The other morning, as I was waiting for my tram at the tram stop, I looked up to the heavy gray sky hanging low above the roofs of old houses in our street, and I saw 11 birds (yes, I counted) flying in a V-shaped formation, and I watched them until they were out of sight. For some reason, they reminded me of this whole year—a turbulent, at times heartbreaking year; it was like mourning 11 (or maybe more) pieces of my life that I had been separated from, and seeing those birds made me feel hopeful. There must be things I can do to get those pieces back—or to get them all to fly together again, so I can feel whole once again.
In a way, I felt better when I thought of myself as made of tiny little pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle missing a piece or something. Because even if you’re losing a few pieces here and there, the big picture didn’t change. You could still see that it was a puzzle of a vase of flowers, of a city at dusk, of a winter forest. Even if at the moment I am missing a few pieces of myself, I could still see the whole me in its entirety. This gives me the freedom to either find the missing old pieces or, better yet, craft new ones that will eventually fit the big picture. All the while feeling like I’m not entirely losing myself. That the “me” is still here, always here, and will always be.
I guess there are many ways to make you feel whole if you see yourself as a collective of tiny little pieces. At the end of October this year, I started picking up some of my missing pieces, and I found that giddiness of anticipation, excitement, and bursts of inspiration once again—a feeling I have been missing for a while. I told myself, “Let’s collect one missing piece at a time.”
Who knows, maybe the pieces weren’t actually missing. Perhaps I was misplacing them or forgetting where I kept them, but maybe, maybe they were always here inside of me all along.
After having our morning coffee, we left early for the office to pack and ship some orders. It was pretty windy and chilly that morning, so I wore my sweater and brought my raincoat, just in case. On our way to the office, around Kinkerstraat, a police car followed us, slowed down, and an officer looked out from the rolled-down window. They mentioned something about how we drove our snorfiets in the wrong lane—that it should have been in the bike lane (it used to be that way).
I tentatively pointed to the sign on top of the bike lane, saying ‘snorfietsen niet toegestaan’—moped not allowed. The officer laughed and then nodded enthusiastically, “Oh, you’re right, good work!” before giving us two thumbs up and speeding away.
The police here were cool like that.
We had warm bread with chicken from the Waarme Bakker for lunch, and from the kitchen window, we saw someone get arrested by the police in front of our building’s door. As D said, “Never a boring day in our office.”
A came over to help us with shipping in the afternoon, so I had some time to rush through my Aboulela’s exercise for class. I realized that when I created this two-page exercise, I always had a bigger story inside my head. I felt like I had to hold on to some information so I could gradually reveal it when I wrote the whole story—and in the end, I spent so much time thinking of the entire story instead of focusing on just the 2-page opening. This was always a bad idea. And it was a bad habit. I always needed to remind myself, ‘This is just an exercise.’ This is just an exercise.
We came home around 6, and while D went out for a run, I took a nap. I felt like my brain was overheating.
In the evening, D prepared dinner: spaghetti pesto as our first course, and chicken cordon bleu with beans as our second course. For dessert, I made myself a cup of milk with arenga sugar, then went to my room/studio to quickly update my weekly journal.
I wanted to read something light, so I opened One by Sarah Crossan on my Kindle—a middle-grade story about two conjoined sisters, told from the perspective of one of them (Grace) in verses.
Amsterdam
TUESDAY, June 3, 2025
I was sobbing as I finished reading One by Sarah Crossan; it was so sad and beautiful at the same time. What an excellent middle-grade book!
D went out to have dinner with his friends, so I made my chicken porridge again, using leftover rice, but in a street-food style this time: with grilled shredded chicken (marinated in yellow spice), kerupuk (crackers), and of course, onion sambal. It was so good, and I felt like I was transported home right away!
I read more from Orbital (my new reading light just arrived!). I was reading slowly because I was so afraid this book would end. Then I continued with a little bit of Call Me by Your Name, and I realized my problem with it was primarily due to how they had labeled it as “the greatest love story of all time.” If only it weren’t labeled that, it wouldn’t be as problematic.
Amsterdam
WEDNESDAY, June 4, 2025
D told me he would take me to a surprise spot before going to the office, and we ended up at The Book Exchange. I loved this second-hand bookshop, and I used to come here a lot when D and I were still dating, but I hadn’t visited it in years. I could have taken hours selecting books there, but since we needed to go to the office, I managed to choose my books in an hour.
I found The Mortgaged Heart, Reflections in a Golden Eye, and The Haunted Boy by Carson McCullers—she was one of my favorite authors, and I would read anything she wrote. I also found a classic copy of Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style—I had bought so many copies of this book over the years (university/work/courses/trainings, etc.), but someone always borrowed my copies, and I ended up not having any. So, for EUR2, I snatched it. It was just one of those books you needed to have on hand.
On one of the top shelves, I saw Writing from the Inside Out by Dennis Palumbo, which, as I flipped through the pages, reminded me of Natalie Goldberg, so I adopted it for those days when I needed inspiration and comfort. I took Miller’s Death of A Salesman for my study of the play’s dramatic arc, and Ginsberg’s Howl, Kaddish, and Other Poems—for when I needed some inspiration for something raw, energetic, charged, and spontaneous. I also discovered Five Quarters of the Orange by Joanne Harris, and I loved her work as a comfort read for cold, rainy autumn or winter days. It was like knowing I was in good hands, and I would just be transported into the story, wherever she decided to take me, and it was always a good journey.
And last but not least, I got this first edition of Salad Anniversary by Machi Tawara. I had never heard about this book before, but I had a feeling…
The book was wrapped in plastic (since it was a 1st edition) and there were no blurbs at the back, so I couldn’t peek inside or find out what it was about (or maybe I could if I asked the staff to open the plastic seal, but anyway…). I could Google it, of course, but it was like robbing myself of the fun. So I decided to try my luck and just got it. I was overjoyed when I opened it at home and began reading, and then I went online to find out more about the book. It was my kind of book—I could see myself swallowing it whole as a 20-year-old hopeless (or should I say hopeful) romantic: a poetry-prose on love, heartache, and longing.
