Wandersluts: The Kaladkarin Chronicles

Airports

2006-08-21T01:43:00.000+08:00

I love airports. It might seem weird for some, but they're the best places to engage in some serious people-watching. And so, instead of engaging in time-killing diversions such as reading or sleeping, I observe everyone else (better off being the observer than the observee).

Found this little list thingy on 43 Things that made me think of all those good times spent (mostly alone) in *eek* 29 airports, international and domestic, where I got the chance to indulge my passion for people-watching: http://www.listsofbests.com/list/12634/compare/HoneyOh

New York on My Mind

2006-07-11T17:13:00.000+08:00

In February 2005, flying in from Montego Bay, Jamaica, I arrived at the John F. Kennedy Airport at a little past 11pm, and in the Manhattan apartment we were staying in some time before midnight. After we got settled, my companion suggested we go see Times Square. "It's midnight, won't Times Square be closed?" I asked. "Nope, Times Square never sleeps," he replied. Indeed, standing there, in the changing light of multicolored billboards that shone like a multitude of suns, in the middle of the night, in the heart of winter, it dawned upon me why New York calls itself "the greatest city of the world." Yes, I am home.

Roots

2006-07-07T00:50:00.000+08:00

Funny how our homeland always calls us back.

The black American who finds familiar refuge in Africa; the Jew who returns to Israel. The call of the land which nursed our ancestors is much too persuasive to resist, and we migrate, as if through some inner radar, to where our forebears came from.

I just found out a few weeks ago that I am both of Chinese and Japanese ancestry, on my father's and mother's side, respectively. Aside from being of Mexican (and of course Filipino) stock, which I'd known already. This perhaps explains my lifelong attraction to Japanese culture (I used to have an obsession with the Japanese occupation of the Philippines in WWII) and Chinese food. And, come to think of it, Mexican movies.

But my most recent "callback" is from the Cordilleras, home to my ancestors and to wbich I've recently returned. It's odd; two dear friends who have accompanied me on my trips up to BC appear to be considering making the place one of their bases as well. And, guess what, turns out that both of them have the Cordilleras in their blood: my Anak, like me, has Abra; CC's ancestors are from BC too. Hmm. And to think our ascendants came all the way to Manila for a "better life." No worries though, we're on our way to setting everything right.

A Crowd Favorite

2006-05-31T22:41:00.000+08:00

Baguio City's Session Road
Men's Health Philippines, June 2006 ed.

It’s no Ayala Avenue or Roxas Boulevard, but Baguio City’s most prominent thoroughfare could rival the busiest Manila street in terms of pedestrian traffic alone, not to mention mastodonic vehicular snarls. The renowned urban planner Daniel J. Burnham, tasked with developing a health resort town for overheating American colonizers, drew up plans for this mountain city with a population of 25,000 in mind: a century later it seems that 25,000 people are walking up or down Session Road on any given day, at almost any given hour. Considering that it hardly spans a kilometer from end to end, that’s quite a crowd for a normal day in the City of Pines – an experience definitely not for the agoraphobic!

According to Attorney Pablito Sanidad, National Chairman of the Free Legal Assistance Group (FLAG) and longtime Baguio resident, Session Road derives its name from the fact that it used to lead up to the old Baden-Powell Hall, where the Philippine Commission held its sessions from April 22 to June 11, 1904. Hardly surprising that the Islands’ Governor General Luke Wright and the rest of the Commissioners chose to escape the capital’s heat during the summer of 1904, and that Baguio City’s main artery of commercial activity would forever bear testament to the historic legislative and executive sessions that took place at the top of the incline.

A marker by what is now the Baden-Powell Inn, right beside the numerous bus terminals on Governor Pack, now stands as the only visible evidence that anything of remote historical significance ever took place on Session Road. Nowadays, the only sessions that regularly take place in the vicinity are the jam sessions at Ayuyang, a favorite watering hole of reggae, folk, and indigenous Filipino music fans and artists alike – on a good night you can catch local legends like Joey “Pepe” Smith and Joey Ayala performing to an appreciative Baguio audience (or just being part of it).

Of course, there are also the bingo sessions on the uppermost level of SM Baguio, which looms imposingly over Session, and the entirety of the city for that matter: its newest and most conspicuous landmark is perhaps a slightly perturbing allegory of modern day life and times in the City of Pines.

At least it took a good deal of the attention away from the monstrosity that is the concrete pine tree at the top of Session, which serves as a vehicular rotunda as well as an incomprehensible waste of money, time, and cement; it’s so ugly it cannot even be looked at as charmingly kitsch.

Fortunately, honest-to-goodness art still manages to make its mark, even on Session; after all, Baguio City is well-known for being a haven of artists – apparently the comfortable climate is conducive to creativity. Session’s sidewalks, if you look closely, are peppered with works of art – mosaics of scrap glazed tiles painstakingly assembled in place of erstwhile potholes by Kawayan de Guia and other city-based artists.

De Guia’s artistic inclinations are not unexpected: he is the son of celebrated alternative filmmaker Kidlat Tahimik (of the prominent Baguio City de Guia clan), who in turn is the nephew of the late Victor Oteyza, one of the country’s pioneering modernists. VOCAS (an acronym for the “Victor Oteyza Community Art Space”) on the sixth floor of the family-owned La Azotea Building was put up in Oteyza’s honor – it is probably the single most astonishing establishment on Session. The 19th-century capiz window exteriors of La Azotea, as well as the hodgepodge of commercial tenants occupying its lower floors, give no indication that the cavernous penthouse up a flight of rickety hardwood stairs is a jaw-dropping art installation that can only perhaps be described as a Cordillera Neverland, or what it would look like if Peter Pan were an Ibaloi tribesman. As if the place weren’t enough of an attraction in itself, VOCAS also features art and photo exhibits, a vegetarian restaurant, Oh My Gulay! as well as a great balcony view of the streets of BC.

Sometimes the art on Session is the building itself: some structures remain architectural masterpieces despite the disasters wrought by nature and man. Session Road was devastated in the course of the hostilities of the Second World War, and new structures rose up from the ruins, some better-looking than others. The relatively new, Cruz-owned Puso ng Baguio building is an interesting combination of Baroque and Victorian architecture, with a touch of the owners’ colorful Bulacan whimsy. The Antipolo Building reminds one of Quiapo’s 1920-inspired edifices, and is still in pretty good shape, which is more than can be said for a good portion of the infrastructure along Session. Unfortunately, just like Quiapo, some parts of historic Session have gone the thrift-shop route: art deco meets ukay-ukay.

If old clothes don’t catch your fancy, then perhaps old haunts will – Session Road’s nostalgic staples are still there, for the most part: the unassuming Luisa’s Café, a favorite haunt of prominent personalities; Star Café and Restaurant, famous for its pansit canton and freshly baked soft cinnamon rolls; and Rumours Bar, which was a popular night-time destination in the ‘80s and is apparently still very much in business.

“Newer” kids on the block, which seem to be steadily maintaining popularity with Session Road habitues, are Pizza Volante, at the old Session Theater, known for its long hours and excellent fare; Bruno’s Café and Restaurant (102 Session Road), which provides an unimpeded front-row view of the sidewalk cavalcade and is popular with the non-Filipino crowd; and the multitude of establishments at the deceptively one-dimensional Porta Vaga.

