Category Archives: Blog Post

Generosity Shock

American students heading to the Middle East for a semester abroad are often barraged with the same repeated questions and warnings:  Isn’t it dangerous there? Are you going to have to cover your head? I heard they hate Americans there. I remember my granddad pulling me aside and telling me “Hon, I’m so proud of you, but I’m worried for you.”

He needn’t have worried. When I met my host family on my first night in Jordan, I was overwhelmed by their generosity. They insisted on making sure I had everything I needed and more, as they refilled my teacup again and again until I had to physically cover it with my hand so they’d get the hint that, no, I really didn’t want just one more cup. We talked about politics, culture, and food in the U.S. and Jordan. Every time I said I hadn’t tried a particular item yet, they jumped up to grab me a sample from the cabinet or fridge. My most memorable bite from that first week was a perfectly crunchy piece of falafel – a dish that would soon become a staple of my diet. Another early memory was my host mom Zain’s striking sense of style. She always wore a thoughtfully composed outfit and had her hair in silky curls. One morning, I complimented her blouse and she, seemingly instinctually, offered it to me: “I don’t need it, and I think the color would look great on you!” Taken aback, I stammered out a polite refusal.

A few weeks into my stay with the family, my host grandmother, Aida, went to the hospital for a surgery that she’d spent months worrying about. I went to visit her at the hospital during her post-op period, where I was greeted by her sons. They poured me mint tea into small paper cups whose careful design mimicked the traditional teacups at home. As the family chatted with the nurse, sharing tea and a large tray of chocolates, Aida began to stir. When she opened her eyes and saw me sitting at the edge of her bed, the first thing she asked was “Inti ghadeti, mama?” Have you eaten lunch, darling? Everyone around her exchanged knowing smiles, relieved; Aida was clearly back to normal. Worrying about everyone else before herself. The same woman once complained that Starbucks rewards weren’t generous enough. One free drink per month? They should really be doing three, at the very least. 

If my host family showed love through sharing food, Friday breakfast was the week’s grandest gesture. Aida handed out flatbread that she’d heated up on the portable radiators in the living room. The picnic table in the garden was covered with dishes made to share: fresh vegetables, fried halloumi, baba ghanoush, and of course, tea. As summer turned to fall and we moved to the table inside, we transitioned from mint to sage tea, which warms you up from the inside. Zain always picked up falafel from the nearby Hamada franchise, taking care to emphasize to the cashier that she wanted the freshest, hottest, crunchiest batch. And in a personal gesture foreign to American fast food franchises, the cashier always followed through with her request. Knowing that falafel was one of my favorite foods in Jordan, Zain would put some on my plate before I got the chance to serve myself. Even when I was so full of breakfast I could burst, she insisted on handing me the last bite; “Lem taftari,” she accused me. You haven’t even eaten breakfast! 

For the first few weeks, I felt so guilty refusing food that I had a serving of grilled lamb, even though I’d told my host family that I didn’t eat red meat. They wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I just didn’t want to offend them. Later on, I realized that their offers were just an obligatory part of their hospitality culture; even if my host family knew I’d refuse, they couldn’t imagine not offering me something they’d cooked. Knowing this, I got better at expressing my likes and dislikes, and backing myself up without fear of offense. As it turns out, a week of grilled lamb-induced illness is pretty motivating.

American students should be prepared for some level of culture shock when they arrive in Jordan, but I’d phrase the warnings I’d heard a little differently. You won’t have to cover your hair if you don’t want to, but you’ll learn to cover the top of your teacup. When you compliment someone’s clothing, don’t be surprised if they offer it to you. And it’s okay to say no to food — and if you refuse, you better stick to your guns.

Right Hand, Baby Steps

I was a bundle of nerves. My head throbbed and my skin prickled, my body trying to adjust to the sounds and smells of a new place. The performance I dreaded was not a voice recital or a major athletic event, but my first meal in Dakar, Senegal. In preparation for my semester away, I had read in travel books and materials provided by my program about the importance of mealtimes in Senegalese culture, and I wanted to start off on the right foot by impressing my host family with my knowledge. Maman Diagne, my host mother, Dieylani, my host brother, and Aim, their live-in maid, and I settled onto wood benches around the communal bowl. I picked up a spoon and dug in to our dinner of Senegalese couscous, beef, and carrots. Immediately, everyone around me cried out, “Non, non!” and gestured to my spoon. My host brother Dieylani tried to show me how he held his own. I focused on the position of his hand and tried once more, only to hear “non” again. The “Lonely Planet” page on Senegal had neglected to tell me eating with your left-hand is considered impolite, since the hand is used to wipe yourself in the bathroom. The issue wasn’t with how I held the spoon; it was which hand I held it in. Determined to make mealtime as smooth as possible, I switched the spoon to my right hand and faced my first meal in Senegal, my grip as unsteady as a small child making its first steps. 

