Dongjak SLP takes its name from the Dongjak district of Seoul, and the neighborhood within it that I lived and worked was centered on the Sindaebang-samgeori subway station. To the south of it is a thriving commercial district with an assortment of shops and restaurants that I and my fellow teachers/friends patronized regularly. While spots like Pomato (a greasy spoon making some of the best tonkatsu I have ever had), Bravo Coffee (our go-to for midday caffeine breaks), and an all-you-can-eat barbecue joint that was a regular post-work hangout offer much in the way of nostalgia, in terms of music the most notable location is the local grocery store on Guksabong Street. Around two months after I had moved to Seoul, it was here that my first real introduction to K-Pop occurred, when Blackpink’s “As If It’s Your Last” came on the store’s speakers.

To my frustration, the song ended up being interrupted every few seconds by the shopkeeper’s announcements - leaving me unable to Shazam it until I heard it again a few days later. Unbeknownst to me at the time, both them and BTS were exploding in popularity at the time, and I found myself in Seoul in the midst of Korean culture’s growing trendiness worldwide. When I first arrived in Korea, I would never have expected to become a fan of K-pop, but my enjoyment of Blackpink continues to this day - and has been supplemented by other groups such as Ateez. At the same time, I feel grateful that the time I was living there came when it did: late enough in the Korean cultural boom that it was emblematic of the country’s status as a modern economic powerhouse, but early enough that the resulting wave of tourism (and the gentrification that followed it) had not yet occurred.

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While many hagwons only had a few foreign teachers, Dongjak SLP had nine of us during my year there. Between all working together and having apartments (which were provided by the school) nearby each other, we easily formed a tight-knit group. As a result, countless nights were spent drinking in local bars, eating Korean barbecue, fried chicken or dakgalbi (a stir-fried chicken dish), or partying in Hongdae or Itaewon. In addition to these adventures throughout Seoul, we also had numerous evenings where we drank casually in one of our apartments. Of these, one particular one stands out for its epitomization of the happiness I had found with the life I’d built halfway around the world from home.

Despite the loss of much of my shyness during my travels in 2017, during my first couple months in Seoul I found myself having trouble bonding with my coworkers to the extent that they seemed to have done with each other. Yet during one hangout at a fellow teacher apartment in summer 2018, I finally felt like I was truly part of the group - something that I had struggled to feel like at other points earlier in my life. Symbolizing both this moment and this realization is “Where Is The Love?” by the Black Eyed Peas, which was playing on the speakers while we sat on the apartment building’s roof. This particular moment in the summer of 2018 represents the moment where I arguably felt the most content with my life in Korea, as soon aftewards a variety of factors (the fraying of our friend group due to a series of interpersonal issues, my decision to move back to Canada once my contract expired, and the growing cracks in A and I’s relationship) made the last few months of my time more turbulent. Years later, however, with our cohort now spread around the world, from Seoul to Toronto, Northern England, California, Iowa and Oklahoma, having “Where Is The Love?” as a trigger for memories of spending time with an amazing group of people is something I cherish.

Now that I have (for now) exhausted my list of cities I have been able to visit more than once, this new series will explore the ways that music serves as a deep reminder of specific moments in life. In this case, a song that I was listening to regularly while visiting two far-flung locales has essentially become the soundtrack to my memories of each one.

Kygo - Freeze

My visits to Georgia (in April 2024) and South Africa (June 2024) arguably represent the pinnacles of my travel experience. Both destinations had been on my bucket list for years, and I scheduled my Master’s program coursework in anticipation of weeks-long visits to each one during my final semester. In addition to offering excellent food, intriguing urban environments and stunning natural scenery, both places together embody how I used travel as a method of pushing myself out of my comfort zone. Whether it is South Africa’s sheer distance from home (reaching Cape Town from Toronto remains the most grueling journey in all my travels) or Georgia’s unique post-Soviet vibrancy, they are - in ways both literal and figurative - the farthest I have ventured out of geographic and cultural familiarity.

Kygo’s melodic “Freeze” is synonymous in my mind with the two cities I spent the most time in on these trips (Tbilisi and Cape Town, respectively). The atmosphere of the song does much to provoke a sense of wonder, which dovetails nicely with how I felt first exploring each metropolis. At the same time, between a flexible school schedule, the ability to work remotely and J’s support of my solo traveling, my life at that point had been designed to maximize the ability to have such awe-inspiring experiences. Thus, of all the songs I was listening to during those months in 2024, “Freeze” likely made such a deep impression due to it tapping into those feelings of wondrousness. Now, two years removed from both trips, whenever I listen to the song I am reminded of not just my time in each place, but also an entire phase of my life where the search for profound experiences was placed front and center.

Below are collages of photos and short blurbs about impressions of both cities.

Tbilisi

While I had previously been to former Eastern Bloc cities such as Prague, Dresden and Budapest, Tbilisi was my first time visiting one that was part of the USSR itself. While most overt displays of such history appeared to have been erased (replaced by large amounts of anti-Russia or pro-Ukraine graffiti), evidence of Georgia’s past can still be found. From a metro system following Soviet design principles, to hammer & sickle metalwork on bridges and Khrushchev-era housing blocks, the legacy of the Soviet Union looms large over the city.

Of the vague remnants of Soviet life that remain in the city, however, none is more notable than Racha Restaurant. Nestled just south of Liberty Square in Old Tbilisi, it appears to have changed little since Georgia regained its independence in 1991. Yet whatever they are doing in the kitchen has stood the test of time, as Racha served some of the best food I had in Georgia - a major feat, given that it is one of the best countries for food I have ever visited.

This post-Soviet legacy is related Tbilisi being the only city I have ever been to that genuinely felt spooky. Many neighborhoods in the city are full of historic yet decrepit buildings, but the one in which I stayed (Chugureti) also had very few street lamps. Between the dingy building exteriors and the dim lighting, Chugureti took on a genuine eeriness at night. This is not to portray it in a negative light: rather, the perceived atmosphere of spookiness serves to further reinforce Tbilisi’s otherworldliness in comparison to other places I had previously visited.

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Cape Town

Cape Town did not offer the spookiness or historical intrigue that Tbilisi did, but instead provided stunning natural scenery mixed with distressing social inequality. I have never been one to try and ignore socioeconomic issues in the cities that I visit, but in Cape Town it would have been a struggle to tune them out even if I wanted to. While the nicest areas of Cape Town are some of the most appealing urban environments I have seen around the world, lingering reminders of South Africa’s dark history (combined with clear evidence of corruption, government mismanagement and economic desperation) left me with a sense of unease that no other city has given me.

