It’s funny, isn’t it — how naturally kindness flows toward other people, yet feels so complicated when it comes to ourselves?

We comfort friends when they mess up, reassure them that one bad day doesn’t define them. But when it’s us in that same position, the tone changes. Suddenly the words turn sharper, the expectations higher.

I’ve been thinking about why that is. Maybe it’s because we judge ourselves by standards we’d never place on anyone else. Maybe we’ve learned to mistake criticism for motivation, as if being hard on ourselves will somehow push us further. It rarely does. The truth is, kindness isn’t the opposite of ambition. It’s what allows growth to happen without fear. When you speak to yourself gently — the way you would to a friend — you create space for change, not resistance. Sometimes you just need to remind yourself that kindness encourages growth too. You can still strive, still want more, but do it from a place of patience rather than punishment.

Try talking to yourself with the same tone you’d use for someone you care about.

See what happens when you do.

I recently received a tester of Ghost of Tom by BIBBI, and it’s quietly taken a place on my scent shelf. Not flashy, not loud — just something that lingers in the air and feels magnetic.

At the moment, these are my favourite scents:
– Ghost of Tom by BIBBI
– Opus 1 by L’Atelier Parfum
– Aurner by Aesop

I love picking up perfumes while travelling. There’s something magical about it — wear a scent later, and suddenly you’re back on that street, in that city, or passing that café. Ghost of Tom wasn’t bought on a trip, but I’m taking it with me to Zurich next month, so it will officially be my Zurich perfume. I’m curious to see how the city will blend with its smoky, addictive aroma.

The fragrance itself feels like a story. Inspired by the folklore of “the ghosts of Tom,” it hints at invisible presences you can sense but not see. It opens with Bergamot, Maté and Blackcurrant, moves into a smoky heart of Ceylon Black Tea and Violet Leaf, and rests on Papyrus, Birch Tree and Black Amber. It’s unisex, mysterious and magnetic — quiet, but hard to forget.

Perfumes like this hold more than just a smell. They hold memory, mood, and meaning. Ghost of Tom is the kind of scent that turns ordinary moments into something a bit more memorable.

Hey again —

Lately I’ve been thinking about something someone said in a comment:
“If no one reads your writing, is it still worth doing?”

At first, it made me pause. But I keep coming back to: yes, absolutely.

Since I started writing here — even just these small, occasional notes — something has shifted. I notice more. I feel more open. Ideas come more freely, and even the quietest moments carry weight.

It reminds me of two quotes by Alberto Giacometti that I recently came across:

“I no longer work for anything but the sensation I have while working.”

and

“The more I work, the more I see things differently… everything gains in grandeur every day, becomes more and more unknown, more and more beautiful.”

I don’t think I understood what he meant until now.

It’s not really about the outcome — not always.
Sometimes it’s just about the doing.
The sensation of being deep inside a process, creating something that wasn’t there before.
It makes me feel more connected. To myself, to the world around me, even if no one else sees it.

And when someone does read something I’ve written — and it resonates — it’s a quiet kind of magic. But I’m learning not to make that the reason I write.

This space has started to feel like a little room I return to.
No pressure, no expectations — just a place to put the things that won’t leave me alone.

So yes, even if no one’s watching, I’ll still be here, writing when it feels right.
Maybe you’re doing something similar — painting, designing, cooking, building.
If so, I hope this is your reminder to keep going. It’s still worth it.

More soon,
Elvis

What makes Bulgarian yogurt special isn’t just taste — it’s science, culture, and simplicity combined. The key difference is a live culture called Lactobacillus bulgaricus, a bacteria that naturally occurs only in Bulgaria’s environment. It’s what gives the yogurt its unmistakable tang, thicker texture, and natural creaminess — all without needing anything added or strained out.

It’s also packed with probiotics, which support gut health and digestion. But honestly, beyond the health benefits, it’s the flavor that gets me. It’s real, earthy, slightly sharp, and deeply satisfying. There’s a kind of purity to it — no sugar, no fluff — just yogurt the way it’s been made for generations.

Sure, Greek yogurt is smooth and thick, often strained to concentrate the protein. Turkish yogurt is creamy and slightly more mellow in flavor. But Bulgarian yogurt has that perfect balance of clean texture and bold taste. It feels alive.

Maybe it’s because I’ve grown up around it, or maybe it’s the simple rituals — a spoonful in the morning with fruit and honey, or as a side to something savory. Either way, I always find myself choosing it over the others.

If you ever come across a jar of real Bulgarian yogurt, give it a try — plain, unflavored, full-fat. Just the good stuff. You’ll taste what I mean.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on attention. Not the kind we give to tasks or content — but real, sensory attention. The kind that forces you to slow down and really see. Not scroll, not skim, not rush — see.

