gerrard street, W1D 6JN
I’ve been living in a world made of pillows, blankets and duvet covers. It could be the most cosy place in the world – and usually feels like it – but right now, I dream of a trip to China town.
Have a bubble tea*. With extra tapioca, of course. And walk down Gerrard St – yes, it’s called China town, but China street would, perhaps, be more accurate. Explore the – often cheap – menus, knowing I will end up a couple of blocks down to my favourite eatery** anyway. Spend too much money at the supermarkets***. Possibly on nata de coco, basil seeds, glutinous rice flour, and tapioca pearls.
I treasure those moments. Part of a routine I will never get bored of. Just like the route I used to take over and over again, on my bike, when I was living in Paris.
* HK diner on Wardour street.
** Tokyo diner on Newport place.
*** there are three supermarkets on Gerrard street, and much to my surprise, I don’t have a favourite; or perhaps, it is New Loon Moon for the cheapest tapioca pearls of all.
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I don’t really know where to start about my – our – recent getaway to Cornwall. I have seen landscapes so beautiful my eyes hurt. I have eaten food so delicious my taste-buds remember. I have driven so much I feel the speed of the motorways at night.
It was like a dream. In nothingness. Le néant, a bit like in the neverending story.
Breathtaking. Figuratively, when the wind would push the ocean against the rocks. Literally, when the fog would only allow us to see a few metres away from the car.
We stayed at the loveliest bed and breakfast. There was a fireplace. Hot chocolate and rocky roads. Thousands of books to read from.
But I will talk about this later.
For the time being, all that matters are the precious moments I spent with Aïda and those to come. And for the record, two girls + six cameras give you a lot of pictures to go through. And many unstoppable laughs over the most random things ever.
Here are the ones from the pentax me super. And you can even get a glimpse of our FAIL with the diana (and instant back).
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A couple of days ago when Stephanie thanked me not to be a food snob, I think she didn’t realise how right she was. The proof lies in the bowl of rice I’ve just had. It was meant to be pilaf, the kind of rice you stir with a little oil then cover with water and let to cook until a perfectly golden crust forms at the bottom of the pan.
But then, minutes turned into seconds, and I ended up with a black crust. Tired and more than hungry, I ate my burnt rice. With seaweed and sesame. And also a couple of sliced spring onions.
This doesn’t call for sophistication, it calls for courage, or – perhaps more accurately – a serious dose of hunger, and chopsticks.
You see, today, I’ve been stuck in bed. Too sick to cook, let alone, to eat. It’s the kind of days where I can spend hours looking at pictures of the outdoors.
The occasional blurry squirrel, the beautiful art of Anish Kapoor at Kensington Gardens, the neat paper towels of the Serpentine cafe. More than pictures, they are moments. Spent in the wind. And the cold. And the rain.
And now, from a bed; layered with a thick duvet cover and a warm blanket.
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