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Alma's find

Notwithstanding, Alma decided to keep the coin. The trophy that the typhoon washed ashore on the edge of the West Lake. That token of providence in the devastation. Earlier this morning, Alma was walking Lupa, her faithful four-legged female companion. Toppled trees with their exposed roots, tangled and wiry like Medusa heads, framed the shoreside road - a dismal reminder of nature’s ferocious spectacle. Suddenly, a scraping sound woke her up from her pre-caffeine reverie. Metal scraped against gravel underneath her ballerina flat. Alma bent down to remove the unwanted object and froze in what may have appeared as a static seizure to the onlooker. For a few seconds, she blended with the Medusa head tree roots, her eyeballs popped out in disbelief, her wide open mouth suppressing the miscarried gasp that was about to become a lump in her throat. The unwanted object was a 10 lire Pegasus coin from the 1950s, Republica Italiana. The coin her mother wore on a pendant around her neck until...
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Brave in Beijing

I can’t begin to tell the world how many beautiful and soulful humans I met in the two days I’ve been in Beijing. Yes, I did arrive with a tiny chunky prejudice fed by early-life memories, the tone of news articles and the sheer limitations of our binary world views.  So far, I visited four neighbourhoods in this colossal twenty-one-million-resident city and I haven’t registered any other white expat. The treatment I received everywhere has been heart-touching. In spite of the language, cultural, political and infrastructural barriers (or maybe because of them) the human connection has been triumphant, life-affirming.  There is something precious about communicating with our eyes and smiles. We cannot care less about political beliefs, sexuality or intellectual tastes. The message is the connection.  I can’t begin to tell the world how many humans caressed me with their eyes, waitresses mothered me with gleeful smiles, cabbies befriended me with apologetic, childlike grim...
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Blind massage

I opened my eyes to the wonders of blind massage in Hanoi. Visually impaired people provide services in many Vietnamese spas. This expands their employment opportunities, and their worlds, helping them become more independent and gain visibility in society.  A dear friend recommended the Omamori spa in West Lake area. One November Monday, I pedalled towards it, sedated by the balmy twilight and semi-sightless under the thick cloak of motorbike smoke. The spa was housed in a 3-storey colonial villa accessible through a narrow downhill alley. A sense of awe descended upon me once I stepped over the threshold and set my bare foot onto the glossy dark wood.  The ground floor consisted of a reception area that led to a vast museum-like chamber. Abstract life-size oil paintings claimed their places on the wooden walls like bespoke entrances to Wonderlands. They offered hectic visual gibberish to the naked eye and could, perhaps, be fully decoded only by those equipped with inner vis...
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Banya

My recent visit to the traditional Russian “banya” in the London's Docklands is an event I shan’t forget anytime soon and one I’d strongly recommend to anyone with a taste for the authentic. A dear friend of mine had dared me to go and witness “the most raw & real bathing ritual”. It was a challenge I could not resist. The outside was intimidating enough. The dingy alley along the railway track in Canning Town where the establishment was situated reminded me of a back street in Bangkok minus the heat and the radiant mango-selling grannies. Barricades of rubbish led me to the entrance of what resembled an unemployment centre in Northern England, left to its own devices since the 70s. The reception area featured a plain eatery / vodka room with a constellation of sturdy square tables covered in green vinyl tablecloth - undoubtedly high-camp material in Shoreditch…but not here. Two big-belied comrades in baggy swimwear had positioned their giant pyramid torsos in front of a tv sc...
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London

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This is my 10th year in London, the brash, alluring, cruel, sexy giant of a city. Almost 10 years ago, I left my adoptive (and forever second) home - the wondrous dollhouse village Amsterdam.    I dreamed of coming to the jungle that is London and here I am - almost a Londoner. I feel love for this mesmerising jungle, a love that’s fed by the many songs of innocence and songs of experience I sang and heard.  I am the (almost) Londoner who sheds a tear down the tube escalators and smiles at street musicians as he jumps over puddles of rain, then sighs at the sight of bird ensembles pirouetting above black cabs.    Like the half-opaque buildings in this photograph, there is always more to excite and lure in this jungle. The beating heart of the West End on Saturday night, the soul-nourishing cheer of the farmers markets on a spring morning, the weathered hands of the homeless, the kindness of strangers, the dead pigeon splattered across the asphalt, the dawn of a ...
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Let me buy a ticket

Good Sunday. Let’s see how easy it is to buy a ticket for an event on your phone in 2021, from the comfort of your bed where you are enjoying a well-deserved lie-in. It’s 9:50 on a Sunday morning and I’m still in bed - rather unusual as for once, I’m not in my excitable child mode, fearing that I’m missing out if not constantly active. Facebook flashes an ad for “An Evening with Nigella Lawson” at the Southbank Centre. Now that’s a lady whom I’d love to spend an evening with. Well-spoken, lushly feminine, maker of rich, life-affirming food (which is not two pieces of extra vegan beetroot in the middle of a massive plate). So, let’s go. The Southbank Centre website looks well designed and is likely to have Apple Pay - I’m not prepared to leave my bed and look for my plastic card and its “long number”. We begin with seat selection. I know that these interfaces were created for desktop (like, 10 years ago) but the Southbank is making it extra difficult. I literally need to be Ilko Needleh...
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BCN night street vibe

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Can you breathe it (through your funky mouth covering)? Can you smell it? Can you taste it? Can you feel it (crawling underneath your skin)? The BCN night street vibe. It’s in the smile of a shadow. In the sigh of relief, the nod of camaraderie, the resonance of distant guitars and all the muffled echoes and laugher you permit yourself to hear. It’s right here, tonight.
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