When was the last time you wandered through your neighbourhood without a specific goal? Just meandered. Looked at the cracks in the pavement, the little weeds pushing through, the shape of the clouds, the faded lettering on old signs. That kind of walk — the curious, meandering kind — is what Alexandra Horowitz calls an “investigatory exercise.” And after reading her book On Looking: Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes, I’ve been trying to walk more like that.

The concept is simple yet profound: take the same block and walk it eleven times, each time with a different “expert” — from an artist to a child to a dog. By doing so, you experience the familiar in entirely unfamiliar ways. It’s a gentle reminder that our brains are natural filter systems, constantly editing reality for the sake of efficiency. We don’t see everything. In fact, we miss most things.

That’s not a failure on our part — it’s simply biology. Evolution trained us to focus on what matters for survival, not necessarily what matters for meaning. But meaning is where we truly live. And it often hides in the overlooked.

Take toddlers, for example. Their walks aren’t about getting from A to B — they’re pure sensory exploration. Everything is a discovery: a texture, a shadow, a smell. They remind us that slowness isn’t laziness — it’s a deeper form of engagement.

Artists, too, have this gift. They retain that early ability to look before they label. To notice what most of us gloss over. That’s what illustrator Maira Kalman brings to her walk with Horowitz — the ability to turn objects and people into moments of connection, not just background noise.

One moment that stayed with me: Kalman gently encouraging Horowitz to speak to people. The postman, the movers, the people you’d usually pass by with your head down. Suddenly, the walk becomes a doorway to other lives. The street becomes a shared story.

I think about that often — how we coexist, but rarely live with those around us. Especially in cities like London or New York, where the pace of life makes anonymity not only easy but somewhat expected. But presence — real presence — brings depth. And depth fosters connection.

We often associate attention with focus, effort, or seriousness. But perhaps real attention is the opposite: relaxed, open, unforced. More about noticing than solving. More about curiosity than control.

The question is: can we re-learn how to look?

Can we choose — even for just a moment each day — to see our street like a tourist, our surroundings like a child, our neighbours like potential conversations rather than mere passersby?

Because, as Annie Dillard wisely said, how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. If our days are a blur of filtered glances and background noise, what kind of life are we really creating?

I don’t have a solution, just a suggestion: walk slower. Look longer. Don’t assume you’ve seen it all before — because you haven’t.

And maybe next time, take the long way home.

—

Reading this felt like someone handed me a magnifying glass for my everyday life. If you’ve ever felt like your days are slipping by too quickly, or that life is happening somewhere else — start with this book. And then, start walking.

We had a quiet morning before heading out, picking up an egg and strawberry sandwich from 7-Eleven, a simple breakfast we had been curious to try. Then we took the metro from Shimbashi to Asakusa, where everything started to feel different.

As we approached the temple, we noticed more and more people dressed in traditional clothing. At first, it seemed like part of the usual Asakusa charm, but as we got closer, we realised we were right in the middle of something much bigger. The streets were packed, and mikoshi (portable shrines) were being carried through the crowd, moving with the rhythm of drums and chants all around us. There was an energy, a movement, a life to it that we hadn’t expected.

We’d unintentionally stepped into a huge festival, and it felt like we had been transported into another world — far removed from the usual tourist experience.

As we walked through the busy streets, we couldn’t resist trying some local treats: warm melon bread filled with matcha ice cream, soft anko balls, and crispy Asakusa menchi. We even went back for the menchi because it was so good. These simple, fresh flavours, combined with the festive atmosphere around us, made everything feel more real — and a bit magical.

None of this — the festival, the food, or the crowds — had been part of our plan. But somehow, it all came together in a way that became one of the best parts of the trip. A perfect reminder that the best moments are often the ones you don’t expect.


Note: If you’re planning a trip to Japan, especially in the warmer months, keep an eye out for the many festivals across the country. Sanja Matsuri, the one we stumbled into, typically happens around May 17–19 each year in Asakusa. It’s definitely worth checking out if you're there during that time!

When we were in Japan, I kept noticing how beauty was built into everyday life through small, thoughtful details. One afternoon, we were at teamLab Planets Tokyo, and I spotted flower pots lining the queue lanes. Nothing fancy, just small pots with green plants. But somehow, it made the whole space feel calmer and more considered. It’s such a simple idea, but it really stayed with me.

That was one of many small details I noticed. The little flower arrangements outside cafés. The tiny green corners in front of houses. Even goldfish swimming in clear tanks placed outside small shops — just sitting there, almost like decoration, but also cared for. Things that didn’t ask for attention, but once you saw them, you couldn’t unsee how lovely they were.

