While I have always delighted in the smell of freshly brewed coffee, I never had the habit of drinking it because it upsets my stomach. Reencountering coffee in Hue and Ho Chi Minh on a recent holiday offered me satisfying experiences that made me reconsider intake.

Allow me to tempt your tastebuds with a few Vietnamese coffee recipes:

Imagine ca phe sua da: freshly ground coffee mixed with boiling water dripping from a stainless steel Vietnamese filter perched on a short and thick glass cup.

Or the fancier ca phe trung: the frothy combination an egg and some granulated white sugar whisked for three minutes and poured onto an espresso shot.

Or ca phe muoi: condensed milk, heavy cream, cow’s milk and a pinch of Himalayan salt mixed on a short glass on which freshly brewed coffee drips trickle by trickle through a filter.

Or brewed coffee mixed with condensed milk and coconut cream used in place of cow’s or plant milk, and served ice-cold.

Yum.

It could be that these coffee recipes look and taste like desserts so Vietnamese men, women and children drink it. I observe that the sweet recipes pair well with aromatic local cuisines, making a “cuppa” the perfect palate cleanser after enjoyable meals.

Besides being abundant (Vietnam is the world’s second biggest exporter of coffee), coffee has local historical significance. For example, it is believed that the milk shortage during wartime inspired the invention of egg coffee.

Another reason may be the infectious local coffee culture. Coffee shops come in great variety. Popular local chains such as Truong Nguyen slug it out with international counterparts including Starbucks. Boutique cafes and simple stalls have their own local following too. Some offer, besides sweets and savouries, pottery and similar craft workshops within their stores, or have walls on which customers write personal remarks--enabling within their physical space possibilities of wider social encounter and engagement.

It is not uncommon to find twenty cafes within a 100m walk in District 1 in Ho Chi Minh (or about ten in Apartment/42 Nguyen Hue alone!). Nor is it a big surprise to find outstanding coffee from the purveyors in Ben Thanh market who offer prospective customers indulgent inhalations and sips of freshly ground beans scooped from big tin cans that store them. Shoppers of food souvenirs are spoilt for choice: 100% Arabica and blends of Arabica and Robusta variants, flavoured coffee (such as hazelnut and coconut), special beans fermented in the stomach of the civet (called ca phe luwak). Orders can be taken home as whole beans or ground that are neatly packed in foil sachets and vacuum sealed.

Not all Vietnamese coffee recipes are sweet and fancy. The hotel restaurant offers the “real Vietnamese coffee” for the serious espresso enthusiast. Curiosity died quickly after a friendly waitstaff shared how an avowed coffee afficionado experienced palpitations after consuming half of a serving. Unfortunately, my weak stomach is not prepared for this challenge yet. Presently, it is perfectly happy with an iced ca phe sua da.

If speech is a basic human right, and art is a form of (non-verbal) expression, then the painting of Patrick Brill OBE RA (also known as Bob & Roberta Smith) entitled "Art is your Basic Human Right" makes for a logical argument. Come to think of it, before each of us even learned to write at home or in kindergarten, we were scribbling forms in colours and surfaces we chose, were we not? Waking up in the morning, don't we think of our schedule for the day and decide accordingly what to wear, and check ourselves in the mirror unconsciously applying colour theory or fashion trends? During holidays including Christmas, we even dress up our homes and dinner tables based on the season! Aren't these all expressions of art that communicate who we are?

These are some of the thoughts that raced in my head while slow-looking at street art in Penang and Kuala Lumpur during recent visits. More than ten years ago, artists were invited to paint select public spaces to enliven both cities, and encourage domestic and international tourism and economy. In contrast to graffiti, which is painted without permission and often done in the dark cover of night, street art, which is also found in public spaces, is recognized and supported by institutions. Like graffiti, street art is independent and creative, accessible to the public, and subject to the elements of nature and, thus, wear over time. Local and foreign artists responded with colourful compositions along streets including Lebuh Ah Quee or spots including Chew Jetty and Hin Bus Depot in Penang, and along streets including Kwai Chai Hong and Jalan Alor in Kuala Lumpur. My snapshots, provided herein, demonstrate how some compositions are slices of life, traditional and long-gone scenes, cartoons, and even of foreign origin. They can make audiences smile or laugh, think and question, recall memories or pine for an ideal. A few photos illustrate how I and other members of the public merrily engaged with the street art paintings. Public engagement proves that street art continues to be recreated by its audiences in different ways. In this manner, street art transcends the classically singular authorship of an artwork (by the painter/painters) to include natural elements and members of the public who engage with the works and whose photographs are taken doing so. At the same time, the infinite ways the audience interprets the street art when they engage with it (à la performance art) and frame their images (photography) show how powerful art is as a communication tool.

