My Tatler Article on Beijing's Fine Chinese Dining Scene

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A Short History of The Husband - 3

Chapter 3: Nowhere to Go

Early next morning, in my haste to pack up and get to my third accommodation, I scraped my right hand on the uneven surface of a crudely finished wall in my room and got a bad cut. Quite amazingly, I had brought along not just band-aids but also antiseptic alcohol swipes. Those were left over from a school camp god-zillion years back and seeing them lying around, I actually have the foresight to put them in my backpack.

After taking a cab to my new stay for the night and getting lose in the myriad of hutongs for a while, I managed to find the lovely courtyard inn and checked in without much trouble. My room was fabulously beautiful, the courtyard was fabulously beautiful, so I spent the better part of the morning taking numerous shots in varying angles. Finally, I decided it's time to go out there for more exploration.

The thickness of my research notes suggested that I had far too many places to visit, it was mission impossible to complete even a fraction of that list. I was feeling lazy and didn't attempt to do any of them, deciding that leisurely soaking in the Beijing-ness of it all was a more agreeable option.

You guessed it, I went back to the cafe. Since I had decided not to go by the to-do list, I had nowhere to go, really. I wanted to go back to that historical cafe and take more photos. However, I stupidly did not make a mental note of the location of the cafe, which is quite usually the case for a person as bad with directions as I am. Hence I had to take a cab to the Lama Temple and try my very best to find my way there by backtracking.

As luck would have it, I found Nanluoguxiang pretty soon, but I was disoriented and mistook one direction for the other. I couldn't find the cafe where I thought it was, and so I gave up and thought I'd be better off just window shopping and taking more pictures of that pretty alley. Well, I did just that and even stopped for a leisurely lunch at a Korean restaurant before popping into a cute little notebook store.

When I exited the store and looked across the alley, there he was, standing in the doorway of the cafe that was just barely five metres away in that same blue shirt! He was walking out and stretching himself. (He later told me that he was indoors all along but seeing it was such a nice day, he suddenly felt like looking at the sun and so walked out.) In a split second, he saw me and looking a little surprised, waved me over. I was more surprised than he was, for I could hardly believe that I found the cafe by accident again!

Inside the cafe, I sat down in the same spot. This time, I didn't have to ask for the menu, he suggested that I try their latte and proceeded to make me one. As I was sipping at the coffee, he noticed the band-aid on my right forefinger. Then, he lifted his right forefinger up to show me a deep gash on the very same spot! He was watering the flowers in the doorway that morning when a pot tipped over. Instinctively, he tried to catch hold of the pot but cut himself on its chipped rim. It was creepy that we both had cuts on the same section of the same finger at the same time. What's more, I actually had not just band-aid, but alcohol swipes with me too! It was a never-ever-before moment.

While I was cleaning his wound, it occurred to me how unlikely, in normal circumstance, that I would help a grown person with that. I mean, I could have just given him the plaster and alcohol swipe, but there I was, being nice at such close range to this person whom I have no particularly strong affection for. Very strange.

Oh by the way, there was one point when I was slightly attracted to him. I was tearing open the alcohol swipe and before I used it on his finger, I pre-empted him that it could sting. To that, he nonchalantly replied, "I'm not afraid of pain." (Manly, but I later found out that it wasn't always true :P)

A Short History of The Husband - 2

Chapter Two: The Meeting

My vacation finally began. I arrived in Beijing late in the evening and spent the next twenty hours rediscovering the city, especially the hutongs around my first accommodation.

I love to travel solo, and to be honest, it was fun and exciting to wander aimlessly and get lost in those neat old alleys. My immediate surrounding of courtyard houses and shops was enough to interest someone whose last visit was 17 years ago on a school trip - which meant remembering nothing but visiting friends in hotel rooms. Everywhere I walked, there was so much culture and history, I didn't need a map nor recommendations, and the pile of research notes that I had brought along was forgotten in the deep of my backpack.

So far so good, no unsettling indications of being manipulated by said higher being yet (see Chapter One). Or so I thought.

On the third day of my solo trip, also otherwise known as That Fateful Day, I had ventured into a different part of the city as I checked into a different accommodation. That is more hutongs to explore, and so I left the room as soon as I put my suitcase down.

Pleasurably wandering, I chanced on many good photo opportunities in the neighbourhood - colourful cotton blankets hanged out to sun, chessboard and mixed-matched chairs waiting for old masters to finish their breakfasts and come play, chatting grannies minding their toddler grandchildren whose ruddy bottoms peek out of their open crotch pants...

I came upon a sleepy street that looked rather quaint. It was a hutong, only fancier and lined with rows of little shops and cafes. Nothing seemed to be opened at barely 10:30am. I looked longingly into shop windows and wonder what time they will allow me some shopping. I snapped some pictures and began to search intuitively for a place where I could sit around and wait for the action to begin. The cafes, with potted spring flowers and old wooden doors beckoned to me, but some looked like there were still closed. I walked on and finally saw one that seemed to be open and stepped in.

There, I met The Husband, who of course wasn't The Husband at that time yet. He was wearing a bright blue T-shirt, standing behind the bar counter cleaning up and preparing the cafe for a new day. He looked rather startled to see me, clearly wasn't expecting customers at that time of the day. I was also quite startled that he looked so startled to see me, realising immediately that I had barged in before opening hours. Stumbling for speech, I lost my Chinese part of the brain and reacted by asking if I could come in, in stuttering English, uncertain if he could understand me. Stupid tourist, I said to myself.

So my entrance was nothing short of alarming, but I was lucky he was in a good mood and signalled for me to come in with a nod and a grunt after establishing that I was a just another (stupid) tourist.

Now some background before we move on: He was relatively new to Beijing then and barely spoke Chinese, though he could understand most part of it. The cafe, which also was a performing space for minority folk bands, was owned by his cousin who was also a photographer and went on annual photographic pilgrimages to Inner Mongolia and Xinjiang. At my point of visit, he was there helping to manage the cafe along with two other establishments while his cousin was at his artistic pursuit.

Back to the cafe, I chose a tiny two-seater table and sat there waiting for some form of service, but I got none. He was intently working on something behind the bar counter that I had to walk over to get the menu and tell him my order. It was as if I were a regular patron made to feel right at home - just not much service to shout about.

After he made me a pretty decent cup of cafe mocha and finished whatever he was doing behind the counter, he came over and chatted with me in his broken Chinese. He wasn't much of a conversationalist but felt obliged to since I was alone. For the record, I was also always an introverted solo traveller, I hardly chat to strangers and could go on for days without talking. (Much later on he told me that if I were to visit a month earlier, he wouldn't be able to converse with me in Chinese at all; one month later and he would not have been helping out in the cafe.)

