the cassandra pages

Northern Pastoral

(Camel's Hump above the Winooski River. click for a larger version)

We drove back to Vermont today, through the glorious spring, and it enticed us off the highway and onto the  local roads that meander under Camel's Hump and along the Winooski ("wild onion", from the Abenaki), stopping often to take pictures and enjoy the light, the blooming trees, the feeling of warm air on our bodies. These roads are literally cut though the Green Mountains, and at one particularly beautiful outlook, toward the iconic summit of Camel's Hump, I became mesmerized by the rock wall to our backs, on the other side of the road. Water was sheeting slowly from high above over the slate face, painting large graphic pictures. I noticed clumps of emerald-green moss, topped with new fruiting spores, growing in the crevices; dead leaves plastered to the smooth rock and embedded now in a constant bath of water that was slowly dissolving them back to ribs and shadows.

(Homage a Rauschenberg, with a nod to Marja-Leena; click for a larger version)

And, as I learned from the spray and discrete drops that hit my face as I got closer, the sheets of water were accompanied by more delicate patterns of falling water, as single drops fell from considerable heights onto stony shelves to split and catapult outward, or form a mist from the mossy, ferny edges of the rock face far above my head. The whole outcrop was, in fact, a living sculpture, a fountain, a Rauschenberg abstraction worked on simultaneously by the water and the bright sun on the rock canvas, hot here, cool there. I could have watched it all day.

We called ahead and picked up Chinese food in Burlington, and then drove north to St. Albans and into Canada, slowing down and stopping, once again, to photograph the farmers in their huge, already dusty fields. It was mid-afternoon by then, and I sat on the edge of a drainage ditch while J. waited for a tractor to approach from the far reaches of the long field. A pair of red-winged blackbirds were nesting in some of the tall grasses in the ditch, and the female rustled her feathers nervously on a small shrub while the male took a few half-hearted flights in my direction, his epaulets fluffed red and fat, and then  decided to ignore me. The sun baked on my back as I watched the sparkling water flow over mud and grasses and listened to the calls of the birds and the wind rushing in the poplars that lined the roadside near the farmhouse. The field stretched flat and empty to the horizon, waiting to be split open by the first emerging shoots of corn. I thought, briefly, of Cadmus sowing dragon's teeth, and the warriors that sprang from his furrows, grateful these fields only yielded a fresh crop of rocks every year, before they turned velveteen and lush.

How little time we've had like this in recent years - time to meander, take the back road home, sit and watch nature paint her paintings and play her music. How good it felt. I think I'll stay there tonight, for a while, in that emptiness rich with possibilities.

Boy Bedlam Review

Today, checking out recent posts on Never Neutral, I saw that Ernesto Priego has just had a fine essay on poetry published at Boy Bedlam Review. I went over to read it, and, to my surprise, saw that one of my own essays, Wastelands and Bog People, has been published there too, in the same Words section where Ernesto's piece appears. The editor had approached me about this essay (about T.S. Eliot, Seamus Heaney, and the tradition of "influence" in English poetry) and we had corresponded about it quite a while ago, but I'd never heard that it was up. Not only up, but with a terrific illustration!

If you haven't looked at Boy Bedlam Review, please do: published under the motto "Arts and Ideas for the 21st century" it's an exciting, fresh, and very ambitious journal/review, taking advantage of the full-color capability of the web with a magnificent range of artwork that accompanies the selections of essays, criticism, and commentary on subjects from contemporary literature to science to religion. And all is not confined to the static page: while you're there, you might take a few minutes to view The Odyssey, a completely current video look at war, homecoming, and the aftermath.

I'm pleased to be in this company.

Menu du Jour: Clash, or Fusion?

There is a very low level of optimism about relations between Islam and the Western world, according to a poll and a new report issued by the World Economic Forum. In mid-2007, about a thousand respondents in 21 countries were surveyed about their impressions of understanding, respect, and dialog between Islam and the West, and whether things feel like they're getting worse or better. Not surprisingly, most respondents were not optimistic.

But what did surprise me was that people in the United States, Canada, Israel, and the Muslim countries all said they felt more interaction would be beneficial, while people in Europe said they did not want greater contact.

This seems to line up with the findings of the recent Bouchard-Taylor Commission on "Reasonable Accomodation" of minorities in Quebec. The people who are the most exercised about immigrants, especially religious minorities (read: Muslims) are the French, especially the rural French, who fear losing their traditional culture and language. The immigrants themselves objected to the very term: "We want to be accepted, not accommodated," they said over and over again at the many public hearings. And - again, it's no surprise - acceptance is greatest in the areas with the most contact between cultures and religions, such as cities like Montreal, Toronto, and New York.

