Not a bad mistake

Doug and I have a meme.  It originated from a recording we love, found on a 1940 Smithsonian Folkways compilation, of a young jump-roper named Ora Dell Graham, singing  rhymes as she jumps.  If one of us does something wrong?  Maybe even a little stupid?  Accidental mistake?  I milked that sow.  Pullin’ the skiff.

I made a mistake the other night and milked that sow.

My tutoring job was done for the night and I was headed home on the #1 bus, a new bus to me.  I had an idea of the route but the Hanoi Bus website isn’t updated, so was missing actual validation.  My Vietnamese isn’t good enough to converse about such details with the ticket collector.  I can ask the questions, but I can’t completely understand the answers.  (All part of the adventure, yes?)  I wasn’t worried.  I knew the general vicinity to disembark so that my walk home would be reasonable, keeping in mind that it was after 10pm and it was dark.  Midnight curfew isn’t enforced anymore, but this part of Hanoi is certainly quiet at night.  I watched the penultimate stop come and go, feeling confidant that the next one was it.  The bus took an odd turn, but hey, the streets are a little convoluted and overlapping with ramps and overpasses at that spot.  I convinced myself we were making a loop in the twisty section and would double back and I’d get off at the next stop.  I’d seen other buses do just that.

The curve turned into an extended on-ramp to a long modern bridge that spans the Red River, east of Hanoi.  This is when the song turned on in my head.  I made a mistake.

At this point, still on the bus were one other rider, the ticket collector and the driver.  I tried to text Doug but my data was apparently out (I knew I should’ve topped off my sim card earlier but I relish living on the edge).  I called instead and got a sketchy connection, but did let him know I was taking the scenic route home and would be late…then got disconnected before I could provide any actual details.

I could’ve got off when the last rider disembarked but it was dark and I didn’t see anything on the other side of the street that looked promising. Then the ticket collector got off.  Oh boy. By default, I had decided to ride to the end, subliminally curious to see where I would end up, quietly hoping the bus would turn around and retrace its route back into the city. After riding for what definitely felt longer than it was, studiously noticing the turns as I stared outside in case I had to walk back, we left the mixed residential and commercial areas, then made an abrupt turn into a big, dark parking lot next to a big, dark industrial looking building.  The driver yelled something at me and swished open the door.  I de-bussed and I swear, he zoomed away particularly fast, although it probably was just regular departure speed.

At least it wasn’t raining.

I stood there in the dark thinking about how I love the unpredictable-ness of life, felt bad that I had been a little cavalier when I had called Doug because he was probably worrying and didn’t have any way to actually find me, and then laughing because in one hour’s time I was in a really different place than I thought I’d be.

I heard the motorcycles before I could see them.  Xe oms.  Motorcycle taxis.  Usually old dudes.  I’ve used them before, and it was never dull.  So…yay!  I wouldn’t have to walk home.   With xe om drivers, I knew it was important to get a good breath-whiff so that the ride can be declined if the driver is alcohol-infused.  I started a conversation with one guy, while other curious drivers drove up and joined in the conversation.  I said my address, he mumbled a price, I negotiated, he didn’t say yes, just ok, ok, ok which I’ve learned to mean let’s go and we’ll renegotiate later when we get to where you want to go.  He’s already on his bike, ready to go.  Nope. I’ve learned to be clear upfront about both the location and the money, resulting in a more direct exchange all around.  I’m feeling rushed.  I decide to slow it down.   I try to talk (all in Vietnamese) to the little crowd that’s formed.  They want to know how I ended up there.  How old was I?  Where from?  Why?  What do I do?  The usual questions that I’ve learned the answers to.  My phone doesn’t work but I do pull up an iBook map detail of Trúc Bạch (thanks, Carol, for showing me that iBook is useful).  Oh…ok, ok, ok.  Someone reviews with the driver exactly where that is, then helps me get him to agree on a fair price to get there.  Ah…ok, ok, ok.  It’s a long way back over the river on the big bridge, which at this time of night means no return customer for the driver.

Ok.  Fare is communicated, agreed upon, reassured by eye contact and smiles, all is well.  One more thing, my arm still doesn’t bend enough to put on my helmet and I need help.  I tell them about my accident (mostly in pantomime and a few key words) and then ask the driver to buckle my helmet.  This requires touching…even more than the usual joked-about full-body-hugging hoped for by some xe om drivers.  Xe om, after all, means motorbike hug.