The first thing he asked was if I were Mongol. Strange question you'd say, but yeah he thought I might be one, maybe because of my round face. It was then that I learned of his ethnicity, and we chatted cordially a bit more about that. The old house in which the cafe was housed had a surreal aura to it; the March weather was a little chilly and melancholic, yet the sun was warm and lazy. It did feel like we were two people in another world, but it wasn't at all seeping with romance or anything you'd imagine.

When my cup was emptied and I sat long enough to seem like a pathetic and lonely traveller, I decided stroll along the hutong a little before heading to the famous Lama Temple for a quick look. I asked him for directions and although he barely knew the way, he gave me a used map and tried to figure it out for me. I saw a strange script written on the border of the map and enquired about it. He told me it's Classical Mongolian script that they use back home, and offered to write my name in it. So for my parting gift that day, I had a small piece of scrap paper with two lines written on it - my name and his name in Mongolian.

Before I left, he asked what I was going to do the next day and I told him frankly - I didn't know. He then casually said, "Come here then, if you have no where to go." (Much later on, he told me that it truly wasn't a pick-up line, he was really just trying to help in case I had no where to go!) I wasn't thinking of taking up that offer, surely there are plenty more places for me to visit, but I asked for a business card anyway. He told he they were out of business cards, but wrote me the cafe name and phone number. (Only days after I came back from Beijing did I realise that I had stumbled upon the chic Nanluoguxiang unwittingly and his cafe was coincidentally the one that I've read great reviews online. Its very name, address and phone number were scribbled eerily in my pile of research material that I never used! How random is that!)

And I recall, that day at the Lama Temple, I thanked the Buddha for the new friend found.

More amazing coincidences in Chapter 3...

A Short History of The Husband - 1

Chapter One: Destined to Meet

It was early March. There was only one thing on my mind - my week-long March school break, which I had failed to plan in advance. Well, it wasn't really a week long, I had a 2-day professional development workshop and so it was effectively just 5 consecutive days of holiday. Five days of idyllic rest at home would be nice, I thought. However, barely a week to the shortened break with no overseas vacation in sight, I was getting depressed and irritable like a coffee addict who was not getting his daily caffeine fix. The traveller in me had to go somewhere!

So there I was, staring at the Zuji website just days before the start of my holiday with no destination in mind. Five days should be nice for someplace near like my usual choice of Thailand, Taiwan or Hong Kong. Even if I were feeling slightly more adventurous, I would have opted for Borneo or Laos. But no, it was as if a higher being had taken over my body, or rather, my mouse clicking right hand. It swiftly got me a ticket to Beijing, the quickest and also most last-minute travel decision in my life.

I swear that it was not my doing. Firstly, having visited China several times in my childhood and early teenage years, I thought I had seen about enough of China to decide that it wasn't my favourite place to spend a hard earned 5 day holiday. Secondly, the ticket I had booked wasn't for a direct flight to the far flung Chinese capital - it stops over in Hong Kong, losing precious hours of my already short vacation. It just did not make sense. Moreover, I had no friends in Beijing and I hate Peking Duck.

Then came the question of what I was going to do in Beijing. If I asked you for a list of recommended things to do in the city, I bet you'd mention the Great Wall, Peking Opera, Peking Duck, Wangfujing... Man, just what else is there in Beijing??? (Now you see why it was not someplace I'd have endeavoured to visit...)

Thankfully, that said higher being (or perhaps it was an alien abduction) gave me an idea - hutongs. I have no recollection of how in the world I learned about the word 'hutong' or what it meant. Miraculously, it had me devoting hours past midnight researching and drawing out maps on hutongs to visit. To complicate my hasty holiday further, I even decided to book myself into, not one, but three different hutong-style accommodations for a true feel of Old Beijing. The madness hadn't end there, being the obsessive travel researcher that I am, I also trawled countless English and Chinese reviews of places to eat, shop and visit, resulting in pages of illegible scribbles of addresses and opening hours which I never got to use, as you shall see in Chapter Two...

The Curious Case of My Marriage

At my wedding dinner in Singapore last summer, I was hard pressed by curious (and drunk) relatives and friends to give an account of how my Mongol husband and I met. Well, I had seen it coming, marrying a Mongol man isn't as commonplace as, say, marrying a Malaysian man. In fact, I don't think it was even heard of.

I tried to enlist the help of several privately expressive and dramatic friends to do a comical impersonation of our first chance encounter, but they weren't comfortable with revealing their inner clowns in a public appearance. Not even when I tempt them with a waiver of angpow or their choice of seating arrangement.

I then attempted to enlist the help of my teenage cousins who, since little, were very good at making cute but useless voice-over home videos with their toy Piglet, Tigger and Chansey (a Pokemon nurse who preferred the company of Pooh's friends). Sadly, they were in the blushing years of adolescence and thought this whole lovey-dovey project rather unsuitable for their cool stuffed friends.

My last resort was to write a short piece on the topic and have it printed on invitation cards so that everyone could read it before they come for the dinner, thus sparing us (mainly me) the agony of retelling our love story each time we stop at a table to toast. I even thought of having a quiz session at some point of the dinner to jack up the entertainment factor. However, the idea didn't materialise all the same due to my procrastinating nature. I was thankful for just getting the invitations out in time.

In the end, I didn't have a plan. So there we were, standing high and dry in front of a bunch of overly intoxicated guests who rowdily demanded their angpow money's worth of romantic storytelling. Being somewhat intoxicated myself and eager to go back to my red velvet wedding cake served with raspberry compote, I just grinned widely, promising to give them the story in detail another time before running off to toast the next group of curious well wishers.

Now six months later, I doubt anyone will remember that I owe them a story. I wouldn't be surprised even if they had forgotten whom I am married to. "Wasn't he from Mauritius? Or was it Manhattan? No wait, I think it was Mountbatten lah..."

Still, I shall give it to them, late but finally delivered. Up next, A Short History of The Husband...

I Believe I'm in China...

... but once in a while I have to do a reality check.

I live in what the Beijing government calls an administrative district of Beijing outside of the city, what the laowai calls the suburbs and what a local refers to as the villa area. This is all thanks to my employer who is located in the same district - Shunyi. By that I really do mean thanks - no sacarsm intended - for living in the area means quality housing, green and spacious compounds, relatively car-free roads and neighbors who know how to smile, say hello and stand in line to pay at the local grocer.

My First Housing Compound in Shunyi - Chateau Regalia

Speaking of grocer, I have to begin my long whiny discourse on the good/bad (I couldn't decide) life here in Shunyi, starting from grocery shopping. If you don't live in Shunyi, you will never understand how different life is out here compared to the rest of Beijing. It is like living in Chinatown in LA, only the reverse.