But rather than belabor a point that's been made here before, I simple want to say that this is an area where blogging can do a great deal: to illuminate language, culture, stories of personal experience, of displacement and change, to create greater curiosity and less fear of the unknown. I intend to try to do more of that here in the coming months, and I'd like to especially invite readers from diverse backgrounds, countries, and cultures to make yourselves known and become part of the discussion here. You will find a warm welcome and respect, and interest in what you have to say, and I'll be asking some specific questions from time to time to try to get the conversation moving.

For starters, it would be great to hear from readers: how many of you consider yourselves "ethnic" in some way? Were you or your parents born in a different country from where you are now living? Did you grow up speaking a language other than English in the home, or did you study another language intentionally? Is it important to you to maintain or discover your own cultural roots?

(I don't mean at all to exclude English-speakers and North Americans from answering these questions - if you don't know it already, I, for one, feel like an "ethnic American" for the first time in my life, since I now live in a foreign country - French-speaking Quebec. I've also been married for nearly thirty years to a Syrian-Armenian American, which has broadened and changed my whole perspective on personal identity.) 

So - welcome to new commenters and familiar ones who may not have talked about this aspect of your life before: it would be great to hear from you. Let's do our bit for opening at least this channel of exchange and dialog, and reversing that negativity.

Still Life With Bridle

Detail from a still life by the little-known Dutch painter, Floris Dijck

Zbigniew Herbert was a poet, but he was also an essayist and in particular, he wrote about art. One of his books of essays is Still Life With Bridle, in which he examines Dutch painting in the 17th century.

The second essay in the book is called "The Price of Art," and because I have little else to say tonight, I'll quote the end of it here, knowing that you, dear readers, will probably have a reaction. Remember that he's talking about Rembrandt, Vermeer, Hals, as well as many more obscure painters, all of whom were members of the guild and had the technical skill evidenced in paintings like the one above.

Information preserved about the lives of Dutch painters is sparse. They belong to that species of artists who leave works behind them, not complaints and laments. Really there are no dramatic stories, unhealthy blushing, or sensational scandals. Their entire earthly existence can be summarized in a few dates: birth, qualification as a master, marriage, children's baptism, and finally, death.

They can only be envied. Whatever their greatness and miseries, the disillusionments and failures of their careers, their role in society and place on earth were not questioned, their profession universally recognized and as evident as the profession of butcher, tailor, or baker. The question of why art exists did not occur to anyone, because a world without paintings was simply inconceivable.

Zbigniew Herbert, Still Life With Bridle, translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter, Ecco Press 1991, pg 36.

Further thoughts, in the bright light of morning:

Two things stand out for me in this excerpt: the reminder that in those days it wasn't enough to "want to be an artist" - one had to go through a rigorous training to learn the skills and the discipline required. It wasn't just a "notion"- it was work. The second is that I keep pondering the final statement. Plenty of people today have no idea why art exists, nor do they care, and to them a world without paintings is not only conceivable, but has come to be. How do we, as people who care about such things, respond to this? Whose responsibility is it to keep art alive?

Jewels for my Mother

When we visited our friends H. and A. a week ago, A. showed me a tiny paper ornament that looked woven but was actually origami. I didn't count the faces, but it was perhaps an octagon. She and I spent many many hours in our teens making things together - out of cloth, paper, beads, clay - and it was wonderful to wander around her house and look at her projects -- handmade paper lampshades on twig frameworks; glass bead ornaments in a sunny window; funny furry costumes; papier-maché masks; beautiful aquariums; the patchwork bags she and her mother were making for Christmas presents from chintz upholstery samples -- while A. gave me a running commentary on each one. A.'s mother, now in her eighties, was there too, still bright-eyed and lovely, enveloping me in the same wonderful hug I remembered from my youth. "Are you making anything these days? A. asked me. "Not much except for cooking,"I answered. "I'm writing, and I find it doesn't leave much time for other things." But already my hands were itching.

