I always thought that real memories are not photographs, but tastes. They can take you back to the very heart of the moment. As soon as I tried one crispy taco on the street of Mexico City, I was walking barefoot again along a narrow mountain path at sunset, where the wind played in my hair and the sky was fiery.

I remember Tokyo. I was wandering along umeda street and accidentally looked inside a stall with three chairs where they were making yakisoba. People came in, ate, and moved on. I stood in line without words, the smell just ground my attention, and a minute later I was already sitting with a spoonful of noodles, enveloping the taste of soy, garlic and something indescribable. This is not food - it is a bridge between me and a foreign culture, made of spices.

And there was another evening in Rome. In an alley where I would never find this place again, they were selling pasta with seafood, which was poured with warm lemon oil. It was fresh, almost inelegant, but so bright that I felt - happiness is not only in beautiful restaurants. It can be in a disposable plate, standing in a strange city, when you are alone - only the taste and you.

Once in Bangkok I tried mango streak (mango and sticky rice). Honestly, I did not even know that my taste buds could explode like that. It was like a signal flare: sweetness, tartness, thick texture. I ate one, then two more. Then I realized: sometimes you don’t eat to satisfy your hunger – you eat for the ground beneath your feet, for the wind, for the feeling of someone else’s life that you try on for yourself.

Every country – every taste – adds a touch to the picture of your own history. But the most powerful memory was one chaotic evening in Lisbon. Somewhere between the rooftops, I bought a tiny bag of pastel de nata – milk croissants with cinnamon. I walked home, wrapped in a scarf, with a hot, stretchy filling, and felt that this city was protecting me.

What taste will you remember forever? Choose one – and it will tell you about the most personal.