I wanted to flip through it and read it some other time, but I couldn’t stop myself from starting to read the whole book.
“You love boiled tofu for dinner. Remembering, I bought a little earthen pot.” (Tawara 19)
“Late afternoon— you and I gazed at the same thing as between us something ended.” (Tawara 22)
“Parents claim to raise their children but garden tomatoes turn red unbidden.” (Tawara 109)
“The day I left for Tokyo Mother looked older by all the years of separation ahead “(Tawara 144)
“Three-thirty p.m. in a noodle shop— listening to the whisper of frying tempura” (Tawara 183)
We read “Sestina” by Bishop in class yesterday evening, and since then, I have been obsessed with creating a sestina for my Bishop exercise. The rigid structure excited me, and I realized how limitations could stimulate my creativity.
I made a cucumber, lettuce, and tomato sandwich with cream cheese for lunch before heading to the office. Today, I managed to get the number of processed orders down to 89, which was a huge relief since this was more or less our “normal” open orders compared to the 400+ open orders at the end of last week. I think this was the first day I would have a good night’s sleep since we returned from Italy.
I grilled my pesto-marinated salmon in the oven and prepared rice for dinner while reading Orbital on the couch. After dinner, I continued to tinker with my Bishop exercise. It was gratifying to become so immersed in something that I lost track of time.
Amsterdam
FRIDAY, June 6, 2025
I took an off day today and spent the whole morning working on my sestina for class, while also replying to emails and completing some administrative tasks on the side. I created my 3-month checklist on Notion yesterday, so I felt a bit calmer seeing everything laid out that way, knowing I could check a few items off each day (although new items tended to slip in from time to time).
D made lunch today; he prepared a salad with beans and schnitzel. He went to the office to help ship some items while I stayed home and worked on my final leg with the Bishop exercise. I made sure to read the piece out loud several times to ensure everything flowed the way I intended. I decided to wait a day or two before submitting my assignment, to re-read my sestina on Saturday and Sunday and see if there was anything I wanted to change.
When D came home, we tried to decide what we wanted for dinner, and since we just used the ‘winner-picker’ wheel for the shop’s raffle, we decided that was how we’d choose. We ended up with “sushi” winning this dinner raffle, but when D went to the sushi place, it was closed. Next door was a new Korean place, Cham, that we had never tried, so we chose that. D got his bibimbap, and I got my spicy tofu and vegetable deopbap.
Amsterdam
SATURDAY, June 7, 2025
I finished reading Orbital and Salad Anniversary today.
Both were so good, and I felt so happy I finished them. Orbital was terrific; it deserved its awards. I always read a few parts out loud because the language was so lyrical, and they truly read like spoken word poetry. People said they had trouble identifying each astronaut after some time, but I didn’t have that problem. The characters of each one were pretty apparent to me, with their memories and quirks, so I was never really confused about who was speaking the whole time (I loved Chie’s lists! I made lists, too!).
Salad Anniversary was so heartwarming, and the way it carried the Tanka tradition—honoring it while also making it contemporary—was inspiring. I also read how, upon its publication, the writer, Machi Tawara, received many letters from readers writing contemporary Tanka to her, capturing their feelings.
That was, I believed, the highest compliment a writer could receive: how their writings inspired and moved others, in the spur of the moment, to write and express themselves. In the evening, we made nachos with cheese, homemade guacamole, and tomato salsa along with store-bought aioli, and ate dinner while re-watching The Big Short.
Amsterdam
SUNDAY, June 8, 2025
Another rainy and windy day. I needed something wholesome and light, so I reread my childhood novels, Mallory Towers, while eating oatmeal with banana and berries, and then finally finished Call Me by Your Name.
My opinion held for this novel: it should not be labeled as the greatest romance or love story of our time. If only this novel hadn’t been advertised or marketed that way, I wouldn’t have had such a hard time with it. If only, at the end of the book, either Elio or Oliver could have looked back on that summer and realized something, understanding what was wrong (and what felt right), and we were shown how their thoughts/feelings had matured—now that they were adults in their 40s or 50s, it could have been a good enough resolution. Sadly, it didn’t happen. Gladly, I slipped into The Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano and sighed in relief, knowing from the get-go that this would be good and memorable.
We went to visit E and R at the open-air market where they sold kimchi and pajeon. It was cold and windy, and when we arrived, it was pouring. Everyone tried to hide beneath the tents of the stalls. Then the wind blew so hard that some people’s stalls almost toppled, and their boxes and packages flew away. D bought me a super bright and playful yellow gilet from one of the stalls—he knew I was always in need of a bodywarmer!
We came home with two packets of kimchi, and (please forgive me, Italians) I made my creamy kimchi spaghetti (using a carbonara recipe of whisked egg yolks and pecorino). I liked how the sourness of the kimchi made the whole creamy and cheesy pasta taste lighter.
We left our farmstay in the morning, and as we walked down the rocky path to the main road, one of the cats followed us like a dog until we hopped into the van. It was so cute and heartbreaking at the same time!
The sun was intense as we stopped in Parma for lunch and a little sightseeing before heading home. I went inside the Fiaccadori bookshop from 1829 (located near the Duomo and the Baptistery), admiring some beautiful canvas-covered editions of great works; the size would fit perfectly for my regular Traveler’s Notebook cover. I also visited the Art Nouveau post office, Palazzo delle Poste, housed inside the Riserva building, which was used to host guests of the court, nobles, and courtiers. I licked my pistachio-bacio gelato near Borgo dell Gallo, feeling a bit nervous because I hadn’t touched my assignment for the writing class. I was supposed to submit it that day before 6 pm.
We left Parma around 4:15 pm, so I whipped out my laptop from my bag and started typing like crazy inside the van. I already had a general idea about the story I wanted to tell, but I had no time to think things through or polish the characters and dialogue, so be it.
