Go abroad, said Snowshoe, you will never have such a time again in your life. I will, I replied. Ten months flew past and now I cannot feel much. It is indeed an odd feeling.
It has been four years since my last visit. Tokyo had not changed much. I stumbled by a place with a name of L’Epicurien in Kichijoji, which seemed to have jumped right out of Patisserie Coin de Rue, bit smaller, and without a cassis fromage. I took a Mont Blanc instead, and thought with guilty pleasure that one must not grow to love cakes too much. I will never fully become an epicurean-
-except for postcards and tea. Somebody–or a thin wallet–has to stop me. Karel Čapek was as beautiful and twice as tempting as ever. I am already regretting not buying more teabags. Yesterday I tried the pancake tea–the fragrance of maple syrup flooded out and spilled all over the floor and seeped through the windows. The best part was that it was not too chokingly sweet, for instance as sweet as a Mariage Frères wedding impérial tea.
There are still fourteen more different teabags to try. I’m looking forward to the marron tea.