From the moment the journey from the airport into central Cape Town begins, the legacy of apartheid makes its presence known - and continues to loom over myriad facets of daily life in Cape Town. The divide between the wealthy seaside neighborhoods and extreme poverty in the townships remains strong despite legal segregation being gone for almost 30 years, and evidence of race-based economic inequality regularly appears (most notably in restaurants in wealthier areas, where white clientele are often served by an all-black service staff). The entire city felt as if issues around race and class in the US had been turned up several notches - something evidenced by the electric fences adorning walls and gates at virtually every home.

The beauty and vibrancy of certain areas of the city do much to make one feel separated from all these overarching societal issues, however. Neighborhoods like Sea Point and Kloof Street showcase walkable urban living, and the natural landscape in and around Cape Town is some of the most beautiful in the world. Anchored by Table Mountain and Lion’s Head, the Cape Fold Mountains provide a stunning backdrop like no other, while time spent in winelands around Stellenbosch and Franschhoek make the South Africa’s problems feel far away. Yet because I am at the same time half African-American, knowledgeable about South Africa’s history, and wealthy enough to be able to travel all the way to Cape Town, I am acutely aware of my place in the various social and economic systems that govern life in the country. For this reason, no matter how stunning the views from Table Mountain are or how incredible the wine in Stellenbosch is, South Africa’s myriad problems (as well as the lost hope and potential of the post-Nelson Mandela period) will always be at the back of my mind.

When discussing my time there with people who are unfamiliar with its reputation, the best way I have found to describe Highland Park High School (HPHS) is “Mean Girls mixed with Friday Night Lights”. A bastion of conservative white privilege a short distance north of Downtown Dallas, it is where I spent my junior and senior years of high school. Now, 13 years after my graduation, I tend to think of my time in “The Bubble” as a two-year sociologial adventure - one that, due to the unique cultural environment I was in, has left impressions similar to those of living abroad.

To those who are not aware of their history and reputation, Highland Park and University Park do not feel any different from the affluent North Dallas landscape of which they are a part - homes ranging in size from elegant ranch houses to large, gated estates, upscale shops and restaurants and an overarching sense of suburban tranquility. Rather, their separation comes from their presence in an elite school district, the desirability of which creates an atmosphere of privilege that has few parallels elsewhere in the United States. The separation of the two municipalities (together known as the Park Cities) from Dallas has its roots in segregation, with the city’s elite aiming to maintain a whites-only community in the face of the civil rights movement. This continues to be reflected in HPHS’s student body, which at the time of my attendance was overwhelmingly white and affluent.

The demographic make-up of HPHS made it feel like an idealized version of white suburban life - a 1950s-style atmosphere where everyone has an iPhone. This was particularly true for the social dynamics present amongst the students, which closely resembled common stereotypes for American high schools: football players and cheerleaders at the top of the social hierarchy, groups of non-conformist social outcasts, and significant amounts of partying and drinking. One of the few major differences was that the cheerleaders were joined at the top of the girls’ social hierarchy by the Highland Belles, a group that continues to be one of the most memorable aspects of my time in Highland Park. The Belles were a combination drill team (when they performed during halftime at football games) and dance team, and every member embodied a set of female beauty standards to which all other female students would be compared. Standards of appearance were much more lax for male students, but athletic prowess was the main key to social popularity.

While these rigid societal norms stressed conformity from students, for most of the HPHS student body there was no reason not to conform - why should they, when their affluence and sense of privilege told them that they were predestined to live the “best” lifestyle there is? Simply by growing up where they did, going to the same universities as their parents, and then moving back to Dallas and starting a family, they would repeat the cycle of wealthy conformity that they had benefited from their whole lives, and to many of my classmates this represented the ideal life path. Coming from a diverse, progressive and open-minded environment in Chicago, navigating these societal norms was a challenge that never quite went away (although it did get easier throughout my senior year). While I was never fully accepted by the upper echelons of the popularity pyramid, by keeping my head down and not sticking out too much I was able to partake in activities (e.g. senior-only parties) that may have been out of reach if I’d been more non-conformist. By spending time in such a setting, I gained a clearer understanding of not just what I wanted out of life, but also the kind of lifestyle I had no interest in.

While Dallas is not known for having a thriving culinary scene, there are a few things it does well - most notably barbecue and Tex-Mex. While Austin and its environs remains the barbecue capital of Texas, Dallas is no slouch in that regard. High-quality brisket and ribs abound, and while it is now a national chain I fondly remember my first brisket sandwich at Rudy’s (something that sparked an enduring love of their barbecue sauce). Tex-Mex, however, is the aspect of the city’s culinary scene that has left the largest impression. By virtue of its large Mexican-American population, growing up in Chicago meant being exposed to authentic Mexican dishes from a young age, and I have had particularly high standards for Mexican food ever since. Moving to Dallas was my first exposure to Tex-Mex, and it gave me a nuanced view of its unique character.

The Americanized versions of the cuisines brought by immigrants to the US are often viewed as being inferior to the culinary traditions of these migrants’ homelands. As a result, Tex-Mex is often viewed as a substandard, mediocre version of the Mexican food upon which it is based. While this critique has merit when using the supposed “authentic” cooking as a baseline for comparison, when viewed on its own as a unique cuisine (which it undoubtedly is) it more than holds its own. Dishes such as puffy tacos, queso dip and fajitas display not just their clear roots in Mexican cuisine, but also their roles as centerpieces of a uniquely Texan culinary tradition. Such an argument can be extended to Chinese-American (something that J and I have had numerous discussions about) and Italian-American cuisines: while they may be very different from the cuisines they are descended from, that difference does not necessarily make them inferior. Rather, this uniqueness is enough for them to be judged on their own culinary merits, in recognition of the US’s nature as a melting pot of cultures.

With its location in the North Texas plains, Dallas leaves much to be desired in terms of scenery. Exceptions to this flat topography do exist (such as Cedar Hill State Park), but the presence of large man-made reservoirs do much to add some character to what would otherwise be a rather dreary landscape. Of these lakes, White Rock Lake holds particular nostalgic sentiment. An oasis of parkland amidst a sprawling concrete jungle, it has been a site of both relaxation (by virtue of its tranquility and excellent views of the Downtown Dallas) and stress (I ran cross country in high school, and my first month in Texas involved long runs along the lake in 100-degree heat). Along with several favorite restaurants (such as Mia’s Tex Mex, Gloria’s (pictured above) and Eatzi’s Market) and neighborhoods like Bishop Arts District or Lower Greenville, White Rock Lake is one of the the places in Dallas that has left the most lasting legacy. In a city that is often derided - and in many cases rightfully so - as a boring, sprawling mess of a city, my mental geography of the city still contains a variety of hidden gems that were not only a major part of my life for two years, but remain special to this day.