I submitted my exercise at around 5:40 while we were still on the road. I was amazed I didn’t vomit from typing all the way home. After carrying our luggage upstairs, D treated me to a cup of granita maracuja from the gelateria across the street.
Albiate
TUESDAY, May 27, 2025
It had rained so hard last night, starting around midnight and continuing into the early morning hours. Temporale, Mama said. Lightning woke us up now and then with flashes of bright light, and it felt like the room shuddered every time we heard the thunder. Somehow, after some time, I fell asleep despite all this.
I spent the whole morning reading everyone else’s pieces for the class and giving critiques. It was obvious some of them were good with sci-fi. I made myself a giant cup of coffee with toasted almond mylk that I kept sipping slowly until lunchtime. Mama prepared a large pan of risotto luganega for lunch (primi) and grilled branzino and potatoes with rosemary in the oven (secondi). We were so full from the risotto (we had two servings each because it was so good, and risotto was my Italian comfort food), so we decided to save the branzino for dinner.
I finished Our Wives Under the Sea. To me, it was a love story—the feeling of losing someone gradually, and finally letting that someone go, since loving them meant wanting them to be happy; all wrapped up in an eerie underwater mystery. I started ‘Call Me by Your Name’ today and decided to skip the annotation for now.
Albiate
WEDNESDAY, May 28, 2025
For lunch, Aunt B took us to Etna Cafe for pranzo di lavoro—a set meal designed for workers, consisting of a first course, a second course, and a side dish, along with water or coffee, usually priced between EUR8 and EUR13, depending on the restaurant and location.
We always enjoyed visiting places that offered workers’ meals whenever we were in the area. Aunt B said this place was well known for its Southern cuisine. We all ordered different combinations of dishes so we could try each other’s plates, and everything was delicious. I would definitely go back for their pasta carbonara and norma. The portions were big, but not too heavy.
Aunt B called out the chef to compliment him on the meals, and he said he came from Naples. When Aunt B asked what had led him to end up in Brianza, he said, “Per amore”—for love.
Mamma went out for an evening event, so before my class, D took me to an aperitivo—meant to “open up” the stomach before dining—in the neighboring town, but this would actually be my dinner. I had Crodino (with lemon and ice, tasting like Aperol Spritz) and munched on chips, pizza slices, and croutons.
In class tonight, we read an excerpt from Leila Aboulela’s short story, “Something Old, Something New”. I had never heard of her before (she was a Sudanese writer with Egyptian roots), and I was instantly captivated by her style, her flow, and her subject matter (we discussed the benefits of having a limited third-person narrator to tell a story where one experiences something for the first time). Once the class finished, I got myself a copy of Aboulela’s short story collection, Elsewhere, Home, and read the whole story. It was excellent.
D’s cousin E came over, and we crossed the street to get some gelato (I had nocciola and salted pistachio this time) and sat in front of the house with Aunt B and Uncle G and their dog, Menu. Menu loved being rubbed and scratched. When we stopped, she would lift her paw and nudge us, asking us to keep rubbing or scratching her. So cute.
Albiate-Amsterdam
THURSDAY, May 29, 2025
We had lunch together with Aunt B and Uncle G this afternoon before heading to the airport. I made grilled chicken with salt, rosemary, and smoked paprika. D prepared red beans with feta cheese. Mamma made a big bowl of salad with leafy greens from Uncle G’s garden, and Aunt B made vitello tonnato—thinly sliced veal seasoned with mayonnaise, tuna, and capers. We had a slice of Colomba cake afterward to celebrate my birthday earlier.
We arrived at the airport three hours before our flight, so I took the time to browse my favorite place at Linate Airport: Il Fetrinelli. I finally got my cloth-bound copy of Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own (which I immediately read while sipping a matcha latte at the airport café) and Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo (R mentioned during class that it was a good book to see how a writer handled non-dialogue). I also discovered two other books by Italian writers that piqued my interest (so I grabbed them): The Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano and The Lovers by Paolo Cognetti.
I read A Room of One’s Own on the plane and couldn’t stop—Woolf’s arguments and observations were spot on, and some of her points remain relevant today when discussing women writers and artists in general. I finished the book while sipping a can of San Pellegrino Clementine on the couch. One of my favorite out of many underlined passages:
“It is a curious fact that novelists have a way of making us believe that luncheon parties are invariably memorable for something very witty that was said, or for something very wise that was done. But they seldom spare a word for what was eaten. It is part of the novelist’s convention not to mention soup and salmon and ducklings, as if soup and salmon and ducklings were of no importance whatsoever, as if nobody ever smoked a cigar or drank a glass of wine.” (Woolf 10).
Woolf, Virginia.(2014). A Room of One’s Own. Penguin Group.
Later in the evening, I picked up Call Me by Your Name again. I knew what I was getting into, so I wasn’t unprepared.
I understood that the book’s popularity largely came from its depiction of teenage lust and longing, sexual awakening, physical attraction, the ephemeral nature of “summer flings,” and eroticism. I also understood it might seem fitting for a teenager to obsess over their object of attraction to that extent, where everything was blown out of proportion, and every ‘hello’ was over-analyzed. You were practically falling for an idealized version of your crush.
However, I was 50 pages in and curious to see how Aciman, as a straight man himself, would handle the queer representation going forward (or whether he would only offer a romanticized view of this “relationship” until the end). How would he address the obvious power dynamics, consent issues, and ethical concerns between an older, experienced man and a younger, impressionable teenage boy (or would he, again, only romanticize this problematic aspect)? Would the narrator, Elio, who seemed to be depicted as an intelligent young boy, finally grow, or would he remain one-dimensional, defined only by his lust for Oliver? Would the 1980s Italian Riviera setting matter in the story, or would it serve merely as a picturesque backdrop?
Amsterdam
FRIDAY, May 30, 2025
Our first day back at the office after Il Passatore break, and we were greeted with more than 400 orders to process. I felt overwhelmed—it was a good problem to have, nonetheless. I couldn’t handle the pile that day because we needed to prepare for our Dutch Pen Show pop-up shop the next day.
