2230 hrs | 14 February 2018 North East Line | Boon Keng – Serangoon
They don’t have anymore chickens at Boon Keng!
No more chickens! I went to two NTUCs already this evening.
It’s an old lady, dressed in a cheongsam top and a slim black pant. She’s carrying many plastic shopping bags, an umbrella and her cracked leather wallet.
Aiyah, my feet hurt, going up and down like that. I’m 64 years old, still have to do this. But what to do? Chinese New Year, right?
She’s looking right at me. Still, I’m reluctant to engage. I’m reading Don Quixote and it’s getting quite exciting. On page 52, the hapless hidalgo is about to be beaten up by a gang along with Rocinante (his horse) and Sancho Panza (his “squire”).
I’m going to try one last time at Serangoon. They have a big NTUC there, some more it’s 24 hours. Do you know what time the MRT closes down?
I tell her that I’m not so sure, but that I did hear that there would be an extension of hours because of the holiday. I don’t think she’s heard me because she goes on about the chickens.
I don’t need an uncooked chicken. Even ready-made one will do. They have that now in NTUC, you know? Roast pork also have. You know, last time when my kids were still around, I would never buy this kind, the ready-made kind. Everything cook from scratch. Roast chicken lah. Dumplings. Pen cai. You like pen cai?
Yes, my grandmother makes it every year.
I also. Last time lah. This kind, can only eat once a year. Long time ago, I will buy how many cans of abalone, you know! Sometimes five cans, six cans, no problem! Will always ask my sons to help me buy early before no stock. All the other special ingredients also. Nian gao, must buy. Also last time, aunty also make pineapple tarts and love letters for all my friends. Good hor?
She’s on a roll now; she won’t stop.
I even know how to make yu sheng myself. Last time where got people buy yu sheng? So expensive now! My daughter loves yu sheng. Nowadays young people don’t like. You like?
You see! But my daughter loves it. I will make big big platters last time for family, to give to neighbours, but especially for my daughter. She loves it, but she isn’t here anymore.
Where is she, aunty?
She stops for a moment, breaks eye contact with me. I think I’ve crossed a line, but her facial expression shifts quickly and she starts to talk again.
Not here lah. All not here. Daughters and sons – all not here. That’s why I just need to buy those ready-made chicken. One can already. Can last for a few days. Don’t worry about aunty. Just need to try at Serangoon. One more time. Okay, my stop already. Bye! Happy Chinese New Year…
1400 hrs | 15 February 2018 North East Line | Outram Park – Dhoby Ghaut
The balloon is in the shape of a cupcake and a little girl is reaching for it. She has blue eyes & strawberry blonde hair and she giggles as she presses her palm against a glass panel riddled with sticky fingerprints, the only thing separating her from her shiny prize. She can’t be more than five.
It’s tied to the bag of a teenager, the pink string looped around the handle twice. Like everyone else on the train, the teenager’s eyes are glued to her phone screen. I peer above the pages of Don Quixote (I’m on page 83 now), transfixed by the girl’s tiny fingers as they make their way towards the stretched, silvery plastic. At one point, they get dangerously close and she turns to her left to grab her brother’s arm. Regarde moi!
The boy, with his wavy blonde curls and toothy smile, looks a lot like his sister but only twice as mischievous. I glance right and see that they come in a set of four – sister, brother, mother, father – blond and pretty, riding the MRT at 2pm on Chinese New Year eve. They look out of place in a train carriage full of people dressed up in stiff New Year clothes, slightly rumpled in their cotton t-shirts, shorts and sunglasses.
I realise I’ve been staring in their direction too long when the boy starts making faces at me. He sticks his tongue out, his fists curled up in two circles around his eyes. He’s making fun of my glasses! The cheek. I close my book, wiggle my face so that my glasses bounce up and down my nose. He giggles.
I don’t know where that came from – I haven’t spoken French properly in years. Even the boy is taken aback. It’s now his turn to tug on his mother’s shirt. She looks at me, smiles and motions for him to speak to me. He says shyly:
Un peu… un peu d’anglais.