The importance of these restaurants, neighborhoods and White Rock Lake stands in contrast to the diminished status of the Park Cities in my mental map. Although my time in Highland Park played an integral role in shaping my future path into adulthood, my attachment to certain aspects of the environment it fostered slowly disappeared once I moved to Vancouver to attend UBC - and greatly accelerated following a former HPHS classmate being at the center of this scandal. This shattering of Highland Park’s carefully cultivated facade of white propriety wiped away virtually any connection I felt to the Park Cities community, and it now has little to offer me now beyond memories of high school - memories that are reminders of a truly unique time in my life.

Over the course of three visits, the combination of Indonesia’s capital city and its famous paradisiacal island has come to serve as an excellent illustration of how overtourism and rampant, unchecked development can cause harm - all while still preserving what makes them special in the first place. Jakarta can often feel like a chaotic, overcrowded and traffic-snarled metropolis, but it also has an energy that feels truly unique to it. Evidence of the negative effects of mass tourism are omnipresent in the most popular ares of Bali, while the same natural splendour that has made it globally popular is constantly on display.

While over time I have found myself less enamoured with elements I enjoyed on my first visit (most notably anything alcohol-related), I still appreciate the natural beauty of Bali, the lively chaos of Jakarta, and most importantly how my memories of both places are shaped by the friendships that they have helped solidify.

The presence of pork as a staple ingredient is yet another example of how Bali feels distinct from the rest of Indonesia. Dishes such as pork satay and babi guling (roasted pig) are, like the presence of alcohol and the small offerings known as banten, symbols of the island’s Hindu heritage - which stands in contrast to the predominance of Islam in the rest of Indonesia.

Nasi padang is a quintessential component of Indonesian cuisine. Consisting of a series of small plates served with rice and sambal (chilli sauce), it is ubiquitous throughout the country and available at a variety of price points. I was not able to sample nasi padang until my visit to Indonesia in 2023, but when I finally did, the version of it I had ended up being one of the best meals I have had throughout my years of traveling.

My friend N and I met during my first visit to Jakarta in 2017, and we kept in touch over the years. Having decided to take a detour during E, M and I’s Taiwan trip to achieve a lifelong dream of seeing the Komodo dragons, I built a 24-hour layover in Jakarta into my return journey to Taipei. For dinner on my one night in town N chose Pagi Sore, a well-known spot for nasi padang situated in the bustling Kemang neighborhood. Not only was it the sort of place I would never have found out about through my own research, but it provided an introduction to aspects of Indonesian cuisine I had previously not been familiar with.

When I first visited Indonesia, my palette was in the process of expanding beyond a broad-yet-unadventurous set of preferences to the much more open one I have today. Thus, while I still enjoyed what I ate in places like Thailand, Indonesia and Malaysia, I was not able to fully appreciate their incredible cuisines due to my own reluctance to breach my comfort zone. By 2023, however, such squeamishness had retreated significantly, and I was able to enjoy Pagi Sore’s nasi padang to an extent I would not have been able to six years earlier. This exquisite taste experience, combined with the chance to see N, made for a memorable capstone to a trip that not only checked off a bucket list item but gave me the chance to rediscover a country that shaped some of my very first travel experiences as an adult.

Many popular locations all over East and Southeast Asia can lull white, foreign visitors into feeling like they have found paradise. With a host of local economies that prioritize their needs, tourists (especially white men) have a seemingly limitless amount of privilege when visiting. While this can manifest itself in visibly negative ways (of which the city of Pattaya stands as the most notorious example), it can also do so in more subtle forms - one of which I discovered to be rooftop bars. As someone who has been fascinated by cities for as long as I can remember, these establishments in the sky serve as symbols of inequality - opulent experiences in the sky while gridlock and poor infrastructure lie below. Yet even with this in mind their allure is undeniable, especially to someone fascinated by the idea of viewing a new city from above.

The bar pictured here (Cloud Lounge in central Jakarta) served a prime venue for such realizations about wealth and status, where I fully understood the privilege that comes with being a male, white-passing tourist. While I have for years been aware of the North American version of white privilege, seeing it in a Southeast Asian context was completely different. Here, my skin colour and a favourable currency exchange rate were enough to make me feel comfortable in spaces whose versions in Vancouver or Chicago I would have felt less so in. Yet being young and (even with an understanding of the dynamics at play) more than a little bit naive, I embraced it. Thus, my experience in Jakarta - floating around in rideshares, hopping from mall to rooftop bar to upscale restaurant, and eating and drinking in ways considered haram by much of the local population - reflected my privileged position as a white foreigner with disposable income.

Upon returning to Jakarta I again visited Cloud Lounge, and with six years of life experience under my belt I held a more nuanced view of my experience. The views of the city in 2023 were absorbed with a greater understanding of both its stunning vibrancy and the myriad challenges it and its millions of residents face. Such an understanding is reflective of my transition from a wide-eyed, recent college grad just starting to make his way in the world to a more fully-fledged adult, with an introspective nature and a clearer sense of self. With this more in-depth understanding came a clearer realization about a city that will always be special to me, and the unique ways it has become so.

For years, one of my closest friends has been AA. After meeting in a summer German course at UBC, we became drinking buddies, avid consumers of Japanese barbecue and formed a bond that has continued to be one of the most rock-solid friendships I have ever had. Given that he was in Jakarta visiting family while I was there in 2017, AA became my guide during my time in the city and took me on a series of adventures throughout it. Such experiences have left me with memories of Indonesia’s capital that are inextricably intertwined with my appreciation of our friendship - something that has only been enhanced in the years since. During our annual/biennal reunions, we have demonstrated the ability to seamlessly resume our camaraderie and mutual understanding (no matter how much time has past). Our shared time in Jakarta, however, will always be a core memory that exists in a positive light no matter how I may view the city itself.

Even as I have significantly reduced my alcohol consumption in the present day, the expansive repertoire of bars I have visited throughout my travels are demonstrative of almost a decade of using bars as a popular method of learning about a city (albeit a secondary one to sampling food, exploring neighborhoods and using public transportation). Of the bars that have left an impression, however, La Favela stands out from the rest for both its unique aesthetic and its place as a staple of my visits to Bali.

Inspired by the favelas of Rio, La Favela’s lush interior epitomizes retro charm mixed with the stylishness demanded by virtue of its trendy Seminyak location. With a series of different rooms and outdoor courtyards, it takes on a maze-like quality. Throughout it all, opportunities abound for crafting social media-ready content - something La Favela does better than many other Instagrammable bars on the island, but not enough to truly stand out from the rest.