My housing compound is one of the many so-called villa compounds in this area, with most of their residents being foreigners living in bungalows, semi-detached houses, terraced townhouses or apartments with English-speaking domestic helpers. They all feature grandiose clubhouses with multiple sports and recreational facilities, an army of security guards and manicured lawns with European fountains. On a not-so-clear-headed day, one might think he is back in America or Australia. Quite charming but not the Beijing I thought I'd live in.

A skate board park in my second housing compound - Capital Paradise

Granted, there is a local village near my housing compound with regular Chinese-speaking folks - old grandmas sitting outside their courtyard houses chatting and fanning themselves fervently while looking on their grandchildren running around in open-crotch diaper pants, elderly men practicing modified qigong that includes strange outbursts of laughter, migrant workers squatting around talking to their hometown sweethearts over the cellphone, those kind of things. However, the village consisted of single-story brick houses and dingy shacks hidden well out of sight, away from the main street and hardly intruded by outsiders. A laowai could live in Shunyi for a decade and not realize the existance of the village. All in all, Shunyi can jolly well be a neighborhood in the U.S. Midwest.

When I first settled in the neighborhood, I thought I was blessed with a good combination of both local old-school grocer stores that sells basic Chinese condiments and fancy supermarkets that offer imported fruit, cheese and wine sampling and same-day home delivery. Afterall, I look Chinese, speak the language and know enough about the Chinese way of life to "inflitrate" into the village stores. I am also paid a decent wage to be able to enjoy some luxuries of life that other foreigners do. The best of both worlds!

My bike parked outside a village hairdresser.

Husband insisted on cheap haircut for himself, and thankfully, not me.

Well, I was right but as life goes, there is no free lunch. I've come to learn that wadding through half-melted snow to the local village shack stores in the winter or putting up with the stench of its decomposing roadside trash in the summer for a bottle of soy sauce ain't no fun. Moreover, the village grocers can smell a laowai from a hundred li away and an overseas-Chinese compatriot perhaps twice that distance away. More often than not, I end up paying fancy supermarket prices at those pathetic shack stores and worse, enjoy no heating/air-con, pretty shopping bags nor VIP points. The only marginally nice part of being an overseas-Chinese compatriot customer instead of a laowai one is that I could understand the Chinese characters on those dusty labels, saving me from the heartbreak of returning home with dubious black liquid that is not soy sauce. Really, I feel for my laowai friends.

Village trash left out daily for the garbage truck.

OK in winter but smells real bad in summer.

On the other hand, if I decide to go upmarket and shop at pricier Jenny Lou's or BHG, which I do most of the time simply because it makes me feel better, I have to put up with watermelon prices being at least 200% more expensive, and they are not even of the organic kind. Vegetables are worse, with a measly bunch commanding RMB15 just because they are labeled organic when I could buy a heftier bundle for just RMB1 in the village. And who can be so sure they didn't come from the same patch of farm? I am not going to talk about the imported mangosteens and Alaskan King Crabs, you get the idea.

I think I should start exploring a third grocery shopping option - cycle 5 kilometers to a less snobbish local supermarket that looks like the Beijing version of SHOP N' SAVE. I've only got to endure shoving shoppers and impatient cashiers in return for reasonable prices and a roof over my head when I am grocery shopping. I really shouldn't complain. All I need is a bigger bike basket to fit my shopping bags, and a stronger set of legs!

Wimpy Photographer

Eilin is a wimp because she has no guts to ask strangers for permission to take photos, nor to blatantly whip her camera out and start snapping away.

So she either regrets sorely for missing great photo ops, or resorts to using her pathetic phone camera to sneak shots incognito.

What a loser.

Beijing, Beijing

I am misty-eyed and in love with Beijing.

Misty-eyed, not because I have to part with a Beijing boy, but because I had just braved dusty winds to walk on miles of the capital's sidewalks. Some say the particles in the winds are Gobi Desert sand, but I have a nagging feeling that they are in fact due to ubiquitous piles of dirt left by the roads for the let's-use-them-if-we-ever-decide-to-build-something-but-not-now construction, the same conclusion that I had drawn about Hanoi.

Never mind that.

And in love, because Beijing is like no other:

Where else in the world can an old man drive a tiny boxed-up scooter, bring a dozen songbirds in a dozen birdcages, hang them all up like artwork right by the palace wall, then leave to take a leak (right by the palace wall too) while an old lady stops to listen for a while?

Where else do they bundle up your book/CD/DVD purchases like packets of Chinese medicine?

Where else can you be with 17 million people and yet have an entire stretch of pavement all to yourself?

And Peking Duck. Need I say more?

The Worst Thing About Traveling Solo

The worst thing about traveling solo is eating alone. 

I usually end up:

• giving large-party meals such as hot pots and BBQs a miss. [Though there was once I had a Swiss cheese fondue, a basket of bread and two side dishes all to myself. It really depends on how courageous I feel at the point of time.]
• giving roadside snacks a miss because it takes half the fun away eating those alone. [A good compensation to this is to have two portions then :)]
• having a tough time deciding which one dish to order, resulting in a really boring meal. [In which case, I'd usually rather not eat.]
• ordering too much food and getting stuffed because it's not so nice to waste food, especially good food. [It happens to me ALL the time.]
• ordering too much food and wasting it because it's not so nice to stuff myself, especially when the food's revolting. [I subscribe to the philosophy of not wasting calories on undeserving food, but am secretly worried for my next life.]
• ordering too much and having to eat the leftovers on the the next morning. [Sometimes, I get a room with a kitchenette, which could be a blessing or a curse, mostly the latter.]
• ordering too much and bringing the leftovers back to the hotel, only to leave them in the fridge forgotten until the last hour before I check out, by when have no choice but to throw them away. [It happens about 100% of the time.]
• having to settle for the tiniest table at the most awkward corner in the restaurant where no waiter can see my frantically waving arm and hopeful eyes. [Then those eyes start shooting daggers. There is only so much patience in my 4"11' body.]
• having to sit at the bar/counter and eat while the bartender/chef is staring down my throat. [While I try like crazy to eat as elegantly as I possibly can.]
• having nothing to do while waiting for my food, so I pretend to look admiringly at ugly wall decorations. [This accounts for 50% of the time. The other 50% is when I put up with absurd music.]
• having nothing to do while waiting for my food, as I pretend to study the menu and jot down notes as if I were a no-nonsense food critic. [This is a little tricky, especially if you have Lonely Planet on the table.]
• not taking photos of my meals because it is too darn tacky and there is no one to share that tacky quotient with. [But then being Asian, I have license to be tacky!]
• taking way too many photos of my meals because there isn't much else to do, plus I need to show them off to my gluttony friends! [Sadly, I tend to forget about my camera when food is in my face.]
• eating too fast because I cannot wait to get the hell out of the almost-empty restaurant before the awkward silence kills me. [Luckily, I don't get this often, because it is my usual policy to avoid empty restaurants.]
• eating too fast because I cannot wait to get the hell out of the restaurant where wait staff and diners stare as if I were the saddest thing in the world because I have no one to eat with. [The saddest part is I think the same way too, sometimes.]
• buying junk food back to the hotel room to eat while I watch junk TV. [Oh, my favorite pastime!]
• not having dinner at all. [Probably because I had too much at lunch. Belch.]

