The water dispenser next to the breakfast buffet table holds a simple one and a half liter ordinairy pet bottle instead of a costumized twenty liter fresh water container. The pet bottle upside down in the holder, could better have been placed in it’s normal position at the buffet table. But this construction shows the possesion of a water dispenser. Who cares about a fitting container anyway?
Eveline and Adolf come to pick me up from the hotel at the exact time I was informed they’d come: 7.30 am sharp. Although I don’t want to give in to prejudice, I must confess it startles me a little bit at my first morning in Africa: 7.30 am sharp. We’ll make a two and a half hour journey from the commune of Lingala in Kinshasa city to the commune of Maluku in the country side down the Congo river. Purchasing gasoline to start with. The first gas station doesn’t have change from Eveline’s one hundred dollar note and the money changer next door doesn’t make a good rate. So we head to another money changer which takes a detour. From him Eveline receives a pack of paper as big as four pounds of sugar. We stop at another gas station and get hundred liters of gasoline of which the last twenty end up in a container in the trunk. 
We pass shops painted in bright colors: a Dutch pharma – being Dutch it intrigues me why a pharmacist would add the adjective Dutch; quite some dépot d’oeufs, where they sell eggs and un agence de voyage, which also intrigues me, being in a country where travelling is a challenge, let alone crossing borders. For the rest of it dépots de ciment, selling stones and cement. They cover the majority of the kiosk-like shops along the road side. Most of the brick and concrete buildings under construction we pass, are deserted. So that seems to make sense. 
After an one hour drive the roadside starts to become quiet and at last the road in front of us and it’s surroundings are empty. We pass a ‘Militairy Zone’ sign. The land looks vacant. Some parts seem kind of cultivated but not convincingly. It rather feels a bit devastated. There hasn’t been a single high rise nor any sign of town ships along the road. Concrete or brick buildings that are completed are ground level only. Where do the seven to thirty million Kinoa’s live? Seven, the lowest estimate as the number of officially registered citizens. Thirty, including all illegal and homeless people. We cross a sign. It says we’re leaving a certain concession and suddenly we find ourselves driving through Africa. Lush green, half erected brick dwellings, colorful dresses and big baskets on top of tall women, the newly paved road flows flawlessly through hales and dales.
A Congolese journey has begun.

The feeling of being connected is love. This connection means acting as an open source: receiving energy from around and at the same time returning this energy. Beaming with energy, you know. The way someone suddenly radiates. What fresh lovers look like or new born mothers and fathers. That’s the picture. 
Animals and children are more open to this ‘everything around them’ then grown ups. Children and animals are more connected to everything around them including nature and other beings. They rely upon and surrender to much easier then grown ups. It explains why children can also be easily scared. Monsters, insects or the neighbor’s dog; they haven’t (been able as yet) to construct a fence of defense around them. The more a human being has been able to built that fence, the more closed up he or she is, the lesser energy is felt (not energetic) and the lesser love is felt. Energy and love are two different expressions of the same thing. It explains why the more esoteric part of the population talks or sings about ‘love is all’. Everything is energy. And if energy and love are the same thing which I’m starting to find out it is, then everything indeed is love.
Why do human beings close up? Actually I shouldn’t ask this question and instead just concentrate on openings. But there’s a co-incidence that has to be considered. Pavlov researched how beings start reacting automatically upon specific input. Ring a bell and at the same time give food to a dog. Repeat this for some time. Now only ring the bell and water will drip from the dog’s mouth because of the assumption of food being served. The information has gone into the eldest parts of the brain, the lizzard brain. Bell and food come together. The availability of food has become part of the experience of hearing a bell ring. The parts that make one act as if on auto pilot enable you to drive a car while mending your kids in the back and at the same time contemplating upon the amazing deal you just saw advertised on a billboard along the road. The lizzard brain is educated by experience only. It’s way beyond reason.
When love is accompagnied by hurt repeatedly and then after some time you take the hurt away and bring exclusive love in, that very love will invoke a feeling of pain nevertheless.
I was being asked what love means to me. It’s a therapist’s trick to open up to positive experiences instead of lingering over negative ones. What does love signify to you? Freely associate, uttering all words that come to your mind. 
Okay, so it started out nicely: love is deep, love is bonding, love is happy. But then it deteriorated instantly. The words that came to my mind, I didn’t want to utter them. I felt love wasn’t meant to be like that: 
‘Love is hardship, love is steel, love is pain’
‘It’s okay. If that is love to you, just say it’ 
‘Sure?’ 
‘For some people love is challenging. For others it’s demanding’
That definetely is interesting but it doesn’t convince me of being or doing fine with my personal associations of hardship and sorrow. On the contrary: I am baffled! I realize the first few honey sweet ‘love is’ mantra’s come from a more cognitive part of my brain; the learning society side of it. The latter harsh ones come from an unconscious much and much older part of my brain. It’s exactly that part that makes sure I can drive my car without thinking. I wonder how love and pain can be like a horse and a carriage. And I wonder whatever happened to the much desired happiness factor.
Am I expected to accept and embrace my pretty sad interpretation of love? Yes I am expected to because it’s how it is. Past experiences have made it so. Looking back doesn’t do the trick to turn things around. What does turn my perception around? New experiences! In order to overwrite the old program with totally new bits and pieces. The bad news is that if we consider Pavlov, these new love experiences have to be repeated for quite some time before the prehistoric parts of the brain will adept to the new associations. Also what triggers the old association – love is pain – should be avoided to de-activate it. Easier said then done.
A life worthy of living evolves around experiences. Explore and challenge the big world outside, preferably the most extreme and remote parts of it. Apply for work in a certain field, and it’s experience that is inquired after. Instead of the ‘old school’ family name and place of birth. This year I will turn 48. I’ve done my bit of discovering the world, working and submerging into different states of mind and body. 