I also found some delicious chips, noodles, and Pocky from Y and H to celebrate my birthday tomorrow—I loved consumable gifts! Snacking always reminded me to take a pause and enjoy a break, so having some Korean and Japanese snacks to nibble on was always a treat.
D also got me a pandan cheesecake from Koeah while he waited next door for the printing of our Dutch Pen Show signage. I didn’t know what to expect from the event. I guessed I would just bring my book to read during breaks and enjoy the atmosphere… sniffing inks while caressing expensive fountain pens I couldn’t afford!
I continued reading Call Me by Your Name, and it felt even more problematic as I delved deeper. I didn’t blame Elio for his wild thoughts and thirst as a teenager, but the fact that Oliver (a 24-year-old man, clearly an intelligent, educated, and more sexually experienced man) took advantage of Elio’s apparent feelings was disturbing, and Oliver’s character instantly came off as predatory and manipulative.
It felt like reading a retelling of Red Riding Hood, where you’re trying to convince Elio that Oliver was the Wolf, not the Grandma; knowing something bad was going to happen and being unable to stop it. It was like a horror story.
Imagine replacing Elio with a 17-year-old girl and keeping Oliver as a 24-year-old man. Visualize that girl as your teenage daughter, with Oliver working for you and living in your house. Consider that you may have suspected what was happening between your daughter and Oliver. Notice how you feel.
I was ready to give up on the book, but I also wanted to finish it to give it a fair chance—I wanted to be sure that I could defend my commentary on it, having read it through from start to finish.
However, I was in dire need of an alternative plan.
So, I’d read Orbital for now—just need to know I’d be in good hands for the time being—and The Solitude of Prime Numbers in the following days, and I would only go through Call Me by Your Name sparingly, maybe reading only 10-20 pages per day (I was on page 111 today).
Utrecht – Amsterdam
SATURDAY, May 31, 2025
Woke up this morning to my 42nd birthday, a cup of cappuccino with banana mylk, and a final mental checklist run-through before getting ready to go to Utrecht for the Dutch Pen Show. I brought Orbital with me, thinking I could read it during my downtime and then maybe go around to see other booths and treat myself a little.
I was delusional because, in reality, we didn’t stop from the time we arrived until closing time. We skipped lunch entirely, and I was fortunate to bring my large water bottle, so I remained hydrated. It was hectic, and we were still exhausted from yesterday’s flight, but we were thrilled to see everyone.
We saw many familiar faces, and it was like a small reunion in itself. We even saw B from HappyVintageCrafter, and it was lovely to meet her in person. She was kind enough to drop by, as I hadn’t known she would be at the Pen Show! C also dropped by several times, and she even helped me check and fix my pen nib, bringing along my pen with her to one of the nibmeisters at the event, as well as helping me hunting for a pen tray for A. D and A brought me a flower bouquet for my birthday… they were so sweet!
We met so many friends—and also new ones we only knew by their Instagram handles —and it was great to see them all. Meeting them was definitely the highlight of the event for me.
We returned around 6:30 pm, and then D and I got ready to celebrate my birthday dinner at an Italian restaurant in our neighbourhood, Testamatta—crazy head. We decided to take the 4-course Chef Recommendation menu for this special occasion (and to be surprised!). We also left it to them to choose the wine pairing for each course.
It was a lovely evening, we took our time and talked, sipping our wine, savoring delicious and visually-pleasing dishes (the floor manager laughed when he saw me doing my little dance and shrieked as I tasted the dish—“I’ve never seen anyone so enthusiastic about a meal”), while watching people pass by Overtoom (two bikes collided and the cyclists fell but they were friendly with one another and went their separate ways with no fuss, a few loud police cars and ambulances speeding away, a man and a woman on tandem bicycle—the woman was on the back and she was blindfolded?).
Amsterdam
SUNDAY, June 1, 2025
Woke up early today, made cappuccino with pea mylk for D and me, then spent the morning doing two rounds of laundry, folding dried clothes, washing dishes, and unpacking our Italy luggage while listening to an analysis on Hamlet. D went running with P and C so that I could have the morning for myself.
I finished all the chores faster than I thought. It was only 10:00 when I could finally wait for the laundry to finish. I made a cup of tea and sat on the sofa with my feet up, reading Orbital. It was truly beautiful; everything was beautiful, the imagery was beautiful, and the metaphors were beautiful. I read some parts out loud, and the words and sentences roll beautifully around the empty room.
I made porridge with leftover rice and chicken from the previous day for lunch—a light and comforting dish. Then, I worked on an idea for my Aboulela exercise for a while, and brewed another cup of tea. D came home not long after, took a shower, and we fell asleep on the couch. Then, at four, we decided to head out for coffee and reading time at Coffee District.
We had rice, salad with sesame dressing, and pan-fried salmon for dinner (I cooked, D went to get groceries and washed dishes). I spent my whole evening reading, alternating between Orbital, around 15 pages of Call Me by Your Name, and a few pages from The Diary of Virginia Woolf.
I’d been drinking a lot of iced Hojicha and matcha lattes these days. We bought six cartons of vanilla-flavored oat, pea, and almond mylk from Jumbo last week, and these days, after work, I’d whip up my favorite concoction: a cup of Hojicha or matcha I’d left in the fridge for a day, loads of ice cubes, liquid arenga sugar or hazelnut syrup, and vanilla mylk to fill up a Mason jar.
The sun had been going strong that spring, and there were times when I arrived home feeling as if I had gotten sunburned (was it even possible?). The sensation reminded me of those times when, as a child, I sat in the passenger’s seat of our red pickup, drowsy after a day at the swimming pool, feeling the heat of the day’s sun radiating from my skin. The smell of chlorine made me feel as if I weren’t made for this world—that I came from a different place, a different time, a different universe.
Probably that was why I always had this feeling of missing something I couldn’t explain: missing a place I had never been, missing people I had never met, missing a time I had never lived.