Thanks, Bro!

Birthday chocolates from Confiseur Läderach. Yum!

Nagano to Gifu, Edo Style

"For one?"

The matronly ticket lady looked at me with interest. I nodded, smiling apologetically for my lack of companion. As much as I love to travel solo, I have not gotten used to the occasional bout of loneliness. At that moment, I wished I had some company, for it was going to be quite a walk.

"There you go. Please take care!"

The lady handed me my ticket and a map, looking slightly concerned. It was a slow day at the valley, and there weren't more than a handful visitors going on the trail beyond the first village. She was probably worried that I might get lost, and thus shouted after me to keep going on my left.

I started off a little disconcerted, as I was expecting more tourists at this Tsumago end of the trail, since it was so accessible -- just barely a minute from the JR Nagiso station. I've read that the Kiso Valley is a very popular tourist destination in this part of Japan, and the lack of visitors seemed most strange.

Five minutes down the path, I still did not see anyone else within sight. Not that I minded, of course, I was just worried that I was going the wrong way. Fortunately, the trail was well marked by signs, and after ten minutes, I forgot about navigating. Instead of looking out for directions, I was soon absorbed by the changing scenery at every turn of the trail. The idyllic forest and smattering of traditional houses, combined with the calls of birds and insects made it more than just picturesque. I didn't have the foresight of bringing my own water (I really thought they put vending machines everywhere and anywhere in Japan), and almost wanted to take a sip from the refreshing streams of water running alongside the pavement, where bunches of lovely wild flowers danced in the sun's reflection.

The valley had the kind of tranquil beauty that could move a grown man to tears, although I most certainly did not weep that day. I was too busy for that. As an avid photographer, I was stopping after every other step to take pictures. Pictures of flowers, birds, trees, butterflies, manicured gardens, rice fields, graveyards, stone Buddhas... It was indeed a very fruitful morning, and more importantly, I was walking on the famed Nakasendou!

The Nakasendou is the name of one of the two Edo period routes that connects Kyoto to Edo (present day Tokyo), and one of the five official routes for the Tokugawa shogunate. Cutting across the central mountains, it spans 544km with a total of 69 stations. Today, a few stretches of the original route remains, including this 8km trail between the post towns of Tsumago in Nagano Prefecture, to Magome in Gifu Prefecture, which has been painstakingly restored and preserved. As such, the architecture style of the houses along this trail remains mostly unchanged, and walking down the restored paving evoked nostalgia even to an outsider like me. I could almost imagine samurais hurrying by as I strolled along this historic path.

Come to think of it, I came close to being history there and then, together with those aristocratic warriors, when I nearly stepped on a snake! I was ambling along the wooded trail, and boy, am I glad to have looked up the slope ahead of me! It was approximately 6 ft long, lying straight across the road. It must have felt my footsteps, for it had its head up high when I approached, ready to attack. I did not scream, only because I was instantly devoid of breathe. My legs seemed to take on a mind of their own and managed to scramble backward until it was far enough for the snake to understand that I wasn't keen on intruding. In fact, the thought of turning back to avoid the path of a sunbathing serpent did crossed my mind, but I soon decided that it was too wimpy a choice for someone in the origin of kamikazi. I mustered all the courage I could possibly have to stand still for a good minute before the snake slithered off the pavement and into the bushes. Very much later, I continued on my hike, quickly.

The episode with the snake shook me up a little, especially when there seemed to be no one else in the vicinity who could possibly come to my rescue if I did get bitten by it. I never felt worse about traveling alone. In a desperate bid to keep calm, I started a funny conversation with myself, taking longer and faster strides as I rambled on, and finally saw the first person in the valley, across the rice fields. It was an elderly local resident in yellow rubber boots and a big floppy cloth hat who seemed to be in a great hurry. Either that, or she must have seen me talking to myself and thought I was a madwoman, for she sped into her cottage before I could smile and say hi. I bowed to the koi in her fish pond anyway.

Finally, after passing some of the most beautiful rural homes I've seen in Japan, I entered the Tsumago post town. Yes, it was just the beginning, but I wasn't in a hurry to walk to Magome, my feet were tired and I need something to drink quite badly. I hesitated outside an old, pretty teahouse, wondering if they specialize in strange food like horse sashimi, a regional delicacy that I wasn't too keen to embrace, yet. Most of all, I wondered if they serve soft drinks. I was really, really thirsty.

After walking up and down the charming cobbered main street and not finding any better bets, I decided to take a risk at the teahouse I had came upon earlier. A friendly staff led me to a table by a pretty Japanese garden, I almost gave a loud whoop when I saw the wide open view of it from my seat. The ambiance was amazing -- imagine a dining area on tatami, with low, aged tables and cushions dyed in traditional indigo. The only illumination was the soft sunlight peeking through the row of pine trees lining the garden. Sounds of chopsticks against rice bowls reverberated in the light breeze like a wind chime tinkling softly.

Of course, a major source of happiness for me was that they had Kirin orange soft drink! I ordered the local specialty, goheimochi, a skewered and grilled rice cake smeared with a sweet miso paste. It was excellent, much to my surprise, as I was never a big fan of mochi. The lone ojisan sitting at the next table had a huge bento set, which looked really... erm... huge, I was quite glad I didn't order one of those, or I'll be there all day. As I was paying at the counter, I read from one of the signs that the teahouse had been in business since Edo times, and warriors actually frequented it! This information really made my day, for I had walked, and now dined, in true samurai fashion. I left feeling immensely smug.

Back on the street, I took in Tsumago with renewed enthusiasm. It is a wonderful little town with quaint teahouses, traditional inns and omiyage shops that are usually packed with tourists who arrive by the busloads. I mingled among them, happy to eavesdrop on a tour guide's commentary at the post office museum. An ice cream, countless photos and some sightseeing later, I proceeded on the next stage of my Nakasendou hike. I headed out of Tsumago feeling energetic, happy to note that there were a few other people on the same trail this time. However, I was soon left behind by them, despite valiant attempts to keep up. Till now, I really wonder if they were ninjas.

