Stir Until Fragrant
Hi.
I just got back to my apartment in Vienna. There’s a vase of pink tulips in front of me and a plastic Christmas tree to my right. I assume the previous owner of the Airbnb bought the tree to make the place festive. Even though this guy's moment has passed, I like it—he gives the apartment character.
I’m writing not because I want to. In fact, I really have no desire to at all. Instead, I think I just need the simple feeling of satisfaction that comes from saying you are going to do something and then going about actually doing it. And writing seemed like a simple enough task.
In moods like these, I like to see where my pen goes. To let it wander without judgment is to see which thoughts are lodged in the back of my mind, quietly (or not so quietly) scratching.
Garlic.
The smell follows me and I don’t know if it’s because there are crushed pieces hiding under my fingernails or because the faint smell of it is tattooed inside my nose. I can’t escape it.
It’s pretty much been used in every dish so far. The dressing for the salad: a lemon oil vinaigrette with diced shallots, chopped garlic, crushed chili flake, grated parmesan, salt, and pepper. The marinade for the salmon bowls: minced garlic, soy sauce, sesame seed oil, sriracha, pepper (no salt needed because the soy sauce is salty enough,) and honey. The sauce for the pasta: crushed cherry tomatoes, olive oil, white wine, chili flakes, lemon juice, thinly sliced garlic (think Goodfellas,) salt, pepper, pasta water, and the fond that developed on the bottom of the pan from searing the chicken. The bread for Pan con Tomate: Toasted bread, the pulp of a tomato, garlic rubbed onto the bread immediately after it's toasted, olive oil, and salt. That’s all I’ve made so far.
I still have some cloves left. I bought three heads of it at the small bakery down the street where the exchange student from Northern Italy helped me read the German signs for the seasonings and ingredients that looked...well, German. I wasn’t even mad when I saw that the first photo on her Instagram was of her and her boyfriend after I asked for her number (people don’t exchange numbers here—Instagram is more common.) I was just glad I asked.
Beginnings are such delicate times. It’s this happy medium of not overthinking what you say, do, or do not do while also not letting yourself be yourself too quickly.
For example, some people find it weird that I like doing the dishes. My reasoning is twofold. I read (or heard or watched) somewhere that a truly mindful, present person can find joy in everything—even the most mundane and simple tasks like washing the dishes. The second reason is that I see it as a piece of the culinary experience. That is, the art of food isn’t just eating it. It’s also about preparing the ingredients—washing the vegetables, seasoning the proteins, chopping the onions. Then cooking it—hearing the sizzle of the garlic, feeling the doneness as you press on the chicken, watching the flame climb as you deglaze the pan with wine. Then eating it—trying each part on its own, then together, and then however you want. And finally, washing the dishes. Paying homage to the meal you just made and showing respect and gratitude to the tools that helped you make it. It’s the whole experience.
It’s been four days here but I already know I am living in memories that I will fall back upon someday when I scroll through my mind, looking for a distraction. Days made up of moments.
Today was nice. The city was quiet. My first Sunday in Vienna. We decided to go to Schönbrunn Palace. On the walk over to the train, Sophia observed how Austrians never jaywalk, only crossing the street when the sign flashes green. I said that sounds like blind obedience. She had her own opinion; maybe they are just a patient people. Quietly I fell to thinking, sniffing my hands as I stepped over a puddle whose surface was serrated by the wind.
Before entering the palace, we sat in the gardens—people watching in between sips of coffee and conversation. The sky above was as regal as the palace below; a golden grey that was simple yet commanding as if it understood the beauty, majesty, and antiquity of the city that lay beneath it. The trees were without leaves, the gardens without flowers. Sophia said we would have to come back in the spring before taking another sip of coffee with both hands wrapped around the cup.
We wandered through the empty palace—audio guides held to our ears like flip phones. We talked in between rooms when the audio paused. We agreed that the old king Franz Joseph and his wife Elisabeth were quite just and progressive—which we both found surprising. “A ruler is society’s first public servant.” I think I would be okay living under a king with that mentality. We stuck together but explored on our own when we felt like it—coming back to tell each other what we thought. The palace was a palace yet I had to keep reminding myself that it was a palace. That, in fact, people lived there, held court, wrote royal decrees, hosted other kings, cut Europe up into empires, and sewed it back together with marriages of sons and daughters who didn’t have a choice, but a duty. These characters were too good for a movie not to be made.
Come to think of it, that’s all a good story really is—one that is driven by characters, not plot. A good story doesn’t jump to the part where the king makes the speech, the son commits suicide, or the guy gets the girl. No, that’s too easy. Too spoonfed. Too expected. A good story takes its time. It starts with the characters. You watch how they handle everyday situations. How they greet their father, how they react when they spill something on their shirt, where their eyes look when they tell a joke. A good story shows not tells. It takes its time. No devices are needed to move the plot forward. The characters do it themselves.
Entering the ballroom, I rolled wide shots, set design, casting ideas, and a shortlist of ideal directors (PTA, Tarkovsky, and Gilligan) in my mind as Sophia walked in front of me.
We then strolled around outside the palace, through the flowerless gardens, and up to the Gloriette. At the top, there was a cafe that looked down on the main palace and the entire city of Vienna beneath it. We found a table and sat down. Around us, chairs were quietly stacked and coats were slowly put on as the day began to stretch and yawn. We split a slice of Sachertorte. We talked in between bites—mostly about the cake though. I put my hands on the table—like how my sister shows off her new nails—and asked if she could smell the garlic. She said she couldn’t but it could be because she has a bad nose.
We walked back down to the train station in a different way we came up—both in the route we took and in the newfound comfort of the other’s presence. We spoke only when necessary. Silence was also its own conversation.
…
Someone once said writing is the act of failing to describe a feeling. I guess that sounds about right. I don’t know, though. I would have to say it's naivete. Self-obsession. Maybe stubbornness. Gun to my head I’d choose stupidity—thinking you smell something that almost certainly isn’t there.