Throne

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Thailand strangely brings back memories of school days and geography classes. I was part of the UN club, even then, interested in other countries, in far away lands. I picked Thailand for some reason. Maybe it was because the national flag colours (red, white and blue) were the same as the colours on the flag of my country. Maybe because of the pictures of the lacy, golden temples with eaves stretching up towards the sky, or the abundance of flowers everywhere. Or maybe I picked Thailand because of torquise waters in the magazines, that I carefully cut out and glued into my album, creating a “profile”, a presentation to use at the UN meeting. I can see myself sitting at the desk with a small flag on the stand next to my name tag, waiting for my turn to show off – everything that I learned to introduce Thailand to my classmates.

Regardless of the fascination with Thailand when I was in my early teens, my actual introduction to Thai food came much later, in Canada in 1997. I ended up in a restaurant with a group of my new foreign friends, not paying attention to where we were and what we were going to eat. Except for a few rare visits to one Indonesian and one Chinese restaurant in my home town, the only two with Asian food, I was absolutely unfamiliar with the dishes or flavours from this part of the world. I let others choose for me. The thing I remember was that I really liked what I ate, and I looked at the name of the restaurant on my way out. It was Thai. The encounter with the authentic experience and this country is still in waiting. One day…

Although it is now one my favourite types of food, I didn’t dare trying to cook anything Thai. This was a challenge, and, as it often happens, some of it became less of a mystery and more of a joy at the end of the day.

Thousand puzzles

How is this pandemic year
different from other years,
other hugless, kissless, touchless years,
seeing love from a distance,
seeing intimacy from a distance,
two meters apart or any other measurement?
Even two centimeters is a distance for me
because the line will never be crossed.

No caress, no fingers through my hair,
no skin under my fingertips,
to feel the blood going,
to sense the pulsing.
I am used to being alone,
I like my solitude,
I am fine.

The line cannot be crossed,
so at least I crossed the borders,
searching for other places,
to hug the unknown with excitement,
to kiss the horizons,
to touch the ancient stones and forests.
With myself as the only company,
and my apartment the unchanged scenery,
the world had much less to offer.

Online jigsaw puzzles
with photographs of various subjects and locations.
I break them apart in a second,
and while looking for a perfect fit,
I forget what they represent.
I build them back slowly
sometimes fast, competing with myself.
Under ten minutes and it is unbroken again,
revealing itself, beautiful places:
beaches, churches, mountains, streets,
deserts, everything.

I do them while watching TV.
I need an extra occupation.
I fall asleep and still move
the pieces on the screen.
After a whole day at my desk,
clicking on the keyboard,
I continue moving my mouse,
I cannot stop.
My shoulder hurts.

Another flower garden,
another winter forest…
I should rest in the evening,
I should let my pain dissolve.
Long into the night
when the city is quiet,
when my neighbour stops coughing.
I am still putting pieces together.
I am waiting for that moment,
when I will finally see
that emerging image,
the place I would rather be.

Even this pain is better than the silence,
it confirms my existence,
my fight against the windmills.

Spain

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Spain for me equals Barcelona as that is the only Spanish city I have seen, and I can’t imagine any other city that will be more magnificent. Yes, I am thinking about Gaudi. I fell in love with him with the first of his buildings I laid my eyes on. When I think about Gaudi, I don’t imagine his face, as I don’t even remember what he looked like on the photographs in the Gaudi Museum. I think of that glorious feeling of being inside an enormous sea shell, looking up at its mother-of-pearl walls and ceilings. The refraction of light in Sagrada Familia, offering a different experience with each visit, brings the presence of the divine.
Making and eating some of the Spanish dishes was a delight, despite of the fact that we kept it really simple this time. The dessert, again, was a novelty for me.

Sewing your heart onto the pavement

A new sawing machine staring at me
Like a horse that needs to be tamed.
It’s not about the horse being wild,
but about the rider,
hiding the fear of falling off the saddle,
remembering how to enjoy the breeze.

Patience and long hours
of pulling the bundles of fabric from the drawers,
from boxes under the bed,
the ribbons, the buttons,
the tailor’s scissors,
the measuring tape.
Deciding to do something new
now when the kids are grown up,
when the work doesn’t have to be reduced
to mending and zipper replacement.