Amsterdam
TUESDAY, May 20, 2025
I couldn’t stop reading The Waves. I started last autumn, but I didn’t feel like it was the right time, and I was right. I started again on Sunday evening and felt like I was in a dream. It was so beautiful, tender, and atmospheric: the description of the sun in the sky, where the light hit, and how the waves mimicked the stages of life of the characters we were about to read. It was a poetic foreshadowing of what was to come.
The narrative structure was brilliant.
I took so many notes, bookmarked so many pages, and underlined so many passages. The way the story unfolded through soliloquies—only soliloquies—reminded me of those documentaries, when you wanted to tell an event (or a crime!) through different people’s recollections. One by one, they sat in a room, looked at the camera, answered some questions: who they were, where they were leading up to the event, how they got involved/witnessed what happened, what their relationship was to those involved in the event, and how their lives changed afterward.
In The Waves, we saw everyone’s lives from each other’s perspectives, just as in real life: we knew our version of the story or someone else’s version of the story, but never the whole story.
Amsterdam
WEDNESDAY, May 21, 2025
I left the office early that day and walked to Spui for my paperback copy of July’s All Fours. Then I treated myself to a solo lunch at Takumi, featuring steamed white rice, spicy fried tofu, and ebi furai. I was an hour late for lunch, so I was hungry and ate gratefully while watching people pass by on Kinkerstraat. It was nice just to eat and zone out, letting my mind rest for a bit. I couldn’t sleep the night before; my mind was full of to-do lists for the shop before we flew to Italy that Friday—things I needed to do, content I needed to film, and products I needed to upload. So, it might not have been a surprise that I woke up with only 9 out of 100 body battery that morning.
After lunch, I walked home slowly, enjoying the sun. I stopped by the Coffee District in the neighborhood for an iced matcha latte, sipping it while reading The Waves. I was almost finished, with only around 20 pages left.
Amsterdam
THURSDAY, May 22, 2025
It was raining on our way to the office today, and the wind was so strong that we saw some bicycles toppled on the sidewalk. On our way home, D slowed down, and our scooter scooted to the right, and I asked, “Are you thinking of stopping at Vlaamsch Broodhuys?”—and he said, “Well, yes, how did you know?”
Well, it was pretty obvious, really.
He got a huge focaccia with sea salt and rosemary, one whole piece, bigger than his head, and wanted me to take a picture of him eating it in front of the bakery.
I started packing my luggage as soon as we arrived home. It was funny that the first thought that crossed my mind was which journaling supplies I would pack, followed by which books I wanted to bring. This week’s writing exercise was about a narrator looking back at a cataclysmic event inspired by a piece from Diaz, so I guessed it would be fitting to bring Armfield’s Our Wives Under the Sea—and I thought I must also have something by Ferrante since we would be in Italy, so I popped in The Days of Abandonment; and lastly, for this month’s study after finishing The Waves, a beautiful copy of Aciman’s Call Me By Your Name—a Picador edition designed by Na Kim—that I found at the bookstore the other day. It was the only Picador copy on the shelf, and when I took it, I felt smug.
Amsterdam
FRIDAY, May 23, 2025
I woke up at 4:30 that morning while D was still fast asleep and went to the kitchen to make myself a cup of flat white with banana mylk. The house was quiet, and the neighbors’ houses were still dark. I sat at the dining table, sipping my coffee while scribbling in my journal about the wonderful feeling of being alone but not completely alone. It was like having your bubble that separated you from the rest of the world. It was one of the most peaceful moments I’d ever had in Amsterdam in years. I told myself I wouldn’t mind waking up this early if I could have this feeling now and then. I suppose it reminded me of who I once was and who I wanted to become.
***
There were six of us in the van: D, Mamma, Aunt B, Uncle G, D’s brother, S, and me. We landed at Linate (my luggage arrived first at the luggage belt, the only luggage… then after 15 odd minutes, everybody else’s luggage started showing up) and hopped onto the van to begin our adventure to Brisighella, where we’d be stationed for the duration of Il Passatore 100-km race. We stopped for lunch outside Modena, in Osteria Antica Anna e Marco, which was set in what seemed to be an old farmhouse. The building and interior were gorgeous, and it was so cool inside.
It was raining when we stopped in Faenza to pick up D’s race number (837), and we arrived in Brisighella late afternoon.
Our stay was also in an old farmhouse, Casa di Otello, with a gorgeous, uninterrupted view of the rolling green hills of Toscana. Two young and curious cats and a donkey with beautiful eyes were also on the premises, and I just found out that a donkey sounded like a rusty water pump.
Standing before our bedroom window and soaking in the green hills around me, I thought, “I can see myself living here.”
Brisighella
SATURDAY, May 24, 2025
I prepared rice and chicken for D’s pre-race meals in the morning. Then we hopped into the van and headed to Firenze for D’s starting line. We dropped him near the Duomo and made our way to Borgo San Lorenzo for D’s first stop (30 km), where Uncle G would follow him with his bicycle through the night, carrying water, gels, and other supplies. I saw M and A passing this checkpoint and high-fiving them, and met E a bit further down—she was still waiting for R to pass this point.
Aunt B drove our van back to Brisighella through the steep and curvy Strada Provinciale roads. The view was beautiful, but the many curves we had to pass for three and a half hours straight made me nauseous. Aunt B was unaffected—she was impressive like that.
At 3:45 a.m., I made some coffee for Aunt B, as she would drive us to Faenza to pick up D at the 100-km finish line. It was so cold (6 degrees Celsius early in the morning) as we waited at the piazza with the crowds. We finally saw D running toward us, and he was looking good. His second time finishing the Il Passatore race, about 2 hours earlier than last year.
Brisighella
SUNDAY, May 25, 2025
We were all half-asleep, half-awake the whole day, not having had enough time to sleep the day before. Only Aunt B and Uncle G were still energized enough to see Torre dell’Orologio, the clock tower of Brisighella, after dropping us off at our farmstay.
