The City of Apples. Almaty, Kazakhstan.

Until I arrived in Almaty, I thought I understood apples.

Almaty, Kazakhstan.
'Almaty' means 'father of apples'.
The birthplace of apples.

I go to the bazaar.
Apples were piled up in mountains.
Red apples.
Green apples.
Yellow apples.
They are all large.
I buy one and take a bite.
Crunch.
It's sweet.
It's juicy.

I enter a restaurant.
'Stewed chicken with apples'
I ordered it.
What was brought to me was a dish like a stew.
There are chunks of chicken in it.
And, there are chunks of apple in it too.
I scoop it up with a spoon and take a bite.
The apple melts.
It has been stewed and become sweet.
The umami of the chicken and the sweetness of the apple.
It is a mysterious combination.
But, it is delicious.
One more bite.
And another bite.
The chicken is so tender it falls apart.
The apple contains a gentle sweetness.
A spice wafts up.
Could it be cinnamon?
Within the single dish, all the aromas and textures nestled quietly together.

Before I knew it, the plate was empty.
Only a soft, warm lingering feeling remains deep in my heart.

Almaty, the city of apples.
Apples at the bazaar, too.
Apples in the food, too.
Wherever I go, apples, apples, apples.

Yet, strangely, I never grew tired of them.
Each had a different face, and every time I tasted one, there was a small surprise.

I will be returning home soon.
But I will not forget the taste of these apples.

—Ah, once again, a soliloquy in a strange foreign land.