I discover the joy of upcycling,
an opportunity for second life,
rebirth,
manifesting that there could be beauty again,
instead of it destined to a landfill.
Isn’t that what we all want,
another chance?
to take life less seriously,
to imagine the moment,
to do it differently this time,
take another road forward,
to erase at least one of ifs.

if I hadn’t fallen in love with you,
if I hadn’t said yes on August 2nd
if I had told you about the dream of me in black
if you hadn’t left home that morning in January,
if it hadn’t been cold, foggy and icy
If your blood had stayed in its vessels,
Instead of flooding your body.
If I hadn’t opened the door to receive the news,
If…

Humming, whirring, clanking
Thousands of thousands of steps on pavements,
of different cities,
stitching the days,
leaving and arriving
sometimes just strolling – stitch #4,
zipping up the pain,
breaking at seams.

if I had said the second yes
to divorcing, braking up another family
to build my happiness,
I couldn’t make a house
standing on the hole.
If I hadn’t said no to being a lover,
but not wife,
to expand instead of shrinking and turning inside;
if I had been stronger to stay and fight the demons
If there hadn’t been anyone on the other side of the phone
when I cried: save us!

If I had been weak,
let the water take me
like a paper boat giving in to the waves of the Pacific,
If I hadn’t set the alarm every morning,
running to catch a bus
instead of staying in bed and sleep,
just sleep…

Humming, whirring, clanking
Thousands of thousands of steps on pavements,
of different cities,
stitching the days,
leaving and arriving
sometimes just strolling – stitch #4
zipping up the pain,
breaking at seams.

snip, snip of scissors and the hum of the sewing machine.
ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa
wrrr
lub dub, lub, dub – like a heartbeat in the night
a pillow, a purse, another pillow,
a duffle bag, a quilt,a scrap onto a scrap
sewing my heart onto the concrete,
kilometers of a strong thread,
a gift from Ariadne,
that helps me get back home.

Reminiscence

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I was on vacation in Romania in my late 20s or early 30s. It was a short break from my work, from family, from my small children. Laying on the beach in Constanța next to the Black Sea, I was thinking about the fact that the Danube ended here, traveling for almost 3000 km, from one Black (Schwartzwald: Black Forest) to the other Black (Sea). Everyone was so welcoming, unaccustomed to tourists as the country was in the process of opening up to possibilities.

On our way back home, the bus made a long stop at Herculane Spa, established during Roman times (“Herculus Baths”) and know for its 16 thermal springs. I used the time to stroll through the town and then later on to hike up the trail into the mountain. The parking lot was at the entrance to the beautiful Cerna Valley Domogled National Park. As it was really early, the town was still asleep. Although it was summer, a heavy layer of fog was hanging low over the houses and buildings. I was carried away by the architecture, a combination of styles, each period leaving its stamp on the construction and habitats. Due to the politics and other priorities, this elite resort was neglected for years. The old buildings, with a combination of Austrian Baroque style, Romanticism, Neoclassical architectural elements, such as ornaments and reliefs, half in decay, looked mysterious and even eerie.

I remembered us a few years earlier, all glued to a radio broadcast of the demonstrations in Timișoara and Bucharest that eventually led to the execution of the Ceaușescu couple in 1989. We used the word Scuritate (his secret police) as a synonym for instability and oppression. Although my trip was in the 90s, the country was still recovering from years of Russian occupation and then Ceaușescu’s policies to deal with the foreign debt, that impoverished Romanians and exhausted the nation’s economy. After driving though pitch-black Arad, that had one of its frequent power blackouts, I think I was not the only one who sighed with relief when we crossed the border. It is always the people who suffer because of the politics, because of one person’s inadequacy or over-ambition of an individual.

Only much later did I realize how similar we were with our neighbours in culture, traditions and beliefs, including cuisine. They also like cabbage rolls, stuffed peppers, moussaka and even tripe soup (which is one of the rare dishes I’ve never learned to like), and many more. I mostly stayed away from the familiar and I discovered Romanian cheese/sour cream donuts, that I liked a lot!

River under the bridge

Dark and mysterious,
with whirls swirling fast,
like a water tornado
sucking you in and taking you with it
into its depth.
It claims life every year,
regardless of the swimmer’s experience.
It is like a dragon’s mouth,
always open.