I drifted in and out of sleep the whole day, waking up every few hours to sip water or nibble my insalata di polpo from the fridge. Today was so hot that I woke up sweaty from my frequent naps, but then I would enter the kitchen and feel cold, so I needed to run upstairs to grab my sweater.
In the afternoon, we all lay down on the grass and the sunbed, overlooking the green hills before us, taking in the majestic view. The two cats ran around us, playful and curious.
Dinner took place at Cantina del Bonsignore, where last year’s post-race dinner was held, and we met everyone there: A and R, who managed to finish the race, and M and E, the supporting crew. A would lose one of her nails, which had been peeled off during the race, but she was pretty stoic about it. R told us a funny story about running through the night with his headlamp—the light attracted a swarm of flying insects to his forehead, so he felt like he was in a cartoon movie: when someone just got hit in the head and saw a constellation of stars spinning above.
I took another digital detox this weekend—I limited myself to a 5-minute screen time on Saturday and Sunday to quickly check my business account. I closed my social media account for the rest of the days. I spent my morning journaling, then perched myself on the couch, reading Natalie Goldberg’s The Great Spring while sipping my coffee and slurping my chocolate avocado mousse. I had a long sound-bathing session and journaled some more; then, in the afternoon, D and I went to De Klok in Spaarndam-West to have some Radlers, chill, and read. I watched people’s boats passing—couples on a picnic and their dogs.
We stopped by Mari Rasa to grab my comfort food: nasi goreng and tahu isi with peanut sauce dip. In the evening, we went to the Altini’s for a pizza dinner and a stroll at Westerpark—and I caressed their ‘guest’ Chartreux: so fluffy, soft, and cuddly. It reminded me of Moortje—the neighbor’s black cat who went missing a week ago. I used to stop and play with her on my way home from Albert-Heijn.
On Sunday, I burned incense: Lotus and Angel Dust—an homage to my roots. I once told my friend I wanted a house that smelled like a yoga shala. It was amazing how the sense of smell can transport you to a different mental state. I had another sound-bathing session under the skylight—the sunshine pouring over me, continued reading Goldberg, dove into my journaling practice, and then returned to The Great Spring. In the afternoon, Dita came over. I told her I had some Indonesian food to share. We discussed life, work, books, creative pursuit, and food upon shared Radler, coffee, and tahu isi. We both love Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones and Ferrante’s novels.
Then the thunderstorm came, bringing fierce and frightening lightning that seemed like splitting the sky open. I remember I used to be so afraid of lightning as a little girl. I would wrap myself in a thick blanket and close my eyes and ears so I couldn’t see or hear anything. My parents needed to nudge me to get me out of the blanket when the storm passed because I wouldn’t know otherwise. Under the blanket, I was numbing myself from anything external. It was an isolation, a space capsule, a shell—it felt protective and vulnerable at the same time. I still felt like that little girl hiding under a blanket some days.
I always thought I was not made for the constant social interaction and stimulation social media offered. Lately, I feel sick after scrolling social media for over ten minutes. The choice was to ignore that feeling or respect it. I used to do digital detox most weekends and wanted to do this again. No emails, no checking of DMs. I wanted to start again from Friday evening until Monday morning. To reclaim my mental space and experience the world rather than just looking at it pass by from a little screen.
I started getting my paints, pastels and brushes out. I was still too depleted to paint, but I did some color swatches while listening to Sandi’s landscape note-taking course, doing sketches from Emma’s and Sarah’s Patreon, and accepting that creativity can ebb and flow. Still, we always have a choice to do something nonetheless: to pick up that pen, that brush… ourselves. To build a habit of creating and expressing without having to end up with a finished piece, without any agenda apart from letting things out, without any expectation of an aha moment. It just is.
It had been a tough week.
I learned long ago that you cannot please everybody—but I was so wired to do so. It is in me, and I am still trying to unlearn it. I still have to remind myself repeatedly, every single day, that I only have one life—and I want to live it the way I want to… now, every single day.
D and I watched Kim’s Convenience on Sunday evening to wind down. We laughed. I brushed my teeth and took a long shower before bed. I washed my hair. I sprayed Berdoues above my pillow. I dreamed about returning to high school—at a student council meeting, planning for a school festival. I dreamed about eating together at a long table, blurry conversations.
I woke up to the Parade music from Paprika by Susumu Hirasawa. Cyan told me to watch this Satoshi Kon’s movie a few days ago, and I did. I love it.
It was Monday morning, and I still felt like marching in a dream.
Setting boundaries and not letting other people completely drain your willpower, attention, hope, and energy: self-care. Communicating what you need or want clearly, in a calm manner, instead of repressing, denying, or being passive-aggressive about it: self-care. Stop making excuses and start making time to work on your dreams: self-care. Seeking (professional) help when it feels like you can’t keep yourself afloat anymore: self-care. Stop caring about what random people think of you and start caring about how you think about yourself: self-care.
Standing up for yourself when necessary: self-care. Closing or quitting a chapter in your life, career, or relationship that does not align with whom you want to be and how you want to live your life—then preparing yourself for a new journey: self-care. Feeling under the weather, not wanting to do anything, and not feeling guilty about it: self-care.
Moving on: also self-care.
Working on your issues: self-care.
Sorting out your finances: self-care.
Taking care of your health: self-care.
Not taking things too personally: self-care.
Forgiving yourself: self-care.
In the end, self-care is not always about doing the things that make us feel good or give us instant gratification. It’s also about doing the RIGHT thing: something that is good for us in the long run—even if it may feel hard at times.
I believe that we can have our own self-care rituals that can be done at home without having to spend a lot of money. Sure, self-care can sometimes be about treating ourselves (getting that manicure, going on that vacation, staying at that nice B&B); but this is not the only way. Self-care doesn’t have to be expensive. We have other options. It’s not only about ‘the treat’—but also about how we treat ourselves. I believe that self-care is not only about having fun. It also takes discipline and patience—just like how you would care for a plant.
So, here is a list of self-care activities you can do starting today:
1.
