Oker

From my high table, I watch the scene unfold in a restaurant on Denneweg, that charming street in The Hague known for its cafes and antique shops. Inside, two men find solace at the bar, their conversations interwoven with tales of distant lands and untamed adventures. Nearby, a couple leans in close. I can't hear their whispered stories, shared secrets, and heartfelt expressions of love, but I see expectations in their eyes.

Through the café's tall windows, soft rays of the day's last sunlight filter in, casting a warm glow on all present this Wednesday evening. On the other side of the glass is the city that never was. But the town of The Hague lives and thus breathes life into the atmosphere, the sounds sifting through the long curtains, infusing every conversation with its vibrant energy in ways I never find on the island.

Restaurant Oker, which can be busy at times, seems to exist this evening in a dreamlike state—emotions swirl, and connections are forged.

Then, the air is filled with the fragrant aroma of Thai coconut soup. I returned here for this soup, and the sublime creation brings back memories of long-forgotten travel adventures on the road to Mae Hong Song in the summer of '88. Hiking in the forest, evenings at a campfire, listening to tales of snakes and elephants. Mekhong whiskey was our local rum.

Tracy Chapman's tunes were present in each village I passed; we were Talkin' 'bout a Revolution close to the border where one had just failed on the other side. Karens had a different connotation then, fighting injustice, not birders. Ne Win lost, but in the end, so did hope for better times when the speechless spoke the truth.

Each spoonful evokes flavors, followed by more memories, sights, sounds, and the particular hue of the forests. And surprisingly, even after so many years, I recall some of the old friendships I found among the other backpackers. I have a photograph of waiting for the sunset and a mental note to find my diary of those months of travel. Curious to see what I wrote some 35 years ago. And who I was.

The harmonious blend of spices and creaminess defined Thailand for me. I grew up with Indonesian food, but I don't recall eating Thai food before that late summer and autumn many years ago.

Then a plate of risotto followed, adorned with tasty mushrooms, crunchy hazelnuts, and the indulgent richness of Parmesan cheese—more memories of distant places, New Haven's many varieties. The chef made it a culinary masterpiece, a medley of tastes.

Food allows dreams to take flight on this side of the high windows; I let reality and imagination blur. Briefly, all guests float away into the cafe scenes, the bar-men believe their adventures to be accurate, and the lovers fall for sweet-spoken lies, even though they should know better.

And I travel briefly back in time to another world filled with memories of what once was, which I filtered over the years so that only the good ones remain. What a lovely time it was, of innocence and confidences.

Notes:

Today, I offer no notes, only a story woven from fragments of reality. Yet, the Denneweg, the charming café, and the memories that dance within these words are tangible and real. And references to lyrics have always been in my writing. Once, words were elusive and foreign to my understanding. Still, as I unlocked my mastery of English, the influence of song lyrics stayed with me as an indelible part of my expression. I continued to refer to songtexts; they are like powerful riffs on the front lobe of my left side brains (just to prove the point). Oker does not pay me, but the restaurant is more than a reference to Clouseau's song; it does exist on the Denneweg 71 in The Hague, and you'll like the soup (ask for the vegetarian version to save a shrimp's life) and that veggie risotto.

This is just another one of my stories that, like my writing on nature and travel, serves as a testament to the richness that life's experiences, real and lyrical, can bring. A blend of reality and imagination, woven together by the threads of memory and anchored in the factual existence of places like Oker on the Denneweg.

And a last thought to note before this ends up being another story: Embrace the flavors, the melodies, and the words that stir your soul, for they are the very essence of our human experience. On a planet collectively accelerating its suicidal chicken run toward the edge of a cliff, led by Jim and Buzz-like leaders without any other cause than being power-hungry, we need moments to step away from reality and hug the beauty still around to energize our dedication to saving the planet from our species' overdrive.

And one more from the archive (since I hope to convince you to subscribe):