If you’ve ever been to Japan, you probably know what I mean. There's a kind of quiet care in how things are done — like someone thought about how to make even the most ordinary moment feel a little more special.

I understand now why so many people come back from Japan completely in love with the place. It’s not just about the food or the culture (though those are amazing too) — it’s these everyday moments, these details, that make the whole experience feel different. Calmer. More intentional.

And that’s what I keep thinking about now — how beauty doesn’t have to be loud or polished. Sometimes it’s just a row of flower pots in a place you didn’t expect them. And that’s enough.

Hey there!

I’m Elvis Azisova, though I’ve recently changed my surname to Sahin after getting married. I still use Azisova online, but it’s the same me. I’ve been living in London for six years now, but I’ve also called a few other places home — I was born and raised in Bulgaria, and I’ve lived in Istanbul and Malta. Each place has shaped me in different ways, but right now, London is where I’m settled with my husband. We got married last year, and we’re still deciding whether to grow our family here or maybe try somewhere else. That’s a whole other story, but I’ll get into it in another post.

I started Occasional Notes because I wanted a space to explore all the things I think about and work through. I’ve always been drawn to creativity in all its forms — design, photography, travel, food, and the bigger questions life throws at you. There’s no fixed theme here, no set agenda. Just a collection of reflections, discoveries, and musings on whatever catches my attention at the moment.

This space is where I share what matters to me — whether that’s a recent trip I’ve taken, a recipe I’ve fallen in love with, or an idea that I can’t shake. Sometimes I’ll write about something I’m passionate about, and other times it’ll be more about the quiet moments that make me pause and think. It’s a place for me to explore what sparks my curiosity, and I’m hoping it does the same for you.

I’m still figuring out this whole Substack thing, so don’t expect a strict posting schedule — I’ll write when something feels worth sharing. If any of this sounds interesting to you, feel free to stick around. Subscribe if you want, or just follow me on Instagram, where I’ll link updates. I promise not to overwhelm you with too many posts — just whatever feels right. If you like what you read, awesome. If not, no hard feelings. It’s as easy as clicking away.

Thank you for being here. I truly hope you find something that resonates with you — whether it makes you smile, sparks an idea, or just gives you a moment to pause and reflect.

More soon,
Elvis

We were in Tokyo for our honeymoon (part two). Part one we spent right after the wedding in Göcek, Turkey — I’ll write about that another time.

That day in Tokyo, we didn’t have a full plan, but we did know we wanted to stop by the Onitsuka Tiger store (I’ll get to that). For the most part though, we just wandered, let the day unfold, and ended up in Yoyogi Park.

The first thing I remember is spotting a vending machine — I was so happy to see it because it was the hottest day of our trip and I really needed that cold green tea. Vending machines in Japan are a dream. I read somewhere that there’s one for every six people in the country, and I believe it. They’re on every corner, and they always have what you need. I grabbed my tea, and we found a bench to sit and people-watch for a while.

The park was busy in that calm Tokyo way — families, couples, solo people biking through. It was quiet but full of life, and it felt good just to sit. That’s one thing that really surprised me about Tokyo — it’s such an alive, fast-moving city, but it still manages to feel calm and perfectly paced. Somehow it just works. It suited me.

Of course, we also had to check out the toilets. Not something I’d usually be excited about, but if you’ve seen Perfect Days, you’ll understand. It’s a quiet, slow film about a man who cleans Tokyo’s public toilets, and somehow it completely changed how I think about ordinary spaces. After watching it, I became kind of obsessed with seeing them in real life. I even bought The Tokyo Toilet Book from the museum shop at The National Art Center. The fact that a book like that even exists is exactly why I love Japan.

After the park, we headed to the Onitsuka Tiger store to get shoes — because when you’re in Japan and they’re half the price of what they are in London, it’s kind of a no-brainer. So yes, technically some things were planned.

We ended the day with yakitori in a little izakaya in Shimbashi. Later, we had dinner at a tiny yakitori spot in Shimbashi — just a few seats, low lighting, quiet chatter, and the smell of grilled skewers. It instantly reminded me of Midnight Diner. If you’re into Japanese food and that kind of late-night atmosphere, you’ll love it. It had that warm, familiar feeling even though we’d never been there before.

It wasn’t some dramatic or “special” day, but I think that’s why I keep thinking about it. Everything was easy. We walked, we sat, we ate, we bought a couple things. It’s always those in-between days that end up sticking with you the most.

The world doesn’t stop for you — but sometimes, if you’re lucky, it slows down just enough to let you feel it.