A Summertime Letter to the Editor of the Travel Section

In the days of print media, the Sunday New York Times featured letters to the editor of the travel section, which typically recounted the writer's personal reflection on a recent article. In summer 2007, the Times oped page published my own take on such letters, under the title "Welcome to Obidas":

CHICAGO — The enchanting town of Obidas was one of the highlights of our summer driving tour, although I cannot remember why.

Still, I am certain that the story would hold great interest for readers, since it no doubt involves either some witty observation on quirky foreign ways, or a charming encounter with a horse (or dog). Then again, it might have been where my good wife had her pocketbook stolen, in which case I could impart some helpful advice about avoiding theft like, "Never hand your pocketbook to a man on a motor scooter who wants to see whether it is made of real canvas."

I am reasonably certain that Obidas is not where we enjoyed the famous yogurt. That was probably Omylas, where I now suspect that the surprisingly sweet taste was achieved simply by adding honey, though I have not shared that suspicion with my wife, who continues to refer to Omylas as the place with the sticky yogurt.

In any event, Obidas is well worth a detour on the popular day trip to Arrialos, even though it is several hours in the opposite direction and will therefore require an overnight stay. This can be taken in the picturesque seaside village of Lulash, a mere 200 or so kilometers farther north. In Lulash, one can dine on a classic dish containing some sort of fish (or perhaps shellfish, or mollusks, or maybe boiled eggs) in a thick brown sauce.

Alas, offshore pollution has caused the specialty - which I now think might be called Ribateja (unless that is the name of a remote border province notable either for its hot springs or roving bandits) to all but disappear. Still, you will see it listed on the menus of the better restaurants, which can be readily identified by their street-side mâitres d' (or "louts," in the regional vernacular) who playfully grab you by the shoulders and use mock brutality to escort you inside to a table.

Within a few short hours you will be happily enjoying the feast of a lifetime. Be sure to pay careful attention as the waiter ceremoniously performs the tableside ritual of skimming the cloudy sediment from the surface of your meal, which is served tepid according to local custom. Do not be put off by the unusually sharp, some might say fetid, aroma and taste. Legend has it that the seasonings were developed so that fishermen would not grow homesick during their months at sea.

Next, steal an unobtrusive glance at the other diners, many of whom will be chuckling and giggling as though to share, if only vicariously, in your gastronomic delight. You will realize why they are smiling when you see your waiter artfully signal to them by quickly rubbing his thumb across the tips of his first two fingers, a gesture that is widely understood to mean "fortunate tourist."

From Lulash it is an easy, 19-hour journey onward to the Amaroga wine country, where a determined œnophile can seek out rare vintages, recognized by the seepage of dense yellow sludge around the cork.

While the best wines are seldom for sale, having been handed down from generation to generation, you will be surprised by the number of vintners who have anticipated your arrival by setting aside one special bottle "just for you."

And of course, the understated hospitality for which the Amarogans are justifiably famous cannot help but remind you of the many pleasures of Obidas, whatever they might have been.