But if I am forced to give an answer as to where I “could” live, other than home. That answer is Spain.

We love this country.

We love the food, we love the people, we love the culture, the pace, the proximity, it’s the complete package.

During the two years leading up to this trip, I was often asked, “What country most excites you?”

“Spain,” was always the answer. It still is.

While opening the new Italian restaurant, I had spent two years researching the foods of Italy. My early culinary training (to the extent that there was any) and my early mentors were all classical French cooking disciples. I learned French cooking from them, the old-line New Orleans restaurants, and the “Larousse Gastronomique.”

I had Italian and French foods covered. Though with “true” Spainsh cooking, I was a blank page.

Sure I’ve eaten at a few Spanish-themed tapas restaurants throughout the U.S., but they were Americanized Spanish. The real deal is infinitely better.

You’ve got to love any culture that puts this much emphasis on ham. It’s everywhere, on every menu, in dozens of applications, hanging from the ceilings, and displayed on the counters. Jamon Iberico is often touted as the world’s finest ham. My new Italian friends— prosciutto lovers, all— took umbrage with that distinction, and told me to give them my opinion, once I reached Spain.

Hopefully they’re not reading this column, because for my money, Spain is the pork capital of Europe. Period.

Jamon Iberico comes from black Iberian pigs in the southwestern section of the country. The pigs are not kept in pens, but are left free to wander in fields and forage for food, namely acorns (which are supposedly the secret to the quality of the ham).

I have a trip arranged to see these pigs, and to follow the process from the field to the plate. Details next week.

The Spainsh run on an entirely different clock than the rest of Europe. They eat lunch in the middle of the afternoon (it was 5 p.m. when we walked out of the restaurant yesterday). They eat dinner late (most restaurants don’t even open until 8 p.m.), and they stay up late. In Barcelona, we were serenaded by several middle-aged men singing Bob Marley karaoke songs outside our hotel window until 4 a.m.

As a consequence of staying up so late, no one seems to get moving until around 10 a.m. It’s almost like the Spanish live their lives in a freshman dorm.

We have spent the first two weeks dividing time between Barcelona and Madrid, both of which have made the top-three list of all of cities we have visited. After a quick trip north, we’ll head south for the holidays, and try to dip into Morroco and Portugal.

These people love food. There’s a reason— the food is fantastic. I have always been a “grazer” when it comes to dining. Back in the states I will often spend the majority of my meal trolling the menu for first-course small plate items, opting for three appetizers and skipping an entree. I’ve always believed that a chef’s most interesting work is done in the starter section of a menu.

Tapas, originally bar food, were originally served as small snacks on a plate which was used to cover the top of a bar glass as it was delivered to the table— Spanish pub food. Today, almost all restaurants in Spain offer tapas. Most restaurants have a display of cold tapas on a bar or in a side case, and other items that are prepared in the kitchen.

In Spain we have found two restaurants that are among the best dining experiences we have enjoyed while eating our way through 15 countries.

In Barcelona, Tapeo is owned and operated by a husband-and-wife team and has only been in business for 18 months. I ate here three times. That is huge for me. I have so many restaurants on my to-do list that I only reserve one meal for each location. If it’s exceptional, I might go back twice.

Tapeo is a small shotgun space directly across a pedestrian alley from one of the more popular tapas places in town. I ate six or seven items that I knew instantly I would be bringing back to my restaurants. Perfect.

Over here service is like the pace of their lives— slow. However, at Tapeo, an expatriated Brit named Chris Simms, was knowledgeable of the food and process, and gave excellent, efficient service.

We have also eaten our way through Madrid. The highlight has been Lateral (a two-time visit so far). We were given this recommendation from the hotel clerk after arriving from Barcelona at 10 p.m. We stumbled a few blocks down the street and found Lateral was hopping. They were four-deep at the bar and sitting on street-side tables despite the chilly weather. The food was creative, original, well presented, and on a different level than most casual restaurants over here.

We’re off to Segovia (more pork), before heading south, but we are energized by this country and look forward to a lifelong love affair with its food, its culture, and its people.

a.) The European Union only allows visiting non-residents to stay up to six months without establishing temporary residency.
b.) The Volvo company will only allow us to drive the newly purchased car for six months before we have to ship it over to America (or pay an extra 25% value added tax).
c.) An unstable economy in the European Union.
d.) The original 12-month figure was an arbitrary number pulled from thin air.
e.) We quickly figured out that we could cover European ground quicker than we anticipated.
f.) The kids think their mother is a harsher taskmaster and homeschool teacher than their actual teachers back home, for whom they have a newfound appreciation.
g.) Their mother has a newfound appreciation for those same teachers back home.
h.) Robert is worksick. Before this journey, the most time he had ever taken off work (in 24 years) was 10 days, over 13 years ago.
i.) Robert is without a kitchen and chomping at the bit to start the recipe-testing phase for the new book “An Italian Palate.”
j.) Robert is ready to bring the food he has researched and eaten back home.
k.) Everyone is a little tired of living out of a suitcase through three seasons on three continents.
l.) Comfortable beds and comfortable pillows await our return.
m.) All of the above.