Prudence would dictate that Session Road and its chaotic crowds best be avoided – the Baguio City experience would be all the more pleasant without having to travel through the throngs. Then again, without a few times traversing the length and height of Session, the Baguio City experience wouldn’t be quite the same. After all, those 25,000 people on Session Road at any one time, at almost any given hour, couldn’t all possibly be wrong.

Exploring Half-Understood Desires

2006-05-16T15:28:00.000+08:00

"You're coming to realize that travel anywhere is often a matter of exploring half-understood desires. Sometimes, those desires lead you in new and wonderful directions; other times, you wind up trying to understand just what it was you desired in the first place. And, as often as not, you find yourself playing the role of charlatan as you explore the hazy frontier between where you are, who you are, and who it is you might want to be." - Rolf Potts, Tantric Sex for Dilettantes (It's really not what you think. Uh, judge for yourself.)

Ça vaut le voyage

2006-05-03T22:50:00.000+08:00

This piece was commissioned by Real Living for an upcoming issue. Ironically, however, I find myself committed to a growing number of projects that require me to be in Manila for the next several weeks. But I shall sneak a trip back up to BC very soon. Mark my words. *Boohoo!*

Living BC

My epiphany came in the strangest of places. Fresh off a bumpy, dusty, five-hour bus trip from Sagada, bearing two backpacks that seemed to weigh a ton and a half, in the midst of a stifling throng of thousands of marketgoers – and suddenly, I knew that I was home. I was so stupidly happy at the realization that I could have walked the entire distance from the Baguio market terminal to the steep inclines of Mirador Hill, just off Naguilian Road. Ça vaut le voyage! Arriving here – arriving home - was well worth the long metaphorical trip.

A Manila friend and fellow “BC” enthusiast remains fascinated at how Baguio’s residents all seem to be perenially in a good mood – and who wouldn’t be? The climate is comfortable, the community is inspiring, you’ve got all the conveniences of the city – with the Philippine Cordilleras, home to my forebears, as a backdrop. Quite the difference from the other “BC” I’ve called home since I was knee-high: Barangay Culiat, Quezon City.

Instead of bolting out of bed in an airconditioned bedroom purposely curtained-off from the sounds and scents of Tandang Sora traffic, I now wake up to birds serenading the hills in the early morning. I can afford to get out of bed extremely slowly, unperturbed by the usual metropolitan noises, watching sleepily through picture windows as sun languorously makes its way up into the cornflower-blue sky. From the very first week I started “living BC,” I’ve reveled in the relative lack of metropolitan urgency that I’d become so accustomed to (as if anyone could ever get accustomed to a constant state of drowning). My usual routine is to wake up with the sun, spend a generous amount of time in morning prayer, make breakfast, and decide what to do for the rest of my day. With a lot more time on my hands and a lot less “noise” than I’m regularly used to, I accomplish so much more, even having time left over to tap into long dormant reservoirs of hidden talents and interests that have been pushed to the far back of the proverbial shelf by the savage day-to-day demands of a vicious urban jungle.

“Baguio does that to you,” my friend and fellow Baguio-phile Carina told me lately. One’s creativity is amp’ed to record levels: on the first night of my first-ever writing retreat, poetry poured out of my head and heart onto my pen and pad like never before. “Never before” being the operative phrase, as I do not write poetry. Or did not write poetry, to be more precise. Just like I once did not do some things that even I am surprised to find myself now doing – playing the guitar, working with oil pastels, making mosaic murals, acquiring an interest in gardening (!) - Baguio really does stimulate the left hemisphere of the brain and inspire you to courageously reconnoiter strange creative territories.

Which is probably the reason why a number of artists have chosen to make BC their home: best-selling painter BenCab (Ben Cabrera); renowned sculptor and art pedagogue, Benhur Villanueva, together with his talented family that includes multimedia artist Bumbo and photographer Marney; BC native and émigré from Germany, filmmaker Kidlat Tahimik and his own family of artists; another Baguio local, Cordillera photographer Tommy Hafalla; and even Pinoy rock legend Joey “Pepe” Smith, to name-drop a few. In the first month alone of living here, I met many former lowlanders who have uprooted themselves from the madness of Metro Manila and found their place in this mountain town. Bliss Café’s Jim Ward, for instance, worked around the world before finally finding his groove as a BC vegetarian restauranteur; Grace Calleja runs a dimsum franchise at SM Baguio and one of the BC universities; the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart of Jesus’ (Sr. Patricia is from New York and Sr. Romy from Portugal) streetchildren apostolate is here. Even my next-door neighbors are originally from Marikina. To the last person, every single one of these BC converts told me that they have absolutely no regrets of moving out of crowded Manila and moving up to BC. Even as one of BC’s newest residents, I can easily say that, at this point, neither have I.

Perhaps I share many of their reasons for choosing to live here, but I have many more reasons of my own. The move was bound to happen sooner or later, considering all the time I’ve spent in the Cordilleras - Benguet, Mountain Province, my maternal home province Abra - much more so in the last year or so, with BC as a hub. BC itself is a city of great memories, a trove of reminescences starring those near and dear to me, with whom I’ve shared quality time in Baguio over the decades and into the new millenium. Some of these dear and silly friends have twitted me about likening my BC relocation to moving into my first apartment in Paris, but the experience is so similar in many ways that I’ve chosen a Parisian-apartment/Moulin Rouge (on hash?) meets Session Road theme in renovating the house. BC mornings are crisp and chilly, with sunny afternoons – especially in the hilly area where I live – punctuated by foggy interludes that cool the air, just like a good day during a Parisian spring. And BC is also a great walking town, never mind the doggy poo that you have to constantly watch out for, especially in my neighborhood. And of course, BC has the best market, hands down, of any I’ve seen or experienced in this country. I could spend the whole day in it, just like I spent many hours dreamily lost in the Sunday Bastille marche or the smaller weekday Mouton Duvernet market in my 14ème neighborhood. For a fraction of Manila’s (or Paris’!) prices, I can carry away my dinner of skewered meat or fish hot-off-the-grill, newly harvested vegetables in season, succulent strawberries by the kilo, and, my favorite indulgence: armfuls of freshly picked flowers. The Parisian comparison is not so superficial after all; but this time, with my own Cordillera Ilocano ancestry, I can actually talk the talk. And, unlike Paris, or any of the many other places I thought I’d settle down in, Baguio City truly feels like home.

I’m living, and loving BC – it’s Baguio City, Back to the Cordilleras for me.

The Touristing Traveler

2006-05-01T22:22:00.000+08:00

Breakfast came in a brown paper wrapper, as pleasantly warm as the smile of the elderly man who came knocking on my hotel room door at such an unholy hour. Or so I thought; it was actually already 8:00 in the morning, a fact that could be attested to only by my trusty timepiece, considering that the lack of any windows in the room or its vicinity ensured pitch darkness once the lights were switched off.