I’m buckled, loaded, my backpack is adjusted, the other drivers wave and say goodbye like we’re all old friends.  Off we go.  It’s exhilarating, actually.  Except for the fact that I have no idea who this guy is and seriously, I’m totally 100% at his mercy.  My arms are holding tight around his wide waist, his pockets wadded up in my fists for something to hold on to.  No one else is around, the streets here are deserted and I am obviously unfamiliar with the area.  But…nah.  This is one reason why I love it here.  I feel safe.

We’re driving on streets that the bus definitely did not take.  He is chattering away in the wind and I’m sorry I can’t understand much of what his deep voice is saying.  We take a little off-road short cut (what?!) and suddenly, we’re on a bridge.  Not the modern 4-lane bridge I came over on.  This is old.  Vintage construct.  It smells wooden.  We slow way down.


I probably squeal with surprise and delight.  He grins.  The center of the bridge is train tracks with the side lanes used for motorbikes and shared with pedestrians.  No cars.   There are late-night workers who actually drop below the span when the trains speed by.  And it’s alive with people and movement.  It’s like a festival.  Couples are sitting on burlap-sack blankets, dangling their legs over the sides, groups of friends are laughing, talking, and eating grilled corn and drinking hot tea from the food carts.

This, I find out later, is the Long Biên Bridge.  It is believed that the bridge was designed by Gustave Eiffel, the man behind Eiffel Tower and Statue of Liberty during the French occupation, then built by the Vietnamese using local wood, lime and concrete in 1889-1902.  It was bombed many times in 1967 and 1972 during the American War, and always put back together.  It is a symbol of rebellion, strength and resilience.

The driver was obviously happy to have shared this bridge with me.  We got to the end of the span and we came out in a place I recognized.  I named it for him and he smiled, đúng.  Correct.  We reached the apartment in about 15 more minutes; Doug was sitting on the balcony, watching, and came down.  Hands were shook, I got out my dong to pay and tried to say keep the change.  But no way, he wouldn’t.  An agreement is an agreement and tipping is not part of the culture here.  The ride cost 3$.

Since that night, I’ve read a lot about the Long Biên Bridge.  Today Doug and I went during the day to see it again.  It is indeed falling apart.  I hope preservation is in its future.  There really is nothing like it.


There’s Doug, walking westward, way in the distance.


Here’s looking south at the other, modern bridge.  The land (called Middle Island) and water underneath this bridge has become the home of Hanoi’s destitute.  Makeshift homes and shelters are appearing as people get pushed out of the city as the economy burgeons.  There is also a thriving nude beach area for health conscious locals, who bicycle down to swim, relax, meditate and practice yoga.


One of the pig (or boar) farms under the bridge.  See the little one nestled between the 2 center sleepers?


I had hoped to get a shot when the train went by, but maybe it was better to miss that.  Just walking on the bridge was a little unnerving due to the constant vibrations, shaking and big gaps and cracks in the concrete pavers.


Discovering the bridge at night, the way I did, was the perfect introduction.  A little mistake that turned out not too bad after all.


(These videos are visible only if you view the post from the website, not from the emailed version.)

Doug on the Long Biên Bridge

Drone fly-over of Long Biên Bridge

Pullin’ the Skiff by Ora Dell Graham


It’s here.  The shortest day of the year.    A few thoughts:

Living here with our ingrained western perspectives in a fairly unrestricted eastern country continues to challenge our ideals and beliefs.  That, combined with the disastrous political changes taking place in the US and around the world, plus understanding the pending climate disasters that will befall us sooner than we expect…gak.  We should be depressed.  Sometimes we are. But life goes on and the gratitude meter reads high.  Life really is the little things.  Here are some of our daily little things.

We have teeny weeny tiny ants that live with us.  They are unnoticeable until they move.  Sometimes they remind us of the scope and breadth of life on this planet.  Other times they remind us to not leave food out on the counter.

New noodle discovery  ON OUR BLOCK called Ngu Xa style.  Hot oil, batter, noodles and egg are involved.  We also stumbled upon banh tom (shrimp and sweet potato fritters) and fried swan (meaty white duck) with lemongrass.  3 blocks away!

Together we bought a cheap motorbike (Yamaha) then discovered it’s a money pit.  It is for sale.  We are now renting a Honda.