The correct answer is “all of the above,” with heavy emphasis on a, b, and h.

I am ready to go back to work.

The paintings for the new book “An Italian Palate” are completed, and all of the food research for that book (and the Italian restaurant back home) is complete. I am ready to get started.

One thing I misjudged when planning this trip was recipe testing. Even though we have rented apartments and villas in many of the cities and towns along the way, there is no way to effectively test a recipe over here. Most of the kitchens are small and ill equipped.

In the meantime, I have stepped up the schedule, and we are setting a mad pace with Portugal, France, Switzerland, England, Belgium, The Netherlands, Denmark, and Sweden ahead of us.

I write this column while sitting at a desk overlooking the Christmas lights of Barcelona. I love this town and its energy. It is sure to make my top-five list. The food I have eaten here has reawakened a fire of creativity and inspiration, and I’m ready to bring it back home.

I haven’t been this energized about food since I ate my first fine-dining meal in New Orleans after opening my first restaurant. Back then, I was looking at cuisine through the fresh eyes of someone who wanted to cook and replicate dishes in a commercial kitchen. That burning desire has been rekindled on this trip.

The meals we ate in Italy inspired me to learn and create, and I dove in, stomach first. The food in France confirmed my longtime admiration. Spanish food inspires me to eat. I love it.

Ultimately, we have made life-changing discoveries. We have made lifelong friendships. My family has bonded like never before and our relationships with each other have grown stronger. We have learned so much, not only about the food and culture of other countries, but also about each other. We have seen beautiful art, landscapes, and architecture, and we have eaten amazing food. Now we will step up the pace and return home in February with rekindled hearts, satisfied souls, and energized aspirations.

“Travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living.” – Miriam Beard

Inside, my family is packing their suitcases and getting ready to say “arrivederci” to this country and the many friends we have made here. Once again, we are down to a small, but efficient, traveling contingent of four. Our friends the Murpheys ended their weeklong visit on the same day Wyatt packed up his easel, brushes, and box of finished watercolor paintings and headed home to his daughter and grandchildren.

He completed 128 beautiful watercolor paintings in 67 days. Amazing. His work covers the entire country from Sicily to the Dolomites. During the past nine weeks he painted, I ate. That was the plan.

I absorbed as much as I could about the food and culture of this extremely diverse country. I ate in small bars and osterias, visited fresh markets, worked in kitchens, and dined in some of the finest ristorantes throughout the boot. I have learned a lot.

While my family packs their luggage, I catch myself reflecting upon our 10 weeks in Italy. Last night, over a small plate of pasta and rucola salad in front of the fire, my family did what we often do, and polled each other about the top highlights during our previous weeks.

My Tops-In-Italy List (in no particular order)

Truffle hunting in Tuscany— this was a blast, and we found two nice sized white truffles.

Working in the small kitchen of the Viola Club in Tavarnelle— I had a little trouble communicating early on. But once the cooking started, no interpreter was needed. We used the international language of the five senses.

Meeting new friends in Milan— again, this has been one of the surprise benefits of the trip. We are grateful that we have made lifelong friends.

Spending time with friends from home— the only downside to having friends from home on a visit, is eventually having to say, “goodbye.”

Michelangelo’s David— the most beautifully crafted, and awe-inspiring sculpture I have ever seen.

The villa in Tuscany— I will return here, often.

DaVinci’s Last Supper— the stillness of the setting adds to the grandeur and solemnity of the work.

Venice at night— One word: Magical.

St. Mark’s Cathedral, Venice— After a while, one can almost catch himself getting numb to the majesty and beauty (especially in cathedrals), though the mosaic work here is gorgeous and mind-boggling at once.

Tour of the Vatican after dark— we were part of a small group that toured the massive complex under the stars, inside and out.

Going to the market every day to purchase fresh breads, meats, fruits, pasta, and vegetables for that evening’s meal— I will live like this when I return home.

The Amalfi Coast— Like so many places here, one can say, “There’s just no other place like it.”

Teatro del Sale in Florence— probably the most unique dining experience I have ever experienced.