The lack of windows was the least of my travel companions’ many complaints: the rooms were too cramped, not to mention the bathrooms – which were technically toilets with a shower, just like one of those little cubicles in a cruise ship’s cabin. The walls were too thin, the location too far removed from the city center, the surrounding establishments suspiciously a little too seedy, especially after dusk. And, horror of horrors, breakfast was not the huge buffet they were accustomed to, but instead a sorry (but extremely delectable) package of steaming fried Hokkien mee with a side of sambal belacan and a carton of commercial orange juice. For this particular vacation, accomodations were far from opulent, a situation initially decried – albeit a little more goodnaturedly than I expected – at every other opportunity. Then again, things could not be helped: the booking had been made at the very last minute, just when there was a huge food and beverage summit in town, and we were extremely lucky to get accomodations at all. Even if they happened to be in the remote East Coast area. And so my traveling companions, who take far fewer trips than I do in any given year and holiday even more infrequently, laudably bore the incommodities in high spirits.

The last international trip I took with my family was to Hong Kong, right before the hand-over in 1997. Scratch that - I think it was in fact the Bangkok excursion in 1999 to visit the Thai branch of the family, but that time around it was an all-girl excursion. After that, I took on more countries, continents, and the rest of the Philippines and the world mostly on my own or in the company of my peers. But never again with family members. Being around people one dearly loves, in alien surroundings, is one of the most stressful scenarios imaginable. Familiarity truly breeds contempt, especially in foreign climes, and especially with family members – mainly because you’re bound together permanently by bloodline and therefore have the license to violently feud with each other any time, at any place, without fear of major estrangement. Which is why I begged off from the last family trip to Shenzhen, China (to which I’d already been with my friends Neil and Jules), two years ago, and declined to join my parents’ US coast-to-coast adventure last year.

But this year, since my little sister was on a rare vacation from her medical fellowship in the US, I was “mandated” to keep her – and the parents – company on a short out-of-the-country trip. Not that I had to be hogtied and tortured to go, because, after all, wanderlust will jump at the slightest opportunity to explore unfamiliar territories (which is why some of us are aptly called “wandersluts”). I thrilled at the thought of Beijing and Shanghai – the original travel itinerary – and even did my research, learned some Mandarin, secured a Chinese visa. But, zaogao! Honorable travel agent made booboo and botched up China plans, constraining family to take other less desirable course.

Which is how I found myself in the colorful Peranakan district on the East Coast of Singapore. Except for a transit through Changi Airport en route to Kuala Lumpur a few years back, I’d never been to Sing – never really was inclined to go. The funny thing is that my friend CC was very recently talking about visiting Singapore and actually considering moving there, but I didn’t think for a moment that I would ever go. But there I was. On eek! – for shame – a package tour.

Now don’t get me wrong. Package tours are da bomb. Cheap airfare, cheap board and lodging, free airport transfers and breakfast – those things rock. But I’ve never quite fit into the tourist mold, and I think I will never, ever again be one of those stickered group excursionists hanging on to every word out that comes out of the tour guide’s mouth. I suppose it’s because I don’t find it very pleasant to travel in a herd – I’ve found that you miss out on a lot of the most important things that await to be seen and experienced. Independent travel is more of my bag: you get to linger at your own pace, explore hidden nooks and crannies, interact with the locals and your fellow travelers on a different level. And yet, on this Singapore trip, after so many years of independent backpacking and traveling all around the world, I found myself at the mercy of the dynamics that make up a package tour, compulsory “city tour” and all. Shudder.

One of the things I abhor – nay, the thing I MOST ABHOR, about tours like this is that there will always, ALWAYS be one person in the group who will annoy the very last ounce of patience out of you. In a matter of half a morning. She/he is overly loquacious, making unwelcome comments and know-it-all remarks, and just being downright irritating. This trip was no different – I wanted to chuck the annoyance into the Singapore River every time she opened her very undiplomatic, politically incorrect, nonsensical mouth. Grrrr. She made me ashamed to be a Filipino!

These are the things about touring that I find difficult to abide. Then again, I am blessed with the opportunity to travel more than the average person, and to make a living out of it - whereas most tourists are hardworking people who need breaks from the world and deserve a little more pampering than what they’re normally used to. The average tourist pays top dollar to enjoy and be entertained – to engage in diversions that will temporarily distract one from the humdrum worries and cares of every day. While the traveler curiously attempts to scratch through the surface and acculturate himself to the local lifestyle, the tourist is, for the most part, just passing through, trying to hedonistically squeeze the best sensations out of a once-in-a-lifetime experience, patronizing theme parks and engaging in “I-was-there” photo-ops. The tourist stays on the beaten track and tries to check off the must-sees, must-dos and must-eats on the guidebook list; the traveler wanders far off the track to create entire new experiences that he may or may not want to recommend.

“Touristing” can be a pleasant thing, to some extent – especially because of its convenience and comforts. But “traveling,” or how I define it at least, brings a lot more satisfaction – to me, at least – because it tests character, independence, and introduces, in a very real sense, a lot more adventure into one’s life. Except for the one and a half hour that I had to myself exploring Joo Chiat and its architectural and cultural marvels, I didn’t play my usual role as traveler on this particular expedition, something that’s left quite an amount of frustration in my system. Then again, Singapore is but a JetStar/Tiger Air flight away, and, without the benefit of a booked tour or confirmed hotel accomodations, is just another travel adventure waiting to happen. But first, there’s the matter of an unused Chinese visa that needs to be addressed…

By Land or By Sea--There's More than One Way to Enjoy the Weekend in Laiya

2006-03-31T12:53:00.000+08:00

It was a parade like no other. I was at its tail end, wondering what the locals thought about this queer sight passing before them: twenty people, backpackers all, each holding an umbrella of a different color from the person after and before, walking between fishing boats, playing children, and nipa beach huts, trudging up the gleaming white Laiya shoreline in the smoldering heat of high noon, making a beeline toward Mt. Daguldol.

On a sunny Saturday morning a year before, I boarded a van bound for Lipa and, after an eternity of vehicle transfers, found myself walking down a dirt road, past a small cemetery, into the arms of an inviting blue-green sea. That was my first time in Laiya. I had come to cover an annual off-road triathlon for a travel magazine. Most people come to Laiya because Matabungkay and Calatagan have become overtouristed, and Anilao caters more to divers and windsurfers. Discriminating beachineers needed to find a new refuge along the Batangas coast.

Laiya has been that refuge for some years now. Seven kilometers of butter-white sand rising up from the calm, but sometimes temperamental, waters of Sigayan Bay. Its eastern half (before the town proper) is an ideal swimming and picnic beach; the sand here is much finer and the shore-slope more gradual. The western shore (after the town proper, all the way to Hugom), on the other hand, though lacking in the raw material for sand castles and notorious for sudden drop-offs, is teeming with marine life. Snorkelers have sometimes been blessed with sightings of shy but friendly sea turtles.

But there’s more to a weekend in Laiya than sand and sea. After more than thirty minutes of walking on the shore, we finally left the sound of crashing waves and stepped into the forests of Mt. Daguldol, where a different symphony greeted us: gentle-breeze rustling leaves, punctuated by bird calls. The heat, though, would not let up. We were out of the sun, but the lush vegetation, while providing shade, also trapped heat and moisture rising from the ground. Fortunately, the discomfort was easily dispelled by a tall, cold bottle of Coca-cola and fresh buko juice. The houses along the trail always had enough for everyone.