Beth continues teaching English to a class of 13 year old teens.  They are not accustomed to adults asking them about their feelings, so of course that’s how each class starts.  They like it and even the shy quiet ones are finding their voices.

There are still things we absolutely do not understand.  Like midnight fishing.  A small, mysterious group of men and women appear about 1am with boats, bins and a large net.  They pull in hundreds and hundreds of fish, toss back a few live ones, then cart them all away on motorbikes and evacuate the area at 5:30am, when the morning loudspeakers start playing music. Who are they?  What do they do with the fish?

Doug should be receiving an advanced degree for all the climate change research he’s been doing.

Beth’s primary transportation is một chiếc xe đạp.  A bicycle.  She’s recuperating after experiencing a Hanoian rite-of-passage.  An accident.  One evening, bike, body and a slow-moving swarm of motorbikes collided at a ginormous intersection.  It could’ve been a lot worse than it was.  The bruises are amazing.  (Direct hit to elbow and knee, bones intact, cartilage…not so much.)  She is looking forward to being able to touch her nose once again.  A human element to that story:  the swarm included a group of singers returning from rehearsal.  They helped clear the mess and stayed until help arrived.  And serenaded her with love songs filled with grandiose passion.

Buses work well and cost 7000 VND (30 cents) per trip. If your arm is in a sling, the bus attendant will yell at someone to move and make a seat available.

While walking around the city, sometimes it smells so bad that we can’t inhale.  The beautiful aroma of a bloom emerges.  The balance between the two is astounding.  And instantaneous.  Sometimes life here feels like that.  Contrasting and alive, changing in an instant.  Dynamic, scary and invigorating.

Mận.  Our newest fruit.  Called a plum here.  Called a water apple in other places.  Gorgeous red, looks almost like a red pepper.  Crisp, tart, sweet and crunchy.

We often get stared at.  Not because we’re white. Because we’re old, and together in public.  Yesterday we were informed by the banh mi shop owner that we were the cutest old couple he’s ever seen.  He sat down with us to explain that we give him hope.  He’s been married 10 years and thinks life is hard, so seeing happy old people warms his heart.  Then he dragged his mom out to meet us too.

These interactions warm our hearts, too.  The human connection is not trivial.  As for juggling between the eastern and western cultures?  Pick and choose from both.

Thanks for being our friends.  You matter to us.

Happy Solstice, with love.


Music sharing with another musician.  The smile says it all.





…summertime and the livin’ is (was) easy…

We are back in our lovely little apartment in Hanoi.

True Bach apartment

Autumn is racing in, dragging the temperatures down to 85-90 degrees F.  We’ve adjusted our days so that we rise early, return home by 1:00 pm, siesta (play music, study Vietnamese, obsess about climate change, try not to succumb to the US political mania), then back out after 6:00pm to scour the city for food and drink, soaking it all in as we go.

We want to share a little about our summer on Lopez Island.  This count-down is as close to an annual Christmas letter as we’ll ever get.


#5  Upon returning to the US, Beth visited Whistler Mountain in the Canadian Rockies for a week with Kathi.  This beautiful distraction was the ideal immersion back into western civilization.  Fresh air, blue skies and endless people-watching.  A remarkable contrast to Hanoi.

Whistler gondola

Whistler Rendezvous

Whistler Peak to Peak


#4  The future is bright in our single-wide because we

  • can now wash laundry  (dug a dry-well and carted up a billion rocks from the beach to fill it)
  • repaired the washing machine by taming the agitator dogs and motor coupling (thanks, youtube)
  • re-caulked, re-hinged, repaired, painted, planted and toiled
  • finally moved mini-moby (after 30+ years)

pull mini moby  passing  push it      mini moby

  • continued the repairs (thanks, Alex) after a march windstorm deposited a tree on Moby
  • now have free firewood (thanks, windstorm)

timberrr     tree


#3  We started building something.  It’s going to be a 16′ x 20′ shared studio.

Had gigantic stumps removed, hand-dug trenches for underground utility lines and holes for 12 pier blocks.  Materials arrived.  Hard to imagine this orderly load of lumber can become our shop.

img_6510              wood


Dug.  Swore.  Leveled.  Tamped.  Leveled.  Untamped.  Shoveled.  Leveled.

img_6554       img_6556 img_6570


Lured friends over to help when possible.  Labor day.  Heh heh.

floor   floor


Later there will be two windows in the east side and two windows in the west side.