My initial discomfort in navigating Dakar was overcome by the déjà-vu I experienced walking down each street; I was always reassured by the sight of NesCafé vendors, beignet-sellers, and the merchandise from corner boutiques populating the cluttered sidewalks. While exploring the neighborhood around our school one day, my friend Katie and I found Mohammed’s, a small sandwich shop nearby named for and run by Mohammed. His menu was straightforward: sandwich omelette-frites, consisting of an omelette and french fries, or sandwich omelette-spaghetti. I was hesitant: were eggs and spaghetti really supposed to go together? Mohammed had decided yes, and after trying this combination, I agreed. The logic of Mohammed’s sandwiches was indicative of the underlying norms of life in Senegal. Here, I found that the most unlikely of combinations made total sense. Plus, it tasted good: I averaged three of Mohammed’s sandwiches a week. The best part of the sandwich? They required two hands to be eaten, which left little chance for a cultural faux pas. 

I was initially very confused about these unspoken rules surrounding food: what were you supposed to do if a small fish bone ended up in your mouth at dinner? How much does bread cost if there were no labelled price tags at the corner-store? Why did our meals have so few vegetables? I followed Aim closely trying to get some answers. She found my incessant questions to be very funny. These awkward moments, where my previous interactions with food  conflicted with the underlying logic of eating in Senegal, (I usually did not eat food with bones in it, had always shopped at a grocery store with price tags, and tried to eat some form of veggies each day) brought Aim and me together. From her I slowly learned that bread costs 100 CFA, and I started buying my own “pain et beurre” at the same corner-boutique by school every morning. Aim, fascinated by my love for vegetables, took me with her to purchase tomatoes and salad to have with dinner some nights. These outings broke the ice between us and led to jokes about my ‘healthy’ eating habits. Because I loved salad, she called me “mouton,” or sheep. I was still getting used to the logic surrounding food in Senegal and Aim was getting used to my bizarre eating habits, but we bonded over a love for sweets. Together, we talked about our days over bags of sugar-coated peanuts, or snuck out of the house to get beignets. Somewhere along the way from salad to sugar, I started reaching for food with my right hand.

Catching Flights and Feelings

They say that airports have witnessed more sincere kisses than wedding halls. Three years ago, I kissed my beloved Bombay goodbye as I left for my four-year educational journey to Boston. Since then, I have flown back and forth several times, transitioning from Bombay’s muddled madness to Boston’s meticulous methods. The artist in me embraces the disorderly bustle of Bombay, while the economist in me appreciates the organized arrangement of Boston. The two cities are nothing alike, but they both have my heart.

Dreading my first trip to Boston, I set off for T-2 International Terminal, Bombay. I crossed the drop off lanes carefully, dodging the gridlock of cars that refused to abide by lane discipline. Flocks of families wept as they bid farewell to their loved ones. Their respective cars awaited their return only to worsen the traffic. I sped up a little every time I heard someone honk at me, dragging my carefully weighed 23 kg suitcases behind me. My ears buzzed with the cacophony of taxi drivers calling out to passengers. The turmoil kept me swift and speedy.

As I searched for the check-in counter, I couldn’t find a single sign with the word “Emirates”. Well, of course: the only way to find directions in Bombay was to ask someone. The airport personnel were gathered in a circle, chattering away. Drowning their voices were the constant announcements on the airport speakers. Hesitantly, I built up the courage to ask for directions. “I think it is straight ahead?” an attendant responded unassertive. I walked on, following intuition instead of instruction. 

 Finally, I found my way and joined the queue for the check-in counter. Just as it was my turn, a middle-aged woman cut in front of me, saying, “I am joining my husband, he was already in line.” Skeptical of her alibi, I reluctantly agreed to let her in. Everyone behind me glared and growled at this inconvenience. To top it all off, her bag was overweight, courtesy of the kilos worth of Indian snacks stuffed inside. I understood why she had cut me. There was something competitive that ran through our veins: a compulsive need to be first. I proceeded to show the officer my documents, a hurried and silent interaction.

