I see Beauty in many things. And like the ghosts that only speak to you if you notice them, they tell me wondrous tales. With my camera and my thoughts, I captured these as faithfully as I can to share with you. And by doing so, they gave me the reasons. And though the thousand reasons may not all be sweet and some indeed bitter; they are still reasons to live. Come to think about it, that is Life, isn't it?
I've had just enough time to... admire the back of strong women.
Taken on the strong back of a business woman in the fruit market in Hanoi.
An old
bicycle
A few
plastic pots hanging
A metal
rack
Holding
a few green plants
She is
in business.
The back
of a business woman is made of steel.
Another strong back and strong shoulders too. Can you carry those weights throughout the day?
Her back may have bended double from age and weight over the years but hers is the strongest back of all for she carried her entire family on it. And she is still doing it.
I've had just enough time to... lament the passing of lost arts.
Taken in a in-store bakery in a hypermarket in Hanoi.
I was to
learn why Paris’s sister chose to live in poverty in the outskirts rather than
in the city. In her own way, she chose to be true to herself. She was down on
her luck but tolerated no pity. “Judge me if you will but I’m no prostitute”
she challenged me with her incisive eyes. I squirmed under her strong gaze. It
was not what I meant but I did sound condescending.
We made up and
parted on good terms. As I was leaving, she gave me a peck on the cheek and
said “be careful of the city girls”. Before I could turn around, she has
disappeared into the building. She is not one for long goodbyes.
In Hanoi, I
was shocked by what I saw. The baguettes I have come to love so much reduced to
mass produced buyers’ trap. The hypermarket called them “lost leader” using
them as a hook to draw in the shopper. Paris’s sister may have lost much of the
fine qualities of Paris but at least she retained her soul. Now, I understand
what she meant by the word she spat out the word with such vehemence.
I took one
bite and choked on it. This is just white bread disguised as a baguette. They
are tasteless and soulless but people are queuing up to buy literally by the
dozens attracted by the price. Would you believe a long baguette going for only
USD 20 cents? After the shock, sadness set in as I looked at the happy
shoppers. Have the world been degraded to such an extent that the only Art
people recognized these days are the sign on the buck? The only music the
jingles of the cash register?
Then I recall
the journey of Paris to Saigon and Hanoi and know there is hope yet. That among
us, there are still those who can see the romance in life and who can discern
the taste of passion. I left Vietnam remembering Paris and her fine bread that
taste like love.
I've had just enough time to... meet her again in Saigon.
Taken in a bakery where I spent a lot of time
Years
later, I found Paris in Saigon, the land of conical hats and floating “Ao Dai”
(Vietnamese national costume). I could not believe how far she has fallen. She
has put on weight and appeared shorter if that is possible. She plied her trade
by the road side. My heart bled. What has Life done to my love to lay her so
low?
She was
almost weightless in my hand. But when I put her to my lips, a rush of
nostalgic feelings overwhelmed me. The familiar taste I thought long lost
brought me close to tears. It is the same yet different. The aroma is just as
rich. No, more so; almost to the point of over-powering for there is the strong
lingering scent of melancholy years mixed with regret. I embraced her tightly
and caught this shout before it escaped my throat “this heart still beats!”
Taken in a bakery in Hanoi
In South
Vietnam she now flourished. She still retained most of Paris in her but has
adopted local Asian flare. The climate agreed with her and she bloomed. I left
her in good health and a sad farewell. And I went to Hanoi where I met her
sister.
At first I
did not recognized her for she was in the company of several young men in
leather jackets. They seemed to enjoy her company but I thought she was nothing
like her sister or Paris. On first look there are some similarities but that is
where it ends. She has none of her finesse or even smells the same. They even
put sugar on her to sweeten her up like some cheap perfume.
What is
sadder still is the poverty of the land she chose to stay. A runaway inflation
has made her too expensive to be enjoyed. So she is found in the company of
those few who can afford her and they treated her with disrespect. I would like to
help but she does not want it out of pride or something else. It was shaping to be a tragic tale but it is
not the end…
I've had just enough time to... recall that morning in Paris.
Taken in a place where they made good bread.
I assure
you I have the romance in me though it may not appear so, remembering Paris for
her bread rather than the love she bestowed. It is not that I love her any less
but I love her French bread more. I stood before Mona Lisa and thought of the
bread I had the night before.
The crackle
as I broke off a piece. The rush of freshly baked aroma intoxicated me. The
crunch as I broke through the crust registered on my expectant teeth. My mouth water
as I recall the sensual mastication between my lips. Did I say sensual? It was
like the slipping of a soft hand into mine under the dim streetlight beneath
the Paris moon. And my love affair started the night before in beautiful
Lucerne.
I took the
night train from there to reach Paris past midnight. A Vietnamese friend whom I
had met only once stole me into a bakery at four in the morning to see how
French bread was made. I speak no French but beauty needs no interpretation. I
saw how strong hands tenderly coached the dough to shape. How the assured flick
of the wrist made the perfect cut. How the fiery oven bathed the bakery with an
aroma made in heaven. I saw it all and I learned.
Many a year
later, older now but no wiser. Many a love won and lost through countless
waning and vexing of the flicker moon. After I left Paris and Paris left me. I
still remembered that early morning when I fell in love in the bakery where
they produced the perfect loaf. And though many praised the bread I made, I
know in my heart that the perfect French Loaf can only be made in France for
that is where its true heart is. Little was I to know that that is not where
the story ends, so it continued…
