I Never Wrote You a Love Poem

We do not sing each other love songs
Or write poems or prose on Hallmark cards
We never bother with red roses
Or give surprises on special days
We do not go to fancy places
Or lock our hearts on lover's bridges

Instead,
We listen to birds sing to our hearts
Speak with fondness that need not be penned
We plant seeds that grow with seasons
Make memories on just normal days
We take long walks on the countrysides
And leave our shoe prints on the dirt tracks

No,
We do not speak of love, not really
But tonight, the moon was beautiful
The flowers in the garden have bloomed
The scent in the air carries longing
That I thought of you, quite far away
And finally wrote you a love poem.

Thoughts Over a Cup of Coffee

There is a time... to sit under the sun. 

Hunters Bar in Sheffield is notorious for its traffic congestion issues during the weekdays when daily commuters from the outskirts of the city make their way to work. There had been a proposal once to bring back the tramlines but this was met with strong opposition by the middle class homeowners who pointed out that their properties will plummet in value if such monstrosity will ever come near their expensive homes. So instead the S10 residents opted for the endless procession of the CO2-puffing 4WDs making their regular hour-long journey from the south end of the city to the centre of town.

I have lived in this affluent part of Sheffield during my first few weeks in Britain and found the transport links tedious. After moving to a neighbourhood that is serviced by a very reliable tramline, I couldn’t imagine a different life. Occasionally though, we still find ourselves back in this trendy area that is home to the city's most fashionable independent shops and highly-rated restaurants situated by the long stretch of Ecclessall Road and in its back streets. 

Just like one Sunday after church in the middle of February when the winter spell took a short break to give us a reprieve and so we found ourselves sipping the most excellently brewed cup of coffee and a slice of Baklava from the Greedy Greek Deli just off the corner of the roundabout. It was one of those weekends filled with spontaneous surprises that my husband has a knack for not planning.

The sky was as clear as sapphire and the midday sun blazed torridly over the seven hills that only a few days ago was covered almost entirely by a thick layer of snow. We were on a perfect spot, basking on the warmth of the glorious sun directly above us and took our time watching the rest of the world go by.

We were not alone. Cafes all over the city have set up chairs outside to cater to the needs of the Vitamid D deprived customers who came alone with their Sunday papers or with families and friends for a chat.

I have only recently understood this European cafe culture. I have always wondered why I should be paying a couple of pounds for a cup of tea or coffee that I can capably make at home at tenth the price. But that wasn't the point.

Coffeehouses, from a cultural standpoint, largely serve as the centres of social interaction: a place for the community to meet up, talk, write, entertain one another or pass time, whether individually or in small groups. It is an informal club for its regular patrons [W]. Many of these coffeehouses in Europe have served as a breeding ground for political change, 'a meeting place for intellectuals, writers and artists to discuss their work and politics' [B].

My appreciation of this kind of coffee experience began one cold December evening in Paris when we entered an insconspicous cafe near the Eiffel Tower after a day of endless walking. It was supposed to be a short stop in a city where there is not enough time to see all the sights but we ended up doing what everyone else seems to be doing: enjoying the warm cup of coffee with no desire to do anything else.

It was different from the culture I have grown up with, handed down from our American colonisers, in which coffee is poured in a paper cup, ordered 'on the go' from Starbucks or a Nescafe vending machine and drank whilst striding along busy boulevards or trapped inside a commuter jeepney or train, no more than a fuel to kick off a working day.

Rediscovering coffee culture as a social experience and a lifestyle rather than a routine has definitely been an enlightening experience and one that I have learned to enjoy. The price of a cup of coffee in a proper ceramic cup and saucer is a cheap price to pay for an opportunity to slow down and enjoy life a little.

Cafedotnet, Middlewood Road, Hillsborough

Unexpected Treasures

When John came home on Thursday evening, I had a guilty look on my face. Before I could even explain, his gaze fell into the object sitting on the dining room table and he laughed. 

"If I was the one who found it, I would have bought it for you too," he said. He knows me too well to understand that there are temptations I couldn't resist. 

I was on my way to an early morning appointment with the dentist when I happened to pass a charity shop in Middlewood Road which specialises on vintage items. I went in and voila! The most beautiful object of my fancy happened to be on display: an old treasure chest in amazing condition there was no way I could have left without it! 

It's always fascinating what one can find in charity shops, how one person's scrap is another's treasure. This is the beauty of upcycling and it is rather popular in the Western world. 