After I got home I began thinking about that little ornament, and wondering how it had been made. I began searching on the web for modular origami polyhedra instructions (not for the first time - I knew I'd seen some books and diagrams before) and sure enough there were plenty on the web. A night or two later, I got out some paper and began folding. The little shapes above are called Toshie's Jewels: they're pyramidal polygons constructed from three identical Sonube units folded from squares of paper and then locked together. From these same units you can construct large polyhedra, for your math class or for ornamenting your home, or just for fun. But something about these little, simple solids delights me: the way a few little flat sheets of paper become something so firm and beautiful. When I can get to the Japanese paper store later this week, I'll try making something larger and more complex.

My mother loved making things, and whether I was alone or with my friends like A., she always helped us with our projects or thought up new ones. So many times this week, as I thought about these paper projects or discovered a new design, I had the familiar impulse to pick up the phone and call her. Of course, I can't. I've gotten used to this by now, and in my mind, I tell her what I'm doing anyway. But today something else happened.

I was cleaning my closet, putting away the last of the summer things and getting out the heaviest of the winter things, when I came across a bag and opened it. Inside were two of my mother's leather purses, which I'd brought with me after I sorted her clothes and possessions. I sat down on the bed and opened them. One was empty. But the other one - her everyday bag - still held a pouch with her sunglasses in it, a pillbox, her wallet. It was a shock to snap open the wallet and see her driver's license with her photo on it, her credit cards, her insurance papers. The first flap of the transparent pockets held my high school graduation photo. Further down, there was a little picture of me with my white graduation dress, and another school picture, which I'd always known was a favorite of hers, from fourth grade.

But under all of this was a faded Polaroid, with the edges folded under. On the back it read: "Beth with her Christmas cards 1966." I looked at it and the tears immediately started to fall. The picture was taken in our old kitchen; I'm holding a brayer and the first print, probably, from a linoleum block. And as in all the other pictures she had chosen to carry around close to her all those years, I look very very happy.

What was making me cry wasn't the sentimentality of opening my mother's wallet and seeing these glimpses of her personal life again. It was the in-rushing of sudden, total awareness of what she had seen about me, and precisely what she had given. She saw very early that creativity and learning new things were what made me happy, and she had done everything she could to encourage, affirm, and enable that in my life, often at the expense of her own desires and her own creativity. I chose a life that allowed me to pursue this, and eventually it took me far away from where my parents lived; I chose that life rather than having children who would have been their grandchildren. We talked about this in an emotional conversation during the last year of her life: me in tears apologizing for the cost of my choices, and asking if she was terribly disappointed in them, and her firm answer that she was very proud of me, and that what she and my father had always wanted the most was for me to do what made me happy.

My mother's giving was not just for me - she did it for many other people as well. But what I saw today, that I had never realized with such force -- and perhaps couldn't have seen before reaching midlife myself -- is that the endpoint of creativity is not necessarily the painting or the book, but coming to understand that this is the life force, and that seeing and affirming it -- however it is trying to come out and be expressed in other people's lives -- is one of the greatest gifts you can give them. My mother was a creativity bodhisattva.

Right around the time this picture was taken, she found a set of paper polyhedral patterns in a magazine and ordered them before Christmas. They weren't origami, they were more like boxes with interlocking tabs, and I remember that we transferred the patterns and cut out many paper ornaments that year for our tree. It was great fun.

I didn't shed too many tears today, because I realized I wasn't sad, but happy; the tears were from gratitude. I've been reluctant to write some of these things about my mother because I realize I am unusually fortunate in who she was, while knowing that many readers of this blog have not had the same experience in their families of origin; for some it was exactly the opposite and caused great suffering. It makes me uncomfortable to talk about a richness I was privileged to have in my life. But it's also nothing I would ever want or be able to hoard; I see that it's terribly important to recognize and try to share whatever I learned. Creativity can be anything, from having babies to cooking meals for our families to growing pots of parsley in a winter windowsill. The point is not to arrive at some place of success or fame, but to see where that spark comes from in our spirits, and allow room for the jewels that want so much to come forth out of that place.

Phoenicia Publishing

The ship is launched!

I'm very happy to announce the launch of a new, very small publishing company, Phoenicia Publishing -- something I've wanted to do for a long time. It fits snugly within the fields of graphic design and digital publishing which have been our profession since 1981, and also with my more recent work as an author and editor. We will be producing a very limited number of titles each year, but they're books that we feel strongly about and that are appropriate for short-run printing combined with careful editing and design, and close attention to detail. We hope they'll be as exciting and interesting to you as they are to us!

