Random thoughts on the eve of mom's arrival

So finally my mom is coming to visit. After all the preparations which started six months ago, she will fly in tomorrow from Frankfurt, Germany. I will pick her up at the airport in the afternoon, and from there we will proceed to her flat on Plaza del Hospital Civil where she will stay for the next one month with a Spanish family.

If there's one thing I've learned about myself from organizing this trip, it's that I must have inherited my mom's being overprotective. You cannot imagine the slew of trivial reminders I bugged her with on the phone. One day, I will make for a sweet, nagging parent.

Tomorrow, I have to restrain myself. I'm all excited to see her, but I should suppress my overwhelming anticipation of what's inside her baggage. She has taken with her the CDs of Eric Santos, Sheryn Regis and Christian Bautista (yes, I'm a fan of Star in a Million!). The highlight of her arrival would be when she hands out to me the mechado-flavor Century Tuna and Argentina corned beef (you can't buy them here).

Lately I've been missing a lot my childhood friends from Landcom, the place where I live in Manila, so I'm planning to cook my barkada's favorite fare. Fried rice, corned beef-flavor. Back home, on weekends, I'd usually invite them to a drinking spree at my house (our favorite was Gin Pomelo, Gin Grape, Gin Orange and other variations of it), and towards the end, everybody would suddenly crave this dish; it's our way to cap off the night.

You can't exactly call it fried rice, since there's no need to fry the rice. You simply have to mix newly cooked rice with corned beef and oil, then shower it generously with soy sauce. Mix hard, and that's it. It's my friend May-may's (an HRM graduate) recipe. The outcome isn't visually appetizing, since it's black from too much soy sauce and looks gross, but my, how we all loved it! It's one of those things which binds together a barkada and only they themselves understand.

Hmm...I'm craving it bad right now. I will have it tomorrow for dinner, and my mom won't get even the tiniest share.

Marear la perdiz

Para empezar tengo algo qué ocultar: no me da ninguna gana hacer la tesis. Esto queda muy claro desde el día que empecé con ello, lo que pasa es que por algún motivo no me he atrevido a reconocerlo. Quizá ha sido por querer fingir tenerlo todo bajo control, no obstante, día tras día es cada vez más obvio el hecho de que no estoy adelantando lo suficiente en este tema. Por eso, he decidido tenerlo dicho por una vez: ¡No me apetece ni una pizca hacer la puta tesis!

De verdad, creía que el segundo año del máster iba a ser pan comido pues ya no hay que asistir a clase cuatro horas al día, así puedo dedicarme lo bastante a la investigación. Este año tengo las tarde-noches libres, no llego a volver a casa tan tarde como a las 22:30. Encima puedo echar una siesta cuando quiero, es decir, esta vez soy el jefe, el comandante del batallón, soy dios de mi propio tiempo.

Lo peor es que por lo visto, me equivoco. Es verdad que cuanto más tiempo se tiene, se trabaja muy poco. Hace un par de semanas un contacto mío en la FAO me envió un cargamento de papeles y librillos para la tesis, a pesar de esto los he dejado dormir en el armario hasta ahora. También el director de la tesis me ha proporcionado algunos artículos de utilidad, pero ni siquiera los he tenido impresos para poder ponerme a leerlos. Joder, esto se llama marear la perdiz.

En cambio, no soy el único cabrón del mundo al que le es difícil avanzar con la tesis. Si hay una cosa que en este momento tengo en común con mis compañeros de clase (por lo menos, la mayoría de ellos), va a ser el hecho de que todo el mundo está ocupado. Hay quienes están trabajando, algunos están haciendo prácticas en varios organismos. Actualmente estoy llevando cursos de español y francés, de ahí que tenga las mañanas ocupadas.

Lo insoportable es que haya que entregar la tesis aún para junio, en el habla cotidiana, ¡tengo que seguir sufriendo en los próximos seis meses! Cada vez que entro en mi habitación, veo la escandalosa cantidad de materiales que están pendientes de leer, y de repente me da mucha gana de salir del dormitorio, irme a un sitio muy lejos, volar hacia las montañas y el cielo, huir de todo...

Sin embargo, no puedo. Muy pronto me tendré que quedar en la habitación. Ya lo sé,¡a joderse!

Life in the flat

My flatmates' sense of humor is one of a kind. It is fascinating, it makes you ask: why? why? why? After some time, it makes you adapt, and really, it's fun.

First off, I have three flatmates, all of them at the height of their adoloscent life. One of them is an overstaying undergraduate, in his mid-20s, but he is nevertheless at the height of his adoloscent life.

The big one, Sergio, has recently been showing increased levels of alcohol consumption. When he drinks, he turns into a dangerous bear. He works up a conversation with you by producing incoherent sounds similar to that of a roar. Later, once whisky and Coke are sufficiently present in his blood, he demonstrates his propensity to walk on four feet on the floor.

If you come to my flat, you will notice a hole on the toilet door. It could pass for a glory hole, except that it's located way above the waist, near the level of your nipples, so it's not worth the effort.

That glory hole is the mark of Sergio's skull. Two nights ago, he ditched the bear image and transformed into a bull. Drunk, he ran inside the flat screaming chants and launched headfirst into the wooden door, like a Spanish bull aiming for the red cloth, or rather, the white door.

It's not good to mix whisky with Coke. Aside from the fact that it tastes like Coke, it awakens your self-destructive side.

To continue, the bull climbed out of the window, with only a thin piece of metal under his feet and a pair of sweaty hands to make him stick to the building wall like Spiderman. He was trying to cross over to the window of the next flat.

I almost admired the bull for such an idea, except that our flat is on the third floor and a vast expanse of deadly pebbles is waiting at the bottom, in case Spiderman loses his grip. My two adolescent flatmates got nervous, rattled out incoherent pleas, and then they pulled the unwilling superhero back into safety.

Apparently, Spiderman got frustrated by his failed acrobatic attempt, so once inside the flat he just jumped from the top of the staircase down to his room. He was not injured.

The next morning, when he was temporarily out of powers to transform, I pointed to the bull the mark on the toilet door. He said he would pay for it, or fix it, or something to that effect. Hmmm...this is sad, hehehe. I must say goodbye to the glory hole.

My Malaysian classmate

In Spanish class, I have a Malaysian classmate who doesn't seem to have anything good to say about the Philippines. I'm talking about an all-around nice guy, who is generally pleasant and agreeable according to my standards, except that he doesn't seem to have anything good to say about the Philippines. He has had the misfortune of working with some OFWs in Singapore who, like himself, have a contagious propensity to bash the Philippines to the very bottom of the global economic hierarchy.

Somehow, I've grown accustomed to this rather, misinformed opinion. It was obvious from the very start, when I first met him two months ago, that in his mind the Filipinos are so poor, that our economy is slowly but surely sinking six feet under. Etcetera, etcetera.

I wasn't upset at all, neither am I right now. Spanish culture has taught me not to take life too seriously, and that includes reacting to negative comments with a bit of humor, rather than taking offence. However, just this morning, I kind of grew sick listening to this classmate, I decided it was my moral duty to educate him once and for all.