From spending time with AA, his partner and his sister during my first visit to Bali, taking photos in aesthetically pleasing rooms during my second, and exploring it in solitude in my third, La Favela provides windows into three distinct phases of my life. While not a location of personal growth or of great significance to my personal growth, it is simply just a place symbolizes the remarkable life I have lived in the past nine years. The fact that one of my favourite bars lies on the other side of the world from my home, and that I have been able to visit three (!) times speaks to a combination of privilege, curiosity, and desire for exploration that have defined my adult life - something for which I will be eternally grateful for.

An hour’s ferry ride away from Bali, Nusa Penida has long been known for its untouched natural beauty - which has in recent years made it a popular destination for day trips. This photo was taken in 2017 (when there were still relatively few tourists making the trip across the Lombok Strait), but by 2019 the number of visitors had overwhelmed the island’s infrastructure.

The location in the above photos exemplifies the issues surrounding overtourism in Bali. Kelingking Beach is only reachable via a steep staircase that long discouraged visitors (myself included), but has become a major draw for visitors to Nusa Penida. Years later, and in recognition of both the difficult accessibility and increasing tourism numbers, the local government decided to build an elevator down to the beach. While the Kelingking elevator was later cancelled, had it not been for a firestorm of criticism it may well have proceeded - to the detriment of the natural landscape.

Places like Nusa Penida become popular for a reason - gorgeous scenery, vibrant local culture, and in this case the opportunity to snorkel with giant manta rays. At the same time, the Kelingking elevator debacle demonstrates that while there may be benefits to making scenic locations more accessible to the public, it may well come at the cost of exactly what made these locations special in the first place.

Without drinking or sightseeing as major motivators (as they were in 2017 and 2019), my third visit to Bali was largely spent playing in the waves on Batu Belig Beach. Frolicking in the ocean (especially in places with large waves) has been one of my favourite activities since I was a child, and Bali is an ideal place to do so safely. This opportunity to embrace my inner child is to me (along with the gorgeous sunsets and excellent food options) is one of the most special things about a place that has been exactly what I needed it to be at various times of my life. However, these positive memories and breathtaking scenery aside, it is impossible to view Bali without seeing the impacts of global tourism laid bare.

Over the course of three visits, I have found myself somewhat disillusioned with a place that is known worldwide as a paradise. The toll that overtourism has taken has become clearer each time, demonstrated through the increased traffic, amount of trash on the beach and infrastructure inadequate for handling such large volumes of visitors. At the same time, the appeal of Bali’s primary attractions has waned: I have much less interest in drinking and partying, and the spectre of long traffic jams is enough to make the more remote natural or cultural landmarks lose their allure.

Although the effects of increased tourism are incredibly clear no matter the perspective, this rather dim view arguably has much to do with how I have changed rather than Bali itself has. If in 2023 I was still as interested in the Kuta/Seminyak nightlife as I was in 2017 and 2019, I would have found ways to enjoy myself regardless of observations made about the state of things on the island. The lack of these interests (enthusiasm for Balinese cuisine aside), however, has distilled my enjoyment of Bali down to its natural essence: the water and the sky. Together, these two elements are a reminder of the island’s stunning beauty and its power to inspire.

The significance of Bogotá to both my travels and the larger story of my recent life did not become clear until I began working on this set of posts. Since 2022 the city has been the endpoint of three separate trips, and such stays have allowed me to appreciate its vibrancy and uniqueness (something that is often overlooked by many visitors to Colombia). These times spent in Colombia’s capital always conjure feelings of happiness and fulfillment, as each time I have departed I have at once been satisfied with my trip, eager for what awaited me in Toronto, and secure in the stable future that life back home represented. Thus, my favorite restaurants in Bogotá take on a special meaning beyond serving delicious food, certain locations (such as Parque 93) symbolize my feelings of contentment, and an entire swathe of the city will have played an integral role in some of the best years of my life.

Bogotá is often overlooked by travelers to Colombia. Lacking the historic beachfront charm of Cartagena and the tourist-targeted amenities of Medellín, it is seen by many as simply a big city with not much to offer visitors to the country besides its large airport and a day or two of exploring.

Yet Bogota is exactly the kind of city I love exploring. Given the type of travel I like to do, cities that are not designed with visitors in mind feel more comfortable and interesting. For someone who likes to eat good food, check out different neighborhoods and explore in a way that at least gives me a sense of what daily life might be like, such places offer an urban experience that is in many ways tailor-made to my wants and needs.. As a result, cities such as Bogotá, Sao Paulo and Milan have become some of my favorites, while at the same time being overlooked those who gravitate towards cities with more eye-catching attractions.

The four photos above were taken in some of the wealthiest parts of Bogotá, and are of Parque 93 (a popular communal green space) and a landscaped waterway several block to the south of it. In ways that Medellin does not, it feels cosmopolitan - a trait that is reflected in the wider availability of global cuisines, its large international airport and a set of trendy neighborhoods that balance a unique local flavor with similar aesthetics to their counterparts in other globalization-benefitting cities. Yet while Bogotá embodies many of the positive characteristics of globalized, cosmopolitan cities, it also puts on display some of the more negative outcomes.

As is the case for most cities in the Global South that I have visited (Medellín being a major exception), I have not ventured into lower-income areas and am in no position to talk about them in detail. Yet I would venture a guess that in such areas of Bogotá the available public spaces are not as common or as well-kept as the ones shown here. Between this, the lack of good public transit options besides an overcrowded bus rapid transit network and ongoing gentrification in central areas like Chapinero, the most visible benefits of global interconnection appear to be largely confined to the city’s upper classes and the neighborhoods they frequent.

My visits to Bogotá came as I was firmly a member of the class that contributes to the uneven globalization affecting it: I worked remotely, had fully embraced being a digital nomad and was in a position to belong in spaces reserved for the upper classes. The fact that this experience that could be replicated almost anywhere in the world speaks to the growing sameness amongst upper class lifestyles major cities, as those who have the means seek out similar ways of living irregardless of location. Thus, the comfort and excitement that the digital nomad lifestyle offers makes it easy to forget not just the inequality that exists in cities like Bogotá, but how globalization has lessened the uniqueness that comes with visiting major cities.