Suddenly silence and awe come over me. Now that I’ve left my childhood far behind. Now that I’ve become experienced in protecting myself from the big world outside. Now that life and it’s opportunities have become manageable. Now it happens to be so that I am setting out on a path of turning the experience of love around. Which is impossible. Apart from the fact that even if it were possible, I haven’t got a clue how to achieve it. 

There’s just one thing I know. 

Not-knowing is an auspicious recipe.

Most of the time Google maps doesn’t work. For some completely legitimate Italian reason. Communications and emotions are not yet outruled by cyber activity under the bright blue Tuscan skies. Human interaction is what’s being asked for. Trapped and nowhere else to look for it, I take to the small village’s main piazza, heading for the local bar. It’s the first of May, a beautiful day. A few locals hang around enjoying the fresh sun. Upon entering the typical bar gelateria, I am well aware of the impression I make. Being elegantly dressed, foreign, with long blond hair and wearing my most charming smile. The owner eagerly starts to explain how to get to the commercial centre where I am supposed to go and do my daily shopping for the week to come. 
Go down the road, take the second turn left. At the first stopping light turn right. Continue the road until you see an underway, leading to the other side of the railway. Follow the road for some four hundred metres, turn… That’s where I gave up. At the next cross roads, I look intensely to my right and and to my left, hoping to grasp a sight of the Coop supermarket. Big sigh. You bloody service providers! What’s the use of smart apps if they don’t work when you need them? A black and yellow little Smart car pulls over at my right side. The left side screen is being lowered and an Italian man in his fifties politely smiles at me. ‘If by any chance I was looking for the commercial center?’ he asks me. Wow! And he offers me to follow him. I am delighted. Like he himself is as well, so I presume, now closely followed by an elegantly dressed foreign woman with long blond hair and a most charming smile. 

After quite some turns he points me out the sought after Coop supermarket, stopping his car to receive my warm and happy mille grazie’s. He smiles and waves me goodbye with the most charming air kiss adressed to me in ages. 

That evening I cook pasta pesto with pinenuts and rucola for a starter. The main dish consists of artisinal Tuscan sausages served with a salad of lightly pickled fennel, zucchini and roman lettuce. As dessert bread&butter pudding.

Day three of an amazing experience, being chef in Italy for one week. In Tuscany surrounded by Chianti vineyards, not far from some ex patriots supporting me where ever they can and in the company of Kenneth from Kenia. Without his assistance my endeavours wouldn’t have been as succesful as they materialize, day after day.

We did it all: Saltimbocca, pasta frutte di mare, minestrone, lasagna, vitello al Marsala, biscotta al arancina, salmone, risotto prima vera, pizza margarita, carpaccio, panzanella and much more.

I give myself completely to the thirty members counting family I cater for. Gaining the world is my reward. An exceptionally priceless experience to be carried along my path for a long time to come.

The material reward is an offer to teach cooking classes in New York City. Gratefullness and placid contentment overtake me. If there’s anything I wish for it’s the continuation of the perfect present moment. It won’t get any better then this. Grace!