So, I brought to class some statistics from the World Bank. Before showing him my documents, which I had painstakingly downloaded the night before, I asked him how he would grade a certain group of economies according to this scale: very good, normal, bad. He looked a bit bewildered as to why I would bring up such a topic over a 10-minute break, but anyway he replied: for him, Germany was normal, France normal, Italy very good and Spain very good.

I then showed him some figures, and he was quite surprised:

1. The Philippines has an average unemployment rate of 11.7

2. However, Spain is not far behind with 10.4, Germany with 10.6 and France with 10.1. Neither is Italy with 8.6

3. Some countries in Latin America are far worse. Venezuela, which exports oil, has an unemployment rate of 17.1

4. The Philippines is classified by the World Bank as a lower-middle-income economy (LMC). The lowest classification is LIC (low-income-economy).

5. China is an economic threat to the US, EU and Japan nowadays. It is also classified as an LMC.

6. Many consider Thailand as an emerging Asian economy, which can follow in the footsteps of Singapore, Hongkong, South Korea and Taiwan. It is also classified as an LMC.

7. The gap between the income of the rich and the poor is measured numerically in terms of the GNI index. The higher the GNI index, the greater the disparity between the rich and the poor.

8. The US has a GNI index of 0.38. It is a highly unequal society.

9. So are Singapore with 0.43, Malaysia with 0.49 and Mexico with 0.49

10. The Philippines has a GNI index of 0.46

11. According to the WB, the Philippines and Vietnam have already achieved universal primary education.

12. The WB says it will take 10 years more for Malaysia and Indonesia to achieve this goal.

Overall, after pulling off something similar to a graduate class presentation, I think I have successfully impressed upon him my message: that the situation in the Philippines is not as bad as he thinks, and that to be honest, even some countries which he regards highly are imperfect.

That many Filipinos choose to work overseas, but so do Europeans and Malaysians. That even if Filipinos make such a choice, it doesn't mean that they were dying from hunger back home. It doesn't mean that public hospitals, or social insurance, or basic education did not exist back home.

I haven't met his OFW friends, but from what he says, it seems to me that they, like most Filipinos, tend to exaggerate how bad life is in the Philippines. Add to that, how perfect life is abroad. But I digress.

The local officials here have recently passed a resolution advising the public to reduce water consumption. Apparently, if this is not heeded, a water shortage will occur in June. Now, who would have thought that could happen in Europe?

Wanna quit smoking? Try this...

In between language classes and the agonizing hours I spend with my thesis proposal, I take time off to recover my sanity by reading the life story of Giacomo Casanova. Seducer, gambler, swindler, philosopher, and once a whore-paying priest-in-training, this man is supposedly the most notorious lover the West has ever known. I bought the condensed edition of his 12-volume autobiography after a visit last year to Venice, where Casanova was born, to get an idea of what Venice was like in the 1700s. The other day, barely halfway into the book, I came across an interesting quote from Yusuf Ali, an influential Turk he met during one of his travels, and it might just be the solution people who want to quit smoking have been looking for.

Once, after dinner, Yusuf aired his theory to Casanova:

"So listen. The principal pleasure of smoking consists in the sight of the smoke. You must never see it leaving the pipe, but only from the corner of your mouth, at exact intervals, never too often. So true is it that this is the principal pleasure, you will never see a blind man who enjoys smoking. Try smoking at night in a dark room, and a moment after lighting your pipe you will put it down."

Prior to this, I've been acquainted with quite a variety of quitting methods. Among them, one must put off the fire halfway into the cigarette and break the stick; the emphasis here is on the act of breaking the stick, which is supposed to have some psychological impact. One should suppress his/her smoking urge by chewing gum or by eating candy, or one must put on a nicotine patch, which seems to me the method that requires the least effort from the smoker. So far, what Yusuf said is the most original I've ever heard - that one should not look at the smoke so as not to derive pleasure from the act of smoking - and it's interesting because it came from a man who lived about 300 years ago.

If none of the modern-day methods seems to work, who knows, this one might just do the trick for you...

Divorce cards, anyone?

Since I arrived in Malaga last year, I have been to the department store to buy a greeting card for a grand total of two times. I'm not gifted with enough patience to produce handwritten letters and cards to stay in touch with friends and family from another part of the world. The relatively good postal services here are of use to me in matters relating to pure business, so that most envelopes sent out under my name are actually cold, unfeeling documents. Besides, my penmanship has grown increasingly similar to a highly intensified code, so the chances that I would be understood by others are higher with e-mail.

Those two times I actually had the need for a greeting card happened last week. The first one was for a cousin in New York. They were celebrating the baptism of her first daughter, to whom I was ninong. The second card was for a less happy occasion, a get-well-soon card for a cousin who just had a critical surgery in the UK.

As I was searching the display shelves at El Corte Ingles for the right card, my gaze fell upon one thing that got my curiosity: in Spain, you could actually buy a divorce greeting card! These greeting cards can be found under the category "Separación" placed beside other themes like birthday, friendship, anniversary, etc. Curious, I picked a sample from the shelf that had a drawing of two people running away from each other, with matching clouds of smoke coming out of their feet as if they were cars speeding away. The message in Spanish said something like: Your worst nightmare is over. At last, you're free!

I was quite surprised because I didn't expect people would actually make divorce greeting cards. Are these cards for sale in the Philippines, too? I wonder if I will ever need to go to the post office one day to send my first divorce greeting card. That such a thing is produced and sold in Spain means that people here are buying it. It means that there is a demand for it. It means that like weddings, birthdays, graduation, Christmas, etc., people have started to mark divorce as an occasion. And it means that someone is making money out of broken relationships.

I made a quick Internet search and found that the divorce situation in Spain is not that bad. Only 11 marriages out of 100 end up in divorce. It's not that bad when compared to Belgium where 60 out of 100 marriages fail. However, as my flatmates would say, broken marriages (not necessarily divorced marriages) are so common in Spain, so perhaps that's where these greeting cards come in handy.

To be honest, I don't know much about the Spanish attitude towards marriage, but from my experience with the gay men I've met, they seem to be quite averse to it. When you ask them about marriage plans - given that gay unions have been legalized here - the 30-something's will tell you that they have never and will never consider it. Most likely, they will articulate to you their dislike of it with so much raging passion (almost hatred) that suggests that marriage is the most foolish choice one could ever make.

Sounds plain and simple: if you do not marry in the first place, then there's no need to divorce...

Is that the better way to go?

Pending

Pending. That is probably the word that best describes my present state. If I had the power to change it, like if it were possible to use a remote control to change life's current track, I'd gladly extricate myself from the present time and fast forward two months or so. My pending state is due to the fact that I'm waiting for a lot of things. That my feet are pitched, so to speak, on uncertain ground is putting my waiting skills to the test.

For example, I'm waiting for my mother's appointment to apply for a Spanish visa. I'm obviously not the one in need of the visa, but I think I'm more nervous than my mother is about it. She got an interview date for Nov. 10, a full month behind the ideal date we'd have wanted, so I'm nervous whether the visa will be issued on time. Or, if they would issue it all. For a long time now I've wanted to bring her here, perhaps as a gratitude for all that she means in my life. But whether this plan will materialize or not depends upon how fast the Spanish bureaucracy works. Since the Spanish are not exactly famous for speed (except in the case of F1 champion Fernando Alonso), I'm quite nervous. They are more famous for paella and flamenco.