In addition to being an integral part of the country’s culture and a major export, coffee is one of the products with which Colombia is most closely associated. While I am not a huge coffee drinker I do enjoy it on occasion, and being in the capital of a country that does it extraordinarily well called for an indulgence of caffeine. Nestled in the bustling Usaquén neighborhood, Colo Coffee offers excellent brews in a vibrant setting. Given that the surrounding neighborhood is one of Bogotá’s most walkable and charming, Colo epitomizes modern cafe culture in the wealthier parts of the city. Yet in doing so, it puts on display the same forces of globalization discussed in the previous section. While Usaquén as a whole feels more uniquely Colombian than other wealthy neighborhoods in the city, the vibrant atmosphere at trendy shops like Colo is something that can be found in cities all over the world - a result of homogenous aesthetics coming to dominate similar establishments worldwide.

Yet while the atmosphere that Colo offers can be found the world over, its quality coffee is still worth sampling. J and I’s trip in 2024 began with a full day of exploring Bogotá, and after a walk around Usaquen we stopped in for drinks. J has never been a fan of coffee (believing that it tastes like Chinese medicine), and found the cup pictured above to have a similar flavor. Given this response to some of the highest quality coffee in a country full of it, I resigned myself to be the sole enjoyer of such beverages. Yet years later, we would together enjoy drinks from a shop in Toronto called Togo Coffee - demonstrating the power of lots of milk and sugar in eliminating flavors perceived as foul.

From the perspective of many travellers, Colombia is not seen as a culinary paradise. Compared to Mexican, Peruvian and other regional cuisines, Colombian food is often characterized as bland and heavy. Yet while I have at times found myself frustrated by the lack of seasoning in many dishes, there is something comforting in the heartiness that defines the local foods of Bogotá and Medellín.

Similar to how the bandeja paisa serves as the ultimate Medellín comfort food, caldo de costilla serves a similar role when I am in Bogota. A simple short rib soup cooked with potatoes and garnished with cilantro, it is renowned in the city as a hangover cure. While I have never made use of it for that particular purpose, the version at one establishment has on three occasions been my first meal upon arriving in Colombia’s capital. Nestled just to the north of Parque de Los Hippies in the trendy Chapinero district, Distrito Gayina is the perfect embodiment of a hole-in-the-wall establishment. Not only does it dish out the best caldo de costilla I have found in Bogotá, but the timing of my three visits to it have allowed me to associate it with times of optimism and excitement.

My first visit came in March 2022 at the tail end of a two-week trip around Colombia, and started the day after I learned I had been accepted to a Master’s program at York University. Having achieved a goal years in the making, my acceptance led to a three-month expedition that took me all over Latin America - the final stop of which was Bogotá, in August of 2022. This second visit to Distrito Gayina came at a time of contentment, as I had completed an incredible trip and was eager to begin school shortly thereafter. Finally, Distrito was the first place J and I ate upon arriving in Colombia, and kicked off a trip that cemented our both compatible traveling styles and the joy that comes from two foodies falling in love. Taken together, these three instances of joyful moments are emblematic of how food can serve as a powerful marker of emotional states, while also reinforcing the comforting appeal of simple, hearty foods.

Restaurante 69 Gauchos epitomizes all that is great about Argentine-style steakhouses. Their wine selection is impeccable, their appetizers (notably the chorizo and provoleta) are top-notch, and the steaks are of the highest quality. In addition, it is one of the few restaurants in the world where I will order intestine, as their chinchulines (grilled beef intestine) are prepared to perfection in a way I have had nowhere else. Their incredible food aside, however, 69 Gauchos has on four occasions been my last meal in Bogotá, and in the process, become one of the most symbolically important locations in all of my travels.

Similar to Distrito Gayina, my dining at 69 Gauchos is linked to the ways that I associate Bogotá with optimism and excitement, but it also serves as a marker of conclusion. Three of my four meals came at the end of multi-week trips (with the fourth being the opposite - J and I ate here together on the first night of our trip). In all three cases satisfying steak dinners served as markers of completed trips, after which I would return to normal life in Toronto. Whether it was with the security of my acceptance to grad school awaiting me back home, an end to a life-changing trip that left me fulfilled in every way, or the the last night of a research trip that satisfied all of its objectives, a final meal at 69 Gauchos assured that I would be leaving Bogotá with not just a contented stomach but a wealth of wisdom and insightfulness.

Buenos Aires will always be a special place to me, and it conjures feelings of both awe and sadness. Throughout the cityscape are reminders of both Argentina’s tumultuous history and the radically different trajectory that it appeared to be on a century ago, but also of resiliency and a cultural vibrancy that endures even in the face of economic and political uncertainty.

With its charming streetscapes, vibrant local culture and a cuisine that seems tailor-made to suite my tastes, it is in many ways a city that is seemingly customized to fit my interests. Neighborhoods such as Palermo, Belgrano and Almagro boast a unique charm that is unlike anywhere else in the world, while the availability of top-quality beef shapes a culinary scene that is a carnivore’s dream. Taken together, it is no wonder that I consider Buenos Aires not only one of the world’s great cities, but as a paradise for the style of flaneurism that is emblematic of how I travel.

While its particular variety may not have as much recognition as others, Buenos Aires is home to a type of pizza as closely linked to its identity as styles such as deep-dish or pizza al taglio are to their respective cities of origin. With thick crusts, simple toppings and large amounts of cheese, these hearty pizzas are a symbol of the Italian influence on modern Porteño culture and are ubiquitous throughout the city.

Of Buenos Aires’ most famous pizzerias, El Cuartito stands out as my favorite. With an old-school decor and a practice of reheating individual slices to order, they became a staple of my time in the city. Yet along with sending my taste buds into a state of bliss, El Cuartito’s pizza also left me with a sense of intrigue regarding the origins of this particular pizza style. It was not until over two years after my first visit to Argentina that I would finally decipher what I saw as the mysteries of Buenos Aires-style pizza.

In October 2025 I visited Milan, and one of the first meals I had consisted of a slice of the local pizza (known as pizza al trancio). The similarities were apparent from the first bite, and the thicker crust was the closest I had found to resembling Cuartito’s. As I would later learn, much of the immigration from Italy to Argentina came from northern provinces such as Lombardy and Liguria, and the Italian influence on Argentinian cuisine reflects this heritage. While aspects such as the available toppings and the large amounts of cheese (assumed to be the product of readily available dairy) are undoubtedly products of the local environment, the influence of pizza al trancio on those in Buenos Aires is clear when looking at their crusts. Thus, just like the flow of immigrants from Southern Italy to New York provides a link between NYC-style and Neapolitan pizzas, the heritage of Buenos Aires’ hearty pizzas can be found in the pizzerias of cities like Milan and Genoa.