Tamaryoku tea and George Benson are today’s hommage to my mother. I’m afraid her star is rising high in my universe today. It’s Valentines day. It’s all about love. While in the background George Benson is smoothly singing about love is a masquerade. My unique mother killed herself this very day of the year some few hundreds years ago. The special Japanese tamaryoku tea warms me up inside out. The taste can only be described with words that talk about products that seem quite revolting as tea flavorings: cod liver, a deep well, stagnant water covered by tiny little spots of duckweed. You get the taste of it? The Japanese and we after them, call it umami. For me now I don’t care much about the name, as I am completely intrigued by the effect it causes. A very subtle guitar softly touched, the slow beat of the eighties, long stretched rhythmical sequences, instrumental only; one easily visualizes the stardust through the air slowly and softly touching the face of the earth. Did I mention snow flakes softly fluttering outside my window? Uncertain and insecure about their very ice cold presence this Valentine’s day, they add up to the magic multiple impressions of the moment. Attentive listening, attentive tasting, attentive seeing evoke an illusion. An illusion of a special moment in time, unique, as elusive as it is eternal. And this makes me dwell over the difference between reality and fantasy. In what reality did my mum dwell? Did she not taste umami and listen to the soft tones of an electric guitar? Don’t we all do this? What made her renounce it? Wise woman, tell me your secret. Your secret of not being attached. Your secret of being a hero. Is it a life full of pain that formed you? No, Not at All! Because in that case you would have loved and cherished the little things. If your life would have been full of dreadful pain, wouldn’t you? Or am I mistaken? Probably I am. It’s not to me to understand you. We shouldn’t focus at understanding each other, shouldn’t we? We should focus at loving each other. Even if that takes evoking an illusion. Even if that takes soft music, snow on Valentines day and tamaryoku tea to tantalise the senses. We should do that. Because that’s what we have.

   
A good relationship starts with a cup of tea. Beautifully said by Ooyama Seichaen. His slogan appears at the website of Mono Japan, a three day exhibition and cultural exchange program hosted by the Lloyd Hotel, Amsterdam. Ooyama Seichaen is a tea farmer. Since 23 years he proudly owns a tea plantation in Nagasaki, Japan. Tea was introduced in Japan during the twelfth century by a zen monk who brought it from China. Nagasaki, Kobe and Tokyo all three got tea plants from him and started cultivating the leaves for medical use. Over the centuries tea and drinking tea became custom and found it’s ultimate meaning in the traditional tea ceremony, Sado. Sa meaning tea (chai) and Do meaning the way: The Way of Tea. Let me tell you about my first steps onto that path.

Today Ooyama Seichan and mr Tosaka have come to Amsterdam to tell us about their tea and some amazing methods of preparing it. It actually feels only slightly off from Alice’s unbirthday tea party. Ooyama’s workshop and tastings sure are as much of a deeper meaning learning experience as is Alice’s magical party.

Eight years ago. I had maybe once or twice tried green tea out of curiosity. Mainly because it was a quite new addition to the regular Amsterdam assortment in shops and places like the Coffee Company and I like to be on top of new things. I surely didn’t like the taste of it. 

Then I got send off to Tokyo for work during two weeks. Thrilled to experience the real Japan not as a tourist but actually being part of the society for thirteen whole days, I spent my one and only recreational day as meaningful as possible. It took some effort to make it possible and without the help of the reception staff of the hotel where I stayed it wouldn’t have materialized. But at that particular day a traditional tea ceremony was booked for me. For me alone.
I travelled – in Tokyo one doesn’t go by public transport but travels by it – to a fancy hotel. Can’t think of the name no more. But it was an impressive high rise with a private half roundabout in front of the entrance for the taxi’s to drop off guests. The elevator brought me to the top floor where I entered a special tearoom. A not white painted and simply dressed in a sober colored outfit, Japanese woman welcomed me. Whatever the looks, to me she was a geisha. 
She asked me to take place at the tatami floor. She explained what was going to happen in that room with just her and me the following hour. She explained how I should react upon her gestures and how I should receive from her what she would be offering. Once started only silence remained. It was beautiful. The way she held her utensils, the way the water was boiled, the way she manicured her gestures, the way it smelled. So this was the way of tea. I was brought onto the path, impressed and grateful.

From that day on I’ve been drinking green tea. Occasionally accompanied by a mochi, a semi sweet steamed ball made of rice starch, if I am lucky to lay my hands on it. I’ve been drinking a lot of green tea. Back then at Tokyo airport in some kind of fancy store – to me almost all Japanese stores are fancy – I purchased the essentials in order to be able to prepare matcha tea back home. A beautiful whysker, a special bamboo spoon, a delicate small can filled with green matcha powder and two earthenware bowls. Matcha is served in a relatively large bowl because of the necessary whysking as opposed to the fine egg shell like porcelain cups used for other tea types. My Japanese tea set felt sacred and so it remained.
Four years past in which many lives changed dramatically at least the ones of me and my beloved ones. A second child was born and a relationship broken. And then I found myself visiting a man. Our first date was at his birthday. I’d gone finding a suitable present and arrived at his place with a beautiful earthenware tea bowl, selected specially for him, and my sacred Japanese tea utensils. A good relationship begins with a cup of tea. Those words hadn’t been written yet or at least I had never heard of it.
I prepared the valuable matcha with a geisha like intention. We didn’t make love that day. The earthenware bowl later ended up as a garde-monnaie. And the impression of purity this special man experienced was expressed in the second edition of a book he had recently been writing. A good relationship starts with a cup of tea. 
Another four years passed. The contact appeared too pure and impossible to handle. Purity as opposed to different shades of grey proves itself impossible to integrate in our modern daily lives. In our harassed existence where bondage, compromise and incompleteness rule. No place for purity and no more tea. Sex and alcohol quickly took over as tools to connect. The relationship fell apart in scattered pieces of hurt, hope and surrender. Obsessive behavior, barriers and a lot of masturbating replaced the initial pure intention. The frequency of contact was as low as the disappointment was high. Probably at both sides. But I can only speak for myself here. If a good relationship starts with a cup of tea, what then marks the end of it? 