Three hours later, I had all but forgotten the curious stares we summoned on the beach and the sweltering trek inside Daguldol’s forest line. I was swaying contentedly in a hammock strung between two coconut trees in the middle of the Niyugan campsite. Colorful tents had sprouted all over the sloping field of carabao grass. The smell of dinner and fresh brewed coffee was in the air. The sun was lazily descending from the sky. It was soon lost behind one of the higher peaks. Beyond it, I knew, lay the sea, and its silent, secretive turtles. (JG)

Pangasinan: Land of a Hundred Discoveries

2006-03-31T12:52:00.000+08:00

Nearly a century after Marco Polo made the journey he details in The Description of the World, the equally legendary Moroccan traveler Ibn Battuta began his own voyage from Calicut, India to Quanzhou in far Cathay. He followed the “Silk Road of the Sea”, passing through the Maldives, Ceylon, Sumatra, and came to port in a land called Tawalisi. There, he writes, he had an audience with its sovereign, a woman-warrior of great renown named Urduja, who presented him with gifts of “robes, two elephant loads of rice, two buffaloes, ten sheep, four pounds of syrup, and four martaban (large jars) filled with ginger, pepper, lemons and mangoes, all of them salted, these being among the things prepared for sea voyages.” While scholars have yet to pinpoint the exact location of Tawalisi, many believe it lay somewhere along the shores of the Lingayen Gulf, in the province known as Pangasinan.

Pangasinan, “where salt is made”, was a name already famous with traders of the Tang, Song, and Ming dynasties of China long before the arrival of the Spaniards. Back then though, the name only referred to the region’s vast coastal area where salt making was and is still practiced. “Caboloan” was what the inland region was called, from bolo, a species of bamboo abundant in the area and favored in the weaving of light baskets and native plates called bilao.

The Spanish conquest and colonization of Pangasinan began in 1571, when Martin de Goiti finally reached the province by way of Pampanga. In 1580, Governor General Ronquillo de Penaloza made the region an Alcaldia Mayor, and in 1611, Pangasinan became a province that included present-day Zambales and parts of La Union and Tarlac. Lingayen was named provincial capital and remains so to this day. For a modern-day exploration of Pangasinan, it is one of the best places to start.

Lingayen and Dagupan

Lingayen will always be remembered among the veterans of the last World War. In the morning of January 9, 1945, American Liberation Troops finally began landing on the beach just behind the Provincial Capitol, paving the way for the liberation of Luzon and eventually the Philippines from Japanese occupational forces. Today, a motley arsenal, including two M24 tanks, anti-aircraft artillery, and a Japanese Zero, remains in the public park in the capitol grounds.

For students of history, the Limahong Channel is also a definite attraction. In 1574, the Chinese corsair Limahong, failing to take Manila from the Spaniards, turned his ships north and attempted an invasion of Pangasinan. Repelled once more and now pursued by the Spanish army, he and his crew dug a channel from Domalandan to the South China Sea that served as his escape route and his lasting imprint on the land he failed to besiege. A bridge with a marker now spans the channel that has been widened by centuries of erosion.

If you want to catch Lingayen at its most festive, the best time to visit would be during the annual Pista’y Dayat celebration every first of May. A Thanksgiving Mass celebrated at the Lingayen Public Beach normally opens the festivities. A traditional fluvial parade often follows, and various cultural shows and contests are put on for the entertainment of both locals and visitors. You’ll get to sample fabled Pangasinan cooking and local delicacies like puto calasiao (chewy rice dumpling) at every house you visit. Wash everything down with a glass or two of duhat (blackberry) wine (beware, it is very potent). If you’re looking for bagoong (salted fish paste), you’ve come to the right place. Maniboc, as it is called in Lingayen, referring to its place of origin, Barangay Maniboc, is claimed to be the best in the world.

The day after, if you prove to be highly tolerant to the effects of duhat wine and are still stricken with fiesta fever, head down to Dagupan. The annual Bangus (Milkfish) Festival, celebrating the Dagupan milkfish harvest, will most likely be in full swing. Among the festival’s attractions are the “101 Ways of Cooking Bangus” and the “Longest Grill” competition (Dagupan currently holds the Guiness World Record).

Alaminos

Scattered off the coast of Lucap in Alaminos, the more than 100 limestone islands of the 1,844-hectare Hundred Islands National Park are the province’s most popular destination and one of the best places to go when you finally get tired of Lingayen and Dagupan’s urban atmosphere.

From the Lucap Wharf, a twenty-minute ride via motorized pumpboat will bring you to the closest of the islands. The water is shallow in many places between the islets, making them ideal places for swimming and snorkeling. Unfortunately, many of the coral reefs have been damaged by years of dynamite and cyanide fishing as well as by typhoons and the ravages of El Nino. Though steps have already been taken to protect whatever is left, the total revival of the reefs will take more than one human lifetime.

Of all the islands in the park, only a handful have beaches, the majority being nothing but mushroom-shaped outcrops, rising out the jade-colored water like giant green-backed turtles warming themselves in the sun. Quezon, Governor’s, and Children’s Island, the largest of the islands (Quezon Island is the largest of the three), provide picnic tables, pavilions, and grills. All can get very crowded on weekends.

If you have intentions of acting out your Robinson Crusoe fantasies, you can ask your boatman to drop you off on another island. There are many much less-frequented ones with very interesting and appealing features: Marcos Island has a blowhole that you can enter during low tide with a kayak, Cuenco Island has a cave with openings on opposite sides of island, Scout Island also has a cave, plus an offshore reef for snorkeling and small white beach where you can set camp and read Neruda while the sun sets.

Bolinao, Dasol, and Mabini

Once you get your fill of the Hundred Islands, Bolinao is the logical next step in your modern-day journey. If Tawalisi was truly located on the Lingayen Gulf, this fishing town on the northwestern tip of the Pangasinan crescent could just be one of its probable locations. Even before the arrival of the Spaniards, Bolinao was already a prosperous trading center. White and blue Ming porcelain has turned up in many archaeological dig sites along Bolinao’s rugged coastlines. The remains of sunken Chinese junks are believed to be lying just offshore, probably among the numerous reefs that dot the area’s wide expanse of unspoiled seascapes. The small Bolinao Museum houses a few archaeological finds, including ancient burial jars, crockery, and the remains of a prehistoric elephant.

Three centuries of Spanish colonial rule have also left its mark in Bolinao. The Church of St. James, with its façade of dark coral, was built by the Agustinians in 1609. This fortress of a church is famous for its wooden images of saints and its antique altar flanked by two grinning, tongue-wagging, Aztec visages, said to have been brought from Mexico by the Galleon Trade. You climb to the top of its renovated belltower for a sweeping view of the entire town. But if you fancy aerial views, none can match the view atop the Cape Bolinao Lighthouse atop Punta Piedra Point in Barangay Patar, 12 kilometers from the town center. Built by the Americans in 1905, the lighthouse rises 351 feet above sea level. The only other lighthouse perched on a higher promontory would be the one overlooking Cape Bojeador in Ilocos.

Make the most out of your trip to Patar by heading down to Patar White Beach. You can watch fishermen come in from the sea with their day’s catch. Or you can head out into the big blue yourself and catch some incoming surf. Pass by Enchanted Cave and Cindy’s Cave on your way back to town. At the mouth of Balingasay River, the cleanest in Luzon, you can rent a boat; travel inland and try to find its source.