I'm waiting for a thesis topic. For the past one month, I've been trying to get myself to sit in front of the computer and produce a thesis statement. Yet one thing I have learned, rather painstakingly, is that it doesn't happen in one sitting; one will probably develop eye problems first from too much computer exposure, before a nice, doable topic finally enters one's thought bubble. Right now I have a few clue words playing in my head - ICT, agriculture, rural development - but I have yet to further develop them.

I'm waiting, too, for a host of other things: my monthly stipend, my residency card that's currently under process, the September bill for the flat, my medical test results, and some books and DVDs ordered on the Net. I'm waiting, too, for two weeks to pass so I can jog again without triggering pain in the knees. There is a great deal of waiting that I'm subject to at the moment and I'm not enjoying it a bit. Pending is like being in a 14-hour flight, suspended thousand of miles above sea level, suffering from the cold in a cramped economoy seat, yet neither here nor there.

It sucks.

Los chinos me saludan

Si los espanoles me miran por mis ojos chinos, la piel morena y mi aspecto oriental, los chinos llegan a saludarme en la calle como si fuera para decir: ¡Oye! paisano. Dada esta pinta que tengo, me suelen confundir con un chino de manera que se acercan de repente en la calle a fin de hablarme o preguntarme algo. Por supuesto suelo no poder contestarles ya que no sé chino.

Suele ser que a mí me pasa eso tanto en el centro como en la estación de autobuses donde hay gente de todas partes. De vez en cuando me tropiezo con un chino en la Alameda Principal y aunque no lo conozco, para de caminar para echarme una sonrisa tan radiante como los platos de porcelana en las tiendas chinas.

En la estación de autobuses, me convierten en el chico de información turística. Por muy poco que les comprenda, me da la sensación de que me hacen preguntas muy típicas de turistas perdidos: dónde se coge un taxi, hay información turística por aquí, a qué hora sale tal autobús, etc. Desgraciadamente solo puedo responder con una sonrisa y algunos movimientos confusos de la mano que quieren decir: Lo siento. Es que no te entiendo.

Lo curioso es que la manera en la que me miran, me saludan o me hablan es cada vez más segura; últimamente lo hacen con mucha más confianza, mucha más certeza de que soy indudablemente chino.

Hasta el momento, esto ha sido lo mejor:

El otro día estuve en la comisaría de policía y había un chino. Mientras que antes los demás me saludaban o por lo menos me sonreían, ese tío simplemente me echó un vistazo y me hizo un gesto con la cabeza. No decía ni una palabra. Solo pasó por donde estaba yo entonces sus ojos conectaron con los míos igual que si no hubiese hecho falta poner palabras para que nos comprendiéramos. Era como si fueramos hermanos, dos personas de la misma sangre, como si tuvieramos un enlace automático por nuestra naturaleza. Y después se fue con la conclusión de que soy, por cierto, su paisano.

De verdad, a mí me da igual. Cuando eso me pasa, me río tanto. Además de los 80 millones de filipinos, tengo un billon de paisanos.

Cómo se mata a una funcionaria

Son las 10:15 de la mañana. Llego a la comisaría de policía un poquito más temprano de lo que esperaba. Veo la gran conglomeracíon de gente que suele haber aquí a esa hora y me doy cuenta de que la cola pasa a través de la entrada de la seccíon de visado, sigue a través de la puerta del edificio, prolongándose hasta la calle donde pasan los coches y hace mucho sol. Pero no me importa. Tranquilito, voy al final de la cola lo mismo que si fuera algo muy divertido tener que estar aquí, abro la mochila para echar un vistazo a toda la documentacíon que llevo: hoy tengo que renovar mi residencia en España. Detrás hay unas 50 personas en la cola, intento olvidarme del tiempo. Me pongo a esperar.

De verdad, ya estuve aquí hace tres días. Iba a entregar la solicitud pero me pedían el certificado del seguro médico. El año anterior recuerdo que eso no me lo pedían, pues les bastaba la carta de la AECI que decía algo de tal seguro. Pero esta vez quieren que traiga un certificado de la compañía del seguro, quieren que traiga la póliza misma.

Ahora mismo si llevo la póliza. Son las 11:30 y ya llevo más de una hora en esta cola. Se nota que la gente se pone más inquieta, mucho más impaciente por el calor, por tener que esperar durante tanto tiempo antes de ser atendida. Estoy algo nervioso ya que lo que llevo es una fotocopia de la póliza, no la original.

Por fin me toca a mí. Esa chica, la que me rechazó la solicitud el otro día, me pide los requisitos uno a uno: el pasaporte, la NIE, la matrícula, las notas, el formulario...la póliza. Parece que no se da cuenta de que es fotocopia, así que siento un gran alivio. Empieza a leerla, demorándose especialmente en las condiciones de repatriacíon, después me dice: "Este seguro no me vale. Tiene que cubrir gastos de repatriacíon en caso de enfermedad, no en caso de fallecimiento."

Ya estoy hecho polvo. Me duelen los pies, encima ya estoy harto. Parece que puedo perder la razón en cualquier momento. Tranquilamente abro la mochila. Retiro el boli y lo clavo muy fuerte en el cuello de esta fulana, lo empujo más por dentro hacia su garganta y de repente lo saco. En cuanto suelto el boli, brota tanta sangre como si hubiese una fuente muy roja, una fuente de la muerte. Esta fulana se encuentra asustada, no puede moverse ni hablar pero parece que sus ojos me quieren decir: Lo siento. Lo siento. Tu seguro médico está bien. No le hago caso y vuelvo a clavar el boli en su cuello, dos veces, tres veces, cuatro, cinco, seis, siete. Me salpica de sangre la cara. La fuente roja se convierte en un mar de sangre...

Paro de clavar el boli y miro a la gente en mi entorno. Todos los extranjeros en la comisaría, tan hartos como yo de esta burocracia, me sonrien como si me quisieran dar las gracias. Me dan un gran aplauso. Estoy muy orgulloso de lo que acabo de hacer.

###################

Por supuesto no lo he hecho de verdad sino esto es lo que quería hacer, es lo que imaginaba: matar a esa funcionaria de la comisaría. Por segunda vez me iba a rechazar la solicitud de renovacíon por, segun decía ella, no tener seguro médico que cubra gastos de repatriacíon en caso de enfermedad. Yo estaba seguro de que aquellos gastos estaban cubiertos, lo que pasa es que las pólizas de seguro son como poesía, es decir, se pueden interpretar de mil maneras. Tenía que leer enteramente en aquel momento la póliza del seguro (¡que aburrido ese documento!) para poder contradecirla. Al final pude hacer la solicitud ese día tras haber discutido mucho con esa fulana de funcionaria. Joder, ojalá tuviera superpotencia.

Lee el contrato

He leído mi contrato bancario. ¿Qué hijo de puta lee un contrato bancario? ¿Qué loco tiene tiempo para enrollarse con los detalles de un documento tan aburrido e incomprensible? ¿En este país de 40 millones de habitantes, cuántas personas han leido un contrato bancario? ¿Cuántos contratos se han retirado de los rincones oscuros del armario y se han leído realmente bajo la luz del flexo? Pues sí he leído uno, y esto, sin duda, ha sido la cosa más aburrida que he hecho en la vida.