The art historian in me observes how the local street artist portrays himself or his thoughts in these paintings, and how his foreign counterpart regards the local. Please enjoy this photo journal, and consider appreciating street art in Japan and Manila too. I have listed down the Koenji mural project, Tennozu Isle in Odaiba, Takeshita Street in Ura-Harajuku as destinations on my next trip to Tokyo. In Osaka, the place to go is Kitakagaya, which is about 25 minutes from Osaka Station. In Manila, I look forward to spotting the murals entitled "Pundasyon" on the ten underpass columns of the Nagtahan Bridge; these celebrate aspects of our culture and history by depicting mythical heroes, indigenous peoples, and our farmers. Let's have fun and make memories with street art!

How many of us know that Gimpo (GMP) airport is a short 1hr 25min flight from Kansai (KIX)? I only found out two weeks ago when I wondered how to pass the time while my husband was entertaining work colleagues for a week. The answer came in the form of an advertisement that had a phrase “soul of Seoul” that whetted my appetite for discovery.

GMP, compared to Incheon airport, is smaller. This means that queues for immigration clearance and baggage claim are shorter. The airport is conveniently connected to a department store (Lotte) and the train system (KTX). Its location suggests access to retail therapy for the shoppers, as well as transport options to the city (which is but 15 -16 kms away). The T-Money card functions similarly to my ICOCA; that is to say that it can be used across most modes of local transport and at convenience shops. Armed with a loaded T-Money card; thanks to a 7/11 shop at the airport, I entered the turnstiles leading to the subway platform at Gimpo station.

Amber, my informative and helpful Korean friend, suggested accommodation at a hotel in Gwanghwamun. Gwanghwamun is about twenty stops on Line 5 of the subway from Gimpo. Alighting at my stop, I was surprised to observe that the 40-minute 16km ride cost less than 250yen! (Check this out for comparison: Three stops on the Kintetsu from our residence in Nara costs about 250yen. Travel within Zones 1 & 2 on the Elizabeth line in London sets me back about 460yen J) 

Gwanghwamun’s historical significance is linked to the Gyeongbok Palace (called locally as Gyeongbokgung) which was the main palace during the Joseon Dynasty (1392-1897). 500 years of relative peace during the Joseon accounts for many advancements that include the efflorescence of Korean arts and crafts. Entry into the Gyeongbok Palace is free for children below age 7, adults above 64 years, and individuals who rent hanbok (Korean traditional dress). In addition, palace taster tours in three languages (Korean, English and Japanese) are offered free. Similar to Westminster, there is an official changing of the guards held every 2 pm, which audiences await. The real treat of the palace visit for me is appreciating the Gyeonghoeru Pavilion; then the site of royal banquets and now a UNESCO world heritage building. Gyeonghoeru sits on an artificial island surrounded by lake waters that reflect its exquisite architecture; in addition, it enjoys a lovely view of the nearby verdant hills.

Two statues of great men of historical significance are located on Gwanghwamun Square.  Admiral Yi Su-sin, depicted standing with his battle sword on one hand and the other akimbo, in view of a replica of his well-engineered tortoise-shaped warship is remembered for strategies that saved the Koreans from the invading Japanese during the Imjin war (1592-1598).  Closer to the Gyeongbokgung is the sculpture of Sejong the Great, the fourth Joseon monarch who conjured and introduced the hangeul/hangul, the indigenous Korean alphabet. This introduction encouraged education among women and children; (previously only select men were taught Confucian analects and Chinese calligraphy). I found three sculpted items in front of Sejong’s image-- the sundial, the rain gauge and the armillary sphere; these were created by the brilliant inventor Jan Yeong-sil under the king’s auspices.