Back in town, head into the direction of Port Bolinao and stop by the Marine Science Institute of the University of the Philippines. In an effort to restore Pangasinan’s reefs, the Institute cultivates near-extinct indigenous species of coral, giant clam, abalone, and sea urchin with the aim of eventually transplanting them back into their natural environment. You can see the extent of their work for yourself by diving off Santiago Island off Port Bolinao. Unlike in Patar, the beaches on this part of Bolinao are not as inviting. Take a day trip to nearby Dasol and go to either Tambobong Beach or Colibra Island. The sand there is as white as the salt made by the locals in the same method their ancestors probably used almost a millennium ago. If caving is your fancy, the Cacupangan and Villacorta Caves in Mabini are just waiting to be explored.

Manaoag and Calasiao

A trip to Pangasinan will not be complete without passing by the religious shrine of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary in Manaoag. Patroness of the sick, the helpless, and the needy, “Apo Baket” as she is called celebrates her yearly feast from April 14 to 16. Dawn processions are held every first Saturday of the month as well. Believing her image to be miraculous, devotees line up for hours just to get a chance to touch her feet from an opening at the back of the altar.

Not more than fifteen minutes away by car from Manaoag, housed in a shrine of its own across the Parish of Sts. Peter and Paul, just beside the municipal building of Calasiao, and not far from the roadside stalls of the alluring all-female puto calasiao vendors, the Senor Divino Tesoro, draws an equally large number of devotees every day of the week and especially on its feast day from May 1 to 3. The image of the crucified Christ is supposed to have grown from a little boy to the man he is now. As in Manaoag, believers will wait hours in a slow-moving line, many lost in the mysteries of the Rosary, just to touch the image of the Senor and receive his blessing.

While many believe Princess Urduja’s Tawalisi truly exists, a number also argue it could only be found somewhere in Captain Gulliver’s Atlas, along with the other fairy tale lands ruled by great priest-kings and fierce warrior-princesses. But Pangasinan, though itself a land of myths and heroic tales, is as tangible as the taste of bagoong in pinakbet. To travel through its varied landscape is to glimpse history and gain further insight on the Filipino people. The discoveries we can make in this beautiful land? Hundreds. (JG)

with conviction

2006-03-27T15:50:00.000+08:00

today i sent out a group email to the different business unit heads plus my boss and my team. while i have filed for leave more than a week ago, it always helps to advise people that you will disappear for a few days. so i sent out the email with the following claim: "i will be out on a retreat from april 3-5."

it's the only way to ensure utmost respect for my leave. otherwise, if it were just a vacation, there will be less hesitation to break into it for "emergencies".

of course i'm being very vague by saying retreat. basically, as far as i am concerned, it merely means a retreat from the daily madness of city life and of my work. yes, it will be probably be spiritual too in a sense. but for them, it would most likely mean the religious kind of retreat with a program and all. hence, less likely to be disturbed. :-)

buti na sigurado. i know how desperate they can get sometimes...

Leaving BC

2006-03-15T15:43:00.000+08:00

One more day in BC and it already feels like Manila is sucking me back into its depths. Yesterday, my law partner - who has been so very good in not disturbing me these past two weeks - rings me on my mobile to talk shop. The metropolitan monster looms menacingly.

I'm starting to unecessarily stress myself out because of all the stuff I need to take care of before I descend (ugh, how allegorical) - fixing the house, stripping the sheets, replacing the LPG tank (which finally gave out, providentially, as a Kabayan manong was at the house), tuning up my car, measuring curtains, finishing the Session Road article (which I know I can't properly do justice to if I wrap it up in Manila)...I can feel the city's tentacles inching their way up Kennon Road...

On the lighter side, there's always the "coming back up" to look forward to. I've made some great new friends, established connections, discussed exciting opportunities for business, employment, and mission...and I pretty much have enough information to make the DECISION. Plus there's the Kalinga trip. And I can't wait to see the people I've "left behind" - absence does make the heart fonder...or at least it makes one truly appreciate the important people in life.

Then again, just the thought of Manila makes me ill. I've been up here too long.

patintero

2006-03-15T15:15:00.000+08:00

so there's this trip to Kalinga on April 1-4, with possible extensions to April 5.

and before i could file for my leave here comes a request from Malaysia for me to do a training workshop. which will overlap with the beginning of the trip. always a good employee i considered all angles to come up with a plausible excuse not to do it. and i found one. so i declined.

was about to file the leave after fixing that Malaysia thing when another email comes in from our regional director scheduling our annual conference. on awkward dates that would jeopardize the trip because of preparations that need to be done. hmm. there must be a message here somewhere. or a challenge.

and then i did the only thing i could think of because all the other specific excuses i had on hand will not be strong anough against a regional "command", so to speak. i told our director that i have "commitments" already until the 6th, without elaborating on the details. and so i was allowed to show up late instead. since i've been on best behavior and best performance for the past couple of years i was not questioned too closely on my "commitments".

so before anything else comes up i will officially declare that my joining the Kalinga trip has been secured! and hopefully that declaration deters anything else that the Universe may think to throw along my way in an attempt to derail me from my first ever multiple day vacation for the year.

:-)

Pico Iyer's Tips for Travel Writers

2006-03-14T17:19:00.000+08:00

I was introduced to Pico Iyer's work by my good friend Karlo Samson. On our way to Sagada some years ago, he let me peek into his copy of Video Night in Kathmandu. That book (and Karlo, for that matter) introduced me to the genre and world of organized travel writing. My journeys have become more meaningful and purposeful since. The following is an excerpt from the Lonely Planet book Travel Writing by Don George:

What tips would you give to budding travel writers?

Do it for the love of it, and always begin by asking yourself what you have to bring to the Taj Mahal or the Grand Canyon or Venice that no one has brought before. What is particular about your experience and background and interests that will allow you to see and describe things that most of the rest of us could never see?

Maybe you're a jeweler, and so can read meanings into the lapis and coral of the inlay work at the Taj that few of the rest of us could discern; maybe you're of Islamic descent and so can see how the gardens outside the Taj produce the outline of the Islamic paradise; maybe you're an architect, and so can explain to the rest of us how science and craft can produce wonder. But you have to begin with something more arresting than just the place and the emotions it arouses in you.

And having chosen a focus--as specific as possible--and decided what will be your angle and your structure, having asked questions of both the place and yourself, and having taken down all the details you could want and more, then you have to work out how to shape the piece and how to find a voice that will make it compelling and fresh to the reader who has no interest in you and never wants to see another piece about the Taj Mahal. Tell your experience and observations as if you were trying to convey them to a friend with whom you long to share your passion; but do so as if you had to win that friend over every time, with your enthusiasm, your clarity, and your specifity.

And write it all up even if there's going to be no guaranteed publication, and no reader other than your mother, your partner, or your best friend, at the end of it. You won't regret it.