Très bien! Et moi… Je parle un peu français…
My French is elementary, but I have their attention now – even the girl has abandoned her balloon pursuit. The kids start speaking very quickly and excitedly and the mother, who can speak a little bit of English, translates the questions. Like a game, and to everyone’s amusement, I try to recall the little French I know from two university classes to answer them.
They ask where you learn French.
J’étudie français… how do you say “in” in French? Er… “dans”? J’étudie français dans mon université.
Fantastique! Oh… they ask, you go to France before?
I hold out three of my fingers to indicate that I’ve been to Paris three times (also, I’ve forgotten how to say “thrice” in French) but it’s too late, the kids make a face at the sound of the capital’s name. Even the father, who has been sitting there silently the whole time with his newsboy cap tilted at an angle, shakes his head. The mother laughs.
We don’t like Paris. Ce n’est rien. We live… à l’est, près de la suisse? Better, much better.
Uh oh. I’m not surprised. It seems that the Parisians are the only French who actually like Paris. I talk a little more with the mother and make faces at the kids in between to keep them entertained. By now, even the people around us are hanging onto our stilted sentences, entranced by this odd encounter, listening in.
I find out that the family has been in Singapore for five days but that they will soon make their way to Indonesia to “hike mountains”. They like the outdoors, especially the boys. They also love how hot Singapore is, but admits that it is too crowded to be pleasant, much too crowded.
Is there like…une fête? La célébration?
The mother gestures around her, at everyone in their best clothes, packed like sardines in a tin can in the middle of the afternoon. Before I can even attempt to explain Chinese New Year to her, we’ve arrived at their stop. Dhoby Ghaut. The mother announces that it is time to go and the father tips his cap towards me. The kids wave at me and proudly exclaim:
To which I respond heartily:
It has been five, very surreal minutes. The atmosphere in the cramped train carriage seems a little lighter. Before the family disembarks, the mother turns to me and says this:
Your French is not so good…. but thank you so much! Au revoir!
Well, one thing’s for sure. They are definitely French.
2330 hrs | 25 February 2018 North South Line | Orchard – Link to Shaw Theatres
Hi, what’s your name?
My name’s Kenny. I’m 74 years old. Do you like The Carpenters?
Of course I do!
You remind me of Karen Carpenter. Very lovely, but I think you should lose the glasses because they make you look old, you know what I mean?
Oh dear. I’ll make a note of that.
Listen, I’ll play a song for you. You know, “On Top of the World”? Maybe after that – and I hate to be a bother – you could help me out with my rent?
“How stationary life has become, & the hours impossibly elongated… & in the end all that we can do is to sit at the table over which our hands cross, listening to tunes from the Wurlitzer, with love huge & simple between us, & nothing more to be said.”
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down & Wept – Elizabeth Smart
These days, I’m finding it quite difficult to get into the right space to write. It is near impossible to write well when one does not have time to read, time to sit in the nook of comfort & silence & soak in time, sublime. Now that the end of the year is approaching, I look back at the resolutions I made at the beginning of 2017 & as usual, feel despondent at how many I’ve let slip between my fingers. Write three new songs. Read at least 20 books. Learn to sketch properly. Take better photographs.
These unmet resolutions far outweigh those I’ve managed to complete. It’s a little disappointing. For some reason, being creative has always been extremely important to me; an act of worship unto God, like how someone else would connect by singing a praise song or reading the bible. It’s just the way I’m wired & without the luxury of time, I end up being restless, uneasy, frustrated, which is why this year feels so long & so challenging.
At work, I’m surrounded by the most passionate, driven & highest-functioning people that I’ve ever met, which are basic traits since we work in a competitive industry with near impossible deadlines. I love my work & the people I do it with but it’s no doubt that the nature of the job is changing the way & speed at which I process things, which isn’t necessarily a good thing. Sure, one might become more efficient but there’s a great cost. Even after I clock off, I leave the workplace with my mind still ticking, ruminating on a deadline to meet, a schedule to plan, the next task to check off on a very long list of things to do, up till the time I fall asleep. Sometimes, work even invades my dreams. Every minute where I do slow down seems like a minute wasted. It is as if this increased efficiency has robbed me of my ability to look at the world with wonder. Some days, I just exist.
