For someone who loves to travel and chase new adventures, cooking and tasting the dishes I associate with a certain country has become my way of preserving memories long after the suitcase is unpacked. In just 19 years, I have been fortunate enough to visit many parts of the world and experience a wide variety of cuisines. In this article, I want to share a few of the places that shaped me most, and the flavours, people, and moments I connect with them.

Switzerland – The Season that Arrived in a Carton

The first flavour I can clearly tie to a specific place does not begin with a plate. It begins with a season.

In the small Swiss town where I spent most of my childhood, autumn had a personality of its own. The air turned sharper almost overnight. Mornings carried a faint mist. Leaves shifted from green to copper, from copper to deep red, until the pavements were covered in colour. Even as a child, I sensed that something was changing. And yet despite this change, these afternoons in autumn always had a particular sequence. 

Every afternoon, my mother would pick me up from daycare. Before we even thought about going home, we would stop under the old chestnut tree beside the building. I took my role as collector very seriously, inspecting each chestnut for shine and size, determined to find the perfect one. My pockets would grow heavier and the smile on my face larger. 

Once we had gathered more than we could carry, we would head toward the village centre. The first stop would be the playground. “Five more minutes, Mom,” I would negotiate, repeating it often enough that five usually became fifteen. 

Only after my mother‘s patience had been completely outsourced would we head towards the small local shop. 

But before heading towards the shelf that held our treasure, we would stop by the butcher to collect my fresh slice of salami, handed to me with a knowing smile. 

And finally, over to the pasta section of the store. Searching glanzes through the rows of assorted goods, until eventually… Pumpkin ravioli – a sign more reliable than any calendar that autumn had truly arrived.

Back home, the kitchen would slowly fill with a warm, comforting aroma — slightly sweet, gently spiced, unmistakably autumnal. The ravioli needed only a few minutes in boiling water. Finished with olive oil, freshly grated Parmesan, and a sprinkle of herbs, they were delicate and silky. The thin pasta gave way to a smooth pumpkin filling that was subtly sweet, faintly nutty, and so soft it seemed to dissolve on the tongue.

Those afternoons felt endless. And perhaps that is why, even today, the taste of pumpkin carries more than flavour for me.

Not far from those autumn afternoons were winter ski days. And just as pumpkin marked the beginning of colder months, Germknödel marked the reward after hours in the snow. The warm, pillowy cloud of lightly sweet yeast dough, filled with dark, slightly tart plum jam, is a classic ski-hut dessert. Served steaming hot, drenched in melted butter, dusted with poppy seeds and powdered sugar, accompanied by vanilla sauce, it is indulgent and comforting all at once. My brother and I would order one almost daily during skiing holidays, no matter which hut we stopped at. Even today, no ski trip passes without ordering that heavenly, snow-day ritual.

Namibia & Kenya – Tastes of the Desert 

My first adventure in another continent was Africa. The shift from my familiar Swiss mountains to vast deserts and endless roads through the middle of nowhere felt enormous. If Switzerland tasted like routine and seasonality, Namibia and Kenya tasted like intensity, heat, sand and smoke.

I remember rolling down a towering dune, laughing until I realised sand had found its way everywhere, including my mouth. The dry, almost metallic taste of it clung stubbornly between my teeth, a flavour I will never forget.

Strangely enough, a hint of that same earthiness returned later, this time in a far more welcome form. Grilled oryx meat, cooked over open fire, carried a similar mineral depth, but without the crunch of desert sand. Lean, slightly gamey, and deeply savoury, it needed nothing but flame and salt. I found myself circling between the grill and the table, going back for second and third portions, fascinated by how pure and elemental it tasted.

Africa was the first time I understood that food could feel wild and untamed, stripped back to its essentials.

Dubai – One Country, a Thousand Dishes 

Moving to Dubai expanded my world more than any trip ever could. If Africa was about landscape, Dubai was about people and through them, cuisines from everywhere.

At first, I was the classic picky eater, ordering pasta and fries even in traditional restaurants. But my international friends slowly introduced me to their worlds through food. My Korean friend taught me to use chopsticks and took me to hidden sushi spots downtown. My Dutch friend revealed the simple perfection of warm toast with cold butter and chocolate sprinkles. A friend from Sudan introduced me to Ful Medames, earthy, slow-cooked beans, and Kisra, the soft, slightly tangy sorghum bread used to scoop up the beans.

As a family, we fell in love with Middle Eastern cuisine: falafel crisp on the outside and fluffy within; silky hummus; fresh tabouleh bursting with parsley and lemon; smoky baba ganoush; and couscous balancing sweet and sour notes. 

We especially loved eating on the rooftop of the restaurant “Bab al Shams”, which translates to “Door to the Sun.” As the sun slowly dipped below the desert horizon and the sky turned shades of gold and soft pink, it was as if the fading light intensified every flavour, turning dinner into something suspended between day and night, between desert heat and evening calm. Those evenings, sitting together as a family and watching the desert sunset, will always hold a special place in my heart.

And yet, while restaurants created beautiful moments, the flavour that truly defined Dubai for me was one that stood right by our house: dates from our own date palm. Every autumn, we harvested hundreds of dates, sticky, caramel-like, almost honeyed in sweetness, enough to last most of the year. Dates found their way into everything I cooked: morning porridge, bean-corn-date salad, savoury pancakes, or simply stuffed with salted or caramelised nuts as a snack.