23 hours later, I arrived at Boston Logan International Airport. As soon as the flight touched down, I unbuckled my seatbelt to find my cabin baggage. I was surprised to realize I was the only one doing so. I found my way back to my seat so that I didn’t draw any more attention than I already had. Calmly, silently and row-by-row, people moved towards the exit. Something about this rhythmic transit satisfied me.

As soon as I was off the aircraft, I picked up the pace. But, racing my fellow passengers to queue was pointless here; I couldn’t figure out which line to get into. I looked around, hoping for airport personnel to guide me, but there was no one in sight. Out of options, I looked up to read the signs: “US citizens”, “TSA pre” and “H-1B”. Which line to pick? Flustered, I followed young adults wearing Harvard and Northeastern hoodies, hoping they were students with the same visa status as me. Carefree and amenable, the crowd sorted itself into lines like clockwork. Thrilled by the test, I attempted to uphold the precision.

 An oppressive silence filled the air. My phone buzzed, drawing undue attention once again. I was whispering into the phone, reassuring my mother I was safe, when someone pointed in the direction of a sign: “No mobile phones”. My face flushed with embarrassment. When I finally reached the immigration counter, I had my documents ready for inspection, expecting the same abrupt interaction as the one in Bombay. The officer greeted me warmly, “So, Wellesley is an all women’s college?” Taken aback by his interest, I answered mechanically, “Yes.” While  processing my fingerprints we had a full-length conversation about the color of my nails. The exit, much like the rest of my experience at Boston Logan International airport, was a systematic dispersal. Clearly-labeled signs led me to the designated ride-sharing app pick up location. In a separate lane, cars moved nonchalantly, pausing tolerantly for pedestrians. I was fascinated by the diligent movements. 

Now, Boston is just as dear to me and my beloved Bombay. I am as comfortable in the coordinated, courteous conduct in Boston as I am in the chaotic, competitive confusion in Bombay. Here, the economist in me proceeds with methodical clarity; there the artist in me explores with instinctive idiosyncrasy. 

Tortilla

My parents always told me: “Food is love.” This meant my house was always stocked with comfort foods: everything from Oreos to penne bolognese. So when my host mother’s first question to me was, “¿Qué quieres pa’ comer esta noche? What do you want to eat tonight?” in her thick Andalusian accent, I thought I could learn to love Córdoba, Spain. We met in the train station and, after the formalities, we took a cab to what was going to be my home for the next four months: Apartment A, 3rd floor, on Duque de Hornachuelos road. As soon as I settled into my room Paquita called out, as she would for every meal we had together, “¡Camille! ¡Comemos!

I’d been eating on Spanish time for two weeks already during our program orientation, but it still felt strange settling in for dinner at 9:45 pm. Paquita refused to let me help her as she carefully carried three separate trays into the living room one by one. She set mine down in front of me and I took stock: a salad composed of iceberg lettuce, carrots, corn, and olive oil, a plastic cup of chocolate pudding, a small roll, and tortilla.

When I first arrived in Spain, I assumed that tortilla was the same as the one I was accustomed to in the US—flat, flour-based, hopefully wrapped around meat and beans. Tortillas are one of my favorite staples and I was quite distressed to be told it would be nothing like the food I was used to. Tortilla española is quite a different beast. Made entirely of egg and chunks of potato, it is cooked in a skillet like an omelet and cut into little wedges, with the occasional onion mixed in as desired. I found that my plate held half of the round. No little wedges for Paquita’s host daughter. It didn’t look like anything special. It was store-bought—all she’d done was pop it in the counter-top oven for a minute or two to bring it up to room temperature. And yet, I finished my half in fifteen minutes flat. Paquita urged me to eat more and I did my best in my clumsy Spanish to keep her from bringing me another helping. 

Francisca “Paquita” Lope Sanchez had raised three children and hosted 48 other study-abroad daughters, each of them incredibly well fed (she never let anyone leave the table without a second helping). She was a short, white-haired woman who initially intimidated me with her perfect lipstick and fancy scarves. But her continual warmth and wonderful food soon made me more than comfortable.