La verdad es que no tenía ganas de leer ese contrato. Tampoco disponía de tanto tiempo para meterme en su lenguaje súper...hmmm...raro. Lo que pasa es que me tenía que preparar por una guerra con el banco, así que debía leer detenidamente las condiciones del contrato. De verdad, leerlo te da dolor de cabeza, vista cansada y dedos sudados, si curras muy duro para poder comprender sus tecnicismos, te puede perjudicar la autoconfianza o la razón. No podía sacar ningún beneficio de ese acto de leer el contrato, aparte de haber podido mejorar mi español y aprender un par de palabras nuevas, términos muy importantes tales como descubierto y liquidación.

Descubierto no solo significa que "no tienes saldo" o "no tienes plata en la cuenta," aun más, esto quiere decir que "tu saldo se encuentra en negativo, gilipollas." Por otra parte, liquidación se refiere a las pequeñas cantidades de dinerito que aparecen periódicamente en la libreta y que el banco te saca de la cuenta. En otras palabras, "te están cobrando comisión, colega."

Al llegar a Málaga tras haber viajado durante semanas, me sorprendió que mi banco, el Banco Santander, me había cobrado 30 euros en comisiones por descubierto. Joder, con ese dinero, me podría haber comprado tres camisetas, seis CDs de música o deportivos; o mejor ¡podría haber comprado un vuelo a otra ciudad en España!

El pago del alojamiento lo tengo domiciliado en ese banco. Antes de irme a viajar en agosto, retiré todo mi dinero y no quedaba ni un duro en mi cuenta mientras estaba fuera de España. El cobro de recibos domiciliados se efectúa automáticamente al mes, así que cuando llegó el día de cobrarme, mi pobre saldo se puso negativo porque el banco no rechazó la operación a pesar de que no tenía saldo. Esto se llama descubierto.

¿Tiene el banco por qué efectuar la operación aunque no quede dinero en la cuenta? ¿Por qué simplemente no rechaza el cobro dado que no tienes saldo? Es que el banco quiere que la cuenta quede en descubierto un par de días para poder cobrar comisión y entonces, anula el pago del recibo. De esta manera, el banco se va con su comisión mientras pierdes 30 euros y se queda no pagado el alojamiento.

Mi cuenta es del tipo más sencillo que hay en el Banco Santander pero los 12 meses que llevo en ese banco no ha sido sin complicaciones. Alguna vez he podido usar la tarjeta para hacer una compra pese a que no tenía saldo, por eso el banco me cobró unos 10 euros en comisiones. ¿Cómo puede que una tarjeta de débito sin saldo pueda realizar una compra? ¡Eso no tiene sentido! Pero desde el punto de vista del banco, si tiene sentido puesto que hay un montón de clientes que por no saber tal característica de la tarjeta, tienen que pagar la comisión de descubierto.

Esa característica de la tarjeta, y lo de recibos domiciliados no se encuentran en ninguna parte del contrato bancario, tampoco te lo explican al abrir la cuenta, así que no hay manera de saber y evitar tener que pagar las comisiones. El contrato bancario dice algo del descubierto pero no pone las circunstancias bajo las cuales la cuenta puede encontrarse en descubierto.

Al final me devolvieron los 30 euros no porque faltaba información en el contrato sino porque hablé con una chica del banco que siempre me ayudaba. Con ese dinero, MI dinero que había robado el banco, pienso comprar un par de DVDs y algunos libros.

¿Sabes por qué te mandan regularmente un montón de correspondencia tanto sobre los movimientos de cuenta como sobre la publicidad? Es porque pagas por ello, pagas por cada papelito y cada sobre que te lleguen a casa desde el banco. Es verdad. Lee tu contrato.

Moving house

On Monday I have to move into a new flat. I'm not exactly moving out of this dormitory, I simply need to transfer to my former flat.

Since classes will resume in late September, the Spanish students who went home for summer vacation are now coming back, and management kind of wants to restore the old room assignments. My former flat is not too far from where I live at the moment, but I still have to carry a six-foot cabinet, a workout bench, clothes, stock food, books and kitchenware, from the third to the first floor of this building, walk three blocks down the road, and carry them again from the first to the third floor of the other building. Wow, horrendous.

As much as my body dreads it, my mind is all set to leave this place. Most of my summer flatmates have checked out of the dorm, their rooms are now empty, the flat is too quiet, and I have no competition in using the toilet. Every time somebody checks out, I get this feeling of being "left behind" which, even before, puts me in a really damp mood. So I must pack and leave soon.

Aside from my stuff, I will take along some nice memories, too. This summer, fate had it that I would meet some nice and friendly people in the dorm, most of whom were college students who came for an intensive Spanish course, medicine students who did a summer internship at UMA, or simply, friends of friends. All of them are non-Spanish so most of them live elsewhere, but even if the time we spent together was rather short, we did bond and had a great deal of fun doing things together: beach, home dinners, salsa clubs, botellon, and well, just hanging out in the flat.

So without further ado - here they are!


Robert, my German summer flatmate. Came to Malaga to take Spanish class. That girl on the left, the sweet Bettina, is my buddy's present flame.



Stanislav and Emilija, couple, medicine students from Macedonia. The guy likes to cook a lot, and even though I swear he was overcharging us for the home dinners, that ravioli recipe was truly unbeatable!



Gabriel - cool, easy-going Peruvian guy. Works at the dorm cafeteria as a waiter. Aside from Peruvian blood, he's a third something else, and the other third is still something else. He explained it to me once, but I forgot all about it. Really, it's that complicated.



Miodrag, medicine student from Croatia. Like the Macedonians, he was here for hospital internship. He is what you call resourceful. Falling short of cash during his stay here, he was selling people his hospital meals and some music CDs he'd asked Robert to burn. Nice, big-brother type of guy. That girl on the left is his hot Russian target.



Max, funny Italian guy, medicine student, too. When he was in Sevilla with Miodrag, their stuff got stolen in the car, including his shoes, so he had to walk to the police station barefoot!



Rafal and Asha, couple, Polish friends of Ashley. Rafal was an exchange student at Ashley's high school several years back. This couple looks so young, you wouldn't guess their age!



Ashley (with Rafal), exchange student from New Orleans. She just arrived in Malaga last week and will live in this dorm for a year. Beach boys gravitate towards her, but she complains they're not cute. Poor guys, hehe.

Summer backpacking 2005

Whew, Europe in a flash! That sums up my summer backpacking trip 2005. In 24 days, from August 9 to September 1, we were able to cover a total of 20 European cities in five magnificent countries, many thanks to a bottomless train ticket called Interrail. Really, I'd never travelled that fast before, and perhaps due to such speed of setting out from one destination to the next, I swear my brain kind of suffered from temporary memory loss. Changing cities almost everyday, I found that things and time were passing by so fast, that, many times during the trip, I couldn't recall where we'd been to the day before! Thanks to George Eastman for this thing called camera; over three weeks I used up 8 rolls!

Besides the fun, the trip was truly exhausting. Reading maps, walking (a lot), sleeping with strangers, walking in the rain, reading guidebooks and brochures, climbing up towers and cathedrals, locating cheap Turkish/Chinese restaurants, carrying a 10-kilo backpack - these were touristic challenges we had to overcome everyday. So it's true that travel changes you, in the sense that it wears you out. In Den Hague, we ran into an Australian lad who had been backpacking for more than one month. Really, he seemed like he was aging, his posture looked kind of unsteady, his movements fragile, and he talked really slowww...