It was amazing how different the touristy main street was from the trail further down. I seemed to have left the rest of the world behind, it was just me alone, again. This part of the trail was just as attractive as the one just preceding Tsumago town, but it required much more effort as there were some steep slopes involved. I slowed down to a crawl after twenty minutes, and raindrops began to fall. Dang, I had no rain gear!

It must be due to my good karma that I had just crossed a motorway and was halfway up the steps when it rained. I couldn't possibly walk any further in the rain and it was getting dark too, so I ran back down to the road and voila, a bus stop sign! I didn't have to wait long in the rain before the bus plying between Tsumago and Magome arrived. Acknowledging how ridiculously lucky I was, I made a mental note to buy some sort of lottery when I get back to the city, and drifted to sleep on the cushy, air conditioned bus.

When I peeled my eyes open after what seemed like a long time, I was in Magome. It looked bigger and more touristy than Tsumago, but I didn't quite have time to sight see. It was getting late, and I really didn't want to continue on the trail to the JR Nakatsugawa station and risk getting lost in the woods in the dark. The only option for me is to catch the last bus to the train station, which was scheduled to depart in less than thirty minutes' time. I was pretty disappointed for not being able to take more photographs of the Nakasendou, but I managed to console myself by browsing the omiyage shop just opposite the bus stop and spending some yen on two packets of traditional chestnut cakes. Shopping does heal, and I was soon over the fact that I did not complete my hike.

By the time I got on the bus, then the train, and arrived back in Gifu, it was past dinner time and everything reverted back to normal. There was no death threatening reptile, no post office from the past, no obasan and her koi pond, no delicious goheimochi on a stick, much less sword wielding samurais. Why, I couldn't even find that Kirin orange soft drink in any of the convenience stores! It was as if I had just returned from a visit to the past... Or was I simply dreaming?

Maybe. The Kiso Valley is such a beautiful place, it can't be real.

Unadulterated Bathing

Strip. Scrub. Soak.

Aahhh... I'm finally back in home base. While I can't say that I have accustomed myself to all things Japanese, one practice I've taken like fish to water is, literally, Japanese-style bath water -- still, steaming and stylishly zen.

Looking back, I was quite abruptly introduced to the wafu way of self-cleansing twelve years ago, when I joined the Yoshimuras-and-friends on a camping trip to Fukui. We drank, made merry and hardly slept. On the next morning, everyone agreed that a bath was the next sensible thing to do. Before I could protest that I just had my morning shower, I was whisked off to a nearby sento, shoved the standard two towels, one large and one small, and told to undress in a room with two dozen other stark-naked women. I felt strangely dizzy.

Putting on a brave front, I knew I had to do what the nihonjin do and recovered quickly to to strip myself into my birthday suit, not daring to stray my eyes all the while Keiko and her mom peeled off their layers. For the record, I had never bathed with my own mother before this, let alone someone else's. With steam floating around my giddy head, I was initiated into the surreal world of Japanese mass bathing.

For the uninitiated, communal bathing in Japan involves taking off your shoes at the entrance, stowing them on shoe racks or shoe lockers and changing into slippers. Then, you enter the correct changing room for your gender (look out for blue curtains for male and red for female), you undress and put your clothes into individual baskets or lockers. Towels are usually provided and are either found in these baskets or given to you earlier at the reception. However, some establishments expect you to bring your own or you can buy a small one cheaply from them. Once you're stripped to nudity, grab the smaller towel and head for the shower area (usually separated by a glass door).

Now, at this point, if you are expecting to see shower cubicles, you are in for a shock. What awaits ahead is a long row (or more, depending on the scale of establishment) of mirrors, taps, removable shower heads, toiletries, plastic basins and stools, on which women (I suppose the same goes for men on the other side) of varying shapes and sizes are busy engaging in head to toe scrubbing, scrubbing and more scrubbing. The idea is not to fix your gaze on anyone (it's rude to stare, as in most other cultures) but go about cleansing yourself in a matter-of-factly manner.

Quickly, find an empty stool, sit down, and start soaping and shampooing. Next, fill the basin with water, wet the small towel and scrub every part of your body with the towel. Some ladies bring their own little bathing kit that includes scrub pads, razors, brushes and whatever they may need for a bath. There's no right or wrong procedure here, just take your time and wash yourself like how you'd do it back home. The only thing to make sure is that you clean yourself thoroughly before stepping into the pool, as it is very, very inappropriate (not to mention unhygienic) to share the bath with others otherwise.

Once you are squeaky clean, you may step into the oyu, or hot bath water. Note that long hair should be tied up or wrapped with the small towel so that stray hair will not find its way into the water. If you are shy, feel free to use the small towel to cover up a little (frankly, there's not much you can hide with a towel that tiny), but never put the towel into the bath! The Japanese will feel offended by such inconsiderate behavior. Remember, that towel just scrubbed every single inch of your body.

If you're in a regular, no-nonsense sento, or public bathhouse, there will probably be just one pool for everyone. Enjoy the hot soak for no longer than 15-20 minutes (less if you are a first-timer), and rinse in cold water before going back in the bath. The hot-cold-hot cycle aids blood circulation and I heard it's better to end with a cold shower. Again, there is no rule to the number of times you go into the bath, the point is to enjoy and relax yourself fully after a hard day's work (or travel).

However, if you are in one of those more touristy hot spring bathhouses, usually in famous onsen towns, expect multiple pools containing different combinations of minerals or herbs, each touting to relieve a different ailment, which is why onsen-visiting is a popular recreation among seniors. Most of these upmarket establishments have outdoor pools with pretty Japanese-style gardens or rock features. Some have great mountain, sea or city views, and some are open round the clock for those who want to combine a hot spring bath with sunrise viewing. I had personally tried a few outdoor baths on snowy winter nights, and I must say that the combination of snow flakes falling on your head, semi-frozen cheeks and a hot, almost scalding, body is one of the most wonderful things that can happen to anyone.

I remember one time in Tokyo, I stayed in a dorm-style hotel that didn't come en suite, and had to take my bath at a specific time in the common bathroom downstairs (it was same bath but different time slots for men and women). Believe it or not, after I checked out one week later, I actually felt lonely bathing by myself. Somehow, it had become a cleansing ritual performed with strangers; there was an unspoken camaraderie among all who shared that same pool of water.

As you can see, I am totally sold on this bathing-together business. And it's not just out in the public; the Japanese people bathe in a similar manner at home, with stools and mirrors for careful scrubbing, and a common bathtub of hot water for the whole family. From the way I see it, it's an art that embodies attitude. The Japanese take pride in their bodies, like how they take pride in everything else.

Why so serious?

Why not.