Tortilla became my comfort food, an opinion I seemed to share with most of Spain. Each restaurant had it on their menu, no matter its atmosphere. Bar Santos, the classic local cervecería—beer hall—was no exception. It was carefully placed in a shaded corner with a tall bar and chairs so high you have to jump a little to sit in them. “Beer hall” is certainly a bit of a stretch, since you can’t fit inside for much longer than the time it takes to order and pay. I often peered into the packed, dingy interior to ogle their famous version of tortilla. The tiny restaurant faces the world-famous Mezquita de Córdoba, the Mosque-Cathedral of Córdoba, an awe-inspiring marriage of Islamic and Catholic houses of worship. Hence the name, “Bar of Saints” or “Holy Bar.” They kept their wares on display: a small glass case with a spotlight showcased their unique tortilla, nearly a foot tall. The tourists who did fight the crowd to order it came out with paper-thin sheets of egg and potato on paper plates and found their way to the shady steps nearby to eat.

Bar Santos, oriented towards short-term visitors as it was, didn’t tempt me. But 100 Montaditos did. 100 Montaditos is a large, rowdy chain restaurant with locations all over Spain. Its name directly translates to “100 Little Sandwiches” and that’s exactly what they offer. My friends and I, on the rare nights we didn’t eat at home, would enter, battle for a too-short table, and then take turns at the counter rattling off the numbers of the sandwiches we wanted. After anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, the little sandwiches, arranged artfully on a platter, would pop out at the little window under a heat lamp. Montadito #2 is “Tortilla de patatas” and I ordered it every time, eating my pinky sized roll stuffed full of tortilla with gusto.

Turning from one tortilla to another marked my transition from one culture to another. The fact that I knew the difference at all made me feel more included in Spanish culture. Walking into a restaurant familiar with the menu and confident of my order made me feel competent and comfortable. But there was nothing that compared to Paquita’s tortilla. I had seen it in the packaging, seen her put it in the oven; there was no reason it should taste any better. I figured there could only be one difference: Paquita made it with love. I came home every night just to hear her call, “¡Camille! ¡Comemos!” and find my half-moon of eggs and potatoes waiting.

Micro-Realizations

My first ride in la micro down the coast between Viña del Mar and Valparaíso, Chile, was a bumpy one. Seated in the middle row of a small bus, I bounced in my seat as the driver flew down the main drag, ignoring reasonable speed limits. We stopped (or came to more of a brief pause, just long enough to get one foot on the step of the bus) near a fish market, and a few more people piled on. One of them was a woman selling Super8’s from several boxes attached together seemingly by magic and strung across her chest for convenience. I had no idea what the mysterious candy bar was, but the vendor very quickly sold me on her product in Haitian-accented Chilean Spanish: “¡Superochos, superochos, superochos! A crunchy, tasty snack, perfect after a long day of work or school, cookies bathed in chocolate!” I frantically gathered my pesos and tried to make my purchase before the vendor disembarked at the next stop. After losing coins to the abyss under my seat, I finally scored my first superocho.

I grew up in New York. I’m accustomed to walking through the streets with a pizza slice in hand, catching rogue cheese in my mouth while also trying to swipe a metrocard (this has about a 75% success rate). In Chile, I was happy to replace my pizza with a completo— a hot dog with avocado, ketchup, mayo, and sauerkraut. It comforted me as I acclimated to daily life and filled the gaps in my new eating schedule. My affair with street foods would soon grow from the safe-bet — and study abroad program approved—bus commute candy bars to empanadas de queso bought from the trunks of cars on lunch breaks, beachside sopaipillas (fried dough) from shopping-cart-rigged grills, and many, many approximations of falafel from vegan hippie youths, sitting just outside campus with their coolers and hand-rolled cigarettes.

Public transport and main streets weren’t just marketplaces for food, though. Vendors sold tissues on the train—a godsend when I caught an awful cold— or used clothing on the sidewalks. Outside grocery stores, they sold the products found inside for a fraction of their price. One day I picked up some laundry detergent outside Jumbo, the Chilean Walmart, from a Haitian family with adorable young children, whom I spoke to in our mutual second-language-Spanish. I purchased a hair scrunchie on my way to class after losing the ever-present one from my wrist, and chatted with the woman who was selling them to pay her daughter’s high school fees. Before launching into their sales pitches, micro vendors explained what brought them there: a collapsing economy, losing a job, moving cross-continent. Due to Chile’s own economic problems, the vendors relied on these sales to support themselves, children, ailing parents, or extended family back home. A Venezuelan doctor, struggling to make ends meet, sold me a red ballpoint pen.