The danger of course is that one could get carried away. A recent example was my shopping spree on Saturday morning where I discovered some lovely fabrics, threads and buttons which prompted my soon-to-be next hobby: sewing (which means that baking has now become an old subject). For a tenth of their original price, I was very tempted to buy them all. I stopped short just in time, thanks to financial constraints and space issues. It was rather difficult but there is of course that comforting thought that there will be another day for shopping. 

Dinner by the Docks

Sitting by the dock. Eating fish and chips. Watching the sunset. Bliss!

In its heyday, the Kyle of Lochalsh had been abuzz with tourists staying overnight for the next day trip to the spectacular Isle of Skye. After the controversial bridge linking the island to the rest of Scotland, the visitors skipped the town and what is left felt like a bleak little town gloating on its former glory. 

This impression might seem rather harsh and is largely owing to the two uneventful nights we have spent in the Kyle Hotel, a run-down building that has definitely seen better days. From the dull white exterior which looks like it hasn't had the service of a decent architect, the inside wasn't much to look at either. The long, dark and tight hallways would remind you of Asian horror flicks. The thin strips of walls would wake you up in the middle of the night to the voices of drunken Americans stumbling their way to their rooms next door. The rooms themselves were small and dingy, the sort of place where you couldn't wait to get out of. But for all your woes, they charged more than the lovely bed and breakfasts in Edinburgh. 

We have never met any locals, not on the street and not even on the hotel where we were served by nervous looking young women from other parts of Europe wearing all black and would jump at the orders being barked from the other side of the kitchen doors. But these people smiled and offered a good service at least, making it easier to gobble the greasiest English breakfast we've ever tasted. 

No, I wouldn't say the Kyle of Lochalsh is a romantic place. But one evening in May, after a long day of travelling half-way through Scotland, we had dinner by the docks. Eating our humble fish and chips from a take away (owned by an Aussie), we watched the sun as it was about to set at half-past ten in the evening while the pigeons hovered around us, waiting for their leftovers. 

I live for special moments like this. 

Where the Rainbow Ends

"This must be heaven, this is where the rainbow ends. " ~ A Wise Man

Today hasn't been the best of days. I went to see the GP complaining about stomach pains (someone has been  sticking needles to my voodoo doll, my sister said) that keeps me awake in the early hours in the morning. I've also been coughing some gooey substance that doesn't look so nice at all. Then when I went to the pharmacist this morning, they couldn't dispense the medicine because of some IT malfunction so I was told to come back later in the day. 

But I was working from home and I was loathe to leave the workstation unmanned so I asked my husband to pick them up. Minutes later, rain poured heavily amidst a bright sunny sky so I was naturally worried that he had been caught on it. 

Then the rain stopped and I heard him shouting from downstairs "Olivee look out the front window!" 

And there it was, the spectacle of a rainbow just in front of the house. He rushed back to share with me that magical moment before it fades away and it has made my day look so much brighter.  

It's always nice to be reminded that I have found my heaven on earth, right where the rainbow ends. 

A Planter or a Builder?

“Are you a builder or a planter?”

It was hardly a pick-up line but that was the first question he has ever thrown at me and I was too flustered to answer in his native language the conversation never really took off.

As a group of friends, we were crossing the Strait of Gibraltar from a weekend in the Moroccan capital of Tangiers. We were discussing the merits of the Brazilian author Paulo Coelho and he has just been persuaded to read Brida which he was leafing through and where the difference between a builder and a planter was discussed.

I have since made up for the mental block and have since married the man who has made our garden his creative refuge. It doesn’t have to be sunny or warm, rain wouldn’t keep him away. It’s one of those things that make him “like Papa” and for which he is rather proud of (proof that “You marry your father”).

Thus, our idea of a weekend of relaxation is a trip to the local B&Q or for a more expensive treat it’s a visit to the Garden Centre. I love those outings. I get to pick which plants we get to have although they usually gets vetoed as they don’t suit the soil we have or they won’t get enough sunlight needed to survive (what do I know of those things?). I also do my bit of gardening too (without getting my hands dirty) by pointing out which flowers had to go to which pot and where to position them in the garden. Then of course, I get to take the photos when the flowers bloom!

“In his or her life, each person can take one of two attitudes: to build or to plant. Builders may take years over their tasks, but one day they will finish what they are doing. Then they will stop, hemmed in by their own walls. Life becomes meaningless once the building is finished. Those who plant suffer the storms and the seasons and rarely rest. Unlike a building, a garden never stops growing. And by its constant demands on the gardener’s attention, it makes the gardener’s life a great adventure.” Paulo Coelho, Bride

A Garden That Blooms Every Day

I don’t get an occasional bunch of flowers to surprise me, I get to have a garden that blossoms everyday. Love is not about grand romantic gestures but little things that keep the spark alive.