It’s worrying what can happen when you let your sense of awe slip away. Creativity, or rather, the want to create, comes first from wonderment at a world that is filled with beautiful things, created by a beautiful being. & because we are made in His likeness, we then seek to create similar things of loveliness, things that help us interrogate & reinforce truth, celebrate momentous and minute events, encapsulate the feelings that ebb beneath our very skin.
Have you ever seen the wonder In the air of second life Having come out of the waters With the old one left behind If you have so say
I see the world in light I see the world in wonder I see the world in life Bursting in living colour I see the world Your way And I’m walking in the light
(Wonder – Hillsong United)
A wise friend of mine once said that we each have our own “non-negotiables” & it’s up to us to figure out what they are & how to protect them. It took me a long time to recognise that being creative was my non-negotiable & an even longer time to realise that it wasn’t secondary to other people’s, whether their’s might seem more noble (taking care of family, doing church work) or more socially-appropriate (having a relationship or an active social life). For me, being creative equates to basic self-care, the bare bones of your humanity. & time should be carved out for the things that make you human, no?
I feel like it’s been such a long time since I’ve written something good, but as the year draws to a close, I feel like it doesn’t really matter as long as I try. Begin again, as they say. So I’m starting with lists to rekindle a sense of wonder, to remind myself that things of beauty do exist, if only you’d look hard enough.
An apricot danish, warmed in the oven for thirty seconds, the fruit cradled in a little bubbling pool of custard, puff pastry & a ring of icing sugar.
Hearing a French accent in the middle of the day, soft & delicious, jolting me back to streets of a certain city.
The company of a friend, two coffee cups between us & unabashed laughter at a shared memory.
A church spire extending above a green horizon of trees, its tip like an arrow, pointing to answers in the blinding sky.
A solitary bus ride with my mind pleasantly blank – oh, it has been so long – marvelling at a huge life shared with the rest of the universe, who leans in & says: Darling, I’m listening if you tell…
Aunt Lisa, or “Ah Yi”, as I call her, has invited me out to lunch.
The more accurate term would be summoned, a word that almost always induces a sense of foreboding & fear. Once every few months, & more often since I’ve been freelancing, I get a phone call from Aunt Lisa telling me that it is time we meet for lunch. Each phone call never lasts more than twenty seconds. The last time I saw her, I had been similarly summoned to her law office at Circular Road & I had walked in on her yelling at one of her two secretaries & throwing down files on the floor… so, you can understand the foreboding feeling a little.
We agree to meet at Wakanui at noon, an upscale steakhouse which is our usual lunch place. Nothing but white tablecloths & an extensive wine list for Aunt Lisa. Once I tried to buy her lunch at a nice Italian cafe & she scoffed before booking a table at Fairmont Hotel’s Prego. A cafe, really…? She says the word “cafe” like one would say “baby vomit”.
So Wakanui it is. She has a permanent reservation on a back table there, & more importantly, the staff simultaneously fears her & understands her. By the time I reach, I see that she has already started on a bottle of white wine. She is wearing a little black dress & with her gamine features & slight build (I am a whole head taller than her), she reminds me of Audrey Hepburn, walking down Fifth Avenue, Manhattan, regarding Tiffany gems with a rarified air on a quiet morning. She is smoking long, slim cigarettes out of the gilded case I’ve seen her carry since I was a child, going through them like candy, the blue smoke rising around her like curling wings. She sees me & her expression loosens into a smile. She reaches her hands out to hug me & tenderly asks:
How are you, dear?
Like always, I order the steak & she orders the fish. When Mario the head waiter has left, the quick-fire questions begin. As all conversations with lawyers go, she doesn’t bother with small talk & immediately starts asking me questions of both a professional & personal nature at bullet speed: How was Europe? Isn’t Wales a bloody hole? Haven’t you gotten a job yet? What trouble are your sisters in nowadays? Thank God I’ve come prepared & shoot back at her like an old pro (or a defence attorney for that matter): Europe was great. Wales isn’t a bloody hole but you wouldn’t have liked it. Yes I have. Well, there’s been some trouble, but nothing for you to worry about. Kapow!