The modification of traditional cuisines to suit local tastes is a long established practice in cities with large immigrant communities. Yet while dishes such as Berlin-style döner kebab and New York City’s pastrami are beloved the world over, other examples of culinary modification (changes that fall short of a true cultural fusion) can be found all over the world. South America’s status as a major destination for immigrants is often overlooked, but communities representing a wide array of nationalities can be found throughout it - and with them has come new interpretations of long-established dishes.

Overshadowed by cultural melting pots such as São Paulo and Lima, Buenos Aires is not usually thought of as a hub for culinary diversity in South America. While waves of Italian and Spanish immigrants in the first half of the 20th century established dishes such as pizza, pasta and empanadas as local favorites, the culinary offerings of more recent immigrant groups are less visible. Yet with a bit more effort than expended when in search of a steak or empanada, such renderings can be found.

Two of my excursions into outer neighborhoods of Buenos Aires were conducted to seek out reputed ethnic enclaves (though one is much more visible than the other). Situated to the west of the city center, the Flores neighborhood is home to a small group of restaurants serve as one of the sole reminders of the city’s sizeable Korean community. Yet while the access to dishes such as bibimbap and kimbap were very welcome, the ways they were made to suit local tastes led to some disappointment. The above bibimbap, for example, had a lack of spiciness that most native Koreans would find unappealing. The lack of spice was not surprising in this case, however, as Argentina’s cuisine does not emphasize such flavors. Such changes reflect the pragmatism that is inherent at many immigrant-run restaurants, where culinary innovation to suit local tastes can be the difference between success and failure.

By contrast, a visit to the city’s Chinatown (situated in the upscale Belgrano neighborhood) demonstrates that not all cuisines need adjustments to fit Argentinian tastes. Beef noodle soup is one of my favorite comfort foods, and I have sampled it in cities all over the world. The version I had in Belgrano not only satisfied a particular craving, but surprised me with its authenticity - something that I believe can be attributed to the original dish being more in line with predominant local tastes. Between the large chunks of tender beef, the seasoning of the soup being relatively simple, and the fact that it is traditionally not spicy, beef noodle soup is a dish that would not require much modification to suit local palettes in. This stands in contrast to the bibimbap (which had to lose its most distinct flavor to be more appealing), and provides a perfect example of how some “foreign” dishes can gain a foothold more easily than others.

As the capital of a country boasting some of the best beef in the world, no food is more synonymous with Buenos Aires than steak. Steakhouses are never more than a short walk away no matter the location in the city, and come in a seemingly infinite variety of styles and price categories. During my two trips to Buenos Aires I ate steak almost every day, and it would be a rare occurrence for me to go a day without eating some sort of grilled meat. My favorite cut has long been skirt steak (known in Argentina as entraña), and its flavorful nature makes its pricier nature more than worthwhile. While their quality is second to none, the two pieces of entraña pictured here are from two very different establishments. Together, these two delicious meals can tell a great deal about the ways that steak is an integral part of the city’s social fabric.

On the left is a French fries-steak combo from Parilla al Carbon Gonzi, a small neighborhood restaurant in Almagro. Just a few minutes away from the Airbnb in which I was staying in 2022, With homemade chimichurri and salsa criolla (chopped tomatoes and onions in a vinaigrette) as accompanyments, the entraña at Parilla Gonzi embodies a more casual version of a ubiquitous dish, designed to be an everyday food that is at once basic and satisfying.

The right-hand image is from Parilla Peña. This establishment is an exquisite example of an upscale Argentinian steakhouse, with white tablecloths, an extensive wine list and a charming interior decor. Yet despite the completely different atmosphere from Parrilla Gonzi, the steak itself is remarkably similar to its counterpart. Such similarities speak to not just the ubiquity of steak as a feature of daily life in Buenos Aires, but also its role as something that transcends class boundaries. Regardless of whether it is being consumed in a small restaurant in a grittier part of town or in a fancier establishment in a more upscale one, the presence of high quality, well-prepared steak is a reminder of food’s role in perpetuating the city’s shared Porteño identity.

One of my main highlights of visiting Buenos Aires - and arguably in my travels more generally - has been the opportunity to twice experience a homemade asado (barbecue). B and I became friends during my first visit in 2022, and on one of my last days in the city she invited me to join her and her family for their traditional Sunday meal. This occurred again when I visited in 2024, and on both occasions I had meals that were some of the best I have ever had. B’s mother tended the grill with loving care, with the resulting meat being cooked to perfection. Accompanied by freshly made side dishes and eaten amongst great company, it epitomized all that is wonderful about asado and its integral presence in Argentinian culture.

Flying into Buenos Aires’ Aeroparque Jorge Newbury, with its stunning landing approaches, offers a literal bird’s eye view of some of the most desirable areas in the city. As the plane glides onto the runway, the wealth that continues to be concentrated here is on full display. Luxury high-rises coexist with elegant older apartment buildings, while well-landscaped parks dot the landscape. From the air it appears all is well, and Buenos Aires’ status as a vibrant metropolis is on full display. At the same time, however, these picturesque views can also spark a sense of melancholy, as this airborne perspective is a reminder of not only the city’s dynamism, but also one of lost potential.

Argentina has long been infamous for its tumultuous economic history (along with a dark political past), but before the tumult began it was at one point one of the most prosperous countries in the world. While the inequality that accompanied that dynamism should not be overlooked, the fact remains that Argentina in the early-20th century was a land of opportunity that drew immigrants from all over. Yet while the future seemed bright at the time, the effects of the Great Depression, Peronism, the Dirty War, multiple currency crises and Javier Milei’s current presidency have rendered such optimism moot.

Reminders of Argentina’s soaring heights and subsequent multi-decade fall from economic grade are everywhere in Buenos Aires. From the elegant Parisian-style apartment blocks in central neighborhoods to the opulent Retiro station, the city’s landscape is dotted with a series of monuments to its status a century ago. At the same time, decaying infrastructure, growing inequality between the center city and the suburbs, and a palpable sense of economic malaise are ever-present mementos of the systemic issues plaguing Buenos Aires. This contrast between the current day status quo and the future that older aspects of the city were planned for are a poignant reminder of what could have been had history gone just a little bit differently. I have always been fascinated by alternative histories, and such interest allows the imagination of a Buenos Aires that boasts its current vibrancy without the scars of Argentina’s past and present looming over it.

From the Paris-like streetscapes of Recoleta and Retiro to the upscale blocks Palermo and the gritty-yet-vibrant thoroughfares of Balvanera, the central neighborhoods of Buenos Aires are largely responsible for the city’s reputation as being a taste of Europe in South America. This particular block (located in the Almagro neighborhood, close to its border with Palermo) is especially evocative of this idea, with its cobblestone streets and extensive tree canopy bringing to mind scenes in myriad European locales.