The walking tour guide from Guruwalks introduced the group to Cheonggyecheon, the 10.9 km-long walkway along a stream that runs west to east through downtown Seoul and connects to the Han River. It makes for pleasurable strolls in both daytime and illuminated evenings.

One gate of the Gyeongbokchun leads to Bukchon, a most fascinating spot. First, many traditional houses hanok were preserved by the Seoul Municipal Government for audiences to explore daily except Mondays. Some hanok offered cultural events that included special exhibitions (I attended one on knot-tying), fee-based workshops (woodcarving chopsticks, painting on glass pendants, sewing textiles and such), and comfortable spaces for members of the public to rest in and have conversations. Across the Bukchon Traditional Crafts Experience Centre is a private gallery called Jonginamoo where, for a nominal fee, I handcrafted a small lantern made of Korean handmade paper hanji within half an hour with the kind help of a gallery staff.

Second, Hansik Space E:eum offers stimulating cultural events that include traditional makgeolli and soju tastings, food preparation and special exhibitions, a cute café that serves tea, juices and traditional cakes. Its learning centre programme offers Korean cooking classes for adults and kids. Near the entrance is a cozy sitting area that looks up to a wall decorated with traditional Korean ceramics.

Third, Bukchon is dotted with pretty cafes and teahouses, bakeries, traditional and western restaurants for most budgets, and souvenir shops. I was most impressed with baked goods at Perment and Anguk, NY cookies from Beurre Beurre and handmade chocolates from Ancien. In addition, I thoroughly enjoyed (probably) the healthiest version of bibimbap near the Horse Museum (which, by the way, is worth visiting!), British-Korean fusion dishes at the Amie wine studio, and bossam served with seaweed soup, delicious side dishes and salad greens at Jungdamun.

Fourth, Bukchon is a feast for the senses. The House of Perfumery has an exquisite flower garden and three floors of instagrammable exhibition space that inspire romance and memories through scents. Bar Osulloc nearby is an attractive cocktail spot with a view of the outdoors. Sulwhasoo not only offers skincare treatments but also an elegant wood and glass architecture that delights.

Fifth, Bukchon guides point out seemingly lost tourists (including myself) to landmarks, walking trails, picture-perfect spots, specific addresses within and beyond Bukchon.

From Bukchon is a scenic route to the Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art (MMCA). The walking paths are highlighted with art galleries, pleasant cafes that serve drinks besides coffee and tea (check out chestnut ice latte or hot ginger lemon) and fusion bakes (such as pistachio crème cakes and fig breads), trendy clothes stores, teahouses such as the Cha Hyanggi Doneun where one can sip wide varieties of tea (such as schisandra berries which are written to offer many health benefits), and fashionable fragrance stores (including the engaging concept store of Tamburins). One outstanding aspect of local tourism consistent throughout my weeklong sojourn was the cheerfulness of service staff. They invited members of the public into their spaces to sample products, offered tips for heightened enjoyment, readily assisted photo-taking whether or not a purchase was being made. Purchases beyond a certain minimum amount are, in many retail shops, processed automatically less 10% VAT, or invoiced with an auto-generated VAT refund for easy filing at the airport upon departure. Certainly, this open, kind and welcoming attitude to strangers and the unfamiliar may explain the rapid ascent of Korean conglomerates across the world in this age of globalized economies.

Going the opposite way from Bukchon is Insa-dong Street, another lively area brimming with arts and culture. Traditional craft shops with sewn fabrics, ceramics and wooden household items abound. So do street food stalls, barbecue and dumpling restaurants, and gimbap eateries. The tour guide encouraged us to eat our meals in Insa-dong instead of trekking to higher priced but less authentic counterparts in tourist catch basins such as Itaewon. I ate at a Korean barbecue restaurant that serves 9+ grade wagyu and also enjoyed farm-to-table course meal at the acclaimed A Flower Blooms on the Rice (which I will return to). I also made a stop at the InsArt Centre which was hosting, at my time of visit, two special art exhibitions.