We then talk about movies, music, food. Aunt Lisa eats like a bird but loves food all the same. She is the only person I know in the world who appreciates food like an art form & who isn’t bored to death when I obsess over culinary trends or fine dining. When I tell her that I was considering going to Alain Passard’s three-star Michelin star restaurant L’Arpège for dinner when I was in Paris, she scoffs & insists that it is “bullshit” (just because you sprinkle black truffles on everything doesn’t mean it’s good food, she says). She likes dining at Thomas Keller’s The French Laundry, Alex Atala’s D.O.M & Gunther Hubrechsen’s Gunther, but detests Scandinavian cooking because she thinks that it’s all smoked fish & potatoes. I tell her about the things that Sweden’s Magnus Nilsson is doing in Fäviken & Denmark’s René Redzepi in Noma but the jury is still out on that… her jury anyway.
This is the part of lunches with Aunt Lisa I love most, when we simply talk about the things we like, when she is out of her “lawyer” mode & we slip into something resembling pleasant conversation. Aunt Lisa is from another time, old-fashioned & classy. She uses the most archaic expressions. Like a character out of a Miller or Lawrence novel, her eyes light up when she talks about a jazz band she saw a few weeks ago: This place was really something, quarried away on Club Street & when we went in, it was perfect – not too crowded but just right, you know? The band was absolutely ripping, & everyone was loving it & responding to them in just the right way… Uncle Richard & I loved it, so fantastic, so bohemian…
I love it when she talks like that.
Aunt Lisa is my mother’s older sister & the eldest amongst the four children. Growing up, my mother was the cheery one who was well-liked among all the relatives because of her sweet tongue & amiable character, while Aunt Lisa disliked noise & had a bad temper & preferred to spend her afternoons holed up somewhere, reading a book. Family is a fickle thing, isn’t it? The way we turn out different from our siblings.
Anyway, it was no doubt that Aunt Lisa was massively intelligent & driven. She breezed through junior college, went to law school & cut her teeth at a top-tier law firm for a few years before setting up her own in the early ’90s. Till today, Lisa Chong & Partners remains a successful, largely one-woman show because – & this is verbatim – she doesn’t like answering to any assholes & likes going where she likes, when she likes. That was a huge feat in the late 1980s, back when female lawyers weren’t common & her male peers weren’t too fond of a woman telling them what to do. Now of course, things are different. People in the law circuit know who she is – that Lisa Chong, she’s a badass.
She then moved out of the family home, met & married Uncle Richard (a good-natured, American oil engineer from southern California who claims to have moved to Asia because he loved noodles & stuck around because he met Aunt Lisa. He is an amazing jazz drummer who introduced me to artistes like Dave Weckl & Buddy Rich & The Yellowjackets, but that’s another story for another day.). She turns 55 this year & even though that’s seven years to official retirement, she is by no means letting her age slow her down.
I didn’t always like her. I used to find her mean & condescending & prideful. As a sensitive child, I watched her carefully from a young age, despising it whenever she used cutting words to speak to her siblings or her own mother. She always lost her temper with service staff, was curt with her peers, & impatient with children. I would never have gotten close if we did not share a mutual love: books.
Aunt Lisa had an impressive library, a proper one – wall-to-wall oak shelves, thousands of books & that rolling wooden ladder that helped you reach the ones stacked on top – in her old house & whenever she hosted our weekly Sunday night family meal, I would run to the reading nook straight after dinner & spend two hours rifling through her collection while my two sisters spent their time in her walk-in wardrobe, trying on her clothes & pieces of costume jewelry. I was such a different child back then from my sisters, so quiet & timid & always sick & crying but I remember how those books would make me feel as hours passed in that magical place. In the sweet solitude of the library, I went on adventures with writers like Rudyard Kipling, Jules Verne & Alexander McCall Smith who had travelled to faraway places like Africa & India & ate exotic foods with the locals & danced with them till the night dwindled away. I read true crime stories like In Cold Blood & had nightmares for weeks afterward. I delved into the landscape of the American south when I read To Kill A Mockingbird & I was Scout, the brazen tomboy who unwittingly saved Tom Robinson’s life, who loved Calpurnia’s crackling bread & who managed to encapsulate all I felt about books as a young child when she said: Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.