Yet like so much in the city, streetscapes such as this one also evoke feelings of sadness. Even in upscale neighborhoods, the symptoms of Argentina’s tempestuous history are visible. From the slight yet ever-present shabbiness of the buildings to the roadways in need of maintenance, areas such as this are yet another reminder of the alternative history that could have seen Buenos Aires maintaining the dynamism it had in the early 20th century.

At the same time, such streets (especially in areas such as Palermo or Balvanera) speaks to the ways that Buenos Aires remains, despite the issues facing it, one of the world’s best locations for vibrant streetscapes and neighborhoods. Bars and restaurants create a lively atmosphere at all hours of the day (and long into the night), while small, family-owned businesses remain the norm. To a flaneur like myself such a place is heaven on earth, as it provides endless opportunities to observe modern urban life in one of the world’s great cities.

From an urban planning perspective, Medellin is one of the most fascinating locations in Latin America. Between its world-renowned urban revitalization efforts, groundbreaking cable car network and vibrant local culture, it defies all previous stereotypes that have long been associated with the city. Yet over the course of three visits, I gained a more nuanced view of what has become a poster child for urbanism in the Global South - one that acknowledged the gaps in Medellin’s revitalization, and the exacerbation of inequalities brought on by gentrification and accommodation of the city’s growing reliance on foreign tourism.

Such observations shaped my perspectives on urban planning while studying for a Master’s degree, culminating in a major research project that took an in-depth look at one of the most prominent examples of transit-driven urban regeneration in the city. Between this academic focus and its role in my personal development (as the location of both my first trip with friends, as well as J and I’s first trip together), Medellin played a major role in shaping the events of a multi-year period in my life.

Ever since my first visit, I have found the skies of Medellín to have a uniquely magical beauty. While much of this may be due to my accommodation on each visit boasting a rooftop patio, there remains a distinctness to the city’s cloudscapes that transcends advantageous viewpoints.

Arepas are ubiquitous in both Venezuela and Colombia, with them being a focal point of the rivalry between the two nations. Yet as political upheaval in Venezuela has sent masses of refugees fleeing across the border, the Venezuelan version of this popular dish has become more and more common in Medellín.

While I had had them (and other Venezuelan foods such as tequenos) in Toronto before, Los Chamos was my first true introduction to arepas. Their pelua (shredded meat with cheese) and pabellon (shredded meat, cheese, fried plantains and black beans) were staples during my three visits to Medellín. This was especially true in 2024, when their Laureles location was first the site of J and I’s first meal together in the city and then a series of convenience meals due to the proximity of our hotel.

The increased presence of Venezuelan arepa restaurants is indicative of not just the migration of that country’s citizens, but also the ways in which they establish themselves in their new homes. Small, affordable restaurants are a common business for new immigrants, and are a sign of a new community taking root. Thus, from Santiago to Lima to Bogota and Medellín, new arepa spots are a clear sign of not only the far-reaching effects Venezuela’s ongoing crisis, but how those affected have brought their local cuisine (and by extension, their culture) with them.

The hillside neighborhoods in the north of Medellín are one of the original focal points of the city’s ongoing urban revitalization. Anchored by the first of the city’s famous Metrocable lines, they are emblematic of the city’s resurgence following its violent nadir decades earlier. Upon my first visit, I was fascinated by the ways that the Metrocable was used as a tool for the revitalization of surrounding neighborhoods, and seeing firsthand one of the most talked-about examples of contemporary urbanism in Latin America left a deep impression on me.

Coincidentally, I received my acceptance letter to York University Master’s of Environmental Science (MES) program while I was in Colombia. Because of the the flexibility of my job at the time, I was able to spend the summer of 2022 working remotely all over Latin America, with a week spent in Medellín towards the end of my trip. This second visit reinforced my interest in the Metrocable and the revitalization that accompanied it, and I resolved to make it a key part of my research in school. This focus shaped the courses I took throughout my two years in the program, and culminated in my major research project (a thesis-like essay) examining the effects of the Metrocable on the surrounding neighborhoods and looking for insights that could be applied to Toronto.

Throughout the course of the project (and with the help of my research supervisor) I was able to gain a more nuanced view of the area’s revitalization, such as learning about unsuccessful urban design projects or the prospects for gentrification in areas around Metrocable stations. In a way, these realizations reflect the my greater understanding of socioeconomic issues as they relate to urbanism - realizations that may not have come about had I not delved so deeply into studying this particular quadrant of Medellín.

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The Medellín Metro has been a connecting thread throughout my visits to the city. A powerful symbol of the city’s rebirth following the dark days of Pablo Escobar and the years of violence that accompanied him, residents of Medellín take great pride in the metro system. From trips on Lines A & B as part of exploring different neighborhoods to excursions on the Metrocable that influenced my Master’s degree research, my fascination with the metro first played a huge role in shaping my first impressions of , and then inspired future visits to the city. Much like Hong Kong did years earlier, these visits in turn caused this mountainous metropolis to serve as the backdrop to several major moments of personal growth.

My first visit to Medellín was the first of three trips I took with friends E and M - as well as the first time I was traveling with friends rather than solo or with a partner. Conceived during a Couchsurfing meetup at a Toronto bar and planned amidst a resurgence of COVID-19 in late 2021, the trip to Colombia was the first time we meshed our differing travel styles. While there were some growing pains, we eventually established a template for future trips together: in both Mexico City and Taipei, we each booked separate accommodations that matched our individual preferences, and then designed our own daily schedules that reflected our own priorities. We still spent much time together, but such activities were planned to not take away from ones we each wanted to do. Such trips became a defining aspect of our friendship, and served to demonstrate to me the benefits of traveling with friends.

My third trip to Medellín was not only integral to the major research project I completed as part of my Master’s degree, but also J and I’s first trip together. While we had already found ourselves to be compatible in a variety of ways, traveling together would be another test of adaptability. Much like with E and M, J and I’s time together in Medellín was a complete success, and demonstrated how great of travel partners we are. I was able to play tour guide by showing her my favorite restaurants and neighborhoods, while she made observations about the city I had previously overlooked and led us to places I likely would not have visited on my own (most notably the open-air market in La Candelaria). The patterns we established in Colombia served as a template for future trips together, and also served to further strengthen our relationship more generally.

The bandeja paisa is the most well-known dish of Medellín’s cuisine. Although some ingredients will be included based on individual restaurants’ preferences, rice, beans, an egg, chorizo, morcilla (blood sausage) and chicharron (fried pork belly) are almost always present. While doing so may not have been a stellar choice health-wise, I sampled a variety of bandeja paisa during my three visits to Medellín. Of the places I tried, three stand out not just for their quality but for the insights into Medellín’s society that they together provide.

