#nobeerreviews

[hilyanlugano]

She shuts her eyes, as the coffemaker begins to gurgle, and she finds behind her eyelids hills that stand soft and a sky that stands high and blue, and the sun setting behind a windmill, and always, always, hazy strings of mountains that fall and fall away on the horizon.

Khaled Hosseini - And the mountains echoed

[nobeerreviews]

Here a busy figure, briefcase clutched at their chest to pick up speed through the laid back crowds. And behind him a joyful face, smiling like they're about to share with you that kind of jokes which always make you snort. Too bad the look next to them is that kind of piercing, almost sly, somebody you would instantly despise. With this other one though you could share a beer, refreshing and friendly, clinking the bottle of a Tartine bready ale on the way to the park. But over there, this graceful slide... you feel like you could fall in love, that kind of love those silly poets keep on quoting on Tumblr. And such a feeling of togetherness like the other group, not because they'd be wearing the same colors, just the way they talk to each other, you feel already one of them. This lady across could be nana, a bit lost and a bit confident, a bit thoughtful and a bit all knowing, glasses reflecting the last rays of late afternoon sun. Then there's a sad face which always gets a feeling of urgency in you, that you must do something because they must suffer, just look at those eyes... Paris puts new faces on every visitor but they can't recognize each other, because they're other people's imagination figures. They are wearing other people's dreams, other people's hopes, other people's hates and goals and loves and sometimes it's yourself and yet the face you see by chance in a shop window is... not you. Travelers go to Paris to find out what they've been yearning for, in life or in dreams, to learn what did they miss in all their time on this Earth without having a face to read from, a face to put it on, a face to give to their thoughts and longings and insecurities. Some leave the way they came, empty handed, empty hearted, climbing back into the carousel of unidentified faces making up their lives. Others, the lucky few, get a tag for their nameless boxes and leave with a plan, with a new promise to fill whatever they missed, with a fresh desire. They're maybe not so many, the winners, but travelers still flock because Paris is the only place letting you gamble for a hope.

[olycam]

Day 6: I have been nominated by the gifted @ohhelloholly to post seven books that I love, one book per day, no exceptions, no reviews, just covers. I am going to do a slightly different take - I’m going to think of my favorite books at certain ages and provide a little context.

At my side job while in grad school, one of the townies brought this book in. I had heard of it and he suggested I read it. Said it would be up my alley.

Today, let’s hear from @nobeerreviews. See what he has in store.

[nobeerreviews]

Have you ever been into the lair of the dragon? Have you seen the cold weight of its intricate decorations? That’s definitely not beauty, it’s… iciness, it’s strangeness, it’s falsehood, because creation must come from a pure heart - not commanded in exchange of your soul, not built to trap imagination but polished to project it beyond. Have you felt the emptiness of its pointless hoarding, oblivious to the cries and suffering of the people he has been robbing of their livelihoods? The dragon and his regime, spewing flames of fear and oppression and lies, razed the size of a city to center their empire of lies built behind the facade of an utopia, throwing chains not even golden over their people to wear and even teaching them to be proud of that. Because patriotism is a cheap sell and when your pride was already crushed by the struggle to survive in a world they depleted to gather their riches, the reign of the dragon could live forever.

Or so they thought.

Blinded by their own smoke, confused between their own mirrors, they crashed under their own weight of fake shine and the people started to breathe again. Karma, right? In a glass, the IPA of Hophead is stingy like orange zest and piney like bittersweet memories of the times of change. Change, like in… change? Hmm, lies die much harder than dragons, and decades of crawling leave very deep traces. Broken legs need years and years to learn to walk again. … and the colossal House of the People in the middle of Bucharest stands hostile witness to the legendary hoarders of a dictatorial past one should never forget.

