[ezcol_1half] I'm stalling on this post, about our trip to Japan, or more accurately, Osaka, Kyoto and Kurokawa. This happens sometimes, either when the trip itself was too brief, or in this case, even with a sufficient duration to ponder, I find the place
[ezcol_1half] ONE OF THE BEST DISHES I COOKED. I AGREE. [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] Lourmarin is what it promises, a picturesque village in the Luberon region in Provence, and more. No matter what kind of cynicism you bring along, or distaste for anything that seems to fit too squarely into Martha Stewart magazines, you come here, you see it, and it's hard not to surrender, even just for a moment, under Lourmarin's somewhat curated but irresistible, undeniable charm. We arrived at 7 o'clock in a summer evening when this village draped with honeysuckle vines and buzzing bumble bees were casted under a slanted, pale blue light. With just one deep breath of its brisk, floral and light beige linen atmosphere, everything felt just right. May I even remind you that this was after 9 hours of driving from Lyon cutting through the gruesome, annual European migration to the south in the middle of August? If it weren't for the highlight of us stopping midway at an orchard, and me may-or-may-not having stolen a bright red apple and ran, the day would've all seem to be in ruin. That ain't pretty. But Lourmarin made it worthwhile. [/ezcol_1half_end] [ezcol_1third] (may or may not have stolen an apple from
[ezcol_1half] All the best things in life are clichés. Paris, is a cliché. I've fought consciously throughout my adult life not to fall for it, or at the very least, say it out loud, fearing I'll sound like a girl wanting to model or a guy in a sports car. It oozes unoriginality. But in the end, excuse mine if you will, as we sat predictably at an open cafe at 6:30 am, watching this city in beige and pastel grey slowly waking up in a wash of golden summer lights, acutely aware of its both corny and extraordinary allure. Paris, I succumbed, is Paris for a reason. But I knew that four years ago, when I visited Paris for the time time. This time, I wanted more. And I didn't mean a private jet from somewhere like jettly.com to take me there (although a girl can dream, right?!). I wanted more not from Paris, but from the country that it has instilled great bewilderment for inside my mind. If that was Paris, then what is France? An embarrassingly stupid question no doubt, for a pre-middle age woman to ask but frankly, I'm too old to pretend that
[ezcol_1half] In the past few years, for more times than I'd like to admit, I have allowed myself to dance dangerously around a question that is as simple as it is complicated, as imaginable as it is hopeless, a secret irritation that haunts us all who have ever fell in love with a corner of this beautiful land they call Europe, but had to depart soon after. You know you ask yourself this, we all do. Why. Why can't I live here? EVERY SIMPLE DELIGHTS FROM EVERY ASPECTS OF LIVING, RESTRAINED IN SMALL SERVINGS, BUT CONSTANT, AND IT DOESN'T STOP COMING It's a cliche, of course, for someone who doesn't know or has travelled to Europe that much. But is that what romance requires, muchness? From the first time I landed a foot in Paris back in spring 2012, around the time when I just started this blog up till now, I have only been to a handful of European cities and each affair lasted no more than a week. And yet, the immense imagery of lost stories behind every architectures and cobble streets, the courage I seek to enjoy life with ease that they breath daily as a
[ezcol_1half] THANK YOU, SEOUL, FOR CARRYING THIS LIMP SPIRIT THROUGH ITS STREETS, FEEDING HER WITH NOURISHMENT, GIVING HER SUNLIGHTS. [/ezcol_1half] [ezcol_1half_end] So, 7 days went fast. And we're back. This past week, instead of a "vacation", was really closer to being on a emotional exile. After two years of relentless, losing battles against too much realities, I just wanted, no, needed to be casted away, to somewhere unfamiliar, string-less
The danger is real. There's a paradise out there. You can't move two steps without hearing old-time tales of unsuspecting wanderers who passed by and never left, got sucked in by that boundless flickering of Pacific blues so wicked that they dared plunging into the terrifying anxiety of a slowed down life. Made home, even a family, grew roots. Their next generation, born-and-raised, has fascinating stories to tell about their unwavering connections to being the children of these captivating islands, seeding ideas inside visitors with a less affirmative mind such as myself who all, at one point or another, fondled the unthinkable
Kitchen draught alert, due to post-Hawaii blues. All systems rebooting but meanwhile
I am chasing a mountain. A legend. A symbol