The National Museum of Korea is a splendid architecture on whose vast exhibition spaces are displayed well-conserved artefacts throughout Korean history, Buddhism, traditional art including ink paintings on silk, and modern art installations that transport audiences to bygone centuries. Modern technology is harnessed to bring history and historical paintings to life in interactive galleries. Hourlong guided tours in a variety of languages are provided for free. A Room for Quiet Contemplation is a somewhat spacious gallery devoted to examining and circumambulating two Buddhist icons whose enigmatic smiles lead one to quiet introspection. The café on the third floor serves hot and cold drinks and daintily plated modern versions of local delights after posting orders online on a machine at its entrance. Even the open spaces are educational. A leaflet guides visitors across the expansive garden, courtyards, pagodas and ponds, as well as directs enthusiasts who have time to explore the adjacent National Hangeul Museum.

Amber balanced my exploration of Korean tradition and culture with a trip to hip Gangnam. After enjoying skin pampering treatments at Muse Clinic, we enjoyed al fresco lunch at Dalmatian, and walked along narrow meandering roads lined with stylish shops and cafes. All around us were young Korean adults casually dressed top-to-toe in high street and designer brands. I must confess that I have never seen so many chic sneakers in one place! Course meal of Korean beef hanwoo for dinner at Born & Bred filled our bellies so much that the only logical thing to do was hike about a kilometer up Namsan Mountain to reach N Seoul Tower in the pretext of appreciating cherry blossoms. The day before, Amber took me to Leeum Gallery in Itaewon where a retrospective of Philippe Parreno’s artworks provoked our thoughts, to chic Anthracite for coffee and cake, to Myeongdong to walk through lively food stalls and skincare shops before tucking into homecooked soupy noodles and steamed dumplings at Kyoja. By this time, I had lost count of the pretty cafes I vowed to visit. They seemed innumerable!

Did I find the soul of Seoul? Suffice it to say that my week in Seoul inspired some ideas; at the same time, it fueled my desire to return to the city to explore and dig deeper. Unveiling the soul of anything takes time and effort, doesn’t it?

Two of my father’s siblings have resided in the US since the late 1960s, and I have pleasant memories of them visiting the Philippines and of us visiting them. These visits were occasions to eat together, recycle childhood narratives, laugh, sight-see, make new friendships, and create many lasting memories. Even as a child, I was fascinated with the amount of time that my parents carved out to host our guests, as well as the time my relatives set aside to host us when it was their turn to do so. I enjoyed receiving chocolates and wearable presents from our foreign visitors and friends as much as I relished packing food souvenirs such as cans of broas from Alaminos and Betamax-recorded TV shows (such as John & Marsha) that my parents sent off with visiting relatives and friends. Through my travels, I developed an interest in scour the aisles of local groceries and drugstores for merchandise that I had never seen in the Philippines and picked up items to pack in my luggage. In addition, I learned to layer clothing and choose footwear for temperate climes. For many reasons, I regarded my foreign relatives as more privileged than my family and wondered why they made trips back to the Philippines. Years after my family of four began to live overseas, after tasting the life of a "foreigner,"  I began to understand and value reunions.

Reunions provide great opportunities to return to the familiar. Emigrating means getting displaced. The wide range of emotions accompanying relocation relates to the newness of people, places, and things. Gone are the gatherings that “consumed” all our weekends; they were replaced by quieter events such as family walks in the parks and afternoon craft sessions at home. The house phone hardly rang because newly-made friends don’t call as frequently as good old friends in Pinas do. Instead of cooking Filipino dishes at home, we found convenience in whipping out recipes made from ingredients readily supplied by nearby grocers. We learned to read new road signs and drive on the left side of the road. It was quite a challenge to identify a General Practitioner (GP), a plumber, or an electrician in our new country of residence because in the Philippines, one only had to ring up a friend or family member for instant recommendations. Furthermore, observing that English is spoken differently across cultures, we learned to clarify and confirm our understanding of the spoken word and picked up local phrases from different languages. For instance, the elevator is called a lift in Commonwealth countries, and the first syllable of the word schedule is pronounced with a soft sh sound instead of a crisp sk.