The first title is Brilliant Coroners, a collection of poetry from the Laupe House Press. I'm proud to have been a part of this collective endeavor with good friends, both artists and writers, met online, and hope you'll go and take a look - and perhaps even order a copy for yourself or for a Christmas present! The poems, by sixteen different poets, were chosen and brilliantly edited by Rachel Barenblat and Rachel Rawlins.

I'll also be running an occasional blog in the News & Comments section of the Phoenicia site, with posts about writing, books, and writers, some reprinted from these pages and some original. Today you'll find a report on Montreal's wonderful Salon du Livre, the second-largest French-language book fair in the world, second only to the one that takes place in Paris. We were there last night, and it was really exciting to see the enthusiasm of the public and publishers, and the breadth of the books offered. I had been invited to go with J.'s French class on their field trip to the Salon, and got so revved up with the fun and effort of speaking French with his teacher and fellow students that I found I couldn't sleep last night - it was as if the language center of my brain, wired by a little dose of caffeine after supper, refused to shut off! Today I am happily back in the land of mostly-English, and looking forward to a good night's sleep!

It's Art to Me

The other night we went to a film at the Cinema Imperial, an old vaudeville theatre/classic movie theatre on rue Bleury. It's been restored and is used during the film festival, and rented for other events; there are plush red seats, elaborate gilded plasterwork; murals featuring scantily-clad cherubs; and a painted tromp l'oeil curtain with Victoria's crown in the center. It's pretty ugly, to me, but a remarkable period piece.

Across the street, though, some very contemporary painting was happening. Two huge brick buildings were the site of a graffiti festival, or contest, or happening - we weren't sure. All along the sides of these buildings, scaffolding had been set up, and graffiti artist were intently working on their own sections while admirers hung out, encouraged, took photos. In a little open-sided tent, a DJ with two turntables played loud music.We were by far the oldest people in the crowd, which featured a lot of punk clothing, piercings, and tattoos. I was pretty impressed by some of the work on the walls, and also by the fine control the painters had over their spray cans. Giving the graffiti artists a place to showcase their work seemed like a pretty sensible idea, too, if that's what the city was doing. Though graffiti of this caliber is something I do stop to look at, this event made me realize there was a lot more going on in the local scene, with artists who were really serious about their work.

I think this may have been part of the Under Pressure 2007 Montreal graffiti contest...does anyone know?

Cineaddiction, with updates

Late night at the Montreal film festival

It's World Film Festival time in Montreal, and for the first year since we've lived here, we've actually been in town during the festival -- so we bought a coupon book of ten tickets, used it up, and are well on our way to finishing a second. The movies are being shown in theaters an easy bike ride from our place, and every one we've seen has been memorable. The problem is picking from the hundreds of films being shown. Here's our list so far:

1. Full Breath - a Russian film shot in a fishing village in the Crimea, about two couples, both of whom are mismatched in age, and the lure of country life for city people and vice versa. Not a great film, nor a great screenplay, but I loved being taken to a place I'd never seen before - and to listen to Russian being spoken for two hours! The director was there, and at the end he stoodin the door, stooped and hopeful,  as we all filed past him: he spoke no English, and all I could say was "spasiba."

2. Los Borgia - Italian/Spanish, a costume-drama, elaborate set, big production film about the Machiavellian intrigues of the Borgia family in Renaissance Rome: the father who was Pope, the sons who were a general of the Vatican armies, a cardinal, and a drunken fool cuckolded by his brothers, and, of course the daughter, Lucretia.

3. The River - a Canadian film by a new director, shot in Saskachewan, about two young people who are misfits in their small city because they're both artists who dream of being in Paris or New York like the people they admire - Joni Mitchell or Jack Kerouac, to name only two. They become friends, and support each other in their first steps toward art, and it gets more complicated from there. The audience burst into applause ta the end, and when we walked out, there was the guy who played the lad int eh movie, talking to filmgoers just as he had playing the young writer in the movie: "No, really, tell me what you would have changed about it, what didn't work for you?" This one was preceded by a short film commemorating Bosnian Muslims who were massacred their Serbian neighbors on a bridge in a small town in 1992.

4. The Knot - a hugely ambitious Chinese film that follows the lives of two people - and the history of China and Taiwan - for six decades. It's a little self-conscious, but the cinematography was breathtaking, the acting terrific, and an excellent story and screenplay.

