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boricuacherry-blog · 2 years

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Edward Theodore Chalmers Werner, or ETC Werner, and his daughter Pamela lived in a traditional Chinese courtyard house on a hutong in Peking's Tartar City, just outside the Legation Quarter. Their daily routine appeared comfortable and privileged, based more around English than Chinese traditions even though Werner, a widower, had chosen to avoid the overtly European world of the Legation Quarter.

In a city with plenty of old China hands, Werner was perhaps the most notable, having lived and worked in China since the 1880s. As a scholar and a former British consul, his life story was well known. His books were widely read and translated, his complex but highly regarded lectures to the Royal Asiatic Society and the Things Chinese Society were well attended. He wrote articles on Chinese culture, tradition and history for the local newspapers, and his experience and learning might have made him a much sought after dinner guest. However he rarely, if ever, accepted, preferring a solitary and scholarly life.

These days Werner had a post at Peking University, where he lectured occasionally, and he also sat as the only foreigner on the Chinese government's Historiographical Bureau. But mainly he worked from home, at his house at 1 Armour Factory Alley, in the shadow of the Fox Tower. His home was separated by the Fox Tower by only an old canal and its population of noisy ducks. Once part of China's Grand Canal, it was now too silted up to allow the grain barges to transit, and had become a fetid rubbish dump.

Armour Factory Alley, known as Kuei Chia Chang by the Chinese, was close to the old imperial examination halls and a number of papermaking factories, small family businesses that had given the warren of lanes squeezed under the Tartar Wall the name of the Papermakers' District. During the day it witnessed a constant procession, beginning with bird fanciers strolling with their covered cages, street hawkers calling out their services, people coming and going by rickshaw and late-night snack sellers.

There were an influx of foreigners who couldn't afford to live in the Legation Quarter, such as the White Russians who'd fled the Soviet Union and European Jews escaping persecution in Nazi Germany.

Though the bulk of these exiles headed for Shanghai, Peking was also seeing their numbers rise, and many were semi-destitute, forced to live in run-down lodging houses in the sprawling, often malodorous Tartar City, or around the fringes of the Badlands. They found work as doormen, barmen, croupiers, prostitutes and pimps, or survived by begging.

Armour Factory Alley, although in the Tartar City, was no place for poor foreigners. Grey courtyard residences, or siheyuan, sat behind ornate gates along both sides of the alley. Werner's house was built on a traditional north-south axis with a raised step at the entrance to ward off ghosts. In the courtyard a century-old wisteria climbed the walls, and an ancient poplar tree stood amidst a small rockery. Werner rented the house from its Chinese owner, and although old it had been fitted out with electric lights, a palatial bathroom, steam heating and glass in the windows instead of paper.

The household had a cook, a housemaid who'd been Pamela's amah when she was younger, and Werner's number-one boy - a term used in the world of foreigners in China - who was actually a man in his forties. He'd been Werner's valet for many years and was the chief male servant in the household. There was also a gatekeeper who ensured the security and upkeep of the property, and he too had been with the family a long time. Except for the cook, all the staff lived on the premises.

Werner loved the sprawling Tartar City and would regularly take long, invigorating walks through its hive of narrow hutong. This was an area of one-story shacks, street markets with ramshackle restaurants, open-air butchers and hawkers. Winter in the Tartar City was the time for roasted chestnuts, cooked in brazier that were pungently fueled by charcoal or animal dung, as well as noodles and spiced bean curd, cut into squares and fried for dumplings. There were bathhouses, fortune-tellers, professional letter writers scribbling for the illiterate, pavement barbers who cut hair before an audience, impromptu Peking opera singers, child acrobats and bearded magicians. A few cars fought their way between clusters of rickshaws, and when it rained, the rutted roads were ankle-deep in mud.

As a scholar, Werner wanted to observe as much of Peking's street life and traditions as possible, and being a skilled linguist, he was keen to engage people in conversation. In winter he would wrap up in a long gabardine coat he had used on research expeditions to Mongolia. He attracted attention - an elderly but straight-backed white man, invariably wearing specially made wraparound dark glasses of his own design to protect his eyes from Peking's dust storms.

Aside from his scholarly work, his main concern was his daughter Pamela. She had been an orphan, abandoned at birth by an unknown mother and adopted by Werner and his English wife, Gladys Nina.

They adopted Pamela from the Catholic-run orphanage at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin. Here the nuns took in the unwanted babies of Peking's indigant foreigners, mostly White Russians. In those years of turmoil, as the White Russians fled the Bolshevik revolution, traveling across the steppes of Siberia and down into Harbin, Tientsin, Peking and Shanghai, the orphanages became crowded with discarded white babies. For the mothers, their money gone, their husbands and brothers still in Russia fighting in the White Army, babies were an encumbrance or a mortifying embarrassment.

What was it about that one baby girl, among so many, that led the Werners to choose her? Perhaps Gladys Nina stared into her grey eyes and the decision was instant. Grey eyes, more so than any other color perhaps, seems to look deep into you. Whatever the reason, the Werners took her home and named her Pamela - Greek for honey and all things sweet. They did not know her birth mother, her birthday or her exact age, since the nuns had not known either. The date of birth listed on the passport issues to her by the British Legation was February 7, 1917.

But before Pamela could really get to know her adoptive mother, Gladys would die, leaving Werner to raise his daughter alone. Pamela's very distinctive eyes would continue to catch attention. There was an unusual grayness of her iris, and she had light straw colored hair. As she grew up, Pamela never kept her adoption a secret. When people commented on her eyes, or questioned her about her heritage, she would say she supposed her birth mother was Russian, as grey eyes were most commonly found in Russians. People who knew Pamela always commented on her independence; how she was able to take care of herself when her father left on long research trips, her excellent Chinese language skills, the fact that she seemingly had no really close friends. In a tight-knit, often socially incestuous small foreign community, Pamela's independent, self-contained character marked her as somewhat different from the run-of-the-mill foreign girl in Peking.

While she'd grown up outside the Legation Quarter, first in a house on San Tiao Hutong in the Ch'ienmen district and then on Armour Factory Alley, she enjoyed the Quarter's skating rinks and hotel tea dances. The young men who knew her described her as gay and fun, always laughing and dancing. She also spoke fluent Mandarin, and moved more comfortably and more frequently in Chinese society than did most of her white contemporaries. She regularly visited the teeming food market of Soochow Hutong and ate at the cheap Chinese restaurants patronized by Chinese university students near her home.

Pamela had become that rare thing among the city's foreign community - a white girl who enjoyed both the European lifestyle of the Quarter and the life of Chinese Peking. Her ease in conversing and interest in China's culture, no doubt fuelled by her father's work, meant that she tended to roam widely across Peking on her bicycle, exploring parts of the city other foreign girls never ventured into.