Meals with newfound friends in Milan— We ate in ristorantes, we ate in friend’s homes, and we ate in small pasticcerias. They get up early and stay out late, but most of all, they love life.

Cibreo, Florence— in addition to the food, the service was possibly the best I have ever experienced.

Dinner at Annagloria’s home in Tavarnelle— this was vital for the new cookbook as I saw typical Tuscan home cooking, and learned several great recipes that will surely be in the book.

Pizza in Barbarino val d’Elsa— all I can say is that I occasionally dream about this pizza.

I could actually keep going, but the family is now packed, and we need to be on our way to the South of France where we will spend a week in the apartment of one of our newfound Milanese friends and submerge ourselves in French food and culture before moving on to Spain.

The four of us have fallen in love with this country and its people. It’s a love affair that we know will continue for years, and an experience we will never forget.

If you want to see just how beautiful this country is, drop by the Wyatt Waters Gallery, and maybe you can talk Wyatt into giving you an advance sneak peek into the beautiful art that will eventually be in the book.

But something funny happened on the way to the forum (it’s been three weeks since we were in Rome, but I’ll never have another opportunity to use that line), we made new friends.

One of the unexpected pleasures of this trip has been the friendships made, secured, and enjoyed. We made friends from the Seychells while we were in Greece, befriended locals in Amalfi who also live in Bologna, and instantly hit it off with the owners of the villa we rented in Tuscany who, in turn, introduced us to their friends from Milan.

It’s the Milan friends who have kidnapped today’s column, and left Osteria da Romano— and its perfectly prepared salt-crusted sea bass— high and dry.

Making close friendships over here was something I never expected. I write often about the value of friends, and how important true friendships are in the course of our daily lives. But for this European journey I was focused on locations, restaurants, and book details. Newfound friendships have been an outstanding bonus.

Annagloria and Enzo, the owners of the villa we rented in Tuscany, are great people, and one of the highlights of the Tuscan leg of this excursion was when they invited us to their home for a typical Tuscan meal. It was perfect.

A few nights later, Annagloria called and invited us to join her, Enzo, and their friends from Milan for dinner.

We attended a special dinner at a remote bed and breakfast out in the middle of the Tuscan countryside. It was an event that seems to happen monthly. The food was served buffet style, seating was communal, and there was a performance after dinner. The food was great, the performance was surreal— a British cover band, in a Tuscan inn, singing American rock and roll, and setting up the songs in Italian— but the connection we made with the group from Milan was priceless.

The Milan group was starved for information about Mississippi and the South. While the lead singer crooned a lounge-act version of “Sweet Home Alabama,” I explained how we lived 100 miles away from the birthplace of jazz, just over 100 miles away from the birthplace of the blues, and less than 100 miles away from the birthplace of country music. They didn’t know who Jimmy Rogers was, but all faces lit up when the name Elvis Presley was mentioned.

“Ultimately,” I told them, “you can trace the birthplace of rock and roll to my hometown of Hattiesburg, as ‘Rolling Stone’ magazine’s ‘The Illustrated History of Rock and Roll’ states that two songs recorded in Hattiesburg in 1936 are the earliest rock and roll recordings on record.”

To further state my case, I referred them to Muddy Waters, another fellow Mississippian, and his song, “The Blues Had A Baby (And They Named the Baby Rock and Roll).” If rock and roll wasn’t invented in Hattiesburg, it was certainly conceived in Mississippi, the home of the blues. As always, I am proud of my town and state, and the Italians seemed to be completely enthralled by Mississippi and didn’t need a sales pitch as they had already become fans.

We invited the Milan group to lunch at our villa the next day and had a blast. They, in turn, invited us to spend time with them when we reached Milan.

We have just spent two days with Barbara, Alberto and their friends in Milan. We were invited to a typical six-course dinner in the home of one of their friends and Barbara, a pharmacist, and Alberto, a journalist for the largest newspaper in Italy, took two days off of work to show us around Milan.

They are as proud of their city and region as we are of ours. Maybe that was the connection. Throw in some excellent food, and we have secured lifetime friendships.

The hometown pride that they displayed as we walked through the busy streets of Milan was only surpassed by the enthusiasm I have for my home state and it’s neighbors. We made plans to bring our six Milan friends over when we return and give them the full tour of New Orleans, Hattiesburg, the Mississippi Delta, and the Florida Panhandle.

Yesterday, friends from home joined us. They, in addition to Wyatt (who has been with us for eight weeks while we work on our new book) will meet our new friends and the Mississippi-meets-Milan journey will continue.