South facing front will also have two windows.  Scored two fire-proof dutch doors from a neighboring job site for free.



It’s starting to look like a saloon.  Slanted shed roof.  Ideal for collecting water.

front rafters


Battened down for the winter, awaiting plywood sheathing and a new metal roof.

almost a shop


#2  Family and friends came to visit.



Doug Cary seestor-and-fam

We ate from the local bounty, and played music as often as possible.  Lopez has a lively music scene.

oyster dinner

come back crabby lady

img_6378     3 crabbies


#1  Annie, the reason we came back early.

She died August 8, the day before her 11th birthday.  She taught us a lot over the summer.  Slow down, take long walks, don’t hurry.  Do what you want.  Don’t do what you don’t want to do.  Listen to the birds.  Relax when the opportunity appears.  Play music.  Sing.  Stretch out on the couch.

annie couch

low tide annie



Thank you all so much for the visits and help over the summer.


Now think about a visit to Vietnam!


Ethno – Tourism

Ta Van

If you visit Vietnam, you will be told to visit SaPa. To see the endless natural beauty, to rejuvenate yourself via the fresh air, to hike through the local villages, experience the sounds and smells of this unique landscape, and to explore new cultures.  Of Vietnam’s 54 ethnic minority groups, there are 9 in this area alone.  This breath-taking mountainous area 380 km northwest of Hanoi is near the Chinese border, and can now be accessed by the newly completed toll-highway.  6 hours of driving.  1600 m (5250 ft) high.  The SaPa District has about 55,000 people;   over 50% Hmong, 25% Dao, and 10% Viet Kinh (lowland Vietnamese), the balance Tay, Giay, Thai, Muong, Hua and Xa Pho.

sapa from Dave's

Brochure sunrise photo (above) of the terraced rice fields.   Starting in May, there is only one rice crop planted per year due to the high elevation weather conditions.  As early as possible, seeds are sewn in the lowest beds, then when the weather is warmer and the upper beds have been prepared and flooded, the seedlings are transplanted.


Second brochure photo (below) taken in early summer, of a mother and daughter (Black Hmong) walking and working along the growing rice.  We’re told these fields are brilliant shades of yellow and green beginning in July, until the harvest which starts in September.  We are hoping to visit again the end of August.  Join us.

SaPa from muonghoa


The true original inhabitants are unknown, but left rock carvings thousands of years old.  Over time, land has been illegally taken, villages bombed, indigenous peoples forced out, and repeatedly resettled by invaders. From the 1920s-1950s the French built villas and used the area as a hill-station, which is a resort area in the mountains created specifically to escape the seasonal lowland heat.  After they were ousted, many ethnic minority tribes returned from China, Laos and Thailand, using SaPa as a meeting and market location.   Sa means sand, pa means village so SaPa loosely translates as the place to trade goods and services.  Agricultural collectives were offered in the 1970s-1980s by the government.   After that, collectives were scaled back, perennial crops were encouraged and land rights were doled out.  In 1993 the first foreign tourists (since the French overthrow) were allowed up there.



In February, we had the chance to hitch a ride up with an agency car that was going to SaPa to fetch clients, and we wanted to get out of dodge.  The landscape became rural as soon as we left Hanoi.  It was misty and overcast, strikingly, like the Pacific NW.  Except for the rice fields, the water buffalo and the palm trees.  These low-land rice fields were recently flooded and readied for seedling transplants, the first of 3 annual rotations.  Here’s the scene from the car outside of Hanoi. When we came back through here the following week, all the fields had been planted.

north of Hanoi


The final 60 kms from Lao Cai to SaPa is narrow, twisty and congested.  Crazy commute to school.

Lao Cai to SaPa


SaPa bustles.  Hotels, restaurants, schools, banks, bakeries, North Face outfitters, massagers, trekking companies, hardware stores, auto shops.   You name it.  The trick is to try and find what’s locally owned.  Responsible tourism can be hard work but is essential.

Sa Pa Town


Our morning phổ restaurant in SaPa.

SaPa pho house


Local Red Dao women, our talking companions on the edge of SaPa.

