(Samaya Lubimaya)
In a quiet town where whales ride the walls, time has left this establishment with no changes, no outside influences, no spices.
It is chilled out and the town looks nearly barren. I venture down an old cobbled street in hopes of finding a tavern. There in the distance burning bright, I spot a flaming torch set up outside an old farmhouse, an inviting gesture to the cold world outside. This common meeting place for travelers and locals alike sits right off the rocky coast. I walk in and undo my scarf and long coat. The picture of the old fisherman with his cap and smoking pipe greets me on the wall. All the furniture is a luscious greenish blue, intricately carved wood in ancient runes, with reds and blacks to detail. There is even a Lord & Lady chair which resembles that of a miniature four post bed. I look past the sills out over the greenery that lays above the vast darkened blue cold waters and choose my place of dining to see this common theme.
Another wayward soul comes in, leaving the door to a little clatter with the wind at its hinges. The suit is brown with yellowing pinstripes. He carries an old, obviously very used, brown leather box suitcase for papers. It matches his vintage brown leather curtail jacket. The mystique is that of a professor, a man of great knowledge, maybe even an archaeologist. I don't recognize his dialect, not even the language spoken. I confer that I am just as out of place as he, I suppose. Yet his style and countenance is a bit of awe rarity in any place, any era.
The fishermen brandish their wages and the simple eatery offers all of their catches. I am served a tradition of time cooked meal. Salted fish, cod to be exact, with the skin and bones not breamed. Boiled potatoes and carrots. No salt, no pepper awaits this bland layout of what the commoners enjoy. Yet, bits of chunked tasty bacon in its own oily fat lays over the fish, making it a spread of interest.
I think to myself of this simple unrefined lifestyle in comparison to what I am used to. Here, in this rainy grey fishing village, lies a world without spices.
In a quiet town where whales ride the walls, time has left this establishment with no changes, no outside influences, no spices.
It is chilled out and the town looks nearly barren. I venture down an old cobbled street in hopes of finding a tavern. There in the distance burning bright, I spot a flaming torch set up outside an old farmhouse, an inviting gesture to the cold world outside. This common meeting place for travelers and locals alike sits right off the rocky coast. I walk in and undo my scarf and long coat. The picture of the old fisherman with his cap and smoking pipe greets me on the wall. All the furniture is a luscious greenish blue, intricately carved wood in ancient runes, with reds and blacks to detail. There is even a Lord & Lady chair which resembles that of a miniature four post bed. I look past the sills out over the greenery that lays above the vast darkened blue cold waters and choose my place of dining to see this common theme.
Another wayward soul comes in, leaving the door to a little clatter with the wind at its hinges. The suit is brown with yellowing pinstripes. He carries an old, obviously very used, brown leather box suitcase for papers. It matches his vintage brown leather curtail jacket. The mystique is that of a professor, a man of great knowledge, maybe even an archaeologist. I don't recognize his dialect, not even the language spoken. I confer that I am just as out of place as he, I suppose. Yet his style and countenance is a bit of awe rarity in any place, any era.
The fishermen brandish their wages and the simple eatery offers all of their catches. I am served a tradition of time cooked meal. Salted fish, cod to be exact, with the skin and bones not breamed. Boiled potatoes and carrots. No salt, no pepper awaits this bland layout of what the commoners enjoy. Yet, bits of chunked tasty bacon in its own oily fat lays over the fish, making it a spread of interest.
I think to myself of this simple unrefined lifestyle in comparison to what I am used to. Here, in this rainy grey fishing village, lies a world without spices.
No comments:
Post a Comment