I was fortunate enough to find a travel partner so things were more manageable. This is Jose Maria, cathedral-fanatic, coin, postcard, key chain-collector, patient travel buddy.

From here on, I will try to capture the highlights of the trip in six different snippets. If your eyes can take it, feel free to scroll down and enjoy!

Summer 2005: Barcelona

As I usually travel here by bus or train, I think of Barcelona as a stopover. If you're headed north to go to Europe, unless you're taking a plane, most likely it is necessary to pass by Barcelona since it's a major city near Spain's border with France, in order to get out of Spanish territory. So perhaps because of that, I have never really made an effort to organize a trip to visit it. It has always been an obligatory rest point on the way to my real destination.

We went to Barcelona (for stopover again, hehe) and myy, how mistaken I was! We only spent about ten hours there, as we had to board a train to Geneva in the evening, but I knew this city deserved much more weight in our itinerary! After breakfast, we quickly hit the road to see the major sights, and I fell in love with the city. Barcelona has great architecture (my weakness), the streets are beautifully lined with trees, the beach is nearby, and the size of the roads look just right. The streets and the old buildings have an appeal that makes you inexplicably happy just by looking at them! I think I told Jose Maria that given a choice, I would want to live there.

In the picture, you see the entrance filled with tourists to Barcelona's gothic pride, La Sagrada Familia.

In this picture, you will see another sample of Antoni Gaudi's architectural feats, which typically exude a "wavy feel." He was also the architect of La Sagrada Familia.

Summer 2005: France

From a stopover in Geneva, we reached France at 8 am. Our first stop, Lyon, had nothing really special to make you awestruck, although Lonely Planet seems to glorify this city with over "300 meticulously restored medieval and Renaissance houses." Frankly speaking, I found it too modern in style and whatever old structures Lyon has could not exactly demand my admiration. The highlight of this trip was a half-an-hour trek to a hilltop to see the Basilique Notre Dame de Fourviere, from where we had a fantastic view of the city landscape beautifully lined by the Rivers Rhone and Saone.

Next, it was Strasbourg, stark contrast of downer Lyon. How I love this city! In its old quarter, the houses were just unbelievably beautiful! Half-timbered, with chimney-topped triangular roofs and rows of tall glass windows, these houses pitched on cobbled streets would have you gawk at them for hours! At this point in the trip, Jose Maria and I had a little confusion. We were locating a place called Petite France, where there's supposed to be more of these houses, but we had trouble reading the map. After numerous attempts, we reached a spot which he believed was Petite France, but which I thought wasn't, so whether we have really been to that place will forever be a mystery!

During the last leg of the trip, on the way back to Spain, I passed by Paris. It was my second time there so I decided to just take it easy. I went to some of the sights I'd not been to, like the Picasso museum, and bought a souvenir bag for my mom.

Aside from that picture on the right, in this picture you will see other typical houses in Strasbourg.

In this picture, you will see me in Lyon's city center.

In this picture, you will see the Flame of Liberty in Paris, a simple memorial to Princess Diana. The picture shows the underground pass where, chased by paparazzi, her car had an accident and she met her fate. Reminds me of my high school friend Lotin.

Trivia: Did you know that Filipinos are allowed to enter Switzerland without a visa?

Summer 2005: Luxembourg

From France, we got to Luxembourg late in the afternoon. From the cold weather, as if it weren't summer, we could tell that our location was getting much higher in the world map. My first impression of Luxembourg was that it seemed a bit tame and laid-back, but as soon as we reached the main plaza, that first opinion was proved wrong. This place is so original - all the places we'd been to, and all that we would later see during the trip, would have nothing similar to Grund, the lower town, where you find old houses and buildings with grey pointed roofs. I'd never seen in Europe anything similar to such architectural style, and sure, they were lovely! The grey pointed roofs seemed like piercing the sky!



The city itself was perched on a hilltop, and residential areas spread out at the bottom of the hill. Our hostel was rather badly located, at the bottom, so that many times we had to go up and down the hill! In the evening, we had some beer at the main plaza, and eavesdropped on the Spanish acoustic concert at the cafe beside ours. Our first attempt to find a gay pub failed, but we ran into a really nice, cute waiter along the way...

In this picture, you will see the Bock Casemates, WW II bomb shelter. With the casemates, we almost had a repeat of the Petite-France-espisode, but this time I made sure we saw it.

In this picture, you will see for-tourists goings-on at the main plaza.

Summer 2005: Belgium

Then, it was Belgium. By this time, my potbelly was beginning to show because of all the beer-tasting! Coming to Belgium didn't improve my deteriorating shape as this country is famous for its numerous beer varieties, and chocolates. Anyway, we stayed there for four nights and made Brussels our base, from which we set out on day-trips to four cities.

Brussels - crowded, cosmopolitan, but not confusing. Despite the crowds, it was still possible to admire the city's magic. My favorite spot is Grand Place (see pic on the left), the central square, where you find the town hall and other guildhalls, all in magnificent baroque style. Here, we finally found a gay pub. It wasn't, as in most European countries, like the gay bars in Manila where prostitution is the main thing; people go to gay pubs to meet other gays. But that night, they had a show; as soon as we opened the door we saw onstage this gay gigolo wiggling his rod. I could only say one word - wow.

Bruges - lovely. Though it had pretty much the same stuff to offer as Brussels, this city had plenty of beatiful red-brick houses that looked almost like dollhouses. I couldn't take my eyes off them! My only bad experience in Bruges was that I was ripped off in a restaurant!

Ghent - Here we met up with Lenny, a nice Belgian girl whom Jose Maria had met over the Internet a few years ago. She took us on a walking tour of Ghent, the highlight of which was a fortress with a rather disturbing exhibit about different ways of torturing people. Around evening, she took us to dinner at her house in Tielt.

Tielt - Lenny's family had a nice house in a quiet part of town, some 15 minutes by car from the train station. Her mom cooked dinner for us, and I was quite surprised because the main fare was something similar to paksiw na pata. That dinner was a real highlight, because we were able to mix with locals and welcomed into their house. It's something that rarely happens to tourists!

Antwerp - hometown of Belgian painter Pieter Paul Rubens. At the cathedral, we saw some nice religious paintings of Rubens.

In this picture, you will see the numerous beer varieties in Belgium.

In this picture, you will see the brick houses in Bruges.

In this picture, you will see the fortress in Ghent.

In this picture, you will see Lenny and her mom with Jose Maria in their house in Tielt.

In this picture, you will see me standing in front of a statue of Rubens in Antwerp.

Summer 2005: Netherlands

First off, contrary to popular misconceptions, drugs are NOT legal in the Netherlands. You can go to jail if they catch you in posession of drugs exceeding a certain amount. True, the Dutch can freely consume substances up to a few certain grams, but even then, this act is said to be simply "tolerated" by the police. Nonetheless, cannabis is in good circulation and some cities have coffeeshops where they serve hashcakes, a hashish-containing cake that will certainly give you the "high."

Our first stop in the Netherlands was Den Hague, which was awful. I don't understand why a lot of tourists care to include it in their itinerary, neither why the Dutch speak highly of it. Since the city was a big name in tourist circles, we had fairly high expectations, only to find a modern city with absolutely nothing interesting in it! That place was a real downer!

