La Belle France

The French country is every bit as beautiful as its reputation and more. I can't imagine anything more peaceful than waking up to the sound of ringing church bells, the odd 'moo' of a cow, and the faint rooster's cry from a nearby farm. Each day brings a sense of complete clarity when I open the window to let in the morning air, scented with the mist that rests on forty different shades of green.

Market fresh produce, a dream for anyone who enjoys cooking and eating!

Cooking in a rustic kitchen. Normandy's cuisine is extremely rich, especially its creamy cheeses. Other specialties of the region include apple cidars, Calvados, and the lamb from Mont Saint Michel is sweet and tender.

Mont Saint Michel. Legend has it that the archangel Michael appeared in a vision to Saint Aubert in 708 A.D., instructing him to build a monastery atop an island. Saint Aubert repeatedly ignored the visions until Michael burned a hole in his skull. I guess that moved him to action.

Into Great Silence

Yes, that's me: Silent. My friend Christopher recommended Into Great Silence -- a documentary about monastic life at the Grande Chartreuse, a Carthusian order in France -- but I thought the title accurately described my blogging habits of late.

Actually, I even forgot that I had a blog until Naomi mentioned hers and I blurted, "You have a blog?!" to which she replied, "Yah, it's linked to yours". Right.

It's interesting how easily we forget about things or people that at one point in our lives meant a great deal to us. Or at least, we temporarily forget. So since I am in the process of re-discovery, hopefully this will be the beginning of more posts to come.

Aventures Parisiennes!

What can I say, I love Paris. Paris was a breath of fresh air -- and believe me, one needs it after living in stressful and oppressive London. My previous visits were less enjoyable because they felt like a race against time to hit all the tourist attractions. This time, however, I found myself there to study with a French-Russian pianist, and I just soaked in Parisian life. They say it is the City of Love, but I loved Paris all by myself.

Of all people, I ran into an old professor of mine on the Métro who's traveling Europe. We were on the same train from London to Paris, it was unbelievably surreal. He's one of the funniest, most laid back, yet educational teachers I've ever had. So we're having coffee when he swings by London next week.

I stayed in the Marais, my favourite district for the cafés and boutiques. Immediately after I checked into my hotel, I launched my search for a studio space to practise for my lessons. Well, not before having a croque monsieur and a coffee. While wandering the neighborhood, I found an antique instrument shop carrying period instruments dating to the 1700's. Needless to say, I was enthralled. André, the shop owner of thirty-eight years, asked me what I play as I stared with my jaw dropped at the viols hanging above me.

"I play the piano", I said shyly. He led me to an old German piano with ornate carvings and told me to play. I played Ravel.

"Oui, a professional!" he exclaimed in a thick French accent.

So there you have it, I secured a practise space right then and there. Over the next few days, I saw André every day. I practised while he refurbished instruments in the back room. On our breaks, he showed me various instruments (including the hurdy-gurdy!) and had me demonstrate Mozart on the fortepiano to his clients. He gave me some French folk tunes to sight-read while he sang with his smiling belly. Good times.


Between lessons and practising, I strolled around the city and allowed myself to get lost. I also allowed myself to be seduced by an older, handsome and sophisticated Frenchman, who struck up conversation with me at a café while I had my score in front of me. We talked of Bartok, Messiaen, new composition, philosophy, God, the path to happiness. Mathematicians are always fascinated with musicians. He had intense intellectual capacity but languid movement, which was altogether very sexy. He bought me Yiddish desserts, and silently indulged in watching me eat with his back to the chair and cigarette in hand. Not caring, I happily ate my cheesecake. Only when he brought me to one of Paris' trendiest fashion boutiques did I realize he wanted to buy me whatever my heart desired...in exchange for the one thing he desired. Ah well, this is what happens when men are rich and powerful.

Given all things, I absolutely adored my time in Paris. There is nothing like French cuisine, their precious jewelry, fashion boutiques, or racy lingerie.

Feminism or Femininity?

I think it all started with Debussy. My love affair with French culture, that is. Appropriately, it was a short prélude from Debussy's set of 24 Préludes, my petite ouverture of sorts to the world of everything French. Eventually over the years, I came to read Camus, Barthes, Derrida, and now the poets Baudelaire and Mallarmé. Then came the pleasure of French food, many a days as simple as a croissant and café at Paul's. And in a matter of days I'll be in Paris again, but this time with Ravel.

Perhaps my affinity for the French is in part due to the similarities between French and Chinese culture: depth, sensitivity, refinement. The French understand that the highest form of sophistication is in suggestion, to never state anything explicitly but simply to allude with a kaleidescope of nuances. French music, more than any other music, requires this capacity of imagination in sound, colour, image, coupled with sensitivity. It is not for the brash and straightforward. It is for the coquettish. All in all, the French understand that suggestion is about the most seductive thing on earth.