Truckload of Old Fashioned Ingenuity

Drink a Glass of Tradition

September 1st - Hong Kong - Blistering hot

Trudging over to Central and up the Midlevel escalators (thank god for these!), hastily sweating my morning congee and breakfast tea away, I met up with KFC (his birthright initials, I swear), who was standing outside an authentic Chinese herbal tea shop with a sweaty lunchtime crowd, drinking a special 'cooling' brew.

The contrast was amusingly stark -- well-heeled workers from the excruciatingly chic IFC offices nearby, standing around drinking bitter age old potions at a shop so ancient-looking that I won't be surprised if Wong Fei Hong walked right out of it. Just try imagining the after-work clientele at Harry's, then take the beer bottles away and replace them with murky concoctions in chipped glasses on a stainless steel countertop and surgical-green mosaic walls. There you go, a real, breathing Hong Kong.

I tried to hide my Starbucks Caramel Creme Frappuccino from view as KFC (alright, for the very last time, before he protests) offered to buy me a glass of that mysterious tea, feeling slightly ashamed for drinking something so foreign, so pretentious and not too beneficial to the body. I turned down his offer anyway, and looked around curiously.

Around me, deep in the bowels of Asia's financial center, voluntarily removed from the air-conditioned comfort of their state-of-the-art offices, are men and women decked in smartly pressed shirts and dresses, probably from Lane Crawford or the likes, now soaked and stuck to their backs like clingwrap, their carefully tousled hair wilting in the midday heat, all for barely half-a-pint of traditional goodness.

In a heartbeat, I remembered why I love Hong Kong. Here, people live with their heritage, and I really dig that.

Travel Companions

Hong Kong International Airport - Sep'08

Published Work - Club Med Sahoro

Simply Her, Aug 2008

* What Goes Around Comes Around

London Eye, UK - Summer 2001

An Abandoned Sail

Whenever I suffer from writer's block (maybe 'blogger's block' would be a better term), I could almost always look to Benkei for inspiration. His words could discover and pull mine out like a strong, reliable magnet, and I had never been failed.

He was like the wind, sometimes swift and furious, sometimes easy and gentle. He pervaded every nook and cranny of humanity. There was nothing he could not write about, I thought.

However, the wind had ceased. He stopped writing. I had lost my muse.

My sail is forsaken. I wonder if it will ever be picked up by another.

I'm on Taiwan News! Almost.

Woooaah... I'm famous!

Haha. Not exactly, but this is the closest I've gotten to fame. I have been featured (term used very loosely here) on Taiwan's Liberty Times in a travel article.

http://www.libertytimes.com.tw/2007/new/dec/24/today-travel1.htm

By the way, you can skip the text, I've no business in there. Look at the photos instead. Yeah, that long-range one of some blue people skiing on virtually slopeless ground. See the one looking lost and drowned in a ski jacket that is way too large? THAT'S ME! (Grin.)

Pretty pathetic, I know, but nonetheless amazing to be on a foreign national daily. I've not even been in the locals!

Published Products Writeup - Organic Asian Foods

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Published Products Writeup - Organic Asian Foods (cont'd)

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Published Products Writeup - Kids' Musical Toys

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Published Products Writeup - Kids' Musical Toys (cont'd)

Simply Her, Feb 2008

Touched

Today is Christmas eve, and I received yet another a surprise parcel from Hiroko. It contained a box of delicious Aomori candied apple slices, a Christmas card and her very own custom-made New Year postcard.

It made me feel really blessed this Christmas to have such a great friend in her.

Mrs Sawada, Merry Christmas!

Not Your Pet

I like my Facebook despite detractors calling it 'a total waste of time' (which I can attest to) and 'only for those with no life' (excuse me?!). I feel quite at home with the 111 people I know enough to add to my Friends list, and I enjoy throwing cakes in their faces once in a while, or leaving virtual post-it notes to cheer them up. Indeed, most of my closest and most outrageous friends are on FB, and they make FB-ing a whole lot more fun. That was how I became a convert. Having said that, I think it is still important to stay vigilant and in control of our lives, virtual or not. And practice cyber-sanity, no pet rearing.

Call me a prude, but I had to draw the line when people start to think I'm some unwanted kitten from SPCA. That's was exactly what I found happening to me this morning when I logged in to my Facebook account. It sent me a notification saying someone actually owns me as pet.

Initially, I thought it was probably a close friend with a sense of humor. But no, it wasn't. Although I have a general lack of mental facility to remember faces and events, I do quite well with names, and I was quite certain I've never seen my so-called new owner's name in my entire life. Yes, I had just been sold to a complete stranger.

I was tempted to delete that Human Pets application immediately, which I had previously added without much thought (as with many other FB applications), purely as a favor to a friend who had wanted to earn some points. But I didn't want to offend the poor guy or appear unfriendly to a fellow FB-er. After all, I did put myself up for adoption unwittingly. I deliberated for a while, and decided that I really didn't want to be kept. I clicked on the 'secretly escape' button and the rest is history.

Friends, in case you see a missing pet notice, don't turn me in.

* Pretty Please?

Grandparents' at Toa Payoh, 1978

Not Really Mothers' Day

This is something I wrote years ago in my ugly brown jotter book. I rediscovered these thoughts while going through the junk I was about to clear out. Somehow, when I read it again, it seemed like I was reading someone else's words. This is why writing is so fun.

Yesterday was Mother's Day and I hope everyone's moms had a terrific time.

For me, I wished my mom a Happy Mother's Day and had a simple supper with her last night. That was about it, since we are having our weekly dinner with my sister and brother-in-law tonight (as usual Monday is our family day), plus two weeks ago I had already bought her the deepfryer she wanted from Robinson's.

But that is not the point. What I really want to share here is a thought that had dawned upon me in between watching the heartfelt wishes and giant carnation displays on TV.

Why on Mother's Day and not on our birthdays?

Just think about it, a child's birthday should be more significant to a mother because that is also the day that she would think, "Gee, I gave birth to my baby today x years ago!" Probably the most memorable, if not painful, day of her life.

Also, the official Mother's Day date is different on each year (and celebrated on different days throughout the world!), which is such a pain in the a** to remember. It doesn't make a lot of sense at all.

On the other hand, maybe it's just to make the fathers feel better, coz 'third Sunday of June' isn't exactly a breeze either. Now we know.

* Black - The New Red?

Sahoro, Hokkaido - Dec' 07

Carbon - Would You Buy It?

No ladies, I am not referring to your diamonds.

It's about the recent Virgin Atlantic move to offer passengers carbon offsets alongside in-flight duty-free items. Although the initiative hasn't taken off in Asia yet, I already wonder if Singaporeans will actually pay a fee for own carbon emissions, or even be remotely interested in how large their carbon footprints are. My guess is, people would probably shrug it off since it's optional. And if the offset is made compulsory, most Singaporeans will see it is a penalty rather than their responsibility, and trust me, they will make a lot of noise. A LOT of it.