Next was Amsterdam, which like Belgium, was our base for day-trips to three more cities. Sex shops, gay pubs, hashish-serving coffeeshops, bicycles, water canals, brick houses, private boats and ferries - this is Amsterdam (at least, part of it). We visited the Rijksmuseum and the Van Gogh Museum, the latter being one of the few art museums that I've ever come to like. At the youth hostel, we met two nice Dutch and German college girls who were billeted there and working for the summer. The city had a vibrant bar scene, so during those four days, we went clubbing quite often. There, in the gay district, where ROYGBIV flags abound, I learned what a darkroom was - and it's not a room for developing black-and-white films!

Zaans Schans - Nobody really goes to Zaans Schans, a low-profile town 20 minutes by train from Amsterdam, but it did suit our purpose: we wanted to see windmills! Luckily, they had quite a number of these things beautifully located beside the river, inside a grassy area used for cattle-raising and cheese-making. That day-trip was truly relaxing for me, as I simply enjoyed looking at the windmills and feeling the cool countryside breeze.

Utrecht and Haarlem - These two are your regular European city. If you have been to Amsterdam, unless you want a more laid-back environment, there's no point in visiting these cities.

In this picture, you will see hundreds of private boats who came all the way to Amsterdam for a special event.

In this picture, you will see the Binnenhof, the former Parliament building in Den Hague.

In this picture, you will see the farm in Zaans Schans.

In this picture, you will see the Instituto Cervantes in Utrecht.

In this picture, you will see the Grote Kerk van St Bavo, Haarlem's cathedral.

Summer 2005: Germany

By the time I reached Germany, on the third week, I was already too exhausted from the trip and much of my touristic drive had been dried up. Jose Maria went only as far as the Netherlands, as he had to go home for some family thing, so that throughout the last week I travelled alone. Then, I was seriously lacking energy and my body was starting to show symptoms like that Australian guy we'd met in Den Hague: deteriorating posture, aging, failing voice and slow speech (hehe). So in Germany my travelling motto was simple: "Slow down," "Take it easy." I remember telling Jose Maria that if I hadn't reserved accommodation in Germany and hadn't paid for return flight, I'd be so glad to go home with him. But thank goodness, I didn't!

My first stop was Hamburg, which wasn't really that bad though it didn't have anything I hadn't seen in Amsterdam. There was a huge red-light district, which was rather lacking pulse, and the city's port, one of the most important in Germany and Europe, was too chaotic.

Cuxhaven - Realizing there wasn't much too see in Hamburg, I squeezed in a day trip to Cuxhaven. It was far from Hamburg (four hours) and, exhausted from the night before, I woke up late and arrived in Cuxhaven past noon. I was supposed to see a protected national park near Cuxhaven's port, but since I arrived late, I missed the boat! Too bad, I just ended up taking a short cruise around the port...

Berlin - my favorite German city. Hermann was right when he told me five years ago that Berlin was nice, because that's what it truly is. It boasts palaces, monuments, old churches, museums, and perhaps once they are done with some construction work, it might just be able to compete with Rome. But more than for its beauty, I like Berlin for its history. The Jewish Memorial Museum, besides the A-Bomb Museum in Hiroshima, was the only museum that almost made me cry. It has a host of other historically important sites, such as the Berlin wall, the Charlie Checkpoint and the former Nazi concentration camps. I went to a gay pub in Berlin, in search of a darkroom (haha!) and I found that the Germans were really friendly. Seeing I was alone, two guys just started talking to me at the bar and gave me tips about the city!

Munich - This city was great, but then again, it didn't have anything I hadn't seen in my previous destinations. Well, except for the 1972 Olympic Stadium, the Octoberfest site, and the English Park where the beach-deprived locals just lie totally naked on the grass to sunbathe! The highlight of this stop was lunch in a beer garden; lunch was a simple affair of weisswurst (white sausage), half-a-liter beer, french fries and brezel. By the way, if in Japan people eat sashimi, in Munich they eat raw fish stuffed into a bun with fresh onions (rollmops)! For curiosity's sake, I gave it a try...

Cologne - By the time I reached Cologne, my energy levels had already hit rock bottom. Luckily, learning from past experience, I kind of splurged on accommodation here and reserved a single room in a cheap hotel. The Cologne cathedral, known as the Mt. Everest of cathedrals, did not really impress me much, but I must still concede it was beautiful. I fell in love, too, with the University of Cologne, with its far-stretching grass fields, low-rise buildings and tree-lined walkways, as it kind of reminded me of ICU, my former school in Japan. Really, at that time, I was just so happy to wander around the campus, take in the smell of grass, and watch the students lying on the fields and jogging around. There, I found myself in my best mood after days of exhaustion...

This picture shows an artist's tribute to the Jewish victims of the Holocaust, in Berlin's Jewish Memorial Museum. These are face-shaped metal plates, and you have to step on them as you walk around the exhibit room. Gives you quite an eerie feeling...

In this picture, you will see Hamburg's main train station.

In this picture, you will see what's left today of the Berlin Wall.

In this picture, you will see a typical brewery in the Octoberfest grounds in Munich.

In this picture, you will see a street-performing Polish band in Cologne. I liked their music so much I bought their CD.

FOOTNOTE TO THIS KILOMETRIC TRAVEL ENTRY: I'm quite thankful that this trip did happen, despite some difficulties with preparation. Before leaving Malaga, having finished my first year in the master's program, I was already too tired and didn't know how to recover my former happy state. This trip was just the break I needed, and even though it exhausted me too at some point, it made me realize how I like the city I now live in, Malaga, my home in Spain. Well, till the next backpacking trip!

A trying affair

How can life be so hard sometimes? Why does it have to be more complicated than one can possibly swallow? Isn't there a way to forever keep it in bite-sized bits so that one can take and digest it easily? For the past few weeks, I have had to deal with colossal complications in this small corner of my room, and now it appears that my poor stomach is starting to revolt. At this very moment, I feel the urge to vomit due to all the unjustified stress that this technical problem of mine has wreaked upon my system.

So before I continue, let me just vomit first: Puuuuuutangggg inaaaaaa!!! I hope I have made it sound really crisp, and palpable.

The culprit of this ranting espisode that I have set out to do now is this very machine that I am using to write this blog. This laptop got infected by a virus one month ago, and by some strange twist of fate, in the process of reformatting the hard drive and installing all the program files again, the overused DVD drive expired in the end. Although I'd been lucky enough to finish saving Windows XP and some vital drivers, before the DVD drive finally said goodbye, it now meant that I would no longer be able to play music, video, burn discs, or install new software again.

From here, I was faced with two options: first, I could contact the manufacturer and take advantage of the machine's one-year warranty, but knowing how time-consuming this action could be, I chose the second option and purchased a new external DVD drive. This decision led to major disappointment #1: after dishing out 85 euros for the cheapest model there was, I found out that it's not possible to boot from this external device. Fine, I could now play music and videos and burn discs, but if this fucking source of my present misery was ever struck again by a virus, it wouldn't be possible to boot from the external drive!

My laptop, by the way, was hardly eleven months old.