And this is the essence of the femme. With American women brazen in suits and determined to thrive in a man's world, where is there room for femininity? Je ne sais quoi. They attempt to market themselves as products for men to consume, never appearing vulnerable but always in control. They display their strength like trophies, and pride themselves on emasculating men while still at the very core, wanting a man. American extremism somehow crushes the subtleties of falling in love. In the end, they leave nothing to the imagination. The greatest misconception is that femininity signals weakness, but it is not so simple. Femininity is complex -- it is a state of mind, the pleasure of innuendos, the unspoken -- at times submissive, at times willful, sometimes aloof. It is always mysterious, and therein lies the power of the femme. Because the art of seduction is in mystery, not power suits.

Femininity is a bundle of contradictions that coexist perfectly. It is an unabashed love of pleasure and all things sensual. It is not just about lace and the colour pink. Femininity is about suggestion. Leave feminism to the Americans!


Mon nouveau fétiche

Tricks Are For Kids

My girlfriend and I went to Tea Palace in Notting Hill for afternoon tea and cakes, then leisurely strolled the boutique-lined streets until we hit one of London's gems for Chinese food (no, not Hakkasan). After standing in a queue for almost an hour, we finally sat down and ordered the restaurant's specialty: Roast duck.

Roast duck, pork, and char-siu with rice. And on the menu for conversation: Men.

We told stories of the men we loved, the men who hurt us, the men who fooled us. Before long, we had worked up quite the appetite and proceeded to order the clay pot of double braised pork belly.

"Pork belly for take-away?" asked the waiter.

"No, for here. And also, add rice", I said, pointing to our empty rice bowls. The waiter betrayed a look of shock first, then smirked like he was impressed.

See, men who are up to tricks are up to the same old tricks. And girls who have been tricked can spend an entire evening dishing out the dirt over a clay pot of double braised pork belly. It seems that there is a certain kind of girl that is more susceptible to trickery, and it is the kind that believed so whole-heartedly in love of the noblest kind. After all, it takes a certain kind of innocence to love someone ecstatically, deeply, with devotion and without reserve. In a word: madly. Until one has been tricked. And suddenly, love is not as simple or open anymore.

And herein lies the question, which is whether or not one can ever love as purely again. The optimistic answer is yes, but it boils down to a matter of trust. And this is no small thing. The other question is whether or not men who are up to tricks can ever love purely, but this is a question that even they themselves cannot answer. They that fool others cannot be lovers of truth and thus most probably fool themselves as well. Either that or the only person he will ever really love is himself.

Years later, with an empty clay pot before us, we sip our tea in silence as young women reflecting on our girlhoods. A bit damaged, but still alive and stronger. And definitely wiser. We now know the tricks, have learned the tricks, even used the tricks out of hurt. But let's face it, tricks are for kids.

Times Are Changing

Awhile back I discovered that my friend Henry, a pianist from Hong Kong, is a huge food lover. And since he's been living in London for over half a decade, he has often tipped me on good restaurants to try and the like. Being the only male Chinese pianist at the Academy who also happens to tell funny jokes now and then makes him quite popular among the swarm of lady pianists.

Last weekend, Henry invited myself and a few other girls to his flat for dinner. He made one of my favourite Chinese dishes, dong po rou, the trademark dish of Hangzhou and named after revered Song Dynasty poet, artist and calligrapher Su Dongpo. Braised pork belly -- yummy!

The girls and I traveled to his flat at Canary Wharf, and as we got off the tube we received a phone call from him asking where we were -- the food was getting cold. We informed him that we were almost there, and told him to set the table and fill the rice bowls so we'll be ready to eat. Upon arriving at the flat, Henry and his flatmate 'Kong' (like Hong Kong, without the Hong) were bustling in the kitchen, scrambling to get dinner ready...while we ladies sat in the living room nonchalantly chatting. We might as well have been smoking pipes and talking politics. As we sat down to eat, Henry criticized his cooking like a properly modest Chinese woman. We talked and laughed, whilst shoving rice into our mouths and listened to Henry and Kong argue like an old married couple. They assure us they're not gay. Shrug. You never know with male musicians.

Now all we need is for men to give birth! Just kidding, they needn't be anymore confused than they already are.

I Heart Jurowski

Vladimir Jurowski is my new obsession. I heard him conduct the London Philharmonic tonight, and the Prokofiev Fourth Symphony was amazing. He is so intelligent, precise, wild but tender -- and he gets what he wants with the orchestra. The non-musician beside me kept checking the time, yawning, and wiggling in his seat which was rather funny, but no matter -- I was fixated on Jurowski!

I wonder if he's on Facebook, ha. Then I will join.

Vladimir Jurowski