Much as she was independent, and appeared to be largely content with her own company like her father, she had been a problem at school. At the first school, the Convent of the White Franciscans, she was rebellious, answering back and infuriating her teachers. Then she'd gone to the French School, where she was asked to leave, after which she was refused admittance to the American School. Pamela was intelligent though. She took exams for a scholarship to the Peking Methodist School and won a place, but there too because of her rebellious spirit, her father was asked to remove her.

Finally, in 1934, unable to control his daughter, who was then fifteen, and at his wits' end, Werner sent her off to board at a grammar school in Tientsin. She would be a boarder. Tientsin Grammar was a little slice of England in warlord-wracked, Japanese-threatened northern China. It was run on strict English public school lines and was known for its discipline. Those who knew Pamela, though, gave her some latitude. After all, she was an only child with no mother and an elderly father who left her alone in Peking for long periods while he went off on expeditions, looking for the lost burial tomb of Genghis Khan in Mongolia or pursuing rare artifacts in the wilds of Muslim western China. It was hardly surprising that she was a little wild.

Pamela's new friends in Tientsin were unaware she had been thrown out of schools in Peking. They knew her only as a plain, quiet girl and a keen sportswoman who was in the school hockey and netball team. She would also have a boyfriend at the school. And it was true that Pamela had been turning over a new leaf, trying to behave and stay out of trouble. When the term was finished, Pamela would go to stay at her father's house, and celebrate the Christmas holidays.

That day, on a cold January morning, Pamela was sitting at a desk by the window, writing letters. She told her father she was going out shortly to meet an old school friend; they were taking tea together and then going ice-skating at the rink, barely a mile away and in the safety of the Legation Quarter. She would be back by 7:30, in time to have dinner with her father, who was a worrier. So after her father had gone on his daily walk and she had finished writing her letters, Pamela donned her heavy overcoat and woolen mittens and pushed her straw-fair hair up into a beret. She took her iceskates and her bicycle.

She went and had tea at Ethel Gurevitch's house. Ethel was from a White Russian family who'd been living in Peking for five years. At fifteen, she was younger than Pamela, but the two had gone to the same school, until Werner enrolled his daughter at Tientsin Grammar. The girls had run into each other the day before at the skating rink, where they caught up on news about school, their lives and mutual friends, agreeing to meet again the following afternoon. Around six o'clock, the girls headed over to the rink. A mutual friend, another White Russian girl who'd been at school with Pamela, named Lilian Marinovski, was there too. At seven o'clock, Pamela said she had to go home. She told Ethel and Lilian she'd promised her father she would be back by half past seven. It had been long dark by seven, and it was freezing, with a bone-chilling wind through the blacked-out streets at the edge of the Quarter. The girls stood around the coal brazier that had been set up by the rink. 'But aren't you afraid to ride home alone?' Ethel asked, while Lilian wanted to know if she was scared of the dark. They both lived nearby, within the Quarter, and were staying out later than normal on account of it being Russian Christmas, but Pamela would have to ride a mile or so outside the Quarter to Armour Factory Alley, skirting the notorious Badlands by riding along the Tartar Wall. Then she'd be pedaling through the Tartar City in the dark, down unlit hutong, with not even moonlight to help. From the Tartar City, looking back into the Legation Quarter, the only landmarks at night were the spindly spires of St. Michael's Church, the lights in the upper windows of the Wagons Lits and the Hotel du Nord, and the black frame of the radio tower at the American Legation. 'I've been alone all my life,' she replied, 'I'm afraid of nothing! And besides, Peking is the safest city in the world.' And with that, her friends waved goodbye as she disappeared into that bitter January night.

Peking was a city that retired early. In the winter of January, the streets of Tartar City were virtually deserted by nine, the shops shut, the street hawkers gone, and most sensible people home in bed. Outside the Legation Quarter, streetlights were infrequent, motorized taxis and rickshaws rare. Only the hardiest and most financially needy of the pullers were willing to ferry the night owls home from the bars and nightclubs, and the dens of the Badlands. Peking was populous, but it was not a nighttime city to rival Shanghai. It was more conservative, reserved. Apart from the Badlands.

The Badlands was a network of twisting hutong devoted to sin and vice. This part of Peking was sleepy and calm during daylight hours, but at night it grew raucous with those seeking illicit pleasures. Anything was available in the Badlands, at a price. It used to be a buffer zone before the fall of the Qing dynasty, where attackers would be forced to expose themselves. Back then it was a no-man's-land between Chinese and foreign Peking. Since then, it had become developed, yet it still retained its no-man's-land feel, neither completely Chinese nor completely foreign, although technically it was under the jurisdiction of the Peking police. Into this vacuum moved the dive bars, brothels and nightclubs, the gambling and drug dens, most of them run by stateless White Russians or, increasingly, Koreans acting as fronts for the Japanese. Effectively beyond the law, it had become the playground of the foreign underworld of Peking. The stiff-backed authorities of the Legation Quarter ignored the sin on their doorstep, and the Peking police turned up only to receive their 'gifts' from the various criminal elements. Along with low-life Chinese and foreigners, it drew curious visitors, and played host to the U.S. Marines, British, French and Italian soldiers who guarded the nearby legations. Its rookeries of vice catered to all tastes, no matter how exotic or depraved.

The Badlands felt impermanent, hastily thrown together, with buildings that had been knocked up from rough wood or cheap brick, then slathered inside with plaster to make them appear more robust than they were. Inferior lodging houses clustered on the fringes, with rooms to rent for incognito assignations. There was rotgut and hooch in the flophouses for the destitute, which were home to Peking's foreign driftwood - men and women who'd come about as far as possible to escape something they mostly kept to themselves. On the streets were Chinese beggars with suppurating sores, missing limbs, milky eyes, and goiters protruding from their necks. White Russian down-and-outs with straggly beards and frayed tsarist uniforms wandered aimlessly. The Badlands' flourishing trade in flesh, narcotics , and sleaze, wrapped up in desperate poverty, was the end of the road for many. The heart of the Badlands was Chuanpan Hutong, a winding street of jerry-built structures, fetid and dank lodging houses for the transient, and all-night restaurants where pimps met their girls. Those too old, ugly or strung out to work in the brothels walked the street, touting for business. The presence of red lanterns and bouncers outside a joint indicated a late-night bar with a tacky cabaret show, or a protected brothel overseen by a fearsome madam who'd accommodate any request - white girls, Chinese girls, Chinese boys. About halfway along its length, Chuanpan Hutong formed a junction with Hougou Hutong, which ran down to the Tartar Wall. The wall formed a natural southern border of the Badlands, extending all the way to the Tartar City and the Fox Tower. On Hougou Hutong, street sellers sold opium, heroin, along with the works to inject it, and cheaply printed pornography of pubescent Chinese and White Russian Carole Lombard lookalikes. The only piece of goodness in the area was the church of the China Inland Mission. Converts were few and far between, but unwanted babies were daily arrivals. The Protestant missionaries dubbed their church the Island of Hope. The higher class foreigners thought the Badlands typified Chinese depravity; the Chinese thought it symbolic of barbarian foreign ways. Both mostly pretended it didn't exist.