Take a long shower. While you are showering and lathering your body with soap, bless and thank all your body parts from head to toe.
2.
Eat when you are hungry. Drink when you are thirsty. Rest when you are tired. Cry when you feel the need to. Listen to your body.
3.
Say kind things to yourself throughout the day. Appreciate and compliment yourself.
4.
Massage your neck, shoulder, legs, upper arms, or other body parts that feel stiff with your favorite massage oil. Wish these body parts well while you massage yourself.
5.
Eat from your favorite plate. Drink from your favorite mug. Write with your favorite pen. Surround yourself with the things you love. Enjoy the nice things you have.
6.
Hug yourself in the morning, under the blanket. Smile when you see your reflection in the mirror as if you’re smiling at a good friend.
7.
Remember to breathe deeply and give your body a little stretch throughout your day.
8.
When you catch yourself comparing yourself to others or talking harshly to yourself, stop and do something else. Jump. Stretch. Do a silly dance. Listen to your favorite song. Go make yourself a cup of tea.
9.
Keep the promises you make to yourself. You deserve to be treated with respect by yourself.
10.
When you close your eyes, stop the temptation to replay past hurts or mistakes. Instead, imagine all the wonderful things you would like to experience in the future.
In August, I attended a friend’s ceramic and illustration exhibition and gasped at her beautiful work: a giant dog and smaller ones, tiny turtles, wonky tulips, green grasses and bushes, colorful snakes. Everything was so cheerful, so playful, so summery! Her exhibition started as her graduation project—where one of her teachers questioned her cute and joyful park. “Where are the drug dealers and the homeless?”
“How did you reply to that?” I asked her.
“Well,” she said. “I told them this is how I remember parks. These are the things I see when I walk on a summer day at the park.”
“It’s your park,” I nodded.
***
One afternoon, this conversation came to mind as I sat at my desk at one of Ubud’s co-working spots. We arrived a few weeks before, from the best Amsterdam summer in years: I was walking around with shorts and sleeveless tops all day, drinking cold water from the fridge and dragging our living room carpet to Vondelpark for a nap.
But the rainy season is coming to Ubud. I wake up to rain and inch out of bed only when the coffee has been served on the terrace, wrapped in a jacket and smelled of minyak telon. I don’t mind this kind of weather. It feels like home.
I haven’t been writing a lot these past two years. I haven’t been sharing a lot as well. I didn’t have the mental capacity to do so. Moving to Amsterdam during the pandemic—with lockdowns and curfews, far from friends and families, didn’t sit well with me. I was sad most of the time. Angry, other times. Small things triggered my insecurities. I wrote in my journals almost every day, and usually, I ended up crying or feeling empty.
So I didn’t write a lot, and I didn’t share a lot. Not because I only wanted to share happy things but because I hadn’t processed my sadness. It was still too raw to share, and sharing it felt irresponsible. I wanted to take it slow, to sit with the feeling until it peaks, transforms, or passes—without feeling like I had to hurry the process.
I read a lot.
I made art and learned how to paint with acrylics.
I filled up sketchbooks.
I even started running (thanks to my persistent and supportive husband).
I cooked daily because food is my comfort, medicine, and security blanket. The stove was busy with pans and pots, the four burners occupied. I made chicken porridge, eggplant rendang, stuffed tofu, Kalasan fried chicken, shrimp with salted egg, liver in sweet soy sauce and margarine, and vegetable dumplings. It was my way of bringing home (or the feeling of home) closer: everything that is nostalgic, familiar, and missed.
***
A few months after I moved to Amsterdam, an editor friend asked me to write a book about living there. When I arrived in Jakarta after two years, she asked me, “What happened with the book?” I said, “I couldn’t do it yet.” I tried many times, but everything I wrote came out angry, sad, and ugly—whereas Amsterdam was depicted as a cold, hostile, and menacing city (it’s NOT!). I was too wrapped up in my sadness that I couldn’t see things objectively, let alone write about it.
Another friend of mine, upon hearing this, told me, “Maybe you can start writing in Ubud. Maybe distance gives you perspective.”
That was when the ‘park’ conversation came to me.
***
Sure, there are many things in the park—and if we’re observant, we’ll see everything during our walks.
Sometimes we need to see things we don’t wish to see and sit with that. To think of what we can do or accept what we aren’t capable of doing (yet). But there are also times when we can choose to capture things that uplift us, things that will make us smile and feel hopeful.
Our mind is a park. My mind is a park.
grounding at the park, stepping barefoot on the grass, look out for dog poo.
—my lousy attempt in haiku.
When my park is dark and stormy, I’d prefer not to have people walk around there. It’s not safe. The trees may fall, the storm may soak you wet, and the wind howls so loud you cannot hear anything. But when my park is lush and sunny, I’ll be happy to have people come over: to smell the flowers, nap under the tree, enjoy a picnic accompanied by the dogs, the ducks, and the birds, or play catch.
And I’ll share the stories about the dark and stormy nights on a warm, sunny day.
Happy New Year 2022! Wherever you are, whoever you’re with, I hope you’re all well, healthy, and safe. As usual, on the last few days of the Previous Year and the first few days of the New Year, I will spend some time journaling. Not so much about creating a resolution of some sort, but more about taking the time to reflect and refocus—like doing warm-ups before going on a long hike.
Here are some journaling prompts I have been using this year to ease my way into 2022.
Feel free to go through each one and notice if some of them (or maybe all of them?) are calling out to you.
1. WHAT ARE SOME OF THE MOST MEMORABLE THINGS THAT HAPPENED TO ME LAST YEAR?
They are things that you want to keep, remember, and cherish, either because they remind you of the things you’re good at, how strong or blessed you are, or because they teach you a valuable lesson about life, or because they give you an experience that opens up your horizon and change your perspective. Do you see any resemblance between them?
2. WHAT WERE SOME OF THE MOST CHALLENGING THINGS FOR ME LAST YEAR?
Despite all those challenges, here you are. You are still here. Know that you can thrive at one thing and barely survive another, that you can be proud of something and be disappointed in something else, that you can feel grateful for some things and still feel sad or unfulfilled from time to time, that it’s okay to feel like things are hard or challenging or difficult while enjoying little bursts of joy.