Several months back, while in Turkey, an employee of the cruise line we were using suggested I tell the locals we meet that we hail from Canada, not America. I told him that he was crazy. When a former Californian who was seated next to me at a ristorante in Florence replied, “I’m sorry,” after telling him I was from Mississippi, I went on a 30-minute public relations rant about the great things in my home state. By dessert, he was ready to visit.

The Five Fs are tenets I try to incorporate into my daily life: Faith, family, friends, food, and fun. For me, those are the things that are most important in life. Any time one can incorporate three or more of those at one time, memories are sure to be made. In this time of thanksgiving, even though I am thousands of miles away, I am grateful for family and friends, and proud of my hometown and home state, today more than ever.

The former response is usually delivered by a sweet, well-meaning octogenarian who is so far removed from parenthood, that he or she has forgotten what it is like to live with a teenage daughter and/or a 10 year-old hellion, um, son. The latter is a direct quote from someone who currently has troops on the ground and is in the middle of the battle.

The following are tips, pointers, and observations for anyone who wishes to travel with their children for longer than one week, to places father away than the beach or a weekend soccer tournament.

For those who do not have children currently residing in their home, you have two options: 1.) Take notes, you will likely have grandchildren one day. 2.) Read on and savor the schadenfreude.

The rule before we left on this yearlong sojourn through Europe was: No video games, no chicken nuggets, and no television.

When I purchased the car that we would be using to drive all over the continent, I made sure that it didn’t have television screens in the backseat. Back in the United States, the backseat screen is a valuable commodity— actually, I think if I ever met the man who invented the backseat DVD player, I would kiss him square on the lips— over here though, I wanted the children to be looking out of the car windows, not staring blankly at a screen.

So far, no one has missed being excluded from the latest Kardashian drama, or felt deprived from not being able to watch the same SpongeBob episode for the 975th time. Chalk one up for dad.

The challenge is keeping the teenager awake in the car. The first time we drove through the Brenner Pass— one of the most scenic and breathtaking drives in the world— we were 45 minutes in, and past the Dolomites, before I looked in the backseat and realized my daughter had been asleep the entire time. When I asked the boy, “Why didn’t you tell me she was asleep?”

He replied, “I didn’t know she was asleep, I was looking out the window like you told me.” She has subsequently slept through Sweden, Denmark, Germany, Greece, the Grand Canal in Venice, Sicily, Croatia, Hungary, Montenegro, and— during one long day’s journey— the entire length of Italy.

Lately, I’ve been waking her up during the highlights.

The “no-chicken-nuggets rule” was really an all-encompassing way to say: No American fast food. Our kids have pretty sophisticated palates, and don’t really eat a lot of chicken nuggets, but they love junk food. This rule, however, has been the easiest to enforce. Margherita pizza and Bolognese pasta are in plentiful supply over here.

Early on, we would pass an American fast-food franchise, and the kids would jokingly beg me to stop. Now, whether they have just surrendered their fate, or they’ve lost the desire, it goes unsaid.

My two children are the Hansel and Gretel of Europe, as they have left a trail of mismatched socks, t-shirts, shoes, and iPods in hotel rooms and villas all across the continent.

Lessons Learned:

1.) Kicking pigeons is not a sanctioned European sport
2.) Never turn a 10 year-old loose with a laser pointer at the crowded Trevi Fountain at night
3.) The Vatican is not “that Catholic preacher’s parsonage.” Though when you think about it, technically, it is.
4.) No matter how long one stares at a puffed-up pigeon, it will not explode (the boy still doesn’t believe this).
5.) Using broad, sweeping hand gestures and speaking loudly in English is not a way to communicate in a foreign language
6.) If you’re going to homeschool 9th Grade Algebra, bring a tutor— One night in Tuscany, a single word problem took four adults (with a combined 214 years of life) three hours and two telephone calls to friends in the States to get an answer (Thanks, Chef Jeremy).
7.) A bidet is not a “midget sink”— I don’t know how long my son thought this before asking. I’m just praying he didn’t brush his teeth in it.
8.) When staying in Vienna, jokes about street signs with the word “wiener” get old, quickly.
9.) Bath towels are not a suitable replacement for washcloths— they don’t use washcloths over here. I am not sure why, but it answers many questions.
10.) Never walk into a mosque filled with hundreds of Muslims and loudly comment, “It smells like feet in here!” Of course it smells like feet. It’s summer, and hundreds of people are walking around inside with their shoes off.

Column Bonus: The infamous word problem (you’re welcome): A grocer wants to make a 10-pound mixture of cashews and peanuts that he can sell for $3.64 per pound. If cashews cost $5.80 per pound and peanuts cost $2.20 per pound. How many pounds of each must he mix?