When I first arrived in Chile, I wrote a journal entry about this street-vendor culture: how it added life to the city, shaped my days, and made me feel almost at home. This was true, but incomplete. Back in New York City, I had become desensitized to poverty. I had become so used to it, and the informal economies it creates, that I saw street vending as a feature of any big city and something to consume uncritically. Seeing it in a new environment and coming to understand its sociocultural and historical contexts challenged this perspective. In my program’s Clase Cultural I learned about the extreme income inequality in Chile, a remnant of the dictatorship’s neoliberal economic system. I bought my car-trunk empanadas from a sweet elderly couple who came to remember my order. After learning about the AFP pension system from a friend, I realized that, like many older people in the country, they received an insufficient retirement pension and had to take to the streets to make enough to survive.

  I was quick to romanticize my experiences, and what I perceived as the culture of the country, without investigating how it came to be. Now, I wonder about the woman who sold me my first Super8. Did she come to Chile expecting to find a better life, and instead met racism, xenophobia, and employers that either wouldn’t hire her or didn’t pay a livable wage? How long had she been selling candy? Who did she come home to? Who was she supporting with her sales? I like to think that she somehow knows she has given me a lot more than a candy bar. 

 

Baking for Patricia

One of my favorite things to do with Patricia in Chile was cook. My host mom and I interacted primarily in the kitchen, from our first introduction to our final goodbyes. Our relationship developed around meals: in the mornings, while we both struggled to wake up, we sluggishly moved around the kitchen making toast with pan batido – a traditional Chilean bread, easily tearable and made for two – coffee, and scrambled eggs. When one was slow to wake up that day, she made breakfast for the other. From the beginning of my stay, Patricia often showed her care for me through food and worrying about my vegetarian eating habits. She was especially concerned about how much protein I ate and told me that if I ate seven almonds a day I would be okay. Where she got that statistic I have no idea, but every day for nearly four months I ate seven almonds under her watchful eye. 

Our schedules didn’t allow for daily cooking too often, so what we cooked Sunday lasted us the whole week. As we cooked, we taught each other our native languages. The act of cooking in the kitchen with her was relaxing, even if we were making something as simple as toast. It was in the kitchen that we talked about our days and I received tips from Patricia: wash onions as you cut them to reduce the flow of tears, rinse pasta immediately after draining it to keep the noodles from clinging to each other, and always add extra garlic. She didn’t just leave me with cooking tips, but to prepare for a family gathering in the countryside, Patricia taught me how to make pisco sour – a typical Chilean and Peruvian cocktail. Her family is on the larger side, so we made three jugs of various pisco sours. We made a traditional mix, then added ginger to one jug, and made one with less sugar. We stayed up late the night before the gathering laughing and taste testing in the kitchen. When we reached Olmué the next day I learned that her family members were ambivalent about the pisco sour. It was actually Patricia’s favorite drink. 

A bout of homesickness had me reaching for my mom’s banana bread recipe about halfway through my stay. While Patricia enjoyed the surprise treat, she was confused and asked why I was baking. For her, and many others in Chile, baking at home is not a casual activity – especially for college students. People my age were expected to spend more time outside of the house, partying or doing things with friends. She described a small fruit cake to me that she only bakes for special occasions, like for family gatherings during las fiestas patrias, a week of festivities and partying to celebrate Chilean independence. When I spoke to my friends in the program they expressed agreement that their host families also saved baking for special occasions; however, I continued to bake and noticed that Patricia became more used to it. She even gifted me with a bundt pan to use while I was there. She gave me the bundt pan a day after I had returned from a friend’s with homemade banana bread, and I took it as a message that she wished I would make more. 

The first few times I baked, Patricia asked, “do you miss home?” Usually, I admitted that yes, I miss home and we would talk about how I was adjusting to Chile and my feelings of homesickness. I had photos of loved ones tacked to the wall in my bedroom there, and I talked Patricia through who everyone was. In return she showed me her photos of those important to her. Eventually, I was mostly baking for the fun of it, without the heavy feeling of missing home. Eventually, I was baking for Patricia: to witness her happy surprise when she came home to the smell of fresh banana bread and for the obvious enjoyment on her face when eating it. While baking, I often listened to a playlist my mom made and every time without fail, Patricia would always tell me that she loved it. When my mom and Patricia finally talked, she took great joy in chatting about music and letting my mom know of her approval firsthand. Their conversation went on for a long time, with Patricia referencing stories I had mentioned while chatting over pieces of banana bread. It was as if they had talked a million times before. 