Often, Aunt Lisa would join me & take out a hefty, square book on Greek Mythology & tell me all about the ancient gods – Chaos, Gaia, Uranus, Cronos, Zeus, Heracles, the whole lot of them – & their stories. She named one of her seven cats Calypso, after the nymph who kept Odysseus captive on her own island for several years until Athena & Zeus intervened, always wishing that the Homeric Hero would one day love her the same way she loved him. Aunt Lisa loved that story. From there, she would slip into this state of dreaminess, talking about her travels to Greece & South America & Italy with Uncle Richard, visiting everything from ancient ruins to elephant jungles, touching the worn stones of history & walking on the hearths of our ancestors, where there was once eating & drinking & sleeping & breathing… & I, I so young & inexperienced, with nothing but the waxy pages & their glorious illustrations laid out before me, all those Gods with bodies cut from white marble, fiery chariots, & of course the mere mortals themselves, often so beautiful that they could sometimes bewitch those whom they were supposed to worship. I breathed in whole worlds like that on that library floor. When I think about it now, it was a gift, all that time amongst books & my Aunt Lisa, pure & unappreciated.
My reverie is broken when Aunt Lisa calls over Mario & snaps at him for more ice. That’s her for you, able to switch between complete cordiality to a cantankerous, Anna Wintour-ish nightmare in a matter of seconds. It’s something I’ve gotten used to & I let it slide. She decides that we’ll be taking dessert & the rest of the wine outside so she can have a good smoke. Mario materialises like a ghost & whispers, yes, madame, & soon we are seated outside with fresh glasses & our chocolate soufflés.
Stories shift into ideas. We talk about philosophy, faith, religion. I know this is when things can go either way. She doesn’t deny that there is a God but she doesn’t like the Christians that she has met (she is quick to tell me that this group excludes me & that this faith I have seems to have served me well, unlike many others). I don’t know what it is – the thumping pace of the conversation we seem to be having, or the three glasses of wine I’ve had so far – but then somehow in a burst of courage, I ask her for the very first time in my life, what then, do you believe in?
She gets very quiet. Two long puffs of her slim cigarette. She doesn’t answer immediately, but then when she finally speaks, she tells me something she’s never told anyone before.
Fifteen over years ago, when she shifted her office to a little street in Boat Quay, she started a ritual of buying her daily newspaper every morning from a little old man from across the road. The old man had sat behind a desk with glossy tabloids & copies of The Straits Times fanned out before him – one of those old-fashioned vendors you don’t see anymore. They didn’t talk very much for a long time but one day after purchasing the paper, Aunty Lisa noticed that the old man had a bloody patch on his head. She asked him what had happened in Cantonese & he told her that he had fallen & his leg was all swollen up as well. Where are your kids? Who takes care of you? It became clear after a few exchanges that there was no one. Immediately, Aunt Lisa took him to the hospital.
At the emergency room, she then finds out that not only does the old man have no money or insurance, but that he has no form of identification. He had come from China to make a living in Singapore a long time ago, has no family & didn’t even know his own birthday. Thus, even though he had a fractured hip & several other injuries, the system prevented him from receiving any form of government help. The bill came up to several thousand dollars & Aunt Lisa paid it off without a second glance. She then started the excruciatingly long process of helping this old man get registered & recognised by the state, putting together papers & going to government offices to yell at poor administrative assistants & their terrified bosses. She succeeded, of course. The old man started to receive medical subsidies & monthly welfare from the government.
After his leg was properly healed, he went back to selling his papers every morning & Aunt Lisa went back to buying them, except that things were a little different. One evening, she went out for dinner with her bunch of rich girlfriends & announced that she was taking up a collection for this old man that none of them even knew. Come on, I know how much you’re spending on these salads & martinis in just one meal. Cough up! & they all did, whether it was from shock or fear or reverence. For many months, she used that little fund as a type of allowance for the old man, giving him fifty dollars every week to make sure he had money to get food, to get medicine. When that fund dried up, she started to give him money out of her own pocket. A hundred dollars a week. Two hundred sometimes. She gave him her name card so he could get in touch with her if he was in any trouble, & gave instructions to her assistant to continue giving him the usual weekly amount whenever she was on vacation. That cheeky bastard, Aunt Lisa says at this point. He was so happy, he sat behind his little stand like a big towkay ever since I started to give him money, as if saying to all of his friends, see I have a benefactor!