Beth Doug S and S Red Dau – Version 2


Near Lai Chao.  See the 2 people walking up the terraced hill?


hill climb


Mama Lili, a trekking guide and homestay provider, with her phone number.  We are the same age.  We shared stories and entertained each other using pantomime, truncated English, and Hmong.  Ua tsaug (wa chow) means thank-you.

Mama Lili


The villages are all connected by hiking trails.  Passes are purchased before entering the villages.  The foot bridge in the center was built by a neighboring Dao family.  They charge 5,000 VND per person (US 25 cents) to use it.  When it’s warm enough, locals avoid the fee and wade across instead.

outside TaVan


Take the time to hire a local guide and directly support the local economy.  We were lucky to connect with Zu, the best guide ever (on the left).  She spent the day with us, made us lunch at her house, and answered (and asked) more questions than you can imagine.  She is Black Hmong, and lives in Seo Mi Ty, her husband’s village. While taking a break, we ran into her sister, who lives in a different village and was passing through.

Zu and Sister


This is Doug’s hiking helper, Mai.  We all had someone to help us navigate through the mud and over the steep terraces.

Doug and his helper


Family photo.  Jenny and Steve came to visit from Seattle!

family photo outside TaVan


Ubiquitous water buffalo.

water buffalo outside TaVan


We had lunch at Zu’s home.  Yes, that’s a sharp machete and a (skilled) 5-year-old.

machete and dishes


Corn grinder at Zu’s house.  She says they grind corn every day.

Version 2


Jenny gets a corn grinding lesson from Zu.

(This video is visible only if you view the post from the website, not from the emailed version.)


Here come the kids, running up the path and yelling something we never figured out.

here they come


Animals roam the villages.



The pig pack followed us for a while.



Surprise meeting on the road with friends we had met the previous day in town, 20 km away.  Ma is due in one month, and explained how her husband will help deliver the baby.  It was hard to say goodbye.

Mama on road


Ma’s village, down the hill and up the ridge.

Ma's village


Congestion at an intersection outside the village of Lai Chau.

bus scooters cars


Bamboo and ankles.

bamboo road Doug


Bottle section of a barn wall in Ta Van.

barn wall in Ta Van


The mountains outside SaPa were cloud-covered and hidden except for this brief moment.

mountain sighting


Making a note of the hotel in the foreground to check the prices.  EcoPalms Hotel.  $115 US/night.

Ối Giời Ơi !  Expensive.  Still trying to find out who owns it and where the money goes.

beth hotel notes


I would love to live and work here.  These state schools are all painted yellow.  Why?

school near Bac Ha


I spy water buffalo grazing, slash pile burning, brush clearing by hand, and a horse.

I spy


Watching, as we walked by a Flower Hmong village, outside Bac Ha.



30 minute walk north of Bac Ha.

Bac Ha


Buy from me!  Seriously, we could’ve talked for hours with these 2 young women.



Her mother told us about this sweet baby’s ear piercing ceremony at birth.

Kim's baby





Something is in the air.


SaPa and the surrounding area is magical.  And complicated.  Responsible tourism is hard to recognize here.  It’s a free-for-all.  The new road will bring even more people, expanding the impact with no end in sight.  Of course there is a move towards reviewing current social and economic development plans but there are so many conflicting factors and obstacles.  New construction is booming and there’s even a cable-car to the top of Fansipan Mt, above SaPa, that just opened in February.  It’s imperative that growth occurs in conjunction and cooperation with the local people, so that their rights, customs and privacy can be maintained and not exploited and their livelihood be preserved.  SaPa O’Chao is a social enterprise organization that I hope to spend some time with in the future, and I’m looking for others.  We’ll keep you posted.


Hunger makes a great sauce, quotes Doug, religiously.

hot steam   Doug steam


Sa Pa The Beauty That Has Turned Beast

Here’s a blog with descriptions and photos of the different tribes in the North part of Vietnam.

Annie, an original Red Dog

Annie 1

Life is full of ups and downs.  We are experiencing one of those “downs”.  Our sweet dog Annie has been diagnosed with osteosarcoma, a nasty, aggressive and painful bone cancer.  It’s in her front wrist.  She is responding well to her pain regime, so she continues to be her charming, energetic self.

We will be back in Seattle on March 20, staying at various  friends’ homes, with Annie.  We’re looking forward to lots of couch time, treats, and an abundance of dog love.  She and we will welcome visitors.