While my mind drifted, Ooyama in front of me introduced different methods of preparing different teas. One of which must definitely feature at the next start of a good relationship, I decide. It’s a method where ice cubes slowly melt over Kiri green tea leaves. Kiri is a newly created melange of tamaryoku tea leaves by the hand of Ooyama Seichan himself. Kiri is not for sale (yet) outside Japan. But the preparation can be done with another sort of tamaryoky tea leaves as well. The process of melted ice water that slow as a turtle is getting infused with the umami flavor of green tea leaves to me is beautifully symbolic for the slow blending of the obvious duality of two people present until they connect to their universal one and holy- or wholeness. Let’s call it unification. Mono means product in Japanese. But it associates to uniqueness. In the way of outstanding and in the way of wholeness.
Amino acids (umami flavor) are distracted from the tea leaves already at 5 degrees Celsius. Also a lucid green color is subtracted from the leaves by the melting ice water. Umami tastes completely different to us from what we know as tea. What we know as tea is a flavor which can only be distracted from the leaves by water at temperatures over 80 degrees Celsius. This infusion shouldn’t take longer then 1 minute. Otherwise the taste becomes bitter and actually suspiciously close to what we consider to be tea. The real method is to let water at 60 degrees Celsius be infused by the tea leaves. It brings out the amino acids. The taste of it called umami. In Japan considered the fifth taste after salt, sweet, sour and bitter. The taste is overwhelming. It’s rich like double cream or diary butter but with a liver-like flavor to it. Cod liver. If you think it’s detesting, please stop thinking!
If only about the experience of consciously sipping at slowly dripped cold lucid green tea. Would that mark the beginning or the end of a good relationship? 

  
Meaning connection, family ties, performance and support. So it says at http://www.en-amsterdam.nl. It sounds mindful and I like it. The more because in the Dutch language EN signifies ‘and’, also bringing one and two together. But the extraordinary part of the Japanese EN is the actual experience. Made possible in the newly opened restaurant bearing this beautiful name. EN Japanese kitchen and sake bar is the creation of Chef Ken and fellow partner Ryuji in the cosy Amsterdam neighborhood De Pijp.
My youngest daughter is fascinated by Chef Ken’s little multiple beard. The upper part is shaped in a perfectly groomed upside down triangle right under the lower lip. And the lower part is a relatively thin but precise line exactly at the edge of his jaw line. My daughter of six thinks this is cool. Which chef Ken likes. He laughs heartedly, young and talented as he is. Landed from the impressive Okura high rise at a five minutes walk from EN. Here Chef Ken occupied the kitchen: the single Michelin starred Japanese restaurant in Europe: Yamazato. Chef Ken makes our evening. No we haven’t been dining out since the summer holidays, worth mentioning because it’ll make you critically aware of the fact that the survey of our experiences might be slightly over the top compared to what you think of it. That is, if you dine out more regulary then we do, which I’m sure you do.
Last day of being forty six, spending the evening with my daughters both young and beautiful. It took me days to convince myself of the righteousness to take them out for dinner at EN. The authentic Japanese yet unpretentiously looking place not being the cheapest option. I thank Chef Ken, the heavens, my yoga teacher and my beloved daughters that we did it. Priceless! Connection, family ties, performance and support is what resonates intensely. Words that happen to circumscribe quite exactly what my desires are made of. Tonight these are met in the most simple, heartwarming and yet exquisitely delicate way. Being on a raw vegan diet now for some months, not missing any of the animal or cooked stuff, I actually couldn’t be bothered much by the menu. It had to be sushi for the girls and any kind of salad for me. The girls ended up admiring and devouring exquisite nigiri, topped with melted cheese, truffle and caviar and it sure tantalised my senses. Seaweed, avocado and oshinko – pickles in a myriad of colors and shapes – is what got me. Sober and beautiful table ware with an elegant almost ‘English garden romantic’ style of food presentation garnished with flowers and skillfully shaped pickled vegetables. 
‘Tell your daughter that if she tries for the first time of her life wasabi, the one I serve here, she shouldn’t eagerly try to devour wasabi anywhere else expecting she likes the taste of it. The wasabi I serve is mild, homemade and exceptionally tasty ‘ says Chef Ken. And this pretty much says it all. What an evening! The experience does rely on a combination of high performance, connection and family ties. We’re leaving the place reinforced, supported somehow or maybe even ‘taken to a higher level’. Domo arigato gozaimashita!
 