Tired, exasperated, hopeless, smelly and in urgent need of a bath, I picked up my mobile to call Dell. On the phone, in order to establish that the drive was truly malfunctional, I was instructed to perform a series of tests which my laptop passed with ace marks frankly speaking. After one hour of mechanical surgery, as I was reinserting the last couple of screws into this poor machine's body, the technical support agent slapped me with major disappointment #2: the laptop's warranty would only be honored in Japan where the item had been bought. In Spain, they would simply not recognize my warranty!

If I were rich, I swear I would happily fling this failure of a computer right smack on the wall and let the garbage collectors dispose of it. I must clarify that these events did not happen on a single day, rather over several weeks, so it is a kind of recurring and prolonged suffering that I am talking about.

I kew I was clearly far from rich, and I couldn't afford to buy a new laptop that easily, so I decided to call Dell again, having in mind the intention of buying an internationally valid warranty good for one year. At this point, I had already wasted some 50 euros calling Dell's hotline, and been suffering too from occasional hallucinations and some mild feet pain attacks. But then came major disappointment #3 like my sanity hadn't suffered enough blows: I was told that even if I bought an international warranty, it wouldn't cover retroactively the damaged DVD drive. It would only be valid for future breakdowns!

I think I will end up buying a new DVD drive from Dell, if my last-ditch attempt at saving money by contacting their technical team in Japan and using my existing warranty fails. So what have I learned from all this? One shouldn't spend too much on technology. It is foolish to think that buying an expensive and branded technology will ensure its long life. Whether it's a computer, CDman, digital camera, printer, palm organizer with prestigious trademarks like Dell, Sony, Nikon, Toshiba, HP, etc., it is their predestiny to break down in the end. I hope that many consumers have realized this life truth by now, so that when their little gadget's passage to the afterlife finally comes, they won't harbor false hopes that it will reincarnate or something.

Pre-departure rant

Last Friday I was at Carrefour to buy some stuff for my backpacking trip, which starts tomorrow. Judging from past experience, I can't consider myself the type who is fond of shopping, especially if this occurs under pressure a few days from the date of departure. The whole experience of walking back and forth inside the mall, of spending much of your thought power on which size, design or color to pick, is something I find too time-consuming. Perhaps contrary to shopaholic testimonies, I think it is quite stressful.

I went to Carrefour because everything there is cheap. It is actually a supermarket that sells everything from food, clothes, domestic appliances, kitchenware, books to furniture. I was in no position to negotiate for a shopping spree at El Corte Ingles, because my financial state had been rather shaky, and scrimping seemed the only logical decision. Trying as quickly as possible to get my shopping errands over with, I forced myself to finish it all in two days, the outcome of which was a pair of grey pants, two colored shirts, a long-sleeved undershirt and a formal polo shirt for the night-outs. These are probably the cheapest clothes I will ever buy. Since Carrefour was on sale season, prices hit rock-bottom - I got two shirts at 2 euros each. With that, I could otherwise buy a couple of ballpens, or a bottle of cheap shampoo.

Then, I also got to buy a few extras: a pair of sunglasses, a hand-made bracelet and a beaded necklace for ethnic effect. A few hours from now, I have to stuff them in my mountaineer's backpack, and test whether my baggage-reduction skills have improved any since the last time I did a tour. Then, I'm ready to go.

The trip will take a little over three weeks. I have always wanted to do it longer - two months for example - like some travellers I've met at youth hostels before, but then time and money have always been rather scarce. Add to that the fact that travelling non-stop for two months is pretty exhausting. During the first and second week, we will cover France, Belgium, Luxembourg and the Netherlands, but from the third week on, I will be hitting the train tracks of Germany on my own. My travel partner, a Spanish guy I met over the Internet, is going home earlier.

I'm very excited about this trip since unlike before, I'm now travelling with someone. And that should make things more enjoyable, and easier. Well, we shall see...

Europe, here I come!!!

Does pride help?

The Spanish are proud. This is the strongest message I have been getting from them over the last ten months. They love their hometown, they love their history, they love their culture, their language, their country. It is a kind of pride that is sometimes irrational, at times fascinating, and it is planted deeply within every one of them.

Last school year I shared a flat with three Spanish guys, and out of the blue they would walk up to me to say: "I think Spain is the best country in the world." Actually, none of them could be considered well-traveled, Portugal being the farthest one of them had reached, but in their minds their country exists above the rest.

Manolo, the guy from Cordoba, liked very much to bring up the topic of food, and whenever he did, he would always seal the conversation with: "I think Spanish food is the best there is." Truth is, his gastronomic adventures had been quite limited, and he was quite averse to trying out foreign food. Once I offered him some Japanese sweets, and the reaction I got was one of surprise. Backing off, he said something like: "What the fuck is this?"

Actually, those were little Japanese rice cakes with sweet beans inside.

In Spain, Russian salad is very common that one day I started to wonder if indeed it was of Russian origin, or Spanish. It is normally served as a tapa, together with other traditional Spanish food. So I asked my other flatmate Julio about it, and he said he was unsure. You have to understand that this salad is quite popular and the Spanish love it. Perhaps thinking along these lines, he was quick to add: "It is more likely that Russian salad is actually Spanish."

Regarding French fries, which are popular the world over, Manolo had the same theory: "You know, French fries could actually be Spanish."

The kind of pride that they have does not follow logic or reason. Rather, it stems from a deep feeling of love for their own, but without knowledge of what other cultures are like.

Over dinner, one professor told me that to her English was not a good language, as it didn't quite measure up to the richness of Spanish. I was tempted to ask if she spoke English, but I didn't like to embarrass her as I knew she didn't.

This pride is so great, sometimes they will try to impose their culture on you. When people here ask me if the Filipinos speak Spanish, they get disappointed over the lost of their influence on us. They say something like: "What a pity. Pass a law or something, so people there will study Spanish again."

I have to admit I found this pride quite annoying at first. As a Filipino, the concept of yabang is embedded in me, as much as pride is in them. Hearing them talk, I would think: "Ang yabang naman nito!!!" But later on, as I tried to understand them more as a people, it began to fascinate me why they think and behave that way.

So one day I asked Manolo why the Spanish are so proud. Is it because of the education? Are they taught this pride in school? The question actually surprised him, and thought it was a bit odd. He didn't have a reason to offer, because he had never thought about it. To him, it has always been that way; loving Spain is the only natural way to think, to behave.

I have seen this pride in other nationalities, too - Venezuelans, Bolivians, Brazilians and Russians. They are from developing nations, yet they claim that life where they come from is much better than Spain. I don't know if that is true, but fact is, they are proud of their own.

Interestingly, I didn't see this pride in the Japanese, whose country is rich and powerful. When they talk about Japan, they tend to understate its achievements, always conceding to America or something. Even the Chinese people I've met didn't seem to possess such pride, not knowing their economy has become a major threat to the US.

When I asked myself the same question I'd asked Manolo, I couldn't find an answer. Why are the Filipinos so unproud of themselves? Is it because of the education? Are we taught to think that way in school? When people ask me, "Is the Philippines beautiful?" I find it hard to say yes. It is my nature, or at least it's my first impulse, to think that my country is awful, corrupt and without a future. I think most Filipinos are like that.

Yet when I come to think of it, such lack of pride of the Filipinos is just as irrational as the Spanish hubris. It is based on emotion, humility, lack of knowledge and rather exaggerated notions of how life good is outside the Philippines.

