Hobonichi wisdom

"Everything I've seen and heard in my life.

The things I've done.  The people I've met.

I'm now going over it all, counting it up.

That's what ageing is all about."

                                                      -- "The Silver Words of Safety Match

I am so lucky.

I live in a world where people are mostly kind; where friends and family are always thoughtful, always giving and always have my back.  In my part of town, we always love and are loved in return, even when we least expect it.  

This year, I had the privilege of spending time with all those I love and then some.  This Christmas, friends gave me the heavens and earth and hope and I stood, in the middle of the night, too stunned by gratitude to weep.  This New Year, my cup runneth over.  

Thank you, Universe, for showing me the peace that's been there waiting all along. 

Happy Holidays, everyone. 

Cactus Tree

"You know, I think if I were so inclined, I would easily be a junkie," I tell my friend, Kit, over dinner.

"Me too!"  His eyes widen in agreement and I know he understands.  We're both one kind of addict anyway.  Worriers, chewing obsessively over the same thought night and day.  Kit's learned to compartmentalise but I'm not as intelligent.  

I have to make do and since I can't be a user, I find other manias to build my life around.  Unfortunately, unlike drugs, they don't always come in steady or reliable supply.  Nothing gold can stay, I found myself thinking on my twenty-minute walk to work today, as the smell of newly-laid tar and drying cement steamed up around me, and I felt an indelible sadness.  

After my ex well and truly taught me how not to cling to people, I started to cling to things thinking that they couldn't possibly ever mean as much.  Except, it turns out, they do.  And things, too, change and end and maybe I'm just too worn out for one more set of goodbyes.   

In recent weeks, I'd been up late at night playing a game in which one tries to memorise all the countries in the world.  Then I moved on to memorising all their capitals.  Each round, after the timer runs out, I find myself reaching to restart it, to get one more hit of soothing routine.  During the day, I carry the names in my mouth and head to stave off withdrawal: Honiara, Belmopan, Tegucigalpa, Chisinau.  I repeat mnemonics and create mental imagery and tell my friends and cram my attention with lists and lists of places because one who feels so full couldn't possibly also feel hollow.  

I'll be done with it eventually.  But you know what they say.  Once an addict, always an addict.

And lying in bed in the dark, I recite the names of capitals over and over again, just as if they were prayers.

Europe, Episode 8: Nice, further inland

Apart from walking the beach at Nice, Bear and I spent many hours getting lost in a maze of market streets and squares.  Under the Mediterranean sun, the buildings were more garish than those in Avignon, bolder reds and oranges and sometimes with ridiculous trompe l'oeil cornices.

Over two afternoons, we walked beneath buildings frilled and painted like gaudy cakes and explored shops crammed with herbs and salts and soaps.  The streets, at time cobbled and sharply sloping, thronged with people sitting on folding chairs and drinking glutinous wine. 

Of course, we celebrated the discovery of a chocolate shop by noshing on truffles for tea and Bear ordered a glistening dôme noir filled with layers of untold vanilla, dark chocolate and biscuit-y glory.  As I savoured a richly-melting sea salt caramel, Rebecca discovered that her preferred coffee in France (where she had previously been receiving watery crap that she reviled) was a sufficiently strong baby café crème.

For breakfast, we devoured full sets of flaky pain au chocolate, bread, jam, omelette and what, in my eyes, is the ultimate morning luxury: both coffee and orange juice.  Thus satisfied, we took our time wandering through the narrow alleys and people watching.

For me, the most fascinating part of the walk was emerging into a tightly-packed market square redolent with the heady odour of wet feathers and sun-warmed fish.

The air was thick with seagulls, raucously flapping and fighting over fish guts and splattering droppings over everything.  I had never met such big gulls before, and Bear and I stood there for nearly an hour switching between fascinated staring and horrified ducking and running.  (I am particularly fond of the last seagull photo above - the bird looks like he has just said goodbye to his parents and is setting off to find his fortune with an aspiring look on his face.)

Above the clamour and cobblestones slick with fish juice, a man warmed his arms in the sunshine.

When a seagull nearly flapped into our faces, we decided it was time to move on and plunged back into the fray.

Rebecca and I found this woman so attractive that after hiding behind a pillar and watching her argue with someone for ten minutes, we finally plucked up the courage to ask if we could take her photo and she sheepishly agreed.  (As Bear says, people in the south of any place are very nice.  They usually said yes to us taking photos after making jokes about having to put on make up.)

Having walked through a park filled with romping children, we decided that it was time for yet another meal and that we would retrace our steps to a restaurant that we had found selling oysters earlier that day.

Oysters were an acquired taste for me but I eventually grew to love them and I remembered greatly enjoying heaps of shellfish in large melamine crucibles on top of metal tripods with my mother in Cannes.  The restaurant in Nice served seafood in a similar fashion and I had subconsciously latched onto the idea of having dinner there.  Unfortunately, we had walked so many kilometres that we were completely lost and we were about to give up on the idea when we turned a serendipitous corner and ended up smack in the middle of hundred of diners enjoying alfresco seafood feasts.

Right then and there, I sat down and had one of the best meals I have ever had in Europe, or indeed, in my life.  While Rebecca had prawns and fries, I ate six gigantic oysters that were so insanely fresh and cold that I felt like I was smoking some kind of sea-flavoured crack.  I slowly savoured each dripping, savoury, piquant one, knowing that it would be some time before I had access to such good oysters again.

Then, groaning at our fullness and good fortune, we took a long, slow walk back.

When I look at pictures of us from that time, I see two very happy, healthy campers.  In hindsight, I realise now that I really appreciated the two days of just slow-walking and eating.  We emerged well-rested, well-fed and well-prepared for what essentially became ten days of stair climbing in thirty-five degree Italy.

Most amusing of all, my diary entry for the day reads: "Bear and I have managed not to kill each other yet."

Well, it is a city called Nice after all.