While my kids in Poltergeist outfits walk downtown to join the Halloween parade of monsters with loads of trick or treat candies, I spent the late afternoon, early evening of Halloween all by myself in a deserted apartment at the other end of the world. Or so it seems. Although Holland is a small country, crossing borders is an ungoing thing here. Certainly litterary, physically as well. Coming from Amsterdam passing Utrecht, it’s another land rising up before the wind screen. Orange and yellow trees instead of flat acres of farmland. Pittoresque pieces of cattle field with mellow sheep instead of ruminating black and white cows. Two lane highways instead of four. After a one and a half hours drive, I enter a flat once inhabited by two elderly women. One of them was my aunt. She passed away shortly after her longtime house mate died. Now almost three years ago. They lived together for fifty years and left this material world both at the age of eighty, almost hand in hand.After three years the apartment is sold and I start scheduling the clearing of it exactly at this slightly creepy late afternoon of Halloween. It’s amazing how the unconscious operates. Which certifies our general preoccupation with souls and the hereafter during this time of the year. Dès que la nature meure.

I linger around the flat, making tea. Orange flavoured black tea. Something I normally wouldn’t like. But now, somehow it suits the occasion. Like the golden autumn leaves floating around, decaying. I turn on the Bang&Olufsen. Insert Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and enjoy the perfect surround system. My eyes visit the book shelves. My mind interacts with a whole lot of titles. To my pleasant surprise I find many a book on myths, legends, fairytales and folkloric wisdom. The passed lives of my aunt and her house mate start to ressurect from the artefacts. I resist the feeling of recognition. All that reading what is it good for anyway, is what I ask myself. While trying to stay rationally aloof of what I’ve entered already. Hours later the real question starts haunting me: what are we living for anyway? It’s on my heels the whole way back into the real world. With 120 km’s per hour on the highway desperately trying to return me and my emotions to the safe haven of Amsterdam.

I admire some ‘albums’ they created. No digital photo albums. Real stuff. And not only picture books, surprisingly so. There’s other kind of albums. One complete collection features unwritten, unspoiled paper art cards. It catches my attention. More or less twenty identical albums, all entitled: reading figurines. It’s that peculiar, worth an exposition, I remark in silence.

My Halloween hours in the apartment feel good. Like an easy going and interesting encounter. But when I leave the safe and protected surroundings of all souls, Vivaldi and the orange flavored black tea, I get emotional. In the car back home I sing the same couple of sentences, like a mantra, for hours: 

Past lives, I do anything for love

Past lives, I do anything for love
To really return into the material world, for me it takes communicating with a living soul. With some effort I find a living responsive soul. It works. I’m being pulled back. Grace! Leaves me wondering how crossing any kind of borders seems the obvious thing to do at Halloween.

It’s another realm. Where we are, being together. There’s no gravity, there’s no matter at all and no good nor wrong. Unification resides. A force of nature stronger then thoughts of the mind and feelings of the body. Human thoughts and senses can act – best case scenario – as vehicles bringing unification about. They rarely do. Unconscious as we are of our destination. 
The other realm is where our souls surface. It’s the place where I encounter my mum who’s left the material world a long time ago. She and me used to and still do date while burning a candle in a forgotten foreign church. I’m showing my daughters how to do it now. Burning a candle in a forgotten foreign church. A quick mind fix normally costing not more as one euro. Peaceful churches where time always seems to stand still, functioning as a portal leading into another realm. Let it be clear that I’m not a devout Christian. Not at all. Christianity just happened to be the-closest-to-my-bed spiritual option. Connecting with my mum is what I learned to be a spiritual experience, visiting the other realm to be close to her. It’s all got to do with wholeness and unification. Meanwhile I find the same peacefulness, entering the bamboo floored basement where I practice my daily yoga, starting with meditation. Yog meaning connection. Gratefully listening to sixty nine years old Anil preaching about Shiva and more ruthless truthfulness. It’s another example of a portal into the other realm. Somewhat later, by the courtesy of Anil, my body will get into a flow, bringing about instant peace of mind.

There’s quite some options to exit reality. Alcohol, drugs, even a compelling book or a real piece of music all serve well to distract from reality. To step out of it. Adrenaline kicks caused by bungy jumping, the trance like flow created by thirty sun salutations – others run a marathon – the focused attention watching a horse run or simply enjoying my own fantasies; it all overrules the mind to a large extend. Taking away the awareness and pressure of reality. 