5. Proshaj, Yuzhny Gorod  (Goodbye Southern City) - Ajerbaidjan - a very depressing, bleak film about the influx of Armenian refugees from Iran into Ajerbaidjan, interreligious tension, and thuggish Russian  self-interest, manipulation and violence. I'm not sorry I saw it, but it was a difficult one and also quite confusing to figure out who was who and why they were acting the way they were.

6. Wal-Mart Nation - A Canadian documentary that focuses not on Wal-Mart itself, but on the people who devote years of their lives to opposing it. Pretty good and quite nuanced and homegrown, when one now filters "documentary" through a Michael Moore lens. I think it will play well in Canada, and less well in the U.S. because it is both gentler than American society expects and, like I said, more nuanced, but I much hope lots of people will get to see it. One of the film's strongest points were its interviews with people who've written books about Wal-Mart or mega-corporate culture and its effect not only on domestic American society but the world; Joel Bakan, writer of the documentary The Corporation, raised the important point that to some extent Wal-Mart, because of its size, ubiquitousness, and success, has become the scapegoat for huge corporations in general. The director, Andrew Munger, was sitting in our row and this was his world premiere, which was pretty cool; we talked to him afterwards. Very nice guy.

7. Lezioni di Volo (Flying Lessons) - my favorite so far. A beautiful story about two unmotivated rich Italian teenagers who flunk out of school and go to India together for no real reason except to escape their nagging families, though one is an adopted Hindu who's never been to his birthplace at all. Within 24 hours they’ve lost all their money, passports, phones, and clothes --- and the movie gets progressively more interesting from there. In Italian; I hope this will get wide North American distribution - it ought to.

8. A Winter's Tale - A Canadian picture, about violence in the black community in Toronto, that has gotten some of the most appreciative buzz during the festival. Again, the director was present. It reminded me how fiction can sometimes do more good than documentary/non-fiction by telling a human story rather than preaching with facts: this film will do a lot to illuminate the human cost of the influx of gangs and drug dealing in one of the most non-violent North American cities. Made by blacks, it raises issues about black family culture and male attitudes toward education, women and money, as well as tension between people of African and West Indian origin. I know it will help here in Canada where these problems are not yet endemic, but I hope it gets distribution in the U.S. as well.

9. 53 Days - A Spanish movie about 53 days in the lives of three people, each of whom faces a challenge that requires making a large change. I found this one fascinating, especially in its portraits of women. It's such a quiet picture I can't really describe it. Thinking about it this morning, I realize the whole movie used muted and neutral colors; I don't remember any bright color in the whole thing. Very good.

10. Mutluluk (Bliss) - Turkey - The largest crowd we'd been part of during the festival was at Theatre Maisonneuve last night for the screening of this Turkish movie about a young village woman who has lost her virginity under unknown circumstances; the family, commanded by the village's tribal leader, calls on the woman's eldest cousin to kill her and end the shame she's brought on the family. He takes her to Istanbul but finds he can't carry out his task, and the two of them embark on an odyssey  that, predictably, brings out the conflicts between modernity and tradition in present-day Turkey. That predictability was the film's biggest weakness, I thought. The movie had some good aspects - beautiful scenery and an appealing heroine - but I found it unbelievable and the most Hollywoodish of all the films we saw - it will probably get worldwide distribution and do its part to perpetuate Western stereotypes of uneducated Islam. It was odd how this big-budget film's lack of nuance was so apparent after a week of seeing smaller-budget films. After most of the others, I was moved by the creator's vision and determination to illuminate some aspect of human behavior and emotion. After this one, incredible images remain - of Istanbul, sheep herders in rocky villages, snowy mountains, blue coves in the Mediterranean - but I felt manipulated.

It's been a busy, somewhat stressful work week for us, and we've gone to most of these late at night, riding home up the Berri bike path at midnight or even later, then getting up early to continue working. I'm definitely short on sleep and feeling sorry I no longer can drink caffeine. Today, though, I got my hair cut (Veronique again) first thing in the morning and then J. met me and we went to two movies during the middle of the day, joining the hard core film buffs who sit on benches inside and outside the theaters with their complicated horaires (schedules) planning their day at the festival, because you can only exchange your coupons for tickets one day at a time.

I love the blinking, disoriented, slightly illicit feeling when you emerge from a dark theater into midday sunlight, and rejoin the oblivious world that has been bustling outside, while holding inside your head the sensations of the cinematic world you've just been so engaged with. And then you walk around with it in the daylight like a secret, an affair, without the slightest anticipation of loss.