A few years ago, Aunt Lisa got a call from a policeman out of the blue. The old man had passed away in his one-room flat & the officer had found her name card on his person. Does he have family, he asked. No, Aunt Lisa replied. Just me. She didn’t feel like explaining their complicated relationship to the officer, so she just asked what he wanted her to do & he told her that if no one claimed the body within thirty days, the state would “take care of it”. So she did, of course she did; paid for his cremation & all. & that was the end of a very long, bizarre, sad, beautiful relationship between the unlikeliest of parties.
So what do I believe in? I’m not sure. But I do believe in universal goodness. We encounter situations in life & well… it’s up to you what you choose to do with them. & if you choose right, you choose goodness. It’s the weirdest thing isn’t it… Life.
She trails off, looks away, takes a long drag of her cigarette. It is a long story & I’m filled with a confluence of emotions. The strange thing is that I know this about my aunt; that beyond the prickly demeanour & no-nonsense attitude, she is someone who secretly gives & loves generously but who hates talking about it. This is one of the rare instances that she does & I am astounded by how simple the decision was for her, to help a man she barely knew for so many years. I ask her what his name was, & she says it immediately without thinking. The two syllables, the two Chinese characters carry so much weight & it sits between us on the table, like an unsaid prayer.
After an extended silence, I tell Aunt Lisa that she reminds me of Audrey Hepburn. She breaks out in laughter & says, what the fuck, I’m trying to tell you an important story here & all you can think about is a New York prostitute. I correct her – I didn’t say Holly Golightly, but Audrey Hepburn. I tell her that what I admire most about Hepburn isn’t her repertoire of wonderful movies & the memorial characters she played, or her beauty & timeless fashion sense, but her unabashed grace & her love for humanity. Audrey Hepburn wasn’t religious, but she was kinder than most religious people. & that’s kind of like who you are, Ah Yi, I whisper.
She shakes her head & then smiles, & then does a little shrug. She pushes her cigarette stub into the nearly-full ashtray & stands up abruptly, breaking the spell. Mario comes over & she pays the bill & we walk out onto the street, squinting in the jarring, midday sun. It’s nearly four in the afternoon & that’s how the lunch meeting ends, as sharply as it began. She holds her palm to my cheek as a goodbye like she always does & quite suddenly, I realise that I love my Aunt Lisa very much.
I tell her that the next time she “summons” me for lunch, I will have read The Man Who Ate Everything & I will bring her Jonathan Safran Foer’s latest novel & that I will be paying the bill & treating her instead. She rolls her eyes, slaps me on the arm & waves me off.
“I was in a really, really bad place a year ago. I was married to the wrong man for twenty years & I remember just sitting in my home knowing that if I didn’t get out of the house right there & then & go somewhere, anywhere, I would have… Well. You know. So I did – I hiked through the English countryside with nothing but my iPod & a backpack. I walked something like a few hundred kilometres – all by myself – & it was wonderful, believe me, just being alone with nature & all that. Then I came across this little town, & I know this sounds strange but when I arrived at Hay, I just felt it sort of… embrace me, you know? There was such an air of love in this place & somehow I knew that I would fit right in. I walked straight to the agent & asked if he had a place for me to rent & somehow things worked out & I’ve been here ever since. It’s been ten months. I rent out this little room to interesting travelers like you. I sell my knitted hats & scarves at the square on Market Day. I sing on the street – Ed Sheeran is my favourite. I don’t smoke, I don’t drink anymore. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. Happy.”
“Recommendations? Oh dear. I’m afraid I don’t do those. I think if you wandered into this little shop by yourself, you’d have the curiosity & capacity to explore & know what you’d want to read. I’m a 58 year old man, so for anyone to come in & ask me what I think they should be reading, well, I don’t think I’m in any position to do that. Just read a little bit of everything… I certainly try to do that. See, the thing I love about poetry is that very few people are reading something that someone obviously spent a lot of effort writing years & years ago. There’s something special about that, don’t you think? Anyway, so what would you recommend?”