Realizing how little we knew of each new place we resided in was humbling. In my 30s, I attended language school with afficionados in their early 20s who often picked up grammar patterns faster than I. When before we lived in a house in Quezon City, we now live in a flat and have learned, over time, to move around without bumping into each other in narrower hallways. In the Philippines, we disposed of all items straightaway in big trash bins; presently, we know the complicated art of segregating household trash. Confronting the novelty of our environment, my husband and I agreed that I would be the stay-at-home parent, altering thus my daily schedule so that it revolved around the children’s school activities and house chores. Making trips to the Philippines; thus, a rare instance when I was someone else’s Tita or cousin, ex-classmate, batch mate, or former work colleague once again. Coming home suggested a return to old food haunts (Yum Yum Tree in Rustan’s Makati and sinugno/ginataang tilapia in Dang’s in San Pablo, Laguna), home service massages (who could afford these elsewhere?), five-hour lunches (because there is no limit to recounting funny old memories over and over), carbo loading (pan de sal for breakfast, rice meals for lunch and dinner, puto or pancit for merienda, scrumptious cakes after every meal), and ballroom dancing (an earnest effort to shed some calories). A balikbayan is hardly alone, thanks to friends and relatives who offer pasyal, inom and kain as forms of rekindling or bonding.

Hosting visitors offers, as well, a return to the familiar. Suddenly, queuing is more fun because there’s company. Besides, there is a reason to revisit iconic restaurants that excite tourists more than locals. I observe how the rhythm of my spoken English morphs into a lilting, more cooey one that is peppered with nuanced Taglish or local terms for the visitor who understands.

Homecoming trips, just like holidays, are planned way in advance, unlike life. Visiting elderly or sick parents is the perfect example. How often and for how reasonably long may I carve out time from raising children and running households to visit my mother and father? Can I be with them in the moments when they need to rush to the hospital or when they breathe their last? The curse of emigrating lies in missing these moments. When Dad died last month, his body was cremated shortly, and his remains were interred after a simple mass according to his last wishes. I had to deal with the lump on my throat serenely and tell myself that he and I enjoyed fellowship when I visited him just four weeks previously. Fortunately, I managed to see my mother quietly pass away eight years ago. My trip was timely in that case.

It is said that we realize the value of things when we lose them. Relocating from our motherland and taking a different citizenship, however enriching our lives in many ways, drives this sentiment. For this reason, reunions that take place when I visit the Philippines and when friends and family come over to visit are quite unforgettable, and gift exchanges during these reunions strengthen important long-distance relationships that I have been blessed to have since childhood. After all, the root word for “reunion” is the Latin "unus,” which means one. Thus, reunion suggests being one again. How special is that?!

Last Friday, January 12, my daughter and I attended a kintsugi workshop not far from her apartment in London. After choosing a ceramic bowl to work with and donning an apron, face mask, and hand gloves, ten of us students huddled around a long table in front of our British teacher, Brandon, who kicked off the session with self-introductions, an icebreaker, and a short history of kintsugi—the Japanese art of mending broken ceramic with lacquer and gold powder.

The first activity involved breaking our bowls. Following Brandon’s instructions, I placed my bowl on a hard surface covered with felt so that it stood on its rim, covered it with felt, and began to hammer flatly on a specific point on the bowl’s rim facing me—first with light taps that progressively became heavier until I heard a sharp clink, signaling the crack. Taking one of the bowl’s halves and placing it rim-side down on the felt surface, I covered its foot and commenced the same hammering technique on one point on the bowl’s foot until I heard another crack. I continued to do this sequence until my bowl was reduced to five broken pieces.

The second activity was attaching pieces, two at a time, via a cold weld. I vigorously mixed a strong adhesive compound for 15 seconds and allowed it to harden. Using a slim wooden tongue depressor, I applied the adhesive to the cracked surface of one piece and waited for it to cure before flushing the matching piece into place, holding it steadily for minutes while the adhesive hardened.

