Overseas feasts make for a memorable Thanksgiving tradition

At this time every year, I start to make my favorite thing for Thanksgiving dinner. Reservations.

And not at the local Sheraton, though it promises a giant turkey visiting every table while passing out treats to the wee ones. My reservations are on airlines and at hotels across the Pond. I often sit next to a few turkeys, but they don't grace my dining room table. And the only stuffing I see is me fitting into a coach seat.

It began when the kids were little. We found doing the over-the-woods thing to Grandmother's house meant a day in the car fighting hoards of angry drivers or a day in the airport fighting hoards of angry fliers.

Traditionally, air travel over the Thanksgiving holiday is the busiest time of the year - but not overseas. Because the rest of the world has little interest in our pilgrims, air travel and hotel rates are discounted. And flights are wide open. Destinations that attract crowds during the summer months are virtually empty in November and often reduce or eliminate entrance fees.

So, while the rest of the world fights long security lines and crowded domestic terminals, we head for the international gates. Instead of deciding between a leg and a wing with a side of cornbread, we decide between an aisle and a widow seat, and hope for an in-flight meal.

Our first sojourn took us to Rome many years ago. We traded in our turkey and stuffing for spaghetti and meatballs within walking distance of the Colosseum. Pumpkin pie turned into Italian ice, which we ate while seated on the Spanish Steps. Later, feral cats turned into scary lions fighting imaginary gladiators to our wide-eyed children as they squeezed through the fences to get a closer look at the arena.

The following year, pumpkin pie became shepherd's pie in a London pup. Instead of a marathon of football on television, we watched Starlight Express on the London stage. And we bought Christmas crackers at Marks and Spencer, and double-decker-bus ornaments at Harrod's Department Store.

A few years ago, we landed in Scotland. My husband wanted to search out some Scottish ancestors. We poured through stacks of birth and death records at the town hall in Edinburgh. Our adult children poured through something else. They preferred searching out some Scottish whiskey and joined a pub-crawl sponsored by the Hash Harriers, an international group of joggers who refer to themselves as Drinkers with a Running Problem. Later we gathered at a 100-year-old country manor that had sheep grazing on the lawn and ghosts gazing through the keyholes. The adult children were the only ones who saw them.

This year we'll be heading for Paris. We'll be staying with one of my old flying partners. She plans to have a traditional Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. I'm sure we'll have a great time, but it won't be traditional for us. Over the years, the giant bird has given way to moussaka in Greece, fish and chips in Ireland and suckling pig in Spain. Every Thanksgiving, we all say it's the best feast ever. And the turkey couldn't agree more.

Gail Todd, a freelance writer, worked as a flight attendant for more than 30 years. She can be reached at gailtodd@aol.com.