I’ll be writing more about my trip (or more aptly, my “pilgrimage”) to the magical kingdom of Hay-on-Wye soon but meanwhile, here’s a quote from a conversation I had with Chris Prince from The Poetry Bookshop. I agree with you Chris – there’s something very special about that indeed.
“Singapore? Oh Singapore is wonderful isn’t it? Well I actually haven’t been there but I’ve been to Hong Kong & that was really fantastic. I was a competitive sailor for 16 years & I’ve been all over – Sweden, Spain, France, the Caribbean – & now I’m back here & I make these fabric structures for indoor & outdoor events, sort of like a very specific type of architecture. But yeah, Singapore is great… I know sailing is a big thing there, right? I mean, Swansea is terrific & all, but I suppose the grass is always greener on the other side.”
Here’s a fact: it is impossible to go a single day here in Wales without having an interesting conversation with a stranger. Cafes, supermarkets, open-mic poetry readings… you just can’t escape them. It is a new, strange phenomenon, but not necessarily a bad one. If you have lived only in cities your whole life, the tendency is that you get used to being ignored, or overlooked, or worst of all, forgotten, & when someone starts talking to you over your morning coffee at the local bistro, you can’t help but be taken aback by this foreign human tenderness, by the simple want of having one’s life brushed against another for a few minutes…
“You’ve ruined my day.”
“That hash you’re eating looks amazing. I’m regretting ordering my beans on toast right now.”
After our long chat about traveling & nature & Chinese food, I asked Matthew John if I could take his picture to which he promptly responded “of course!”. Then he deftly took the camera from my hands & snapped one of me without asking.
I am again reminded of that verse: “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.”(Hebrews 13:2), & far from insinuating that I am some kind of heavenly being, I am humbled from being welcomed by a city of angels, generous in their hearts & in their time given.
It’s past noon. I look at the stack of Chinese delivery menus & frown. Sichuan Savour has something like one hundred & fifty items on it, most of them dishes that you would never see in an actual Chinese restaurant back home, or China for that matter – pork lo mein, kung pao chicken, egg rolls, beef curry with chips – & none of them sound very appealing so I grab my coat & decide to walk the one & a half miles out to Sketty for some lunch.
It’s 6 degrees out & it rained in the morning, so by the time I reach the tiny cluster of shops my ears are stinging from the cold. I duck into the first cafe I see before I turn into a human popsicle. Dilly’s Kitchen.
The cafe is so small that it only has two tables & one of them is taken by a strapping Welsh man in construction boots, inhaling bacon & eggs & beans on toast. There is a 50-something year old lady (the eponymous Dilly, I presume) behind the glass counter arranging the bowls of raw salad greens & a teenager making some pies, up to her elbows in pastry dough. I order a cappuccino from Dilly, who smiles at me & says:
Do you want chocolate with that, sweetie?
…to which I reply, yes please, because you never say no to chocolate even if you’ve never heard of it being added to a cappuccino before. I take a seat at the second table that’s right next to the glass store front & Dilly serves the coffee a minute later, sprinkled with chocolate powder. I take a sip & sigh with pleasure as the welcome heat spreads across my chest. I take out my book & start reading & it’s another twenty minutes before the next customer wanders in. It’s an old man & immediately, Dilly greets him.
Hello dearie. How’s your wife?
She’s alright, thanks for asking. Last week she got a bit of a cold & it was quite hard for her to come out of it but she did.
Oh that’s a relief.
Though I must say that all in all, her health hasn’t been that good since the last scare…
They chat quite a bit & a third lady appears from the back kitchen & joins in the conversation. Did you get a second opinion? We’re working on that. Here’s something, a little extra to take home. He gets some pies & walks out of the cafe after a chorus of goodbyes & take cares.
I get back to reading my book & am just getting really wrapped up in it when suddenly I hear a shriek. I look up, startled. The three women are squealing because they’ve unplugged the dishwasher & dislodged something & the kitchen is flooding. Immediately, the guy at the other table gets up & asks:
Is everything alright?