It's sad to see how our nation has developed, and how it hasn't at the same time. I always had this rosy picture painted of us being abreast of issues of the world because we have quality media coverage and a large number of highly educated and well travelled Singaporeans. However, it seems to be contrary in reality. Granted, many go through the motion of reading their papers daily, but what information they are picking up is debatable.

The majority of local readers are reading news for updates on what affects them most personally and directly instead of focusing on the fundamental issue. They want to know, say, how a new labor policy is going to affect them. Will they lose their jobs? Will they get a pay increment? But they probably couldn't care two hoots about the social repercussions of a large foreign work force or the extent of our country's widening rich-poor gap. At least not until something tangible takes form.

For a relatively developed nation like ours, such general apathy is actually quite appalling. Maybe it is a syndrome of hardware growing faster than heartware. After all, mindsets take time to develop, and money apparently doesn't take so long to generate, so let's be patient. Take heart, for there is also a strong minority out there who is genuinely concerned about the world and its well being, and doing their best to make a difference. That's all we need, just some belief.

So for the rest who are still unsure, take your time, ponder over your carbons.

* Counting Down to Christmas

Hokkaido, Japan - Dec' 07

Blur Queen

If you recall from my previous blog post, I am also Miss Mess Queen. So that makes me a double-title holder. Sigh. If only this was a beauty contest.

About being Miss Blur, all I got to say is, it really isn't my fault. I am absolutely certain that at some point in time, I was abducted by aliens and hence had my intellectually superior mind altered in some big experiment, leaving me with a half empty skull that has trouble processing memories lasting more than two seconds.

Mmm... What was I saying again?

Ha ha. Alright, things aren't that bad yet, I was just having a little fun writing silly stuff like that. But seriously, I am quite a loser when it comes to remembering things. Big things, small things, they all elude me.

Just barely three days ago, I had left my passport in an airplane seat pocket and conveniently forgot all about it. I then happily swapped seats and spent the next seven hours not realizing what I've done. Fortunately, I always have eagle-eyed friends to watch over me. At the end of the flight when we were all standing up, waiting to leave the plane, Irene coolly walked up to my original seat and pulled out my passport -- leather cover, boarding pass, the entire works. The same thing happened to me another time, also when I was on board a plane and about to disembark. Trusty Huifen pulled my passport out from in-between two seats. On both instances, I swore not to do it again. Obviously, my swearing didn't help at all. I was just as hopeless.

Misplacing items, remembering the wrong names, mixing dates up, misadventures like these happen to me all the time, and I've since gotten used to being a blundering idiot. I just hope I don't frustrate my friends too much.

To you all, thank you for being my guardian angels. Just bear with me until I get a chance to speak to those aliens. I want my brains back.

* Dream House

Hokkaido, Japan - Dec' 07

Japanese, Or Not

I have a strange affinity for Japanese things. It's really not the kind of fervent passion that you see in people chasing the Japanese culture. I'm just not the pursuing type. Rather, it is an innate familiarity that I had somehow developed for a culture that seems so different to many others.

I'm not quite sure how I did it. Maybe I was born with a Japanese gene by mistake, or maybe it was those Japanese beers. Whatever it was, I took it for granted and didn't think too much about it. It was not until I went on this recent media trip to Japan with fellow Singaporeans that I realized just how strange it was for me to be so at home with quirky Japanese ways.

For example, I did not learn how to bow and exchange pleasantries in the Japanese fashion. I simply did. I'd say a quiet "itadakimasu" when I start eating, and "gochisousama" when I finish, even when I eat alone. When it gets cold, I'd let out a "Samu(i)!" under my breathe without thinking. They all seem so natural to me. And I definitely did not grow up taking baths with strangers, but I love to. The practice of communal bath grew so much on me that I began to feel melancholic if I had to take my shower in solitude.

Now there are some truly Japanese things that do not go down so well with me. Take sashimi for example. If you have already read my previous blog posts, you'd have gotten an inkling that Japanese food isn't quite my cup of tea. And if you're thinking, "What about those ramen and stuff?" Let me tell you that ramen is originally Chinese. So are gyoza dumplings. There you go.

So in conclusion, despite having quite a bit of Japanese in me, my stomach is essentially Chinese.

* Cousins' Bonding Day

East Coast Park, Singapore - Nov'07

Can't Do It For Food

I don't normally do food reviews for a few really good reasons.

Reason #1: No photos for illustration.

If you are a true foodie, you'd understand my predicament. I have absolutely zero control over my enthusiastic taste buds when confronted with highly delectable food. Out of ten times, I'd forget to take pictures a good eight times. Even if I remembered, it would be a tad too late. Before I can say "cheese!", the damage will have been done, and any enticing presentation of a dish will inevitably be ruined and reduced to an appetite-inhibiting splotch. Garnishes overturned, meat dissected, gravy dribbled all over. Not a pretty sight, especially for a food review.

Reason #2: Lack of recollection of details.

I am not one for note-taking during the course of my meal. In fact, I think that is counter-productive to fully appreciating food. The hand, at the fine moment of food tasting, is for holding cutlery, not stationary; the mind, at the same said moment, is to be experiencing pleasurable sensations, not sidetracking to remember the right spelling for exotic ingredients.

Hence, without the aid of a trusty notebook, it is quite unlikely for me to remember a thing about really good food. I wonder how anyone can. Especially those who can list every single detail from the price of the entire menu down to the types of tableware used in presentation.

Reason #3: Lack of words for description

How do you say something tastes really good, other than saying it tastes really good? Pardon my bluntness but I do find words like oozing (warm chocolate cake), slippery (udon), firm (fish) and bloody (steak) quite disgustingly sexual, or medical, or both.

I don't know about you, but to me, mind-blowing orgasmic food (some people prefer to describe it this way) just ain't something you can recount and retell with precision. (Which is also why I can't understand people who blog about their... ahem, other orgasmic-inducing pursuits.) The joy of eating is an intimate personal experience, quite indescribable in words. You can't just tell someone how good it is, he's got to try it for himself.

So my conclusion is, food bloggers must be food lovers who have remarkable self-control or a remarkable memory. Or they are not real food lovers at all, just people who find eating otherwise too boring. Whatever it is, I know I can never aspire to be one, and I shall count on the goodwill of these industrious people to write good reviews so that I know where to go for my next... errr... pleasurable moment.

* Have the children forgotten about us?