 

Suburban Culture

Everyday life in Australia was not a picture I could easily paint in my mind. There seemed to be a stereotypical, mass media induced pattern of images that circulated in my mind when asked to think about Australia. Such montages include broad, white-sand beaches and vast, kangaroo-filled valleys. Perhaps, after becoming more informed, images of sunburnt locals in pubs, drinking Victoria Bitter and eating Vegemite. In one sense these images are quite accurate. However, having only these images gave me a very polarized depiction of a two-reality Australia; that of the Aboriginal people and that of the white Australians, with the former being far more vague and unfamiliar than the latter. 

Perhaps it was due to my preconceived notions of Australia that engaging with Sydney left me unfulfilled. There were numerous options of things to do, but there wasn’t much variety. For long I thought maybe, Australia really is just a pretty, yet culturally-deprived, big island. Everyone seemed to be doing the same activities, eating different iterations of the same foods and talking about the same, partially stimulating topics just at different times of day, in different locations. There are places though, where such images are nowhere to be found. There are places where multicultural images prevail.

Located 12 kilometers south west of the heart of Sydney, and considerably far from any renowned beach, Lakemba — a town of neither white Australian nor Aboriginal people —  has remained relatively isolated from tourism. Lakemba’s visitors did not take a wrong turn, go down the wrong street or board the wrong train, nor did they stumble upon it during their stroll. Apparently, over the years, Lakemba has become known as the center of Lebanese Australian life.

Lakemba came up on my radar very late in my residency in Sydney. My excursions, like those of most study-abroad students, were limited to mostly central areas and beach towns. Marty, a twenty-something second-generation Lebanese Australian, was the reason for my trip to Lakemba. I met Marty through my friend Riya, who later invited the two of us to Lakemba for a “cultural and culinary feast”. Upon finding out that I was bored with Sydney, he “thought it was about time that changed.” Marty’s vocabulary consisted almost exclusively of Australian slang, spiced with words like “khalas” and “habibti.” I was intrigued to see how an Australian Little Lebanon would be on the last night of Ramadan. 

Thirty minutes into the train ride, the buildings become lower and lower. No floor-to-ceiling glass windows like the modern skyscrapers of CBD, or pale blue colonial mansions like the beach houses of the Northern suburbs. Exiting the train station on the night of the Ramadan street market, you can simply find your way by ear as the sounds of people vibrantly congregating on the streets and  faint Arabic music over low-quality speakers illuminate the way to the main street market. The sun has set. The air is chilly verging on cold but colourful traditional wear peeks out from underneath heavy black jackets, left partially unzipped. Men and women wear mostly red, orange and yellow long linen tops adorned with gold and silver beads, sequins and sparkles. People linger outside to move around and gather goods, waiting in long lines, sipping Lebanese coffee —  which I discovered is Turkish coffee but better, as it is cardamom-infused — and getting small discounts if their payment is in cash. The streets are flooded with people, but most of them, along with my group, retreat to the inside of a restaurant when it’s time to sit and enjoy their meal.

The restaurant we sat in resembled most others in terms of colour palette and set up. We sat in a stark yellow painted room decorated with posters of the dishes, on long rows of tables comprised of smaller, dissimilar tables pushed together. The meals, all in to-go containers and eaten mostly by hand, were not solely Lebanese, nor strictly Middle Eastern. Bangladeshi and Pakistani dishes also made an appearance, given the large South Asian demographic of the area. Whatever their origin, they were not adjusted for Anglosaxonic taste buds. Every bite burst with familiar flavors I had been deprived of for a long time —  you see, Australian cafes and restaurants consider salt enough of a seasoning that they needn’t  provide anything else. And then, here they were; kumin, curry and saffron. 

The energy, the smells, the sounds, the visuals all acted as different instruments in a musical composition of cultural celebration that I had failed to discover anywhere else in Sydney. Until then, Sydney was to me simply Australian, perpetuating the pattern of just two worlds. Lakemba, the small suburb of Sydney, NSW, actively broke this pattern of imagery that occupied my mind, and it reawakened my senses. 

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