We’re so grateful she is in good hands right now and we look forward to seeing her soon.  We couldn’t do this alone.




Annie rock star


4-letter word

Last week was a cold snap all throughout SE Asia.  Schools here in Hanoi were closed for a few days because the temperature stayed below 10 C.  They are unheated, as are many of the houses and businesses, as was our apartment.  We bundled up in everything we owned, draped in blankets, constantly holding cups of hot tea, trying not to think about how long this winter might last.  We’re from drizzly, cold Seattle, so we’re tough, right?

We picked up the air-con remote for the first time (what we thought was the air-con remote) and read it;  in English.  Duhh.



On the last day of the cold snap, we cracked open some local rice vodka, moved the chairs directly under the flow of the warm air, and celebrated heat.

ra vao đơng cưa


While sitting in this sweet restaurant, it occurs to us that the only writing we recognize are the numbers on the clock face.  We’ve been here in Truc Bach a week now.  (Yes, it feels longer.)  Our daily life rotates between the inside of our quiet, peaceful, little apartment and outside in what sometimes seems like a non-stop noisy frat party that’s spilled out onto the streets.  Doug likens it to being on acid out there.  (Ummmm…)  Our needs right now are simple.  How to go out and find the one thing we need for the day, how to ask for it, and how much to pay for it.  We’re gleeful when it works, and shrug it off when it doesn’t.   There’s always tomorrow.

For dinner tonight we decided to just walk in somewhere nearby and order without prepping ourselves.  Like the olden days in Seattle.  We must’ve retained some language this week, right?  We think we’ve found a place.  From the outside, it’s sometimes difficult to tell if we’ll be walking into a restaurant or into someone’s private living room.  Everything is intermingled.  From the outside there are signs (which we can’t decipher yet) and scooters parked everywhere.  Signage is common. Some are valid, some are old.  We figure if it’s someone’s living room they’ll yell at us and we’ll quickly and graciously back out, saying “rất xin lỗi.  So very sorry.

Our first hurdle is this sign on the door.  ra van đơng cưa.  Does it say “stay out, private party”  or “come on in” or “leave your pets outside” or “beth and doug don’t you dare come in here” ?   We walk in and stand there.  A big table of people turn to stare at us, and no one returns our smiles.  Not even the children.  They all go back to their loud family dinner. We smile at the woman in the kitchen sitting on a tiny red plastic stool washing the dishes in a plastic tub on the floor, hoping she’ll usher someone out to help us.  She doesn’t smile either.  A little panic starts to well up.  Is it a restaurant?  We think so.  There seem to be a lot of tables.  Then a petite teenager comes out with 2 menus.  Yay!  They’ll let us stay.  The sign must not say “private party”.

We look at the menu, and we look at the chalkboard, and the waiter looks at us.  (You can see where this is going.)   She asks us something and points at the chalkboard.  Uh…hai bia.  2 beers.  While she goes to get them, we confer and try to find a few words that are familiar.  Thịt bò.  Beef.  Rau.  Vegetable.  She delivers the beers and we point at 2 dishes.  She nods and waits.  It seems like enough but why isn’t she leaving?  “Enough?” I ask, then decide to be more clear.  “Good.”  Then  “cảm ơn”.  Thank you.


In a very short time, she brings the 2 dishes we ordered.  Sautéed beef with morning glory, and vegetable soup with rice noodles.  Haha,  didn’t know we ordered soup.  Then steamed rice and a little fishy sauce.  Perfect.  And delicious.

We’ve learned that once seated, we can stay as long as we want.  No one will bring the check until called for.  Ever.  There’s no pressure to hurry whatsoever.  It’s becoming very comfortable.  I know that once we have a few more words, the beginning part of this story won’t be repeated quite so much.  In the meantime, we will continue to review the words on the chalkboard and hope to retain some of them for next time.  At home, we sorted out what some of it said:  Today.  Fried frog legs.  Stir-fried perch.  Beef and rice.  Crab hot pot.  Kohlrabi and something.  A spring roll of some sort.  Some of it remains undecipherable.  Blackberries and garlic.  What?  Arcade center?  Bargain?  Dad?

And finally, the sign on the door.  Close door when coming in or out.


chalkboard menu


paulo coehlo (draft)

“You will never be able to escape from your heart.

So it’s better to listen to what it has to say.”

Paulo Coehlo, The Alchemist