Personal Narrative: A Brave New World

A thin, brown stick glows. From its tip exudes a discreet swirling trail of smoke, as if from a genie’s lamp. The subtle spice of incense tingles my nose, and triggers an intense feeling of dromomania, the desire and longing for travel. My mind wanders off, and I find myself back in Vietnam, at the sacred Thien Mu Pagoda, where a field of bright orange incense sticks, set in a large bronze basin, glow against the hazy, muggy dusk. About me are Buddhist monks, some perched amidst the lush, green gardens; and others in a group over in a tiled, rectangular courtyard, immersing themselves in an intense, but friendly, game of soccer. The vision fades, and my nose transports me to the bustling streets of the Old Quarter of Hanoi where the sweet and

Bibliomania erupts in my core. My gaze runs left to right across the books’ spines. A thick, dark one reads, “Kafka on the Shore”, by Haruki Murakami, another, small and green in colour, ”Candide”, by Voltaire, and “The Fellowship of the Ring” resting on its side. I walk over to it. I reach up and gently open it. Inside is a galaxy of black letters, standing proud against the pale, creamy pages. “The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began,” it reads. I close the book and turn towards a tall, wooden door held slightly ajar; the door where my next journey is set to begin, I decide. I slip through the crack, and enter a vast hallway, dimly lit. I turn a corner, and a smell, so deliciously pungent, hits me, a whirl of flavour. I begin a cautious run towards it, careful not to disturb. I feel the Persian carpet rub softly against my tread, until I reach another similar door also held ajar. The smell, the oniony, garlicky, tomatoey smell, is now so intense, I feel as though a great wind is blowing upon me (though, despite its power, the smell is too great to retreat to). I pass through the door, and step into a wide, cavernous space. To the left I find the source of the smell: a kitchen. Amidst the flame and steam is a slightly stooping southern European-looking man, possibly Italian or Greek, roughly 70 years of age. He is in frenzy of cutting, frying, baking, opening and shutting drawers, losing himself in the great wooden pantry, and searching frantically in the glimmering aluminium refrigerator. Phagomania grips my throat, my lungs, and runs down to the tips of my fingers. The urge to run over, to talk to the man, and to learn his culinary secrets is intense. But I don’t. I stand and watch. And I notice that, despite the man’s panic, he takes great care; each cut is precise, and the frying pan is constantly tended to, as is the oven. Phagomania