Leaving our date palm behind when we moved back to Germany was surprisingly emotional. Fortunately, we have since discovered a Mediterranean supermarket in our small town that sells my beloved Medjool dates in five-kilogram boxes. A taste of Dubai in a new home. 

Spain – Tapas Turn to Paella 

On our first visit to Spain, we stumbled upon what quickly became my favourite restaurant. The choice of tapas was endless: caramelised Camembert, salty pimientos de padrón blistered in olive oil, crispy patatas bravas, crunchy croquets, dates wrapped in crispy bacon (no wonder these were my favourite :) And then there was the hot chocolate — so thick it was closer to pudding than a drink. You didn’t sip it; you scooped it! 

When I returned later with my brother and his girlfriend, we visited the restaurant at least three times. By then my taste had evolved slightly, and we also sought out paella in all its variations, saffron-scented rice studded with seafood or vegetables, deeply savoury and unmistakably Spanish.

Bali – When Taste Turns Against You 

Unfortunately, Bali is inseparably connected with misery for me. 

After eating a questionable rice cake on my first day, I spent much of the trip confined to bed with stomach flu. To my deep disappointment, many of our accommodations had local cooks who prepared traditional Indonesian dishes, fragrant curries, coconut-rich sauces, fresh herbs, flavours I now unfortunately associate with feeling unwell. The experience was disappointing, but also strangely grounding. Without the bitter, I would not recognise the sweetness of the other memories as clearly.

Mykonos – Salt, Sand and Simplicity 

Greece, and especially Mykonos, was one of those sweet memories. Whitewashed houses, narrow streets, and the constant presence of salt in the air created a retreat where time seemed to stop. 

My favourite dish there was not something elaborate or modern, but a collection of traditional Greek plates served in a small beach restaurant with a roof made of dried palm leaves. 

We ordered what felt like half the menu: creamy tzatziki with fresh cucumber and garlic, warm pita bread still soft from the oven, grilled vegetables glistening with olive oil, salty feta drizzled with herbs, and perfectly charred souvlaki skewers. Everything tasted honest and uncomplicated. Nothing on the table tried to impress and yet everything did. Simple ingredients, prepared well, enjoyed slowly. Sitting beneath that palm-leaf roof, sand between my toes and the Aegean Sea only a few steps away, I realised that the most lasting memories are rarely made while rushing from one activity to the next, but in the quiet moments when you pause, listen, and allow yourself to be fully present.

Even now, whenever I drizzle olive oil over ripe tomatoes or crumble feta into a salad, I am reminded of that small beach restaurant and of the calm, steady sense of peace I felt there.

Vietnam – From Someone Else’s Kitchen

Through my brother’s girlfriend, who is half Vietnamese, I discovered another cuisine I deeply enjoy, although I have never been to Vietnam myself. 

Phở, in particular, caught me off guard. As someone who usually avoids soup for dinner, falling in love with a dish built almost entirely around broth surprised me. Yet its depth of aromatic star anise, warming ginger, handfuls of fresh herbs, soft rice noodles, and a squeeze of lime is both layered and soothing. The flavours are subtle but persistent, unfolding slowly with every spoonful. For me, phở belongs to colder days, especially after a long walk outside, when you want something that warms you from the inside out.

In complete contrast are summer rolls, which I associate with lightness and warmth. Delicate rice paper wrapped around crisp cucumber, juicy mango, creamy avocado, and golden tofu, dipped into sweet peanut sauce or savoury soy, they taste fresh, vibrant, and balanced. If phở feels like winter comfort, summer rolls feel like edible sunshine.

But what I cherish most is not just the food itself. It is watching my brother and his girlfriend prepare the rolls together, moving in quiet coordination, passing ingredients back and forth, chatting without hurry. There is something effortless about it, something calm. In those small kitchen moments, life seems uncomplicated, exactly as it should be.

A Bowl of Everything

One of my most cherished memories, however, is not tied to a specific country but to cooking with my best friend after we moved back to Germany.

Inspired by my travels, I began combining favourite ingredients into what became our signature comfort bowl. Dates, sweet potato, jasmine rice, sriracha mayonnaise, Brussels sprouts, roasted tofu, chestnuts, everything went in. The result was chaotic, but deeply satisfying. 

Every bite offered a different flavour, each one reminding me of a different place and time. Looking back, our combinations were bold but flipping through our handwritten bowl recipes still brings back the warmth of those evenings spent cooking and laughing together.

Bringing It All Home

For me, tasting flavours from around the world is inseparable from traveling itself. Even now, when I cook these dishes at home for family and friends, they spark conversations:

“Do you remember when we first made this?”

“Whenever I smell this, I think of…”

As I am now vegan, I cannot always enjoy these dishes in the places where I first tasted them. But recreating and reinterpreting them at home has become part of the journey. Veganising them does not diminish the memory. Instead, it allows me to carry the essence forward while creating something new.

In the end, I have realised that I do not need the original setting to reconnect with a place. A scent, a flavour, a single ingredient is often enough. Food is not something to be earned or deserved – it is something to be shared. It is a quiet bridge between people, places, and moments in time.

And perhaps that is what I am still learning: that life, like the best meals, does not need to be complicated to be meaningful. It only asks us to sit down, be present, and taste it fully.