Next step. When does it become compulsive?

To have all consuming sex, to get into obsessions like shopping or eating frenzies, to escape into therapy, overly intense physical activity, speed driving or workaholism. It becomes compulsive when we need it so badly, we can’t do without. When the pressure of reality has become too big to handle and we let it be, we don’t resist, not knowing how to protect ourselves from it. Hence unconsciously we get into relieving tension. Somehow it’s like getting sick. Being the most natural way to break out of the daily stuff. The body needs a break and heals with or without assistance from outside exactly that what needs to be recovered. Followed by a recuperation time. The mind needs the same thing. Friday night we start drinking wine to ease the mind, wishfully calling it ‘to let go’ which we don’t. We merely sedate the mind. The next morning we get our recuperation time. Which is a mind thing. You think you can’t act. It’s the mind that can’t act. The body actually performs better during a hangover. The strange thing is that although we live in a world where almost everything evolves around the mind, we know surprisingly little about how to keep it sane and healthy. 

Studies of the mind like psychology or psychiatry concentrate on taking away the symptoms of an unhealthy mind. Without taking the whole picture into account. Without advertising what a healthy mind is and what we can do to keep it healthy. Have you noticed the incredible increase of newspaper bulk landing your doormat during the last decennium? You cannot tell me this is healthy mind food. What is? The one liners or be it just words, printed on T-shirts, bags and shop windows nowadays, won’t do the trick. But they do make clear our need for clarity and awareness.

How do we keep the mind sane enough to not need compulsive behavior? An awkward idea and almost impossible to pursue, is to make all of our behavior conscious. Is it thàt difficult? Yes it is! Imagine if one would tell you to do the all consuming sex, to get into obsessions like shopping or eating frenzies, to escape into therapy, overly intense physical activity, speed driving or workaholism. You’d say: ‘of course I can’t do that’. But since you’ve proved yourself being very well able to get into those unconscious states of mind, you are more then able to get yourself into consciousness as well. 

Being aware of your good and your bad efforts doesn’t mean resisting any of it! Step one is to consciously experience the flights your intense sports, work or shopping spurts are taking you onto. Step two is to consciously accepts these flights. Because it’s the destination you crave. The holiday of the mind. Check in! Your mind needs it. I say it again, do not resist. If you don’t like your mind holidays no more, please don’t try to change the flight number by running from alcoholism into yoga-ism and on and on into speed dating. The need for it, is like seed sprouting from your daily life. Cautiously start changing your daily life and the sprouts become different. Scaringly so! Because we’re unconsciously so scared to make real changes, we end up in a countless sequence of mind holidays. 

Zomer in Europa en vooral ook nu hier op een Amsterdams terras. Het is negen uur ‘s morgens. De zon straalt en wordt nu nog vroeg in de morgen zacht gereflecteerd door een paar zonnebrillen om me heen. Alles fris en fotogeniek. Een man van de bloemenkraan aan de overkant tilt grote roze hortensia’s uit zijn Sprinter, paarse bolvormige ui-bloemen en een begrafeniskist boeket.

‘Goeiemorgen’

‘Hallo. Hebben jullie een Spa Rood of eigenlijk, hebben jullie ook een ander mineraalwater dan Spa Rood?’

‘Ja we hebben Bru’

‘Oh ja, geef dan maar een Bru’

‘Jullie hebben geen Pellegrino of zo?’

‘Nee, sorry’

Na Vichy Catalan in Spanje en Badoit in Frankrijk, voelt het lokaal geserveerde bruisende mineraalwater hier een beetje als een koude douche. Ingewikkeld onderwerp, mineraalwater. Duurzaamheid versus gezondheid. Water uit de kraan is vele malen duurzamer maar mineraalwater vele malen gezonder dan elk ander drankje ter consumptie. De hittegolf van een aantal weken terug die ons overspoelde op doorreis in Frankrijk en nog lang nazinderde op onze eindbestemming in de Spaanse Pyreneeën, heeft me afgebracht van thee. Er ging een heimelijke gezondheidswens in vervulling. Alleen maar water drinken. Klaar met al die andere ellende. Maar er bestaat water en water, werd al snel duidelijk.

Ons consumptief gedrag is weird. Water stroomt gratis uit de kraan. Mijn dorst ermee lessen, ho maar! Water uit de kraan moet op z’n minst verrijkt met een druppeltje ionic trace mineral solution. Dit brengt de mineralen terug in kraanwater. Want ik wil natuurlijk geen dood water drinken. En dan wil ik het eigenlijk ook graag gekoeld, uit de ijskast. De toegevoegde waarden qua temperatuur en levendigheid verlenen kraanwater net dat beetje meer, kennelijk noodzakelijk om als dorstlesser opgeld te doen. Kenmerkend dit gedoe. Typisch voor onze hang naar additieven. Op elk terrein. No matter what.

