curiously strong

You know, I didn't think I'd like these ginger altoids, but I can't seem to help myself. When I eat one, my mouth explodes and my tongue goes a little bit numb, and just like that, I'm back in London. It's early December. One of those days when I wasn't working and had nothing to do; had no clue, really, what I was even doing there in the first place. But I had a notebook and a pen, and even though it was too cold and wet to sit outside, the Books, Etc. had comfy overstuffed chairs and a Starbucks close by. And for hours I sat, and without taking my gloves off, I scribbled, and skimmed the books I couldn't afford to buy and I smelled the coffee of passers by. And after a few hours, I dug through my bag and I scraped up all my loose pennies and my ten pence coins and I decided I wouldn't eat. And I bought myself a tall gingerbread latte, my first of the season, and I asked for extra whipped cream. And, silly as it is, it was a little bit like I was home - where Christmas meant more than just decorations on unfamiliar buildings and listening politely to other people's plans with family. And I sipped my overpriced coffee, and I wrote a poem, and for one moment, I saw London through fresh eyes. And it was enough.

I wonder if the taste of ginger will always do that.

Blessings of the Season to you and yours.