[nobeerreviews]

Quiet and imposing in their sleep, not even dust dares to cover the ancient brass shine and painted wooden scales. Their eyes stay shut even when you’re passing right under their noses, a misstep you would have regretted in their days. But now, energy has left them, no lightning flows through steely claws anymore. Visitors are allowed to get much closer than when their massive bodies were still weaving impassible runs on the streets of Zurich, skimming over melting summer asphalts and across icy winter tracks. They were tame creatures though, unflinching hard workers repeating the same ritual of the agreed schedules while carrying an entire small world in their large bellies smelling of grease and chipped wood, a world of cheerful school kids biting in crumbly biscuits, of talkative grandmas jokingly chiding them, of grave employees frowning from behind thick rimmed glasses when reading a morning newspaper and sometimes a street musician or two singing foreign songs, warm scenes punctuated by the lively ring of that familiar bell. Close your eyes in the golden evening, let a glass of Aranykakas Altbier tickle you with dried fruit and biscuits, and allow the flamboyant beast from your memories grow back to what it once was. Can you see its massive body stubbornly weaving that same path, year after year along those trees shedding colorful tears in the cold autumn rains and blooming again in spring pride? Can you hear also the faint screech of metal wheels, their determination starting to creak, inner rumble louder and louder, can you hear them starting to get tired? Times have changed… when the dragons first arrived they were heroes, now they’re museum pieces, body worlds… frozen in time here, where old trams came to die.

[nobeerreviews]

The spirits of Colmar are joyful spirits, you can feel that right away. Not grumpy, frightening or lamenting spectres like the rest of the world has taught us in ancient bedtime stories or plain horror literature. True, the night lights here are still magical and there's always a chill when the orange hues envelop your steps after the warm summer sunset. But in Colmar the spirits, well meaning and stubborn beings of colorful glow, can be surprised running up and down delicately preserved wooden beams, games of shadows infusing new strength into structures which should have collapsed since centuries. Through them, the ancient houses of Colmar are living with us and sparkling with pride. People stroll at night on the busy paths to admire the street tapestry, feeling that all is here for a reason and the reason is to keep the town alive, the reason you're here as well. Because its life is contagious, its blush wraps your heart and its light shines directly in your soul. Your soul and his and hers and everybody's souls joining the kitsch sprites of Colmar in an evening dance of colors and lasting happiness and joy. Other spirits travel from far away to simply mingle and even if they're nobody to you, it's heartwarming to imagine your loved ones would enjoy the same afterlife, somewhere out there just as charming. And even if you don't believe any of this, you will still revel in the late evenings of mysterious shine with a local glass of refreshing Bleu Metal Spirit, a light dry grapefruit ale to round up another beautiful day.

[nobeerreviews]

A soft and warm voice singing a peaceful tune from somewhere above, maybe a lullaby like you think you recall your mother was singing, or maybe you just dreamed once of her singing but it must have been exactly this air... The shadows, small and furtive running away from the sun like you were running once, chased by those silly kids from across the street in one of the many hide and seek games describing your childhood... Skinny branches beckoning from behind that old wall adorned with burning hearts, gracious lines reminding you of her arms - she was the first taking root in your heart and as unforgettable as all firsts are... Joyful laughter and happy clinking of beer glasses, your mates still young and enjoying a careless pint of local Saint Pierre blonde, all bitterness forgotten in a swirl of floral and bananas and youthful spill... An earthy scent of wet leaves and cobblestone after a quick summer rain, echoing steps on quickly drying paths in search of solitude, in search of peace, in search of yourself... Eguisheim is a village made of memories, vivid scenes in shiny bubbles from another times which may - or may not - have been yours. The next day you will maybe realize your real childhood streets were full of honking cars and your loneliness was always kept inside, that your soul only yearned for colorful paths without ever having enough time to actually follow one. But today, for one day, you've been here to dive into another life and come back warmed up from inside. Because that's the gift of Eguisheim to all visitors: a small spark of paradise.

[nobeerreviews]

If you stick your hand back in the pocket, it'll get warm again, the way your heart was when she was holding you. And each one of the shop windows does nothing else than glow, trying their best to match her smile. Coming from the open doors a joyful and warm laughter touches your ears, although not as sunny as her laughter. Oh, that statue, doesn't it have a taste of her grace? At least in the arching of her neck? Wait, why is this perfume shop not scenting of her? And why this one does? How come that a blue coat looks so huggable, why is somebody else wearing that blue? The nerve... The colors of her gaze follow your every step between the colorful buildings of Copenhague. You slow down your stride a bit, waiting for her to... no, she's not with you. The glass of Jacobsen IPA is bitter, scorching bitter, but not as bitter as saying good bye to her. And the cold roofs, lined up in the indifferent distance, are just as many obstacles separating. You.