Thuis heb ik meestal geen bruisend water. Tot verdriet van mijn oudste dochter. Frisdrank hebben we al helemaal niet in huis en sap houden de kinderen niet van. Dus dat hebben we ook niet. Of het nou ananas, appel of multivruchten is. Gelijk hebben ze, denk ik stiekum, voor wat betreft onze zoetzure voorverpakte supermarktsappen. Jammergenoeg gaat een goede vers fruit shake er ook niet in.

Water! Voor de oudste met bubbels en voor de jongste plat. Spa rood is niet lekker genoeg om zware liters naar twee hoog te tillen heb ik besloten. Plat stroomt het uit de kraan. Chiffons bij Duikelman gehaald. Maar de zogenaamde slagroompatronen zijn duur en het voelt als enorme verspilling voor elk litertje water zo’n patroon de prullenbak in te mikken. Daarbij moet het water koud zijn anders werkt het systeem niet. Isolerende (!) chiffon eerst in de ijskast zetten. Als het water koud is deze eruit halen. Een slagroompatroon erin stoppen en gas creëren. Dan heb je 1 liter spuitwater die je het liefst direct opdrinkt. Anders verliest het z’n bubbels. Geen doen. Dan maar geen bruisend water thuis.

En zo is bruisend water verworden tot een treat waar we onszelf op trakteren als we ergens wat gaan drinken. Heerlijk. Verwend consumptief gedrag is er overigens niet minder om. Waren het eerst de goede Italiaanse espressobonen, daarna de kwaliteit van de thee (het liefst losse thee geserveerd in een potje) en heel vroeger het juiste assortiment wijnen en bier dat onze gang naar bepaalde cafés en bars bepaalden; nu gaat het om wat voor bruisend mineraalwater er wordt geserveerd.

En dat terwijl al dat transport van water hartstikke niet duurzaam is. Stella Maris uit Amsterdam gelukkig wel. Haalt het qua smaak niet bij Pellegrino. En al zeker niet bij het overheerlijke Vichy Catalan. Maar okay. Daarvoor zijn we dan ook gewoon thuis in eigen land. Wat het geheim is van lekker (bruisend) mineraalwater? De hoeveelheid van het mineraal Natrium oftewel zout. Hoe zouter hoe lekkerder. Druppeltje ionic trace minerals, paar graden Celsius kouder en wat milligrammetjes grof zeezout toevoegen aan een slok kraanwater. Nu de bubbels nog.

Ze leefden nog lang en gelukkig.

De gevel van Juice Brothers op de van Woustraat is niet bepaald aantrekkelijk. Een uitstraling van dertien in een dozijn. Gelukkig voor hen hoeven ze het voor mijn bezoek niet te hebben van hun gevel. Ik ben verwezen. Met mijn vegan partner in crime Michiel. Samen op verkenningstocht door de vegan-lunch-optie-jungle van Amsterdam, delen we sinds een jaar eens in de zoveel weken tussen half één en half drie ‘s middags, onze bevindingen. Een jungle die overigens heel wat minder exotisch en voor de hand liggend is dan ik dacht. Het love, peace and happiness adagium in aanmerking nemend dat onze hoofdstad toch wel uitdraagt. Daar hoort het ontzien van dieren uit culinair genot klaarblijkelijk niet uitgebreid of vanzelfsprekend bij. Gelukkig is de engelstalige site Awesome Amsterdam geen onverdienstelijke gids.

De dag dat Michiel en ik afspraken om van Unlimited Health op de van Ostadestraat een volgende stop te maken in ons vegan lunch avontuur, bleek hun raw en vegan keuken tijdelijk gesloten. ‘Juice Brothers op de van Woustraat, kennen jullie dat?’ Twee weken later parkeer ik er m’n fiets tien minuten voor onze afspraak tegen de gevel, me vluchtig afvragend of deze stop een succes is.

