memory.
and food.
or drink.
my first visit to rwanda finds me stranded in african luxury, sans access to my habitual morning café creme. eschewing the call of filtered coffee, and in need of my milky fix, i am offered french press coffee (real rwandan beans) with steamed milk. somewhat sceptical, i relent.
that first morning, deep in the heart of east africa, i overlook the capital kigali from a tiled terrace. the delicious breakfast - buffet style - is incredible, incredibly. fresh everything, from vegetables, roasted tomatoes, salmon (inexplicably offered in this very land locked country); fresh scones; and my personal favorite, kenyan yogurt with blossom honey. it beckons a flurry of activity ... from terrace to dining room and back, many a time.
on my second or third trip, filling up plates shamelessly (seems like an odd indulgence in africa - or maybe an odd privilege?), my coffee appears. a small carafe of fresh brewed java, plunged in front of me to release the full flavor just as i sink into my chair. with my customary raw sugar and steamed milk. enough for two or three cups, at minimum.
those early days of discovery on this continent, and the satisfaction, reward, and wonder that the trip brings, are forever tied to certain triggers. the acrid smell of smoke in the morning (wafting from homes burning charcoal or wood); the verdant hillsides of this tiny country, always encountered at 50 mph; the gripping handshake cementing friendship with a smile (forgive me my sentimentality); and of course, the newly rediscovered passion for french press coffee.
i mimic this part of the ritual every morning at 9:15, back home in the comfort of my suburban home. the house is quiet, work has begun, and i steal a few moments pour moi, to enjoy two yummy cups of the brew. it always brings me 'back', and therein lies the rub - i don't really think it's the taste of the coffee that tantalizes ... rather, it's the taste of my time, on my own, enjoying one of life's adventures.
and food.
or drink.
my first visit to rwanda finds me stranded in african luxury, sans access to my habitual morning café creme. eschewing the call of filtered coffee, and in need of my milky fix, i am offered french press coffee (real rwandan beans) with steamed milk. somewhat sceptical, i relent.
that first morning, deep in the heart of east africa, i overlook the capital kigali from a tiled terrace. the delicious breakfast - buffet style - is incredible, incredibly. fresh everything, from vegetables, roasted tomatoes, salmon (inexplicably offered in this very land locked country); fresh scones; and my personal favorite, kenyan yogurt with blossom honey. it beckons a flurry of activity ... from terrace to dining room and back, many a time.
on my second or third trip, filling up plates shamelessly (seems like an odd indulgence in africa - or maybe an odd privilege?), my coffee appears. a small carafe of fresh brewed java, plunged in front of me to release the full flavor just as i sink into my chair. with my customary raw sugar and steamed milk. enough for two or three cups, at minimum.
those early days of discovery on this continent, and the satisfaction, reward, and wonder that the trip brings, are forever tied to certain triggers. the acrid smell of smoke in the morning (wafting from homes burning charcoal or wood); the verdant hillsides of this tiny country, always encountered at 50 mph; the gripping handshake cementing friendship with a smile (forgive me my sentimentality); and of course, the newly rediscovered passion for french press coffee.
i mimic this part of the ritual every morning at 9:15, back home in the comfort of my suburban home. the house is quiet, work has begun, and i steal a few moments pour moi, to enjoy two yummy cups of the brew. it always brings me 'back', and therein lies the rub - i don't really think it's the taste of the coffee that tantalizes ... rather, it's the taste of my time, on my own, enjoying one of life's adventures.
