"Water can quench your thirst and wine can drown your sorrows, but only tea can refresh your spirit."
- Lu Yu, Tang Dynasty, "The Classic of Tea", 760 CE - 780 CE
While contemporary cosmopolitan coffee shops are known for 24-hour wifi/caffeine and jolts of espresso for high-energy boosts for a better and faster life, tea houses celebrate the slowing down of things: a stepping away from sidewalk traffic into a ritual that honors that which is timeless.
We are not Caesar, and we avoided the Forum, so I can say with confidence that The Ides of March was by far our best day in Rome. After days of clouds and rain, the sun and the moon both showed their faces. We couldn’t seem to tear ourselves away from the Piazza de España and by dusk, we were still there, drinking prosecco at a café under moon clouds.
“How do we rearrange our lives to live in this magnificent city?” we ask ourselves. There’s something about Rome at night, especially under a waxing moon, that causes me to think that reinventing my life and steering it against all the plans that drive me forward is the most natural thing in the world to do. Here, in this city of fallen empires and lovers on Vespas, going against the current of one’s well-planned life seems possible, even wise. The words of Keats, once an expatriate in Rome,
“We’ve made reservations for tonight at Otto’s in The Village,” said Madam Brooklyn. “If you’re into celebrity chefs, it’s owned by Mario Batali." I hadn’t heard of this famous chef known for his brawn, red hair, and habit of wearing shorts and bright orange Crocks in the kitchen. But, she soon filled me in.
Asia
It’s high. It’s cool. It’s invigorating. It’s how I like my Friday nights in the sexiest city in
(image via)
Try buying a piglet and then finding a red dress to fit.
Try burning paper money and trying NOT to free the caged sparrows.
Here in this country “Somewhere in Asia”, this Chinese New Year was celebrated in grand style:
Dragon-chasing, litchi martinis, Chinese dumplings, and the robe of an emperor.
-----photo by shamash
Buddha Bar gave way to the chanting of ancient Hebrew text. Matches were lit for Shabbat candles instead of clove cigarettes. The wine I drank wasn’t French. It was blessed. And kosher.
images by Pirate
Outside the screen door, palm leaves in my yard rustle in the breeze. Monks from the nearby Buddhist 
monastery chant all through the night, and not a creature is stirring, not even a gecko. I’m in my shorts and flip-flops. So much for dashing through the snow and roasting chestnuts on an open fire.
The virgin wises up.
I’m a late bloomer. Always have been.
This explains why I didn’t have tea and cream until my forth trip to England, I didn’t meet The Green Fairy until I left Eastern Europe, and I didn’t go to a wine tasting until I left France.
I’m sort of wonky that way. This weekend, I did it all in one fell swoop.
Here’s to wormwood, (it's legal here, folks!), tasting wine at Sharpham Vineyards in Devon, and to clotted cream on scones fresh out of the oven .
All of it: yummy.
“A day in France will is just the thing you need,” said Sir Edward of Portsmouth. So, taking his kind advice, My Precious…sss and I hopped aboard the Cherbourg Express on the Brittany Ferry across the English Channel. Little did we know that a $20 roundtrip ferry ride would end up costing us close to $200 dollars each, and an unexpected overnight stay in a seedy hotel with condoms in the welcome kit.
Original photos by shamash
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