3. WHAT ARE THE THINGS FROM LAST YEAR THAT I WANT TO DO MORE THIS YEAR? WHAT ARE SOME OF THE THINGS I AM CURIOUS ABOUT/ INTERESTED IN?
I love the message from the book Essential: Essays by The Minimalists, where they talk about cultivating a passion instead of finding/following a passion. I like to think of it as things that make our lives beautiful, fun, or enjoyable (however that looks to you)—the things we live for.
4. WHAT ARE THE THINGS I WANT TO DO LESS THIS YEAR? WHAT ARE SOME OF THE THINGS I WANT TO LET GO/STOP DOING?
I love the concept of ‘mentally/emotionally decluttering’ and ‘unlearning‘. We’ve absorbed so many things throughout our lives (information overload, over-stimulation, societal pressure) that might have weighed us down. Is it possible to declutter or unlearn these things?
5. WHICH ROLE I WOULD LOVE TO TAKE THIS YEAR, AND WHICH ROLE WOULD IN’T MIND TAKING?
When I was still working full time, we had a weekly team meeting where we asked each other what role would we choose in the office—if that role had nothing to do with our job titles, tasks, or functions.
Someone said, he’d be the clown, making people laugh with his jokes and funny impressions.
Someone else said, she’d be the decorator, making things look neat, pretty, and artistic.
Someone said, he’d be the problem solver.
Someone said, she’d be the cheerleader.
Someone said, he’d be the dreamer.
Someone said, she’d be the devil’s advocate.
What role would you be happy to play in life?
What role would you choose for yourself at work, at home, at school, among friends, that had nothing to do with your assigned function, expectations, duties, or assumed responsibilities?
What role would you not mind filling?
When you’re thinking that you have no idea about your passion or not knowing your life purpose yet, maybe you can focus on the role you’d love (or wouldn’t mind playing).
How can you play this role more often wherever you are, whatever you do, whomever you’re with?
6. WHO ARE THE PEOPLE THAT HELPED ME MAKE LAST YEAR FUN, ENJOYABLE, MEMORABLE, OR BEARABLE?
Write their names, what they did, and what it meant to you: how the things they do have impacted you. Write them a message, call them, text them, write an open letter, or send them a postcard telling them about what you have written, about what they mean to you. They can be people you know, someone from work, a client, a good friend, a stranger, or someone on the Internet. Reach out. Build bridges.
7. FROM A GENTLE HEART, WHAT ADVICE WOULD I GIVE MY FUTURE SELF TO FACE 2022?
Take a deep breath and imagine all the things you’ve experienced in life that have brought you here, at this point in your life. See your future self in 2022 with love, kindness, and affection—the way you see a good friend or a loved one. Write a letter/a piece of advice to them, write whatever comes to mind for 10-15 minutes, and write as fast as possible, without stopping, without editing. See what comes up.
with much love,
hanny
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Hi. I'm HANNY
I am an Indonesian writer/artist/illustrator and stationery web shop owner (Cafe Analog) based in Amsterdam, the Netherlands. I love facilitating writing/creative workshops and retreats, especially when they are tied to self-exploration and self-expression. In Indonesian, 'beradadisini' means being here. So, here I am, documenting life—one word at a time.
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The book was wrapped in plastic (since it was a 1st edition) and there were no blurbs at the back, so I couldn’t peek inside or find out what it was about (or maybe I could if I asked the staff to open the plastic seal, but anyway…). I could Google it, of course, but it was like robbing myself of the fun. So I decided to try my luck and just got it. I was overjoyed when I opened it at home and began reading, and then I went online to find out more about the book. It was my kind of book—I could see myself swallowing it whole as a 20-year-old hopeless (or should I say hopeful) romantic: a poetry-prose on love, heartache, and longing.
We left Parma around 4:15 pm, so I whipped out my laptop from my bag and started typing like crazy inside the van. I already had a general idea about the story I wanted to tell, but I had no time to think things through or polish the characters and dialogue, so be it.
I finished Our Wives Under the Sea. To me, it was a love story—the feeling of losing someone gradually, and finally letting that someone go, since loving them meant wanting them to be happy; all wrapped up in an eerie underwater mystery. I started ‘Call Me by Your Name’ today and decided to skip the annotation for now.
In class tonight, we read an excerpt from Leila Aboulela’s short story, “Something Old, Something New”. I had never heard of her before (she was a Sudanese writer with Egyptian roots), and I was instantly captivated by her style, her flow, and her subject matter (we discussed the benefits of having a limited third-person narrator to tell a story where one experiences something for the first time). Once the class finished, I got myself a copy of Aboulela’s short story collection, Elsewhere, Home, and read the whole story. It was excellent.
I understood that the book’s popularity largely came from its depiction of teenage lust and longing, sexual awakening, physical attraction, the ephemeral nature of “summer flings,” and eroticism. I also understood it might seem fitting for a teenager to obsess over their object of attraction to that extent, where everything was blown out of proportion, and every ‘hello’ was over-analyzed. You were practically falling for an idealized version of your crush.
It was a lovely evening, we took our time and talked, sipping our wine, savoring delicious and visually-pleasing dishes (the floor manager laughed when he saw me doing my little dance and shrieked as I tasted the dish—“I’ve never seen anyone so enthusiastic about a meal”), while watching people pass by Overtoom (two bikes collided and the cyclists fell but they were friendly with one another and went their separate ways with no fuss, a few loud police cars and ambulances speeding away, a man and a woman on tandem bicycle—the woman was on the back and she was blindfolded?).
We had rice, salad with sesame dressing, and pan-fried salmon for dinner (I cooked, D went to get groceries and washed dishes). I spent my whole evening reading, alternating between Orbital, around 15 pages of Call Me by Your Name, and a few pages from The Diary of Virginia Woolf.