Inokashira Koen, Kichijoji
Summer, 2007

Lost Things

I got a little sentimental last weekend when our home was finally sold. Not that I minded the sale; I was eager to move to my spanking new apartment after all. But somewhere deep down inside, it hurt to say goodbye to this familiar place where I grew up in, the safest and warmest I've known so far, for a good twenty-odd years.

At this point, I've got to admit that I am a sucker for old things. Books, clothes, jewellery, furniture, anything. You'd find me happiest thrifting at a surplus shop. Even when I buy new items, I like them to look like they have been used forever. I would try to wear and tear down my belongings as soon as I lay my hands on them. My motto: The tattier, the better! I'm absolutely not a leave-that-film-protector-on-my-cellphone/digicam/Ipod-to-prevent-scratches kinda girl. Instead, I leave clear, deep impressions on my stuff like how animals scent-mark their territory, as if to say, "IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, IT'S MINE!!!"

Maybe it's prehistorical human instinct and I'm just less evolved, but I prefer to think of it as an affectionate attachment to my belongings. To me, used items have the ubiquitous quality of being exceptional. No two are the same. New things start off looking bland and characterless, but over time, moments add up and relationships develop between men and their things. Then one day, they become precious. Precious with lots of memories. And I dig memories.

So, I'm an oldie and I like my things ancient. That's why I'm feeling rather melancholic about the loss of my old abode. I'll miss viewing the brilliant sunset colors out of the creaky old window. I'll miss looking up at the uneven plastered ceiling when I'm lying sleepless in bed. Most of all, I'll miss being able to come up to the door step and just step right into my "home".

The precious thing is no longer mine.

* Do Not Disturb

Bangkok, Thailand - Sep' 07

The Dichotomy of Self

I am the embodiment of extremes. Well, I guess there's nothing wrong with it.

Two minds, two stances, two halves of an identity;
Never compromising, only winning or losing;
One way or another, it has got to be.

Good or Evil? The angel and devil plays
Hide-and-Seek, Police-and-Thief;
Within one entity, a dichotomy.

Not unlike the push and pull of gravity;
The true and false of assumptions;
The null and alternate hypotheses.

Not unlike the left and right of crossroads;
The maddening to and fro of traffic;
The rising and falling of tides in the sea.

As sure as each breath taken in and out deeply;
The heart muscles expand and contract, rhythmic;
Such is it, the Yin and Yang of nature's harmony.

* Colors of Food

Bangkok, Thailand - Sep' 07

Meat, Give Us Meat

It was a hilarious weekend. What was supposed to be a genteel lunch get-together turned out to be rather disastrous. Six pairs of pretty pumps, three designer handbags, and a smart casual dress code, all waltzing gracefully into the green serenity of a cafe-in-the-park, thinking just how holistic it was to bask in some sun and phytoncide for a change.

Moments later, we fled.

No, it wasn't the mid-day sun, nor the lunch crowd. It wasn't the music they were playing, and it certainly wasn't the color of their furniture either.

It was the VEGETABLES.

We spent a good ten minutes staring horrifically into the Menu of Are You Serious Vegan Food before finding our voices and blabbering incoherently about the severity of the situation.

NO MEAT.

Gosh, I did not intend for that. Luckily, it didn't take long for us to devise a new strategy, not when we had the alpha male with us - the man who make the decisions and ate a darn lot of meat. We had unanimously decided to ditch that forsaken Cafe of Mock Meat to go somewhere else with a lot of flesh and blood. Well, the pregnant lady has got to get her proteins...

So it was with much anticipation that we transported ourselves in record time to the nearest carnivorous haven, where the greens were where they were supposed to be - garnished under the meat. It was an old, uninspiring coffee shop packed with ravenous like-minded foodies like us, savouring various animal body parts with much glee and a lot less style.

But never mind style. The food is good, and we were all happy. That was despite us having to devour tricky trotters and licking off near invisible fish bones while clutching handbags tightly under our arms and perspiring our makeup away. What is a little discomfort compared to the euphoria of tummy satisfaction? Suddenly, the world seemed much more agreeable.

We ended lunch with a few big burps and very hefty stomachs, and I made a mental note to check for meat in the menus in future. A true carnivore never makes such an abominable blunder. Rather no food, then no meat. I have let my friends down.

Apologies to all vegan friends. I hope you didn't retch after reading this. I'm just really not a leaves and roots kinda person, so leave me to my fried chicken, and you can have the coleslaw.

* For Good Luck

Asakusa, Tokyo - Jun' 07

Up In The Clouds, Those Books

I have habit, a small pleasure really, to always buy a paperback from the airport bookstore each time I travel. And on its first page, without fail, I'd scribble the date and city of departure before I start reading.

It may seem like a mindless entry, and in fact it really is. But I am so used to the routine that I find myself obsessing about it the moment I step into an airport, so much so that I get frantic when I can't find a decent title to procure. Then, I'll spend another ten minutes pacing around the bookstore aisles and wringing my clammy fingers in anxiety before settling for one with a dubious title such as "The Deafening Whisper" or "Antartica - More Than Ice", after watching about a dozen transit shoppers come and go with a copy of it each. The logic behind this is, better to read a lousy book than to be airborne without any. Another one of my quirky little philosophies.

Thus, you can imagine how many books, good or otherwise, I have stashed away all these years from my travels. They have become my proud collection and many of which are so enjoyable that I read them over and over again. And each time I do, I would take a quick glance of my entry on the first page and reminisce fondly of that particular trip. Yes, most people use photographs, postcards or journals to remember their vacations by. Not me, I use books. Somehow my brain seem to recall better by aligning memories with trashy book content.

So it was with my life's greatest regret that I left a paperback, one that should be part of my collection, in an aircraft once. You may think it's a forgivable offence to lose a book by slotting it to oblivion in the heinously deep front pocket of your seat, but hell no, I did nothing of the sort. I fell asleep after reading three lines of the prologue and simply let it slide down the empty space between my arm rest and the wall of the aircraft. Most of all, it was just a one-hour domestic flight from Toyama to Haneda Airport. Not the best excuse for nodding off in a most unglamorous manner, much less to lose a brand new novel that was a potential good read. Utterly disgraceful.

Now, I've learnt to be more careful with my books by spending those dreadfully long pauses between touchdown and the seat belt sign going off, committing myself to checking and re-checking my articles. "Passport, hand-carry, book... passport, hand-carry, book..." That's how I remember. These days, I never lose my books anymore, although I had subsequently left behind a scarf, a pair of sunglasses and a couple of muffins, all in the same deep, dark aircraft front pocket.

Well, try as we might, we can never be perfect, can we?

Ahhh... I forgot to mention my favourite habit of using the little stubs left of boarding passes as bookmarks when I read. I sincerely think that's what the airline people invented them for. Clever.

* To Papa

Tokyo, Japan - Jun' 07