India's Future

The Market is a Donkey is an article by former BBC journalist Mark Tully in OutlookIndia.com. The author discusses India's economic growth and asks whether India, which has always has been characterized by a non-Western comfort with duality, must inevitable conform to dogmatic emulation of the West in its effort to become a world economic power.

"India traditionally does not write full stops because it understands the uncertainty of certainty, it prefers the middle road, and believes in the perpetual search for balance. So, the answer to any question can never be final, no theory should be closed to questioning, and no policy should be taken so far that it creates imbalance. The West, on the other hand, tends to see things in black and white, to look for certainties, and so to lurch from one extreme to another."

"The most obvious evidence for this contrast lies in the different attitudes to religion. R.C. Zaehner, who held the chair at Oxford India's philosopher-president S. Radhakrishnan once held, wrote, 'Hindus do not think of religious truth in dogmatic terms.... For the passion for dogmatic certainty that has wracked the religions of Semitic origin they feel nothing but shocked incomprehension.'"

The article goes on to examine what has happened to Indian socialism, and to compare this change with what has happened to British socialism: a fascinating and brief foray into the topics discussed in the author's new book, India's Unending Journey: Finding Balance in a Time of Change.
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I confess to feeling very ignorant about India. None of us can focus on "the world" anymore; in recent years I've tried to learn a lot about the Middle East, Iran, and Islam but I'd never call what I know "expertise." India remains, for me, a great enigma in spite of the reading I've done, the films I've watched, the Indian art I've studied and loved, and even the Indians I've known. India lies between places I know more about: the countries just mentioned on one side; China, southeast Asia and Japan on another; even Russia stretching across and above - and its religion and culture and cuisine all occupy that place too. India's culture has certainly been influenced from both sides, but perhaps even more, India has influenced them. So this is something for me to think about, and perhaps begin to address.

The article above came to me from a new friend, K., who promises to teach me more about where he came from. I'd be interested to hear from readers who have compiled India reading lists: what are your recommendations, beyond the obvious?

Fruit today, please

Summer is coming. So last night, while it was still cool, we biked down to Chinatown and ate at Little Sheep Mongolian Hot Pot. It was an experience.

This franchise is very popular in China, although reviewers say the food is not entirely Mongolian-authentic. The restaurant was filled with Chinese customers -- other than the two of us, there were two Russian guys, and a couple of Caucasian tourists who looked like they weren't sure their choice had been such a good idea. We had fun, but let me tell you, all I want to eat today is salad and fruit!

All the tables have a clever built-in flat cooktop; that's where your hot pot goes, full of a chicken-based broth "flavored with 60 special Chinese herbs and ingredients". You can have mild, spicy, or half and half, which is what you see in the picture above. I fished around in my bowl: in addition to about a dozen whole cloves of garlic and large slices of ginger, there was indeed a flotilla of unidentifiable roots, nuts, pods, seeds...whatever they were, from the very first sip the broth tasted delicious. The spicy one was VERY spicy, almost too much for me, and I like spicy food.

So once your pot of broth is simmering, the server brings two plates, one of very thinly sliced beef and one of lamb. You take a slice and cook it in the boiling broth, and then eat it; when you're tired of eating meat (they will keep bringing it until you tell them to stop) you go over to an all-you-can-eat buffet and bring back more ingredients: large prawns like the one I'm holding; fish; tofu; fish balls; seaweeds; all sorts of greens; noodles; lotus root; fried cuttlefish and baby octopus; shitake and cloud ear mushrooms; tiger lily buds; quail eggs...and many more things I couldn't identify. Everything you cook contributes to the flavor of the broth, which is eaten at the end as a soup. Our waitress cautioned us to eat the meat and then fish and then tofu and greens because it was much better for our health that way. So we did. But as we found, the greatest danger wasn't the food order, or the spiciness, but the actual heat of the cooked food -- we both burned our mouths repeatedly. There was lemon-flavored ice water, strawberry juice, orange juice, and very refreshing plum juice - that's what's in the glass by my hand. And for dessert: sliced melon, oranges, pineapple, little layered and frosted cakes, and sesame balls.

I don't think I'd go there often -- too much food, too heavy on the protein -- but it was fun, and would be even more fun to do with a bunch of friends. For a group, you can get a big bowl of broth, and everyone around the table shares it.

We biked home - uphill, and glad of it. I think one should be a Mongolian sheep herder to eat this sort of thing on a regular basis: as for me, I can't tell you how good a fresh peach tasted this morning!