Fox Tower was the tower in Peking said to be haunted by fox spirits, a superstition that meant the place was deserted at night. By day, the fox spirits lie hidden and still. But at night, they roam restlessly through the cemeteries and burial grounds of the long dead, exhuming bodies and balancing the skulls upon their heads. They must then bow reverentially to Tou Mu, the Goddess of the North Star, who controls the books of life and death that contain the ancient celestial mysteries of longevity and immortality. If the skulls do not topple and fall, then the fox spirits - or huli jing - will live for ten centuries and must seek victims to nourish themselves, replenishing their energy through trickery and connivance, preying upon innocent mortals. Having lured their chosen victims, they simply love them to death. They then strike their tails to the ground to produce fire and disappear, leaving only a corpse behind them. After dark, the area became the preserve of thousands of bats, which lived in the eaves of the Fox Tower and flitted across the moonlight like giant shadows. The only other living presence was the wild dogs - or huang gou - whose howling kept the locals awake.

When daylight broke on another freezing day, the tower was deserted once more. The colony of bats circled one last time before the creeping sun sent them back to their eaves. It was the morning of Friday January 8, and an old man named Chang Pao-chen was taking his prized songbird for a walk along the Tartar Wall towards Fox Tower.

Caged songbirds were an ancient Peking tradition, and every morning old men like Chang could be seen carrying lacquered wooden cages draped with blue linen covers. All Pekingers recognized the distinctive sound of these swallows, which were let out of their cages with flutes attached to their tails to go whistling through the morning air, soaring across the sky before returning to their masters. Chang came to the Tartar Wall everyday to smoke, drink tea and talk songbirds. That morning, shortly after eight o'clock, he was following the Tartar Wall eastwards to the Fox Tower when he noticed, in the icy wasteland between the road and the tower, the wild dogs prowling curiously and sniffing at something alongside a ditch. It was a badly mutilated body, clothing disheveled, with an expensive wristwatch on one arm that had stopped just after midnight. Partially clothed in a tartan skirt and a bloodied woolen cardigan, he assumed it was a girl. Her shoes, into one of which a handkerchief had been stuffed, were lying some distance away. But only a short distance from her body was a blood-spattered membership card for the French Club iceskating rink. It was hard to tell from the features of her brutally stabbed and beaten face whether she was foreign or Chinese. Her entire sternum had been cut open, her ribs broken, and the open cavity gave off a strong smell. The body was strangely bloodless though. The blood had to have been drained elsewhere. When police were summoned, they too were horrified. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head, which had split the skull and caused massive haemorrhaging in the brain. Most of the injuries had been inflicted postmortem. The throat was cut postmortem, and horrifying, her heart had been ripped out. She had been stripped before being repeatedly stabbed in a frenzy and mutilated. Her right arm was nearly severed. The cuts to the shoulder, though, could not have been made with an ordinary knife; some sort of specialist cutting tool must have been used, like a surgeon's scalpel or a professional amputation knife. It was not the hack job of an amateur. Her organs had been removed. Under the intensely bright lights of the pathology room, her small hands clenched rigidly tight, her thumbs locked inside her fists, trapped there by rigor mortis, with her distinctly grey pupils fixed to the sky, they could see she had freckles. But they couldn't figure why or who would have committed such a brutal act.

Werner would watch as Pamela's coffin was lowered into the ground next to her adopted mother's. His daughter had been barely five years old at that time, her blonde hair in a pudding-bowl cut, a few of her milk teeth missing. She'd worn a new black overcoat with black woolen stockings as the mother she'd hardly known was buried. Now mother and daughter lay beside each other, under the hard and frozen earth.

Even though Peking had been living under the threat of invasion from the Japanese for months now, the city's dread now coalesced at the discovery of the body at Fox Tower. It seemed to graphically symbolize the spiral into barbarism. The hunt for a the nineteen-year-old girl's killer was about to consume, and in some ways define, the cold and final days of old Peking.

#pamela werner #peking #china #30s #1937 #homicide #murder #unsolved #wentworth prentice #ugo capuzzo #fred knauf

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mybukz · 5 years

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Fiction: The Devil Wears Sarong Kebaya by Peter Soh

I loathed the sweltering heat since small, but it didn’t stop people from coming here. The street in front of my house, Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock, seethed with tourists almost every day.

When I was a kid, I often waved to people taking respite from the scorching sun in the goh kaki of our house. They took in the colourful English tiles on the walls and touched the intricately carved window panels. They asked my amah, the maidservant of our house, the meaning of the word inscribed on the jee hoe hung above our main door. My amah, Muijie, who looked after me 24/7, found the tourists rude peeking into our house. She shooed them away in her Cantonese accent and shut the doors.

Only a handful of tourists interacted with me. Muijie would say nothing if I wasn’t crying, but she would give a disapproving look with her sharp eyes if the unwelcomed guests stayed at the five-foot way for too long. She always told me strangers carried germs and I shouldn’t play with them.

I was too young to understand what germs was and continued to play with anyone standing on the goh kaki. After all, no one in the house played with me. Muijie was no exemption, and I figured she had no position in our house as everyone in the house, including my doting mama, called her by her name, Mui Fong. Only mummy called her Muijie and she told me to address the same to show my respect. I learnt from mummy that ‘jie’ means ‘sister’ in Cantonese.

Whenever I cried, Muijie would assume mother figure even though maidservants like her had taken the vow of celibacy to not get married for the rest of their lives. She combed her hair into a neat bun just like mama’s except that she did not stick in flower garlands nor cucuk sanggul. She simply secured her chignon with a hairnet and hairpins.

Whenever she swore at the people who made me cry, I found her dramatic gestures amusing and I would stop crying and start laughing. Her manoeuvres combined cadences and actions. She would stomp out to the goh kaki in her wooden clogs, and left hand on waist, she pointed her white handkerchief and lashed out in a concoction of Cantonese and Malay patois I could never comprehend.

Except the word ‘babi’. I knew it meant ‘pork’ because mummy always cooked babi pongteh for me. Braised pork was among the few non-spicy dishes served in the house, and I had no idea why Muijie spat the word ‘babi’ to people.

“Who else can defy mama’s order to call the ponderous servant Muijie if you give birth not to a boy?” said Aunty Sarah, my tua ee, whenever mummy was in the living room overseeing me with Muijie. Aunty Sarah was mummy’s eldest sister and I could sense she didn’t like me because she never hugged me. But she said nothing and would play with me when mama was present. I deduced that those who wore their hair up were fierce.

