When blini are involved, dieting takes a holiday

IN my bathroom, I have a poster from the 2003-04 Fernando Botero show at the Musee Maillol in Paris. The Colombian artist has made an unusual specialty of painting obese people, in the case of my print, a bountifully proportioned ballerina, en pointe, her meaty shank poised as her leg unfolds. She seems completely unashamed of the figure she cuts in white leotard and tights, which is what makes her interesting and beautiful.

I have Botero’s ballerina on my bathroom wall for consolation because these days, when I look in the mirror, I see not the sylph I once was but a pudgy stranger. It’s irritating, because I don’t eat too much. But I often travel.

When I do, I ignore my need to constantly diet and instead freely indulge in the pleasures of the table. What would be the point, I ask you, of going to Italy and not eating pasta? Or turning away from a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam in England? Or choosing steamed salmon over blini with caviar and creme fraiche in Finland? You may as well visit Paris without seeing the Eiffel Tower.

I’ve made dilatory efforts to follow the protein-rich Atkins diet on the road, choosing eggs and cheese at breakfast instead of something from the pastry basket. But most countries’ signature foods -- bratwurst on a bun in Germany, a bagel with a smear in New York, frites with mayonnaise in Belgium -- are loaded with carbohydrates. So I can’t stick to Atkins in far-away places, in the interest of culinary experimentation, which goes hand in hand with geographical exploration, I say.

A traveler also needs plenty of fuel for wandering and sightseeing. But when you’re on the move, it’s often hard to find nonfattening foods that satisfy and sustain.

Of course, that’s just the sort of excuse people like me use for eating a Big Mac and fries during an airport layover or even the tasteless desserts served in a plane’s coach class. Publicly, I welcome the advent of salads and smoothies in London’s Heathrow Airport; privately, I prefer the old days when the only things to order were bangers and mash and shepherd’s pie.

In my not-so-salad days -- I’ve never been fond of rabbit food --I took a trip to South America, starting in Santiago, Chile. There the staff of life isn’t bread but grilled meat, which I ate at every meal with potatoes and copious quantities of cheap red Chilean wine.

I then took a bus across the continent to Buenos Aires. On the way, I saw 22,834-foot Aconcagua, thought to be the highest peak in the Western Hemisphere, and stopped in Mendoza, Argentina, where more meat and wine were on order.

Later, I was sitting on a bus next to a big man with BO, trying to shut out the soap opera on the TV screen above the driver, when I suddenly realized that my jeans felt tight around my middle. I looked down and discovered, to my dismay, that I was working on a stomach.

I’ve returned carrying extra weight from trips to New Orleans, famous for such high-calorie specialties as eggs Benedict and muffulettas, and New Zealand, a dairy haven where I defy anyone not to slather butter on the bread.

More surprising, I put on weight during a month-long trip to China about a decade ago, where my demanding itinerary included Beijing, Xian, Chongqing, Nanjing, Suzhou and Shanghai. I love moo shu pork and General Tso’s chicken, but I could never find these old favorites on menus in the true cradle of Chinese cuisine. At first, I ate mostly in hotels, which seemed the best option for an ignorant tourist, dutifully ordering stir-fried and steamed vegetables.

But hygiene standards were not high at the time. Somewhere in the green beans or spinach I almost always found a long black hair, which made me revise my eating habits. For the rest of the trip, I lived on beer, rice and, above all, steamed dumplings. Small wonder, then, that I came home looking like one.

Generally, I also gain weight at health spas and yoga retreats, with their sunrise to sunset exercise programs and organic whole foods. Hiking, aerobics and sun salutations make me hungry. Granola, quinoa, couscous, bran muffins and carob chip cookies make me fat.

Short-term losses

ONCE, I arrived at a health spa north of New York City that was known for its fasting regimes, unaware that caffeinated beverages weren’t allowed. A crashing headache quickly descended, proof that I needed my morning coffee more than I realized. In desperation, I walked to a nearby village to feed my addiction, then guiltily took a taxi back to the spa. On the way there, the driver told me I shouldn’t feel so bad because he routinely took spa guests to a local steak house to clandestinely gorge.

Occasionally, I go somewhere and lose weight without even trying, as on a month-long budget trip to India in 1998. I liked the food well enough, but stress, oppressive heat and crowds made me lose my appetite and then I got a stomach bug. Afterward, I was overjoyed to find I’d lost 15 pounds and stopped worrying about my weight. So, in no time at all, I was right back where I started.

I also lost weight on an Earthwatch Institute trip to a gorgeous, mile-long strip of beach in Costa Rica. There, I helped a team of scientists monitor the reproductive habits of giant sea turtles that emerged from the Pacific Ocean between midnight and 6 a.m., dug holes in the sand and deposited their eggs. My job was to walk up and down the hot, muggy, bug-ridden beach with a flashlight all night, waiting for the mother turtles. My Earthwatch colleagues and I then recorded the time the turtles arrived, counted the eggs and noted where the nests were.

It was grueling work, but it was deeply gratifying to take part in the effort to safeguard an endangered species. And then there was the bonus: losing 5 pounds.

I especially favor walking and biking trips, partly because they let me watch my weight while seeing the sights. On a self-guided bike tour of County Clare in western Ireland with my sister, slacking off was out of the question. If we didn’t pedal up the monstrous hill on the way to the Cliffs of Moher, we weren’t going to get there. Because of our exertion, we felt no guilt about nibbling Cadbury hazelnut bars, eating fatty bacon on brown bread for lunch, sampling a different brand of Irish whisky at almost every other pub we passed.

I love the way a cheese sandwich and an apple can taste better than white truffles and foie gras while I’m sitting in purple clover on the Emerald Coast of Normandy, where I once took a solo walking trip. Late one day, I reached Cancale, overlooking the oyster beds of Mont-St.-Michel Bay. I took a seat at one of the seafood restaurants on the waterfront, all offering the same special: half a dozen oysters, bread and a glass of Muscadet. When I finished the last oyster and drained my wine glass, I sat watching dusk steal over the wide, flat bay, resting after my efforts. Then, without thinking, I told the waiter to bring me the special again.

That decision -- taken so instinctively, at a time and place so right -- was one of the best I’ve ever made. It is, I think, almost as hard to know how to indulge as to exercise self-discipline. Besides, what is important? A beautiful figure?

Not to Botero’s ballerina, who wants to dance even if she looks like a full-size white couch doing it. And not to me either. I prefer lots of oysters and a magic moment on Mont-St.-Michel.

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Susan Spano also writes “Postcards From Paris,” which can be read at latimes.com/susanspano.