Oh it’s fine, but it’s so funny isn’t it! Our kitchen is completely soaked.
Is there anything I can do?
Oh no, that’s sweet of you to ask, but we’ll just have to clean up & get it fixed in the morning…
We’re so spoiled – we don’t know how to do dishes without the dishwasher. That’s the biggest problem. What will become of us!
Everyone laughs, including me.
A while later, a woman who is even older than the last man shuffles into the cafe, walking stick in hand. She’s at least eighty, terribly hunched-back & dressed in a leopard print coat & a grand black hat. It takes her an excruciatingly long time to get from the front door to the counter & the third lady spots her & calls out:
Hello Patricia, how are you today?
Lovely, just lovely. What do you have today?
Well, we’ve got some good pies… a real nice three-fish pie if you’re in the mood for that. & we’ve also got the salad with ham or chicken…
Oh, could I get that please? With the ham.
Certainly, just take a seat & I’ll get that to you in a jiffy.
The big Welsh man gets up & leaves & the ancient woman sits down at the now empty table. I smile at her but she doesn’t respond & I realise that she’s blind.
We don’t have iceberg anymore, Patricia, only mixed greens, is that alright?
That’s perfectly fine. *pause* Is that lettuce though?
It’s lettuce, but in different colours.
I order a slab of mixed berry cake. It is warm & moist & wonderfully sour. Patricia & I eat in silence. I people watch for a bit, looking at the comings & goings of this small town where everyone knows everyone else’s names & their family members & who is ill & whose kid just went off for college & to where. Someone drops a plate in the kitchen, & then another.
She’s dropping the dishes on purpose so she doesn’t have to wash them. Ha!
School boys with cigarette trousers & skateboards. A few couples in sleek coats & beautiful haircuts. Mostly old people walking their old dogs. I feel like I am an outsider that has crept into an arcadian novel, made privy to the inner workings of this Star Hollow-esque family. The store front is the glass of a snow globe & I am holding the ornament up & seeing everything that is happening in this dream-like, homespun sphere.
How’s the salad?
It’s very nice, thank you.
You’re welcome, Patricia. Would you like some fruit?
Oh yes, if you have some.
It’s about 3 o’ clock. I read this passage from my novel:
“For now, I’m happy to be alone. I’ve spent my whole life with others – my parents, girlfriends, Jennifer. Maybe I want something different.”
“Aloneness isn’t loneliness.”
(Here I am – Jonathan Safran Foer)
The rest of the afternoon passes mostly in silence. A few more customers come in to get takeaway dinners, some just to get a coffee & say hello to one of the three ladies. Patricia finishes her fruit salad. She realises that she’s forgotten her wallet at home & apologises profusely but Dilly waves it off & says it’s no hurry & tells her to get home safe.
Next time, next time.
I’m so dreadfully sorry.
It’s okay, Patricia. Remember to check everywhere. Give me a ring if you still can’t find it.
I will. Thank you.
It’s 440pm. The flow of customers slows to a trickle. It’s time to go. I pack up & get a ham salad to go. It takes Dilly 15 minutes to assemble the salad because she’s asking me three questions between the addition of each ingredient, hardly pausing long enough to let me answer which I’m perfectly fine with.
Where are you from, then?
Your English is really excellent!
Do you want some sun-dried tomatoes?
The weather is a bit awful today, perhaps it’ll be better tomorrow, what do you think?
What kind of cheese would you like?
I suppose you’d want a nice paper bag to carry this in?
I pay my bill & we exchange the necessary “English” pleasantries & then I hold my breath as I exit the warmth of the cafe & step into the snow globe, into the biting wind. It’s only 5pm but already the sky is darkening, so I quicken my step to get home before the sun sets.
“Home, I’m making my way home My mind’s already there Yes, my mind is
Light, you’re with me in the dark Light my way at night Let your light shine”
(Going Home – Asgeir)
I have said less than 10 sentences the entire afternoon. It’s a casual lesson in slowing down, in listening. For what though? Nothing & everything. Sometimes that’s enough. I’m making my way home.