Maru Rico (the center photo, from 2022) offers an experience that best reflects the dish’s working-class origins. Here, their plate offers the largest portions, the lowest price and a cafeteria-like atmosphere that feels right at home in the industrial area in which it is located. Restaurante Gloria des Glorias (left photo, from 2024) is situated in Envigado, a middle-to-upper middle class suburb known for its safety and family-friendly atmosphere. Their bandeja paisa feels a bit more refined, with the addition of fresh vegetables signifying a cursory attempt at balancing out the heavier parts of the dish. Finally, Mamasita Medallo’s (right, from 2024) bandeja paisa is demonstrative of its popularity amongst tourists and wealthier locals. Theirs is the only one of the three that did not leave me in a food coma - a reflection of its smaller portion sizes and the noted freshness of its ingredients.

Together, these three examples signify the ways that the bandeja paisa’s ubiquity transcends Medellín’s social and economic boundaries. In a city with rampant inequality, the versatility of the dish allows it to serve as a unifying cultural symbol enjoyed by all social classes. While its heartiness may be off-putting to some, to discerning palettes it embodies the ultimate comfort food - a status that is inextricably intertwined with my memories of Medellín.

Mamasita Medallo is notable for the way it not only satisfies the stomach, but how its food, decor and location provide insightful information about the city in which they are located. Similar to the bandeja paisa, the food at this particular establishment serves as a powerful marker of Medellín’s current state of being.

The food at Mamsita Medallo is best described as an elevated version Paisa cuisine. As discussed above, their interpretations of local dishes offer a sense of freshness that other Medellín restaurants do not necessarily have. Of particular note is their “Fiesta de Arepas”, which I made a point to eat on each of my visits to the city. A tray of white and yellow corn arepas, chicharron, soft cheese, stewed beef and a selection of salsas, it is a fantastic rendition of an omnipresent local favorite.

The vibrant colors on display as part of the Fiesta de Arepas blend well with the restaurant’s radiant atmosphere, where an open-plan kitchen is surrounded by a highly Instagram-friendly interior decor. Outside, the surrounding neighborhood of El Poblado has become the hub of the city’s steadily increasing number of international visitors - a large number of whom are attracted by the city’s growing popularity on social media.

The combination of a tourist-heavy location, photo-friendly food and an Instagrammable atmosphere together make Mamasita Medallo emblematic of Medellín’s newfound identity as a popular destination for travelers of all kinds. Given the ways that such popularity has shaped Poblado and its surroundings, it is likely that the restaurant would not exist without this influx of visitors. Yet despite it having all the markers of a tourist trap, the quality of the food is enough for it to not fully fit this moniker. Rather, it is a chance to not only savour an excellent rendition of Paisa cuisine, but also to enjoy the ways that Medellín’s reinvention of its reputation has allowed for such an experience to occur.

For all of its deserved renown as a foodie’s paradise, Toronto’s Japanese food scene is rather lacking in comparison to other cuisines widely available here. Outside of upscale sushi restaurants, a smattering of ramen joints of varying quality and a handful of establishments who together offer a patchwork of traditional Japanese dishes, the availability of this particular cuisine leaves much to be desired - especially in terms of casual sushi shops. Having lived in Vancouver for four years, my bar for sushi outside of Japan has been set quite high, and for the first 2.5 years of living in Toronto I resigned myself to the fact that I would have trouble satisfying my sushi cravings beyond mere contentment.

In the end, it was quantity rather than quality that would define my experience of eating sushi in Toronto. The ability to eat heaping portions of salmon sashimi, ika (squid) nigiri and tobiko gunkan do much to alleviate desires for higher-quality yet more expensive offerings, and satisfy all but the most specific of cravings. Similarly, while my consumption of sushi in Vancouver was largely a solitary experience (usually either as takeout eaten in my apartment or solo meals while out running errands), my all-you-can-eat (AYCE) meals in Toronto have become group events, with a posse of devoted eaters who have a shared enthusiasm for the pleasure that delicious food brings - as well as an acute understanding of how best to consume it.

The first establishing experience of what would eventually become a consistent crew of AYCE eaters took place towards the end of 2021, at a combined barbecue/sushi establishment called Matsuda. Nestled in the northeastern corner of Scarborough, their combo of refreshing raw fish and hearty grilled meats sounded like a match made in heaven to our group. Yet following a series of too-large orders and a case of eyes being bigger than stomachs, we found ourselves feeling completely stuffed while still having a huge amount of food on the table (pictured above). While in the moment they were less than pleasant experiences, many moments from our Matsuda adventure - our realization of over-ordering, a series of upset stomachs, and our faithful driver’s navigation of his truck through a series of road closures - became core memories for our group.

Over the next few years, we became more attuned to our limits and were able to keep our consumption to more reasonable amounts (while still getting our money’s worth). Trips to AYCE spots occurred every few months, taking us to locations throughout Toronto and its suburbs. Such exhaustive research left us with a wealth of knowledge on the topic, such as what spots offered the best variety of sushi and sashimi offerings (Echo in Midtown or Osaka in Flemingdon Park), which places were to be avoided (Spring Sushi), and myriad other important discoveries (such as the role of creme brulee as our preferred post-sushi dessert item). Throughout these visits other members would periodically join for individual outings, but the core group remained largely unchanged - a function of our shared enthusiasm.

As these sushi expeditions were occurring (along with an increasing number of visits to restaurants of varying cuisines), the dynamics of our broader friend group had begun to shift. The group that went to Matsuda met through our mutual friend M (who is discussed more here), whose open-door policy and frequent parties brought together a wide array of people. Upon his moving away from Toronto, however, the unifying role he played disappeared, and what had been a larger and more cohesive group began to slowly fray based on our individual interests (albeit with a large amount of overlap between interest groups, and a number of strong friendships that transcend them). As a result, the original crew has expanded into a larger network composed of those interested not just in AYCE, but in sampling the full range of Toronto’s wondrous culinary offerings.

Now with a larger group and a widened focus, the food crew has taken on different permutations depending on the type of food involved or who is out of town at any given time (especially important due to the importance of travelling to many of us). The increased emphasis on different cuisines also comes as part of a renewed focus on quality over quantity, in recognition of our lessened ability to eat as much food in AYCE settings. Yet no matter the type or amount of it being consumed, the bond that our shared love of food has formed is an integral part of the life I have built for myself in Toronto, and having a group such good friends to eat with has been a highlight of my adult life.