BC, Mar 4-5, 2K6

2006-03-08T18:08:00.000+08:00

Sige Nga

2006-02-28T22:59:00.000+08:00

Just in case you're caught in front of the computer with nothing better to do...reply in comments. Have fun!
(From Friday's Feast)

1. What did you look like when you were a teenager?
2. Whose advice do you listen to?
3. Name a book you would like to memorize.
4. How often are you sick?
5. Do you like or dislike change?
6. Name something satisfying about your work.
7. What was the last excuse you made, and why did you need to make it?
8. Complete this sentence: I wonder why _________________.
9. What was the last game you purchased?
10. Name something in which you don't believe.
11. If you could choose a television personality to be your boss, who would you pick?
12. What was a lesson you had to learn the hard way?
13. Describe your idea of the perfect relaxation room.
14. Do you button shirts top-to-bottom or bottom-to-top?
15. What is your favorite sandwich?
16. What was a family project you helped work on as a child?
17. When have you acted phony?
18. Do you write letters or postcards? If so, to whom?
19. Who is someone you would consider to be a calm person?
20. What was your last "gut feeling" about? Were you right?
21. List 3 words that you really don't like how they sound.
22. What kind of shampoo and conditioner do you use?
23. If you found out that you definitely do have a guardian angel, what would you name it?
24. Name 3 qualities that are important to you in friendship.
25. If you had to go out of town for an extended period of time, who would you trust to take care of your home and belongings?
26. How do you react to practical jokes when they're played on you?
27. When was the last time you visited a hospital?
28. On a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being highest, how ambitious are you?
29. Name something someone has done lately that impressed you.
30. Do you have any relaxing rituals? If so, what are they?
31. When was the last time you had dinner out, and what was the name of the restaurant?
32. If you had a boat, what would you name it?
33. Do your closer friends tend to be male or female? Why do you think that is?
34. If you could wake up tomorrow with a new talent, what would it be?
35. Name a household cleaning item that you would recommend to others.
36. What do you strive for in life?
37. Who is the easiest person for you to talk to?
38. If you could live in any ancient city during the height of the quality of its society and culture, which one would you choose?
39. What is the most exciting event you've ever witnessed?
40. If you were a celebrity, what would you do for a publicity stunt?
41. What do you consider the ideal age to have a first child?
42. What day of the week is usually your busiest?
43. Would you consider yourself to be strict when it comes to grammar and spelling?
44. If you could have any new piece of clothing for free, what would you pick?
45. Did you sleep well last night?
46. What is your current computer desktop image?
47. When was the last time you planted something, what was it and where did it go?
48. What's your favorite condiment?
49. Share a quote that you like, for whatever reason.

A Hillbilly's Guide to Europe

2005-12-12T23:38:00.000+08:00

My first time on the "continent." I was still majorly naive, breathless, and incorrigibly romantic...some things never change, or so I hope.

Philippine Star Article, 9/22/00

PARIS --- The only recurring dream I've been having that's worse than the nightmare of being late for my finals -- thereby failing to graduate from law school --- is the one where I'm at the airport terminal, all excited and ready to board my flight to some foreign land. What's so horrifying about it is that I always wake up before the plane ever lands. Which is probably why I've always hated airport departure terminals: partly because of the weepy goodbyes that take place there but for the most part because the people you send off are going someplace you've never been while you get left behind.

Sure, I've been on and off planes and in and out of the international and domestic airport terminals since the mid-80s --- but I'm not ashamed to say that I've never been on a flight that took more than a few hours or involved crossing several time zones. My passport has, until recently, been peppered with immigration stamps from various Asean countries, but it's never borne anything even remotely resembling a visa.

Which brings me back to that nightmare I was telling you about. The Fates had smiled upon me, and I got the best 30th birthday gift ever: an opportunity to fly off to the Old World. The only catch was that I had to go through the red tape of securing all my visas and whatnot barely a week before I was supposed to leave. Everything was in order - my round trip ticket, my hotel reservations, my Eurail pass, my access to international roaming - everything except the all-important stamps of approval: the visas!

I won't bore you with tales of the hell and high water I had to endure to get my visas. All things considered, and after consulting with some well-traveled friends, my experience was relatively painless. But the phrase "parang sumuot ka sa butas ng karayom" now bears a new and familiar meaning.

Suffice it to say that the day before my scheduled flight, through a stunning photo-finish, I had all the required visas in hand. But not before enduring the stress that can only be likened to what a lawyer with an unfinished pleading goes through on the last day of the reglementary period. It looked like my nightmare was finally becoming a terrifying reality; but God is good and I was soon on my way.

Welcome to the First World

Through yet another stroke of luck, I got bumped up from my business class seat all the way to first class. Yeee-haaa! Wide, comfortable seats; gourmet cuisine; drinks being passed every five minutes; a coterie of hospitable Lufthansa flight attendants at my beck and call. My seatmate, a well-heeled Pakistani man, promptly took off his shoes and socks (revealing a pair of feet liberally coated with athlete's foot powder) and slipped off to dreamland. I probably went through the entire inflight entertainment program before following suit.

First stop, the international airport at Frankfurt where I was to take my connecting flight. Business class has it perks: you get to while away the hours and fill up on every imaginable drink known to mankind in a huge lounge with those wide-video wall screens, racks of newspapers and reading material, a business center, and even its own shower rooms. I knew I was no longer in Kansas, so to speak, (in my case, I was no longer in Barangay Culiat) when I first encountered one of those self-cleaning toilet seats. The flushing mechanism activates a gadget that rotates the toilet seat, disinfecting it along the way. The height of hi-tech! As I was by my lonesome in the bathroom stall, I allowed myself to be suitably awed, flushing the toilet a good couple of dozen times just to watch that thing-y go! (Which probably explains the strange look on the bathroom attendant's face after I finally emerged, giggling to myself).

Frankfurt has such a gargantuan airport that you have to take a Skyline, one of those rail cars that resemble an MRT train, from one terminal to another. Having been suitably forewarned that one can easily get lost in the vastness of this German terminal, I merely followed all the signs, and voila! I got to my departure gate without incident.

Feeling like a fish out of water (The Little Mermaid's Part of Your World kept running through my head), I settled down to do some serious people watching before my flight was called. Airport terminals are the best place to engage in this favorite past-time of mine, and this particular international hub of activity offered some of the most unusual sights and sounds. Across me was a group of gorgeous German guys who made the BackStreet Boys or N'Sync look like a bunch of homely school kids; seated nearby were a few waitlisted Pinoy seamen who chatted away in a language that was music to my ears. Exotic Ethiopian women and their beautiful children; whirling dervishes (well, they weren't exactly whirling at that particular moment) on their way to Istanbul; overweight American tourists slumming in their shorts and sneakers --- all promenaded across the floor, going their own way, providing several minutes of visual pleasure to the lone Pinay tourist who discreetly watched their every move.

Swiss Miss

After my plane landed in Geneva, Switzerland, a new kind of panic began to take its grip on me. The dreaded immigration counter, the subject of some of the darkest, bloodcurdling true-to-life tales told by Pinoy travelers, was yet to be hurdled lest my nightmare reach fruition. Much to my amazement, I passed through with nary a hitch --- no ominous buttons being pushed, no alerts sounded, no third-degree questioning --- just an entry stamp. The closest I got to the requisite interrogation was a polite "Bonjour, Madame! Habitez-vous a Geneve??" from a friendly customs official, who smilingly sent me on my way after satisfying himself with a cursory glance at my passport. Good thing that I had equipped myself with three Saturdays' worth of intensive French lessons with Madame Gigi; otherwise I would never have figured out that he was asking where I lived.