Eenmaal binnen word ik gelukkig en prettig verrast. Wat ze in huis hebben is absoluut anders dan anders. Ik pak uit de koelvitrine alvast een turmeric shot en bestel aan de counter genmaicha thee. ‘Of ik er een glaasje water bij wil’, wordt me aardig gevraagd. Opzet en inrichting zijn meer gericht op take out dan lekker even zitten. Ik neem plaats aan één van de drie tafeltjes en concentreer me op de menu flyers. Disposable afhaaldrukwerk waarin ik scan: l’eau de coco, moringa – bladeren van de tree of life die zoals de lijvige informatiefolder bij de Alchemist Garden aan de Overtoom uitéénzet, werkelijk alles healt – matcha, lucuma, to name but a few of the food stuff waarvan ik dacht de enige te zijn het te koesteren in mijn keukenkastje. Vaak niet wetend waarom, hoe en wat. Het is goed, je bent niet de enige, is de message. Vanwege de thee sla ik het glas water af. Om erachter te komen dat het turmeric shot actually proofs itself to deserve better. Het is an actual shot. Tjeezz. Ik dacht dat de energy date balls die ik zelf maak en dan rol door een mengsel van amandelmeel en turmuric qua spices heftig zijn. Niet dus. If this is what people commercially stomach! Intussen wordt er een leuk design ding voor me neergezet: BREWT. Een persplex containertje met een klapdeksel en een ingenieus bodemsysteem, het geheel geparkeerd op kleine pootjes naast een groot glas. Als je het geval op het glas zet opent de onderkant automatisch en stroomt er warme thee gezeefd en wel uit. De naam suggereert dat het specifiek voor thee ontworpen is of voor andere plantaardige brouwsels. Surely a creative mind inventing this. Dat ik hier genmaicha kan drinken is net zo verrassend als de knallende smaak van het turmeric shot. Strikt genomen (wie bepaalt dat?) is genmaicha geen health treat. Opmerkelijk veel gezonds wordt het toegedicht. Maar puur vanuit het lichaam bekeken, als het draait om enzymen, mineralen, vitamines of geneeskrachtige kruiden, levert groene thee geen bouwstoffen. Het valt juist in de categorie stimulants. Dat wil zeggen dat het lichaam wordt aangezet tot een afweerreactie. Deze gevechtshouding levert een tijdelijke kick op, het opwekkende effect. Koffie, alcohol en suiker doen hetzelfde. Deze ‘wetenschap’ weerhoud mij er niet van veel groene thee te drinken. Hier in ons koude kikkerlandje zelfs meer dan water, beken ik. Voor wat betreft mijn voorkeur voor groene thee boven echt gezonde dorstlessers, vind ik mezelf kleinzielig en koppig. Maar ik ben niet de enige health freak die zich stimulerende middelen permitteert, is wat Juice Brothers me meegeeft. 

Japanse genmaicha thee heeft een prachtige felgroene kleur door de toevoeging van matchapoeder. Dit is vermalen groene theeblad van de allerhoogste kwaliteit; exclusief en duur. Zoals de Japanners er thee mee maken, daar kunnen wij nog heel wat van leren. Hier komt de opmerkelijke Japanse theeceremonie om de hoek kijken. Net als Japanse koks in opleiding vijf lange jaren besteden aan het tot in de perfectie leren koken van zoiets schijnbaar simpels als rijst, vereist het juist uitvoeren van een traditionele theeceremonie een nog veel langere geduchte training. Het is één van de Japanse kunsten waarbij meesterschap wordt verworven door minitieuze controle van lichaam en geest over de materiële wereld. Dit gaat een stukje verder dan ons begrip van een ritueel. Dit gaat verder dan begrip überhaupt. Terug naar de heerlijke genmaicha. Derde ingrediënt naast groene theeblad en gifgroen matchapoeder is ongekookte gefrituurde rijst. De korrels zwellen op als kroepoek en hebben wat wel weg van bruin gebakken larfjes met hier en daar een gepoft exemplaar ertussen dat lijkt op een schattig mini popcorntje. I’m lovin’ it. De smaak is onverwacht hartig. Zie je het iemand voor het eerst proberen die je aankijkt als Snoopy die te zure citroenlimonade drinkt en ‘wat maak je me nou?’ uitstraalt dan komt dat door de noodzakelijke acquired taste ervaring. Op z’n Nederlands: je moet het leren drinken. Net als wijn, koffie en schimmelkaas. Komen we terug op de natuurlijke smaak van het lichaam, haar reactie op stimulants en het contrast met de smaakbeleving van echte, rijk aan bouwstoffen en noodzakelijke voeding. Een onderwerp als wat vind je lekker?, dat ik hier voor het gemak even oversla. Wanneer Michiel komt ga ik lekker voor de inca bliss date-energy balls en raw chocolate truffles. Bommetjes van fruitsuiker en afrodiserende cacoa. Is goed lekker? Is lekker goed?

We lezen in de menu flyer dat Juice Brothers is geïnspireerd op het foodism van Mercedes Anna Martinez uit New York. Het aardige meisje achter de counter vragen we later of het de bedoeling is dat Juice Brothers een keten wordt. Jazeker dicht ze ons toe met een grote hartelijke lach en lichtjes in haar ogen. We wensen ze succes. Leuk concept. Willen we best meer van. Ondanks dat Mercedes Anna Martinez New York geen hits oplevert bij Google.