Holding onto my mom’s hand
crossing the old bridge,
walking over aged and cracked timber sidewalk,
not damaged enough to be replaced,
but scary for a little girl,
I skip the hole through which,
the moving water calls.

Despite the sound reason saying:
look ahead, not down
and you will be free of fear,
there is something fascinating, alluring
about that imminent threat.
I imagine my feet slipping
and my whole body dropping
through the tiny crack,
my dress inflating like a balloon on my way down,
meeting the cold water of the Danube.

Numerous repairs and upgrades,
makes the bridge eventually safe,
but it still has a body of World War 2 steel cage.
As if testing my courage,
I go across it almost daily,
riding my bike to university,
catching a bus to go on a date,
watching the water level rising and subsiding,
fishermen trying their luck,
kids playing on both sides,
the sun rays gleaming of the waves.

When its body gets broken in multiple places,
repeatedly targeted,
the Danube is finally fed.
The bridge leaves its fractured bones untouched for years,
until it is pulled out from the bottom of the river
and probably taken to a scrapyard.
The river becomes even darker grey,
unfriendly to the crowds on ferries, rafts and boats,
as if asking for a break to chew,
for no more crossing,
for peace.

The Rainbow, they call it
because of the colourful lights
that illuminate the new bridge
and reflect into the water,
an illusion of needles stretched and thrust into the mud.

It has even nicer, unobstructed view
to both east and west.
I am not afraid of the river any more,
but we have very little to say to each other.
The words are all gone with a stream
to the Black Sea.

Quality vs. quantity

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The dishes we decided to make as Qatari are prepared and served across Middle Eastern countries and they have variations in spelling (both the main dish and the dessert). I hope I am not making a huge mistake with the options I chose from the Internet.

I am not familiar with either majboos or mehalabiya. I might have made similar dishes before, but it is always a new ingredient that I learn about. In this case it was the combination of spices: cardamom, cinnamon, cumin, turmeric… and dried limes. They are also called “black limes” as they turn black inside when dried. In some countries, they call them “loomi”. I found them in Persian store. Although I needed only a few, I would assume it is used a lot, based on the size of the package I was able to find. They have intense flavour and add a whole new note to the dish. Now I have to figure out how to use the rest of them in my usual cooking. I thought about trying a black lime in tea, so I did a bit of research and they are indeed often used this way.

The photo of the tea on the website from the link above caught my attention because of the borage flower. Suddenly I had a memory flash, taking me back to my teenage years. I was quite a prolific letter writer at that time, sending and receiving letters almost daily from friends all over the country and abroad. One of my friends was from Rijeka (Croatia), but went to Iraq for a short period of time. I was in my early twenties. I still have all of those letters and I remembered that he sent me a dried flower from Baghdad. I remembered him saying that the flowers were hard to find in the desert, and that they usually had deep roots to hold them. Despite the war raging, he went out to pick one for me. In my naive and totally oblivious manner, I asked him about vegetation in Iraq and to send me some photos to “see” as if he was a tourist there. It was forbidden and dangerous, especially for foreigner soldiers, to take any photographs, but it was March 8, the International Women’s Day. and he wanted to surprise me. Equally young and reckless, he went to search for flowers. It is said that “fortune favors the brave” but I would add “and innocent”. Anything could have happened to him, but nothing had. He came back home eventually, got married… we lost touch. I hope he is happy and satisfied with his life somewhere.

Questions

How much do we know about each other?

How often we say:
“It is nice of him to do this for me.”
“Such a wonderful person, helping everyone,
bringing joy to everyone,
caring for everyone”
but not realizing that he doesn’t do it for ‘everyone’?

How terrifying it is not to recognize
that we have become someone special to someone,
and we brush it off?

How powerful is the heart’s call?
We swipe everything in front of us,
blind for pain or low voices,
pushed by glowing energy inside,
hoping that we can bring everyone along,
united, harmonious with our heartbeats.

Those without answer stay on the margin
forgotten.

When a heart is offered on a plate,
how vulnerable we are to every word, every action?
What is the meaning of the Cupid’s arrows
flying in different directions and never hitting a target?
Who is there to tell us that there will be
so many missed opportunities for love,
and so many mistakes that we will make?