Although our street was named after Tun Tan Cheng Lock whose ancestral house was at House 111, mama preferred its Dutch name, Heeren Street. ‘Heeren’ means ‘gentlemen’ and mama adored the Dutch word, for it served as a reminder to us, the baba nyonya, to always be gentle, soft-spoken, and cultured.

Fond of this name, mama’s father, my kong cho, bought this house and built his family here. Mama was born here, and unlike the Chinese ladies who stayed with the husband’s family after they got married, for the baba nyonya family it is the other way around. Hence, mama, mummy and her sisters, including Aunty Sarah, all stayed under the same roof even though they were all married.

Perhaps the house could no longer accommodate more ladies in the house that a male—which was me—was born to relieve the situation.

Mama showered me with toys, a gold anklet, and a jade-and-gold talisman that bore the image of a ferocious carp for warding off evil spirits. I had never seen any of my cousins wearing the same talisman. They wore small bronze cylinders with floral motif and less elaborate craftsmanship. My bib was a colourful cross-stitch sewn by mama while my cousins’ were plain pink fabric. The fabric of my Chinese New Year clothes were bought in Arab Street in Singapore and never from the merchant who sold fabric door to door. Mama never uttered a word when Muijie had to coax me to finish my food while mama didn’t hesitate to admonish my cousins for eating too slow.

“Go to your room to learn how to stitch. If you can’t stitch, how are you going to do beading next?” mama said crossly.

Though I was very much pampered by mama, I had never seen her smile. She always pulled a serious face and never spoke much. She either cooked in the kitchen or stayed in the room to look after me. I was never allowed to join my cousins or enter their rooms. She threatened to throw my toys away if I ever went near them, especially Aunty Sarah. And I never managed to go near them even when mummy wasn’t in the house. Muijie would carry me back to my room or bring me to the front hall to look at the crowd. She tailed after me all the time and she did whatever mummy would do: cook, clean the house and look after me—except scold me.

It wasn’t long before I knew I had to move out from the ancestral house. When mama passed away one morning, papa decided to bring mum and me to the United Kingdom for good. Papa didn’t bother to explain or maybe I was too small to understand when papa broached his decision. I just knew we were leaving after mama was laid to rest and Muijie was to stay in the house to take care of the remaining family.

I was only five when I left Heeren Street, thinking that the plane would fall if fat people were on board.

The façade of the house looked bleak and uninviting. Patches of mildew decorated the walls instead of English tiles. The two ring-shaped copper door handles had gone rusty and the gilded window panels were replaced with metal poles. The house looked out of place compared to the many boutique hotels, museums, and restaurants that lined the street.

“Are you sure this is the house?” I asked father.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You stayed here before.” Father wasn’t impressed with my question. He took a deep breath before knocking.

No one responded. Father knocked again. This time, louder.

“Coming!”

Though faint, the voice was familiar. And before I could figure who, the door swung open.

Though wrinkles embedded themselves in her forehead and her hair had turned white, I recognised her. She was still plump and her hair remained impeccably combed. The only difference was her white hair had made her black hairnet and hairpins visible. And she walked with a slower gait.

“Muijie!” mum called out.

Muijie stood at the entrance and squinted to inspect the lady in sarong kebaya. There was a tinge of awkwardness between us.

“Oh! Siu nai nai! Oh gosh, I barely recognise you! You never put on the sarong kebaya before this! You look so pretty, adui! This sarong was bought for you by mama, right? What brings you here? You have been gone for almost 20 years!”

Before any of us could speak, Muijie glanced at us and continued her babbling.

“This must be gu yeh! You did not change at all. You are always looking dashing in your business suit. Come, give me your jacket. I wash it for you. You must sweat a lot just now. The weather is getting hotter nowadays.”

Muijie moved to pick father’s dark blue jacket on his hand but I held her hands.

“Muijie,” I said.

She looked up at me. I shook my head, to forbid her from cleaning the jacket. It seemed she couldn’t make out who I was for a few seconds if not for the presence of father and mum.

“You are…Ben. No no, I shall call you siu yeh zai,” Her hands shook.

I nodded and smiled. “Yeah, I am Ben. How are you, Muijie?”

“I almost can’t recognise you. But I have a hunch it’s you. You have grown so tall and handsome like your father. How are you doing at what is that place? England? You must be speaking like one of those ang mo now. Wait wait wait. Baba speaks good English. I think they learn more from you. Am I right, siu yeh zai?”

Muijie couldn’t stop patting my arms and conjuring her own narrative of our life in the UK. It had been 20 years since mama passed away. I couldn’t blame her for her imagination because I couldn’t even remember much of the happenings in this house, let alone imagine the lives of those people staying here.

I only remembered there were lots of ladies in the house but only mother and Muijie were close to me. Mama rarely played with me as she was busy chewing sireh or playing cherki with her friends. She would buy me sweets and treat mother to colourful sarongs from Indonesia whenever she won the mahjong-like game. My cousins were always hiding in their room doing what mama instructed—stitching.

“Who are those people? I told you not to simply open the door. Can’t you understand my language? Macam babi!” berated a lady walking towards the door.

“Siu nai nai has come back, dai siu nai! They have come back from what is that country? Eng… England!”

In a white blouse and sarong, the lady looked like mama.

It was Aunty Sarah.

“What happened to the family plaque? Don’t you know it is a great shame to have the jee hoe taken down? And where are the rest of the family?”

“Look at who is speaking now.” Aunty Sarah jeered. “You are not the matriarch of this family but I am. I can do whatever I want. Nampak-nampak dah kurang ajair sekarang. Remember your rank in this house and don’t be rude.”

Even though our house in the UK was far from looking like those in Heeren Street, the jee hoe formed the spirits of the baba nyonya family. Even though we didn’t have one in our UK home, I learnt its importance quickly.

“Mo kasi jee hoe jato, is it?” was one of mother’s admonition whenever I misbehaved when young. It is a rhetorical question if one would like the family plaque to fall down. The jee hoe implies the family aspirations and beliefs and one should live up to its expectations and protect the family name at all costs. It was no wonder why mother questioned the whereabouts of the family’s jee hoe as it wasn’t hung at the entrance anymore.

“I sold it,” Aunty Sarah said evenly. “We needed the money.”

“What do you mean by you needed money? We willingly left the house so that you can take over the house willed to us. We did not take a single cent distributed to us. And chau works as well. Your husband’s salary is a bonus for your monthly expenses. What do you mean by you needed money?”

“Things changed. Just like who you are. You didn’t even put on the sarong kebaya when mother was alive. What did you say that time? What–nist? Feminist?” Aunty Sarah scoffed. “You thought you could change the world after reading some magazines. How ambitious. Look at you now. Back to this house again. And putting on an archaic costume.”

