Saturday, January 14, 2012


Walking past a lone cart full of fresh yellow lemons, this cloudy early morning of empty streets, the strong citron-y fragrance hits you like a sudden wave. You stop and turn around in wonder, dizzy.

When you resume your walk, smiling, slightly inebriated, you wonder, “How does the lemon seller ever get through his day sober?”, and you remember this luscious poem by Michael Ondaatje, about the cinnamon-peeler’s wife….

You can never make up your mind which of your senses brings you the most joy...

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