It's like this - because I travel so much, I crave certain foods

In the words of Alex Meraz, spoken with the honesty of one who has wandered far, we are reminded of the hidden hunger that comes with a life in motion: “It’s like this—because I travel so much, I crave certain foods or certain things, like from certain places that I’ve been.” Though this may seem a simple reflection on appetite, beneath it lies a deeper wisdom: that the soul binds itself to the memory of places through taste, through experience, through the small treasures that anchor us when the road feels endless.

The act of travel enriches the spirit, yet it also scatters it. Each place leaves an imprint: the aroma of bread from a village, the sweetness of fruit from a market, the warmth of a dish shared in a stranger’s home. These experiences weave themselves into memory, and when one is far away, the heart does not merely recall them—it craves them. For food is never just sustenance; it is belonging, it is rootedness, it is the taste of being “at home” in a world that otherwise changes too quickly.

The ancients knew this bond well. When the Israelites wandered the desert, they longed for the flavors of Egypt—the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks—even though they had been freed from bondage. Their craving was not for food alone, but for the comfort of what was familiar. Likewise, Odysseus, though he feasted on the exotic gifts of foreign lands, yearned always for the simple bread and wine of Ithaca. For it is not luxury that fills the heart, but the flavor tied to memory and belonging.

Meraz’s words show us how every place becomes part of us. To crave food from where we have been is to acknowledge that travel leaves marks upon the soul. A dish eaten once in joy becomes, in memory, a symbol of that time and place. Thus, the craving is not just hunger of the stomach but hunger of the spirit—to return, to relive, to reconnect. It is a reminder that no journey is ever fully left behind, for it lives on in these small and sacred longings.

There is also a lesson here about gratitude. For in craving something distant, we come to realize its value. That which is common in one land becomes precious in another. The Roman soldiers stationed far from Italy longed for olives and wine, the tastes of home that could not be easily replaced. In the same way, the traveler learns to treasure what was once taken for granted, finding in absence a deeper reverence for the gifts of place.

And yet, this longing also speaks to the cost of constant movement. To crave and not to have is to live in a state of incompletion. The traveler gains much but also loses—the ease of familiarity, the comfort of constancy. Meraz’s reflection is not a complaint, but a reminder that with every gain there is loss, and that even a life of adventure carries with it the ache of separation from the simple things that root us.

The lesson is clear: honor the cravings of your soul, for they reveal what you truly value. When you long for the taste of a certain bread, or the sight of a certain place, recognize it as the voice of memory, reminding you of the richness of your journey. Do not ignore these longings—let them teach you gratitude, let them draw you closer to the places and people that shaped you.

So I say to you: travel boldly, taste deeply, and remember well. Let every land you pass through leave its mark upon you, and when you crave what you once knew, let it be a blessing, a reminder that you have lived richly and seen much. And when you return to those places, savor again not only the food, but the life you lived when you first tasted it. For in this weaving of journey, memory, and longing, the soul finds both its hunger and its fulfillment.