“That’s none of your business, ta chi,”

“Then why are you here?”

“UK may face lockdown due to the coronavirus outbreak,” father chimed in. “And since Ben has just graduated, we thought this is a good time to come back after all these years, to take a short break.”

Aunty Sarah didn’t look at father. She looked straight into mother’s eyes. “You think this is a resort?”

“This is our ancestral home. I was born here just like you. And I gave birth to my baby in this house too! And this was my house actually! Not yours!”

Mother couldn’t contain herself. She raised from the mother-of-pearl chair and gazed at mama’s portrait on the wall. I remembered seeing this photo at mama’s funeral. Mother told me that mama liked this photo because people could see her giant kerosang thoh. The brooch used for fastening her baju panjang was indeed spectacular. I could tell it was quite heavily encrusted with stones.

But nothing was heavier than two sisters estranged from each other.

This was my first time stepping into Muijie’s room. It was as simple as her black-and-white attire. Besides a bed and a wardrobe, she had only a small table with a mirror, some hairpins, and a bottle of what seemed to be hair oil to me.

“Is this all you have?” I gasped.

“Yes. I don’t need so many things. The only time I am here is when I go to bed.” Muijie was folding her blouses and pants.

“Can you stop working for a while? I have so many things to ask you.”

Muijie stopped folding. She took a deep breath and turned to me.

“Take this, siu yeh zai. This room is very hot.” Muijie passed me a fan from her bed. “What do you want to ask?”

I lowered my voice. “What happened to the people in this house? And why are you still here? Where are the other maids?”

Muijie looked at me with a helpless smile. I could tell life was not easy for the past two decades. She came all the way from Canton to Malaya by herself at 16 and worked for several families before joining ours as a veteran amah. Our household was impeccably clean and she could remember each and everyone’s names, birthdays, favourite foods, medical conditions, and their foibles. Mama doted on Muijie so much that she cleared the remaining debts of Muijie’s voyage to Malaya and Muijie in return stayed working for us until her final day. And no one could call her Muijie even though she was the majordomo in the house.

That was the deal from mama. Muijie accepted it with no qualms. After all, no amah could spend her final days in her master’s house as it was deemed to bring bad luck. It was uncharacteristic for an amah to be assured a place to work and die in. Muijie surrendered herself to the deal, even though this could mean that some maids would take advantage and abdicate their responsibility, and show no respect to her. Rather than having no food, Muijie gave up her dignity.

“They have left the house. They are working for other families now,” Muijie slowly coughed out the stories.

“And where are ee teoh? And other aunties, uncles and their kids?”

“Your other aunties have moved out from the house as well.”

“Why?”

“Ever since your mama passed away, no one wanted to keep up with the traditions in this household. They sold the furniture and those precious paraphernalia to the antique collectors and moved to Singapore. Except those in the front hall. Dai siu nai said we should keep a few in case anyone visits the house. But no one visits the house. Till now. Who wants to come to a house that looks like a ghost house? I keep scrubbing the mildew off the wall but they grow back quickly! Especially when it keeps raining for days!”

“Then where is ee teoh? He should be here with tua ee, isn’t it?”

Muijie looked at me.

“Where is he?” I pressed for an explanation.

“Look at you. Still the same. No one can stop you from getting what you want.”

“Stop teasing me, Muijie. Tell me where is ee teoh? Did he die already? I don’t see an additional plaque in the ancestral hall just now.”

Muijie snatched my fan and knocked my head. “Choy choy choy. Spit before you say anything again.”

“I am sorry. I am just curious. I don’t remember seeing him when I was small.”

“Tai gu yeh is a businessman and he rarely comes back. He was here during your mama’s funeral but I guess you were too young to remember.”

“Is he coming back anytime soon?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

Uneasiness welled up in Muijie’s face. I could tell there was more than just business trips.

I leaned forward and looked at her, conveying it safe to unlock any secret.

“Tai gu yeh will never come back because…” she paused. Muijie took a deep breath and rattled on. “…because he has a baby with his mistress!”

The door swung open. Aunty Sarah had let her hair down, and she looked ghastly under the kerosene. She lurched and slapped Muijie with all her might.

“You are leaving the house by tomorrow morning, do you hear me?”

“I am sorry, tai siu nai. I am sorry! I won’t tell this to anyone anymore. No, no. I mean I don’t know about this. I don’t know where is tai gu yeh. Please, please don’t chase me away. I have nowhere to go. Please, tai siu nai. Please…”

Muijie cried and knelt for forgiveness. I remained rooted to the spot and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t dare to look at Aunty Sarah, to avoid confrontation. I sweated and wished she would go back to her room.

“You want to stay here?” Aunty Sarah sneered.

“Yes. Yes. I can do all you want. Please. Don’t chase me away.” Muijie couldn’t stop sobbing. Snot dripped with her tears.

“You can stay here if I die! I don’t want to see you tomorrow! Go away!”

Aunty Sarah kicked Muijie and left the room. Muijie muffled her cries, covering her mouth. I felt bad for her.

“Muijie, she won’t chase you away. You will be here. You are the best amah in this house. She won’t kick you out.” I tried my best to comfort Muijie but deep down, I was frightened to death. Mother is going to lambaste me for my tactlessness. Why am I digging my own shit hole?

Just a few more hours to 6a.m. but I couldn’t sleep. I had made a huge mistake and had jeopardised Muijie’s work. No, it was her life. She had lived here for 30 years and where she could go?

I was engulfed with remorse. Father and mother still had no idea what their good-for-nothing son had done. Mother was going to chastise me for breaking the family’s jee hoe this time.

I went down to check on Muijie. I wanted to make sure she was sleeping. I wanted to let her know I would do my best to rectify the situation and she should not worry.

Muijie wasn’t in her room. Did she leave the house already?

I opened her wardrobe—her clothes were still there.

She is definitely in the house. Maybe she is in the kitchen preparing breakfast.

I went to the kitchen but there was no sign of her.

Where could she be? Ah! She must be with Aunty Sarah to beg for forgiveness.

I headed to Aunty Sarah’s room and I was right. The kerosene was not put out yet. Someone was inside.

I was puzzled at the sight.

Muijie was sitting on someone and with a sarong in hand, she covered the nose and the mouth of someone on the bed. I couldn’t hear anything but I could now see Aunty Sarah struggling to push Muijie off her.

It wasn’t long before she stopped moving. I stood horrified and I had yet to process what I had witnessed.

“Now I can stay here,” was all I could glean before running back to my room, not caring what would happen next.

Peter Soh is an ambitious Malaysian writer whose stories are about darkness, pain, struggles, identity searching and what it means to be a human being. He made his publishing debut with his short story, ‘The Missing Tomb’ in the ‘Emerging Malaysian Writers 2018’ anthology and has unknowingly written six features about the baba nyonya in Penang Monthly. He is currently teaching First Language English and Sociology in Kingsley International School.