The third activity focused on flicking gold powder into the surfaces of the mend with the use of a flat brush. After passing some more time, Brandon instructed us to sweep gold powder onto the mend. As if by magic, the cracks that evidence the mending glistened before our eyes.

“Kintsugi” translates from Nihongo to English as joining with gold. Its origins recall how a feudal lord daimyo during the Edo period (1603–1868) asked his artisans to mend his favorite porcelain piece in a manner “better” than the Chinese way of using metal staples. During this time period, the craft of lacquering the surfaces of food containers and drinking vessels to make them impermeable had already evolved greatly. Painted screens were being lacquered too to make their surfaces catch the light; these were sent as tributes via emissaries to foreign countries where they were dearly treasured. Lacquer is a sticky substance, so it may have been natural for the artisans to divine its use as adhesive. The obvious advantage of mending with lacquer over metal staples lies in keeping the porcelain impermeable to water. The additional benefit of sprinkling gold powder onto the lacquer as it hardens lies in adding a distinctive and elegant decorative element.

Mistaken as a craft, kintsugi is considered an art form. It resonates with the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which, loosely translated, refers to the acceptance of the fleeting and the imperfect.

In mending via kintsugi, movements are small and precise; furthermore, much care is taken in executing steps. Apply an uneven adhesive compound, and the resulting crack is too thick and may not look elegant. Distract oneself, and the pieces don’t fit perfectly, resulting in an uneven surface. Flick the gold powder carelessly, and the brush hairs touch the adhesive compound. Hurry through the steps and disregard the curing time of the adhesive, and the pieces fall apart under light pressure. The elegant kintsugi pieces at the Victoria & Albert and British Museums have even and smooth surfaces that belie their previously broken states, and their golden veins are thin like strands of hair.

“The world breaks everyone, 

then some become strong at the broken places.”  (Ernest Hemingway)

Kintsugi is written to be a meditative or spiritual experience. Some kintsugi artists narrate how their art practice resonates with their philosophy; for others, kintsugi is a response to a personal crisis. Here in London, kintsugi workshops are offered as social group activities and even corporate team-building sessions. While the ten of us participants had conversations with one another during the workshop, the bulk of our time was spent concentrating on performing the steps as accurately as we could manage independently of one another. As I worked on mending my bowl, I could not help but reflect on the seeming imperfections of my life, the difficulty of accepting my brokenness, but also how twists and setbacks have contributed to molding me into the human being that I have evolved into. I am quite certain that my daughter and eight classmates were in reveries of their own too.

This workshop we attended is a simplified version of the real kintsugi art form that requires more steps using different kinds of colored lacquer at several stages, various techniques of applying gold powder, methods of scraping extraneous marks on the ceramic, and longer curing time. In Japan, one attends weekly kintsugi classes because it takes months to mend a single ceramic. Nevertheless, this (kintsugi) taster workshop in London is successful in raising awareness for Japanese aesthetics. Kintsugi proposes how beauty can be celebrated by emphasizing, instead of hiding, brokenness. And that doing so does not happen instantly, but over a considerable period.

“Change is the only constant in life.” (Heraclitus)

Pieces mended through kintsugi are no longer food-grade. They cannot be washed in the dishwasher or placed inside a microwave. In other words, the bowl that I hammered into pieces so I could mend it via kintsugi lost its function as a food container. It is now merely a decorative object. This quickly inspires another reflection: while I can mend, for example, a relationship, it is much wiser to care deeply for it so it does not break.

Mending runs in our Filipino veins too. We stitch loose buttons and patch holes in our favorite clothing pieces. We repurpose decorative tin cans and well-shaped glass jars. How many homes have outfitted old Singer sewing machines into dainty tea tables or dressers? How many of us cut squares from our children’s shirts to sew quilts? By nature, we are nostalgic. We preserve things that remind us of the people we love. Perhaps the daimyo’s porcelain that was mended via kintsugi was a vessel of special memories too.

“The scars are the design. Your attention is drawn to the cracks and how they are mended. The beauty is in the brokenness.” (Justine Earley)