My hotel was disappointingly a stone-throw's away from the airport, with no view whatsoever except for a few buildings, the main highway to Lyon, France and the Swiss Alps, bereft of snow, in the distance. I ventured out to see the sights, but was intimidated by the unfamiliar tram ticket system. After swallowing my pride and watching a local operate the ticket vending machine (summoning up the guts as well to ask him to break up one Swiss franc to smaller change), I boarded the bus to town (in my frazzled state, I was just about ready to walk the distance, a mere 5 kilometers or so).

It doesn't matter how cosmopolitan you think you are; it doesn't matter that you've grown up in the city your entire life; it doesn't matter that you've been exposed to all kinds of technologically advanced gadgetry from DVDs to PSX 2 to Pentium 300s. The bottom line is that you're still a probinsyana from the boonies when confronted with the complexities of public transport in the First World. I refused to get off the bus until my seatmate had left, with the intention of figuring out when and to whom to turn my ticket in (no such thing as bus conductors in these here parts). When I finally glimpsed the computerized terminal in front of the driver (apparently, when you buy a ticket at each stop, the information is sent to the driver and he knows how many people will be getting on at any particular station), I felt like a Third World savage. Geez.

Sunday afternoons in Metro Manila's commercial districts are characterized by a mass of humanity, choking up the streets and packing themselves into malls, parks, and markets. You can imagine the culture shock of arriving in a city on a Sunday afternoon where almost all the shops, even McDonald's, are closed, with only a handful of people milling around the wide streets of the commercial district. Think Baguio City's Session Road without the traffic and the people. Eerie. I retreated back to the hotel, spooked out of my wits. The only comfort (?!) I got was a text message from *ex-writing partner*, reminding me of his waistline and shoe size. I made a mental note to pick up a pair of cheap briefs and socks for him as pasalubong.

The next couple of days were strictly business, and I was suddenly thankful for the stash of canned goods and local pastries my Mom made me carry halfway around the world --- I was still in a major state of shock to even consider venturing out to find a decent restaurant. I spent most of my spare time watching the only English channel available, CNN, where news of the six foreign Abu Sayyaf hostages' release was broadcast every five minutes. I felt like a hostage myself, albeit self-sufficient, locking myself in my room with canned sausages and just-add-water noodles (transformed into an edible meal by the water heater conveniently provided in the room) for sustenance. Pathetic, oui, but Paris was only a day away!

How do you say "idiot" in French?

For the first few days after touching down on Continental Europe, my body clock was totally out of whack. Manila is six hours ahead on the time zone, so my internal ticker had me up at 2:00 a.m. (8:00 a.m. Philippine time) and sound asleep at 4:00 p.m. (10:00 p.m. back home, a bit too early to hit the sack, but CNN was beginning to bore me to tears).

Perhaps out of excitement at the prospect of officially beginning my European vacation, I was up and out of the hotel at 6:00 a.m. for my 11:00 a.m. to the Roissy-Charles de Gaulle Airport in France. This time I was flying coach - no cheese and wine or Lindt chocolates to tide me over during the hour-long flight, just the typical fare you get on your average domestic flight to or from Manila: mass-produced chocolate cake and orange juice (at least they didn't serve mamon and Zesto).

CDG is 45 minutes away from Paris, and my trusty guidebook advised me to take one of those free shuttles to the RER and find my way through the metro system from there. Of course, and for the first of numerous times to soon come, I nonchalantly dismissed the suggestion and instead hopped on one of those Roissy buses to the Opera district, where my hotel was purportedly located.

An hour and 48 francs later, the bus dropped off its load of passengers right by the fantastic L'Opera. Left to my own devices, lugging a small suitcase trolley and a backpack getting heavier every minute (those canned goods were beginning to take their toll), I walked all over the streets of the 9th Arrondisement for approximately two hours, in a vain effort to locate my hotel. My friends Alex and King, wise Parisian sages, had advised me to "get lost in Paris!," but this was ridiculous. My Dad likewise taught me a nifty trick: look like you know exactly where you're going so as not to assume the demeanor of a country bumpkin. An attempt to take the metro was frustrated by my adamant refusal to ask any questions (thereby betraying the fact that I was indeed an ignorant hillbilly) and receive all-important information about how the subway worked. I was tempted to call my French friend David in Manila for some assistance (yes, Virginia, global roaming works like a dream --- even better than domestic), but I was grim and determined. So I walked and walked and dragged my stuff all over town, until finally I found my hotel tucked into one of the side streets off the Place de Clichy, just a few minutes' walk from the Moulin Rouge.

To reward myself for a job well done (yeah, right), I treated myself to a late lunch at an Oriental restaurant beside the hotel, where 29 French francs (roughly P210) got me a big plat a emporter of spring rolls, sweet and sour pork, and a huge serving of Cantonese fried rice (with a Coca-Cola light to boot). Rice deprivation can do a lot of damage to Asians, so I had my fill of the staff of life. Bon apetit!

C'est Magnifique!

Sufficiently invigorated, I headed out to conquer the intricacies of the Parisian metro system. I had enough change to buy a ticket from the vending machine, which thankfully had an English language option. I was later to find out that should you be in desperate lack of loose change, you can buy tickets from the booths outside the station's entrance (although they reportedly close before 10 p.m.). I have never been on our MRT, but I've mastered to some extent Hong Kong's MTR system, so using that precious Metro ticket was a breeze. However, the number of lines interweaving the Parisian underground system escapes immediate comprehension, since you have to get on and off various stations to catch another connection that will take you to your destination. I began playing the game of connect-the-dots until I figured out how to get to the Musee de Louvre and Palais Royal.

Emerging from the recesses of the underground, the first thing I saw was a enormous, magnificent building spanning what seemed to be several city blocks. I am not one to be easily impressed; but seeing the Musee de Louvre in all its glory made me feel like falling to my knees in sheer awe of it all. I could've died right there and then --- and I hadn't even gone inside yet! I picked up my jaw from the ground, and paused to wonder at the Conseil d'Etat, in front of which several inline skaters were doing their tricks. Buoyed by the splendor surrounding me, I took a few moments to visit the beautiful church of St-Germain L'Auxerrois right across the street from the museum. Since it was getting late, I put off viewing the contents of the Louvre for another day, and instead strolled along the Seine, where several lone tourists had plopped down with a book and/or a camera. Taking a cue from them, I sat on a bench and pulled out my own precious accessory --- my cell phone, from which I texted family and friends about how Paris had taken my breath away.

I had sincerely intended to walk all the way to the Eiffel Tower, which I could see in the distance from across the Seine (although from where I was sitting, it looked like a bigger version of one of those unsightly TV network antenna-towers), but although the spirit was willing, the wounded flesh on the bottom of my feet was weak. Every step I took towards the Place de Concorde was agony, so I finally decided to call it day and give my toes a much-needed rest. But not before taking a few pictures of the Place de Concorde, its obelisk, and its fountains (I also mustered up the courage to ask some kindhearted tourists to "take my picture, and I'll take yours!?").

While I thought I had the metro system down pat, I spent a good hour and 45 minutes underground before finally getting back to my hotel. The trains are so efficient and spotless that it wasn't too much of a drag trying to get to where I was going, despite the fact that I was hopelessly lost the entire time. Instead of being bummed out by my ignorance and stupidity, I took the opportunity to master the connections, eavesdrop on conversations, and boy-watch! IMHO, Paris has more handsome men per square meter than anywhere else I've been; and, in my experience, are perfect gentlemen (no matter how old or young they are, they'll willingly surrender their seats on the metro or bus for you, and help you with your heavy luggage). But I'm getting ahead of myself. My friend Jinggay, who was recently on the continent, has always maintained that she likes Italian men most of all --- but I still had to see for myself. Rome was the next stop on my itinerary, and, if it held as much promise as Paris, I couldn't wait to get there.