#malaysian fiction #Peter Soh #the devil wears sarong kabaya #malaysian literature

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places-to-try · 3 years

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kellyxhunter · 6 years

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Ho Ho Jiak! Mai Jiak Cao!

There is a huge Malaysian population in Sydney but it’s not the easiest thing to find good Malaysian food. Among a handful of good restaurants in town, Ho Jiak has been my all-time favourite. The owner from Penang spent his childhood watching and learning cooking from her Grandmother (Amah). “Good things are meant to be shared” is his idea to share Nyonya “legacy” to diners. Loh Bak 卤肉 15

Having…

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#food #haymarket #hojiak #malaysian #malaysian food

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javionxander25 · 4 years

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Now You See Gemma Chan

Moving between blockbusters and indie hits, Gemma Chan has kept one foot in stardom and one in anonymity. But this year, she's going famous full time.

BY ,ALICE WIGNALL 06/01/2021

When is a celebrity not a celebrity? When you’re Gemma Chan, of course – or so says Gemma Chan. ‘I don’t think of myself like that at all,’ she says. ‘My life is fairly low-key.’ What, because you don’t drive a gold Cadillac? She laughs. ‘I don’t live in a mansion, I don’t have an assistant,’ she says. ‘All that kind of stuff.’ Beauty Truths With Gemma Chan by Elle UK Previous VideoPlayNext VideoUnmute Current Time 0:39 / Duration 6:34 Loaded: 25.84% Fullscreen CLICK TO UNMUTE I remain unconvinced, and mount my counterargument, ticking off the evidence on my fingers: one, a starring role in an enormous movie franchise (Sersi in Eternals, part of the world-conquering juggernaut that is the Marvel Cinematic Universe, due for release in late 2020 but Covid-delayed until late 2021); two, a new contract with L’Oréal Paris as an international spokesperson; and, three, another recently announced UK ambassador role with Unicef. Guaranteed blockbuster, cosmetics contract, high-profile charity patron: this is the star-making Big Three; the trifecta of global fame. Come on, I say. This year, your face is going to be everywhere. ‘Er, yeah,’ she says, looking genuinely quite alarmed. MARCIN KEMPSKI Chan's path to this point has been one of steady progress, rather than precipitous acceleration, which is maybe why she finds it hard to contemplate the quantum leap her career is about to take. At 38, and with more than a decade and a half of experience behind her, she’s done it all: BBC bit parts (including Doctor Who and Sherlock) and a breakout TV role in Channel 4’s Humans; high-brow theatre and big-budget films (in Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them and, indeed, a previous Marvel movie, as the sniper Minn-Erva in Captain Marvel. The two characters are unrelated but, as she points out, ‘I was painted blue for that whole job, so it’s not like I’m very recognisable’), but nothing on a scale likely to upend her life. The closest she’s come to that so far is her performance as Astrid in 2018’s surprise smash hit Crazy Rich Asians, which made $238.5m against a budget of $30m and became the top-earning romantic comedy of the Noughties. ‘[Because] Crazy Rich Asians did so well internationally, I definitely felt a shift at that time,’ Chan says. ‘Like, on the Captain Marvel press tour, not being able to walk through [Singapore] airport. Then again, things have settled and the slight craziness of that time has gone away. I do feel like I can – touch wood – go about my life normally now.’ MARCIN KEMPSKI The biggest impact, she says, was professional: ‘Before Crazy Rich Asians, I wasn’t being considered for lead roles in feature films. There [is] a very select group of actors in that pool and I wouldn’t even get an audition, I wasn’t in that conversation. Whereas now... I’m being talked about for certain things and then you may meet the director, or you at least get to have your shot. So that feels a bit different.’ Her most recent project is certainly the kind of job you can imagine being fought over in casting rooms around the world: hey, how would you like to get on a luxury cruise liner with acclaimed director Steven Soderbergh and a killer cast including, oh, I don’t know, Meryl Streep and make an intelligent comedy drama about betrayal, responsibility and enduring love? Who wouldn’t? But Chan was the one who was picked for Let Them All Talk, which was filmed on board the Queen Mary 2 as it crossed the Atlantic from New York to Southampton. It tells the story of a lionised novelist, played by Streep on magisterial form, en route to collect a prestigious writing award in England, accompanied by two old friends and her nephew. Chan is her recently promoted literary agent, who has also bought a ticket for the crossing, in the hope that she can clandestinely find out what her secretive client’s much-anticipated next book is about. I wasn’t being considered for lead roles in feature films ‘Obviously I jumped at the chance,’ says Chan. ‘It was a dream project.’ Though not a stress-free one: ‘A lot of the dialogue was improvised,’ says Chan. ‘There’s a scene, a lunch in New York with Meryl, which was actually the first scene that I shot. So I arrived on set and the restaurant was full of 200 extras; you could hear a pin drop. I went in and sat down, then Meryl came in and sat down, and we just had to improvise a scene. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a clenched bum! I was petrified. There I am, with possibly the greatest actress of all time, and... “Action!”’ There is an alternate timeline, of course, in which Chan genuinely isn’t famous. If she’d followed the path that her early years suggested, her current life would be, if not stress-free, less likely to include head-to-heads with multi-time Oscar winners. MARCIN KEMPSKI Raised in Kent to Chinese parents, she attended an academically selective school before studying law at Oxford. She also played violin to a high standard and swam competitively at a national level. All in all, the perfect image of a relentless high-achiever, bound for success in a stable career – until she took a post-graduation gap year swerve into acting, at first with evening classes, then a full-time course. Even now – when the gamble has decisively paid off – she sounds tentative when discussing her original ambitions to act. She did some am-dram at school, ‘but never thought, I could do this for a job.’ Embarking on her acting studies, the idea of a career was there, but ‘at the back of my mind’. That might be because this period of Chan’s life was fraught: her parents were alarmed that she declined a training contract with a prestigious London law firm, and thought she was making a mistake. Perhaps she still finds it hard to unequivocally state that the path she chose is not one they initially approved of. ‘The key for both of them and therefore for myself, and my sister, was the importance of education,’ she says. ‘It allowed my father to have a completely different life to his father, mother and some of his brothers and sisters. Both of my parents are immigrants who came from very humble backgrounds,’ she adds. ‘They definitely instilled in me a work ethic from a young age and a sense of, “The world doesn’t owe you a living, you have to make your own way.” At one point in my dad’s childhood, he was homeless. My amah, his mum, raised six kids on her own. They had absolutely nothing, they lived in a shack on a hillside in Hong Kong. I’m one generation away from that.’ You can sense the shadow of the lawyer she could have been when she talks, and almost hear the weighing up of pros and cons she has done to determine what steps to take. Of L’Oréal Paris, she says: ‘I have been a little bit cautious when it comes to brand partnerships and things like that. I wanted to wait till it felt like it was right. [I chose] L’Oréal because the brand stands for uplifting women and empowerment and they have a strong philanthropic side to what they do, such as their partnership with The Prince’s Trust.’ MARCIN KEMPSKI She talks about carefully considering joining the Marvel universe, knowing it could mean giving over a share of the next 10 years of her life (‘You’re not signing up for one film, because they have additional films and spin-offs and they cover themselves’). She chooses her words with utmost caution when talking about Eternals: ‘Marvel is pretty strict about these kinds of things and I’ve got an non-disclosure agreement like that,’ she says, miming a massive wodge of a legal document. She insists that alongside this diligence there’s a flip side to her personality: ‘I have a slightly rebellious nature. I wasn’t always the best behaved and, yeah, I do work hard but I’m also quite chaotic. Hopefully I’ve found a bit of balance but when I was younger I was like, “I’ll leave it as late as I can, then I’ll pull an all-nighter.” That’s kind of the person I was.’ It’s impossible to tell if this ‘rebellious’ streak would register on most people’s radars, or if it was only noticeable in the context of her own – or her family’s – high standards. I suspect you’d have to know her very well to find out, and she’s far too protective of her private life to make peeking through the veil a possibility. Despite – or perhaps because of – two long-term relationships with high-profile men (she dated comedian Jack Whitehall from 2011 to 2017, and has been in a relationship with actor Dominic Cooper since 2018), she doesn’t discuss her personal life. It’s not exactly a state secret – she makes mention of ‘my partner’ when talking about what she did in the first lockdown (volunteering pretty much full-time for her friend Lulu Dillon’s charity, Cook 19, delivering meals to London hospitals) and Cooper makes the odd appearance on her Instagram account – but she’s certainly not going to give rolling updates on her romantic life. Anything I share could become a story on a slow news day ‘Over 10 years, you learn the importance of privacy, what you choose to share and what you don’t. When you start out, you don’t even know what is important to keep for yourself – I didn’t anyway – whereas now I think there are certain things that I absolutely know, “That’s mine and it’s private.” For me, my comfort level is to have a clear distinction between what is for me and what I’m happy to talk about.’ I ask if she’s had any bad experiences with the press. ‘Nothing too horrendous, but some experiences of not having my wits about me. I’m aware now that anything I say could become a clickbait headline – well, on a slow news day.’ MARCIN KEMPSKI (As if to prove her point, in the week that we talk, Jack Whitehall makes headlines in multiple news outlets in the UK – and, indeed, around the world – for making an off-hand comment in an episode of his Netflix show that he ‘could have got married’ to Chan, but he ‘f*cked up my chance of that’. And, given that this was midway through a global pandemic, it wasn’t even a particularly slow news day.) What she's happy to share on her social media – in fact, what makes up the bulk of her feeds – are her thoughts on a range of social and political subjects, from domestic abuse campaigns, to equal access to education, to Black Lives Matter, to protesting against anti-Asian racism. Which doesn’t always go down well: ‘Every time you say anything political, if it’s in the most uncontroversial way, you’ll be criticised for it; you need to be prepared for that. Every time I post something [like that], I lose followers, so it’s probably not the best business sense...’. But she’s not going to stop: ‘I want to highlight things that are important to me but without preaching. I’m still working it out, how to be an advocate in the most effective way.’ MARCIN KEMPSKI I ask if she feels hopeful about the future, given the myriad challenges she mentions. She pauses. ‘I’ve definitely struggled and felt hopeless,’ she says. ‘I think most of us have realised how powerless we are in terms of the day-to- day governing of our [country]. There no longer seems to be any accountability; there’s a lack of shame. Things that a minister or an advisor would have resigned for 10 years ago, now there are no repercussions. That’s incredibly frustrating, especially when people’s lives are at stake. But, I do have hope – mainly because of the next generation. They’re more politically aware than I was, more involved. Often in the media the most boorish voices seem to monopolise headlines, but actually there are decent people who want to make things better for their fellow humans. There are more of them than youmight think. During the pandemic, obviously it was a terrible time, but there were things that sprung up on a local community level of people trying to help each other. That was encouraging.’ Every time you say anything political, you’ll be criticised for it And, of course, last year Black Lives Matter protests pushed questions about race and identity to the forefront as never before. How does Chan feel about her own role in increasing representation as a British Asian? ‘I get moments where I think, I wish we didn’t have to talk about race anymore. In the same way I wish we didn’t have to talk about why it’s unusual to have a female lead. Why is it still the exception? Why is it still so unusual to have half of the human race being centred in these stories? It seems ridiculous to still be flagging that as a talking point.’ She talks about a structure that actor Riz Ahmed has described: on tier one, a minority actor will play stereotypical, reductive roles. On tier two, your race is still prominent, but the character is nuanced and well-rounded. ‘And the holy grail is tier three, where you’re just viewed as a human. But, while we’re still working towards that goal of much more equal representation, it’s going to be something that we have to be more consciously aware of, and it is going to be part of the conversation.’ It’s a classic Gemma Chan answer. I can feel the burn of her frustration, and I see how she’s thought through her best approach. She’s got a goal, and she knows how to get there. MARCIN KEMPSKI As for her own goals – well, there’s a packed schedule ahead: when we talk, she’s about to join Florence Pugh and Chris Pine for director Olivia Wilde’s follow-up to Booksmart, Don’t Worry Darling. Then, when the pandemic allows, there are the delayed back-to-back shoots for Crazy Rich Asians 2 and 3, not to mention the release of Eternals. She’s also set up a production company, which is working on a range of projects focusing on ‘women whose stories haven’t been given their due, who are these unsung heroes of history’. She loves producing (‘You get a bit more control’), so much so that one day it might be all she does. ‘There may be a point where I want to take a step back from the acting side and, if the producing is established by then, that would be great.’ Hmm, I think. The thing about being globally famous is that once you are, it’s kind of hard to stop. But if anyone can manage blockbusters one month, normal life the next, it’s someone with a big brain, a ton of experience and her eye on the prize. Someone a bit like Gemma Chan. So, when is a celebrity not a celebrity? We might be about to find out. Gemma is an international spokesperson for L’Oréal Paris and the face of Revitalift Filler Day Cream. ELLE's February 2021 issue hits newsstands on January 7 2021.

Luxury Designer Clothing, Handbags . Like this article? Sign up to our newsletter to get more articles like this delivered straight to your inbox. In need of more inspiration, thoughtful journalism and at-home beauty tips? Subscribe to ELLE's print magazine today! SUBSCRIBE HERE

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zoehodgkins25 · 4 years

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Now You See Gemma Chan

Moving between blockbusters and indie hits, Gemma Chan has kept one foot in stardom and one in anonymity. But this year, she's going famous full time.

BY ,ALICE WIGNALL 06/01/2021

source https://www.online-digitalstore.com/post/now-you-see-gemma-chan from Online Digital Store https://onlinedigitalstore2.blogspot.com/2021/01/now-you-see-gemma-chan.html

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onlinedigitalstore2 · 4 years

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Now You See Gemma Chan

Moving between blockbusters and indie hits, Gemma Chan has kept one foot in stardom and one in anonymity. But this year, she's going famous full time.

BY ,ALICE WIGNALL 06/01/2021

from Online Digital Store https://www.online-digitalstore.com/post/now-you-see-gemma-chan

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detectivezedd · 5 years

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MY COLORLESS RAINBOW.

Episode 6. BY Amah’s Heart. The strange Lady took me home that night. As we stopped in front of my gate, I was reluctant to get down. She was talking to me after handling me a card. “…This is my business card, just in case you need someone to talk to. My name is Lydia. I live with my family…my husband and two sons close to the restaurant where I work. Listen to me, this is not the end of life….i…

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beingjellybeans · 1 year

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Amah Restaurant’s student-chefs collaborate with Chef Donovan Cooke on a 14-course gourmet dinner

We often hear of restaurants referred to as “hidden gems,” those little-known or undiscovered dining spots that offers exceptional food, service, or ambiance that is worth discovering. Often tucked away in some out-of-the-way location, these spots may be hard to find but but once discovered, they offer a unique and unforgettable dining experience that makes them stand out from other more…

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rb-abroad · 6 years

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Rome

For my last adventure outside of Amsterdam, I met up with my roomies and best gal pals Maddie and Mackenzie in Italy! We spent our first 3 days out of 10 in Rome, and boy was it amah-zing. Here’s the breakdown:

On Day One, Mac and I arrived fairly early and had a chill jetlag-friendly morning and afternoon. After a late breakfast, we hung out around the Piazza del Popolo and had our first (of many) Aperol Spritzes. It basically changed our lives :P

The fanciest iced coffee

That #spritzlife

Next, we headed back to the hotel to relax and meet up with Maddie, who booked us all a room at the very chic and cool Villa Laetitia. Owned by Anna Fendi, the property is beautiful and has incredible sketches from famous designers all over the walls. We stayed in the Karl Lagerfeld room, which was super cool, and got free bfast every morning! If you want a boutique hotel experience somewhere less touristy/off the beaten path but still close enough to walk or use public transit, Villa Laetitia is a great choice.

Oh hay, Karl

Once we finally confirmed that the taxi driver found Maddie and she wasn’t TAKEN (phew), the three of us went out for a pre-dinner drink at Settembrini, which was down the street from the hotel. It was so beautiful out and a perfect night to sit on the terrace and take selfies ;)

Cute building on the walk over

After drinks, we crossed the street for dinner at Cacio e Pepe, which was seemingly a very local spot but the food was just okay (...for Italy). However, we did highly enjoy the 8-Euro liter of house wine.

Carbonara obvi

The next day, we woke up early and headed straight to the Vatican for a guided tour. It was super crowded (it was a Saturday, after all), so having someone guide us through the whole thing was really great. The tour included the Vatican Museum, the Sistine Chapel, and St. Peter’s Basilica, and although I had seen all of these spots back in college, I’m so happy I got to experience it all again. Absolutely worth coming back again and again! I took too many pictures of ceilings, and the truth is very few of these pics do it justice - you just gotta see it yourself.

Inside the Vatican

Outside St. Peter’s Basilica

St. Peter’s Square

After our tour, we walked over the bridge and into the city center for the first time. Luckily for us, we had many Rome spirit guides with killer recommendations. The first was for the best Roman-style pizza at Pizzeria Da Baffetto, and it definitely was worth the hype (thanks Ari!!). This is a must-eat!

A random cute alleyway - Rome is full of them!

Sausage, shroom, n onion delight *heart eyes*

After lunch, we moseyed around a bit more and then headed back to the hotel to get ready for the evening festivities (there were a lot of them). In search of some rooftop views, we had pre-dinner cocktails at the Roof Garden of Les Etoiles. Just stunning!

Next, we had dinner in the back of Roscioli, which was so cute and suuuuper tasty. We had some of the best Italian wine on the whole trip AND delicious pasta. Doesn’t get much better than that!

If you see this bottle on a menu, just get it.

The fanciest caprese I ever did see

Delicious pasta #1

Delicious pasta #2

Let me be clear - if you go to Rome and you don’t pay a visit to Giolitti, YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG. I think it’s one of the oldest (if not the oldest) gelateria in Rome, and it is downright amazing. We definitely went more than once. Gelato in hand, we headed to Trevi Fountain and lived our basic tourist dreams <3

Hazelnut and chocolate chip gelato with WHIPPED CREAM OMG

There she is!

We finished off the night getting drinks at Bar del Fico, which was very lively/cute/easy-going, and at the Jerry Thomas Speakeasy, which was super cool inside and worth checking out if you love a fancy cocktail, but it’s definitely on the pricey side and we had to have a reservation.

For our final day in Rome, we started out on a free walking tour! We started at the Spanish Steps and saw many cool sights along the way.

Look at how cute my fwends are!

It me

We stopped by the Pantheon and it was soooo cool! There was a service going on while we were there, so I’ll have to go inside next time.

Toward the end of the tour, we stopped in the Church of St. Ignazio di Loyola. It was SO cool - the inside was beautifully decorated, and the paintings on the walls and ceilings were incredible. The roof of the church is flat, but it was painted to make it look like it’s curved (there’s no dome)!

How cool is that?!

We ended our tour with one more look at dat Trevi Fountain.

Our next stop was lunch at Osteria di Fortunada, where I literally had the best pasta in my entire life (leave it to my friend Denny to tell us where to eat)! I had the gnocchi with ragu sauce and honestly I’m still dreaming about it... I can’t even begin to describe how good it was. The restaurant itself was pretty small and you have to get there during an off-hour or right when it opens to snag a table. They even had an old lady on display making the pasta by hand! If you don’t go to this place while you’re in Rome, we can’t be friends anymore.

There she is, the love of my life.

How cute is this espresso mug??

Next we hauled over to the Colosseum and took a whole bunch of pics!

And then we went back to Giolitti.....

For our last dinner, we went into the Trastevere area for dinner at Cave Canem, which was a local recommendation. The pizza was just okay (again, for Italy), but we had a lovely time sitting outside on the terrace!

And that was it for Rome! We LOVED it. The food was amazing. The sights, unparalleled. The time of year was perfect, it was pretty hot but it was riiiight before all the other tourists would arrive for the summer, which was just happened to work out in our favor (so go in May, y’all!). This is a place that I could never get tired of visiting. Next stop, Tuscany!

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