Dream It. Plan It. Do It.*

2005-12-05T16:21:00.000+08:00

(*Plagiarized from National Geographic Adventure) One of the best things to do when procrastinating on lazy Mondays like this: dream. My list so far of dream trips to places I've yet to see:

1. The Camino de Santiago pilgrimage via the Camino Frances, an 800 kilometer walk from St. Jean-Pied-du-Port in France to Santiago de Compostela in Spain.
2. Backpacking mainland Southeast Asia: Malaysia, Northern Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Myanmar.
3. Cross-country US road trip, down to the Florida Keys.
4. Cuba
5. Spain and Portugal
6. Batanes
7. Brazil
8. Iguazu Falls, Argentina
9. Calcutta, India
10. Mexico

Ahh, all just dreams so far - not even including those trips planned for the next few months - but as Carl Sandburg once said, "Nothing happens unless first a dream."

"Third Wonder of the World"

2005-12-04T20:32:00.000+08:00

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Now I know what he meant, literally. The photo does not do the falls justice. There's a few more that really show off exactly how majestic they are, but they also show off some other er, sights (the 4th wonder, IMHO). Heh heh.

the terminal

2005-11-26T23:32:00.000+08:00

i have a fascination with airports, but more specifically, international airports where the immigration authority stamp your passport, as if declaring the beginning or the end of one's trip. it is a place that i find to be so tactile. in fact, it's a fascination which i think began when i was 5 years old, wiping my slacks on the wall of naia 1, thinking it was a mop and in the process, dirtying my pants (and almost ripping it apart!). seeing planes take-off or land is enough to bring any child to a dreamy place, and yet everything is real. the physicality of the place is indeed astounding. it is a place limited by concrete, metal, glass or a combination of the three and yet it encompasses a large portion of humanity, a space filled with people of different nationalities. it's as if the world fit in on area less than the size of one homogenous city. it is a building where people have not really 'landed' or 'taken off', a sort of in between.

it is a gate where i find time stop (especially going to different time zones). it is where waiting becomes an accepted activity. it is sometimes where gripping moments are further hightened or at the other extreme, numbness amplified. it is where excitement is being kept carefully inside a glass jar and awaiting to be opened at the other end. it is where people tend to talk easily with others while waiting for their flights.

in fact, in my last few trips, i've met some interesting people: a canadian who was heading over to the philippines, specifically in isabela to have a few days with her in-laws family (hkg); a couple of ofw's coming back to the philippines for a vacation and how there is real hardship in being away from family (cmb and sin); and a filipino-chinese muslim who refused to fume at the security gate when he was thoroughly frisked and refrisked and asked to empty the contents of his carry-on luggage (sfo). it is a place where i would not probably not have a chance to be and talk with these kinds of people.

the airport is indeed a fascinating place brimming with stories. it is tactile, real. and i'm glad that it's part of my travels.

Notes From Paris

2005-11-26T21:01:00.000+08:00

I found this in an old archive (I used to host a "conference" for an ISP when I was writing for the Star). Memories...

4 August 2002

I know I've been remiss in my posting duties, but I think I have a good enough reason...I've been in Paris for almost 6 weeks now. Then again, that fact alone would make you think I have enough fodder for this conference, but then again internet doesn't come cheap in this neck of the woods (1,5 euro for an hour of frantically sending off e-mail on an AZERTY keyboard).

I've always wanted to live in Paris, even for a short while, and by some miracle I'm doing just that. But you have to be careful what you ask for, 'cause you just might get it. After a week of ooh-ing and aah-ing at the sights you suddenly notice the smells (better yet, the stinks) of the City of Lights. Suddenly the Metro loses all its convenient charm; you start watching out for low-flying pigeons that might drop a bomb on your newly shampooed hair, and pray that you don't run into yet another rude Frenchman speaking gibberish and making faces. A meal is easily 500 bucks down the drain (a cheap one at that!), there's no airconditioning, and the blisters on my feet have gone forth and multiplied. I weep for San Mig Light and make do with cheap (but good) French wine; I miss our beaches (Nice and St Tropez were nice, but even Puerto Galera could give them an ass-whipping); I miss the malls and movies and English cable TV.

Then again, the people I've met here (most of whom aren't French) make up for all I long for. I've made friends from all over the planet, because after all misery loves company and we all try to cheer each other up.

I'm a little more comfortable now since classes are over and I'm house sitting for a friend (NB: The Princess himself!) who has cable and a real bathroom and DSL. Plus I get to spend more time with my roommates - two friends from school who are both tall guys capable of changing the fuse that just blew, doing the laundry, and eating my adobo. And the apartment comes with a lovely albino boxer who likes to drag me down the street at 7 a.m. and who keeps hogging the bed. These are the things I'll miss most about Paris, and suddenly I don't regret asking to come live here after all.

Happy Birthday...

2005-11-26T20:02:00.000+08:00

...to the outsidebound, oddventuring mind behind the term "wandersluts." My EIC "son" (yes, I had him when I was 3) and my fairy (oops, pardon the pun he he) godfather when it comes to making my dream trips come true. National Geographic, here he comes - remember us when you are in paradise (and put in a good word while you're at it!).

You're a good man, Jeryc Garcia - cheers!

Journeys

2005-11-21T16:00:00.000+08:00

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships or trains. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at times requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places. Introspective reflections that might otherwise be liable to stall are helped along by the flow of the landscape. The mind may be reluctant to think properly when thinking is all it is supposed to do; the task can be as paralysing as having to tell a joke or mimic an accent on demand. Thinking improves when parts of the mind are given other tasks - charged with listening to music, for example, or following a line of trees. The music or the view distracts for a time that nervous, censorious, practical part of the mind which is inclined to shut down when it notices something difficult emerging in consciousness, and which runs scared of memories, longings and introspective or original ideas, preferring instead the administrative and the impersonal. - Alain de Botton, "The Art of Travel"

Couldn't have set it better - couldn't agree more. And then he starts to talk about train rides as "the best aid to thought"...then again, it depends what kind of train. Amtrak across the Midwest, particularly in the viewing car, is like watching a moving gallery of flat landscapes. Eurail is OK too if you can stand stinky travel companions. But my memories of the PNR coffins on rails leave a lot to be desired in terms of romantic Orient Express-like travel. And you couldn't pay me to take on that Amazing Race challenge on India's version of the LRT.

Let The Blog Begin

2005-11-20T21:48:00.000+08:00

It is my honor and privilege to be in the company of such great creative minds. Who also happen to be borderline raging alcoholics. There's one reason why Hemingway - who at some point of his perapatetic existence caroused in the company of artistic geniuses and fellow guzzlers like Ezra Pound, James Joyce, and Scott Fitzgerald - is such a major influence...

Dream trips! Tripping the light fantastic with good travel company who happen to be kindred creative spirits...what more can anyone ask for? Pass the pizza, turn up the New Wave CD, and pour me more Merlot while you're at it.