What if we had this Spanish pride? Would it change things?

La gente me mira

La gente me mira, cosa que a mi no me gusta nada; de hecho, me fastidia. Cuando camino por la calle, entro en un bar, o subo al autobús, me doy cuenta de que la gente me mira, lo mismo que si fuera una pintura en el museo, un partido de fútbol en la tele, un bebé rodeado por su familia, un espectáculo. A menudo les sorprendo mirándome de cabeza a pie, y en cambio les miro tanto que no pueden hacer nada más que apartar la vista. En otros momentos no les miro, pero siempre tengo la sensación de que me están mirando.

Al principio creí que era por curiosidad. La gente me mira por mis ojos chinos, la piel morena, mi pinta distinta. Como vivo en una ciudad donde los asiáticos son cuatro gatos, atraigo mucha atención, tengo poder magnético. Recuerdo que pasa lo mismo en Japón y Filipinas donde es difícil para los extranjeros esconderse, en especial los rubios, porque siempre se hacen notar en todas partes. Incluso yo era propenso a mirarles de vez en cuando, aunque procuraba no hacerlo.

También la gente me saluda en la calle, cosa que tampoco me gusta. Estaría bien si me dijeran "Hola," pero la verdad es que me dicen "Ni hao." En primer lugar no soy chino, aunque lo parezco, además si lo fuera, tampoco me apetecería que la gente me saludara en chino. A veces me llaman así; cuando paso por una conglomeración de gente en la calle, o en la playa, les oigo diciendo entre ellos: "Mira, un chino," "Hay un chino," etc.

Si hubiéramos estado en Filipinas, a un español le llamarían "americano" ¡jaja!

Un día me atreví a plantear ese tema a mis amigos. Esa chica japonesa de la escuela de idiomas decia que a ella le pasaba lo mismo - le mira la gente y le llama "china" - algo que no puede aguantar. Cree que la gente es racista. Por otra parte, siempre se encuentran sorprendidos mis amigos españoles cuando se lo cuento, ya que nunca han tenido la misma experiencia. Suelen decirme que tal vez me salude la gente por motivos cordiales.

La verdad es que por mucho que lo intente entender, me resulta difícil comprender ese comportamiento. Creo que una parte de la gente aquí es racista, es un racismo que proviene sobre todo de su incultura, su carencia de conocimiento de cosas orientales. En España miran por encima del hombro a los chinos, aunque por cierto dentro de muy pocos años la economía China será más importante internacionalmente que la de España. Miran por encima del hombro a los chinos, aunque a los españoles les gusta mucho comprar en las tiendas chinas...

En realidad soy filipino, desgraciadamente en España me convierten en un chino. No me gusta que la gente me mire y me salude en chino, no obstante a partir de ahora, me da igual. Hay que recordar que también hay buena gente aquí, acogedora, abierta y simpática, y pienso seguir teniendo trato con esa gente. Por otra parte, a los demás: Así os parta un rayo ¡cojones!

Ir al banco es una mierda

Me da pena que algunos bancos españoles puedan ser súper ineficientes. Me refiero a la calidad de servicio que suele ser bastante mala incluso en aquellos bancos importantes cuya experiencia en esa industria, se supone, es de muchos años. Algunas operaciones que al principio parecen muy sencillas, y como tales, deberían ser fáciles de realizar, a veces te pueden resultar mucho más complicadas de lo que esperabas.

A lo largo de este año he tenido bastantes problemas. De hecho, a mi me da miedo cada vez que viene un correo del banco porque esto me puede significar solamente dos cosas: primero, que me están mandando información de movimientos en mi cuenta, cosa que es habitual y rutinaria, por eso no hay que preocuparse nada, y segundo, que hay algún problema en mi cuenta así que tendré que ir al banco lo antes posible. Desgraciadamente, es el segundo caso muchas veces.

Para empezar, soy cliente de más de un banco. Y con cada uno de ellos (¡¡ufffffff!!) he tenido mala experiencia.

Cuento Inolvidable #1: Banco Santander

Para poder abrir una cuenta en España, necesitarás documentación. Ésta puede ser tu pasaporte, tu DNI, o en el caso de extranjeros, su NIE o tarjeta de residencia. Cuando llegué aquí a Málaga, todavía no tenía mi tarjeta porque aún estaba en tramitación, por eso abrí una cuenta de no residente con mi pasaporte. Al abrir esa cuenta, tuve que firmar una solicitud, la chica del banco me dijo que con esa solicitud el banco pediría a la comisaría de policía un certificado que no era residente de España. En realidad lo que dijo me parecía un poco raro puesto que tenía un visado de residente y ese tiempo mi NIE ya estaba en tramitación. Se lo expliqué todo a ella, pero me aseguró que las cosas se tenían que hacer así, que era algo administrativo y rutinario, y que todo estaría bien. Pues, transcurrieron algunas semanas hasta que un día (¡vaya!) mi cuenta se encontró bloqueada. Súper molesto, fui inmediatamente al banco y esa chica me dijo que la comisaría no había expedido el certificado (ya que mi NIE ya estaba en tramitación, como le había explicado yo) así que el banco tenia que bloquear mi cuenta hasta que estuvo listo mi NIE. A ver, ¿de quien era la culpa?

Cuento Inolvidable #2: BBVA

Como abrir una cuenta me había resultado tan complicado, pensé que cerrar una iba a ser fácil. Pero me equivoqué. Tras haber esperado durante meses, la comisaría me expidió la tarjeta de residencia y fui directamente al banco para cambiar de cuenta. Tuve que cerrar mi cuenta antigua que había abierto con el pasaporte, y abrir la nueva con mi NIE. El chico del banco me dijo que tenia que hacerlo así, dado que el sistema informático del banco no aceptaba cambios en cuanto a la documentación. Pues, me parecía bien y fácil de hacer. Firmé algunos documentos para cerrar la cuenta, me rompió la libreta antigua, y solicité también una tarjeta para la nueva cuenta. Ya está. Ese día salí del banco súper contento. El mes siguiente me llegó un correo del banco llamándome la atención al saldo NEGATIVO de mi cuenta antigua. ¿Como podía ser? ¡Si era una cuenta muerta! Cuando llegué al banco, súper enfadado, descubrí que ese chico había cometido algún error así que no se había cerrado la cuenta. Cerrar la cuenta de un cliente debe ser una tarea facilísima ¿verdad?

Cuento Inolvidable #3: Unicaja

En España, además de los bancos, hay cajas de ahorro. Se supone que su servicio es mucho mejor y suele ser que esas entidades contribuyen al bien de la sociedad a través de programas de educación, cultura y cooperación para el desarrollo. Si pides un préstamo por tu negocio, tal vez puedas aprovechar tasas de interés mucho más bajas en una caja de ahorro. Se dice que están más dirigidas al servicio de la gente. El año pasado la UMA, donde estudio, llevó a cabo un proyecto con Unicaja, se trata de hacerles a los alumnos de la universidad una tarjeta con una serie de usos: carné de estudiante, tarjeta bancaria y tarjeta de autobús. Como en ese tiempo mi carné de estudiante aún no me había llegado, me atreví a solicitar esa tarjeta inmediatamente. Hice la solicitud en la universidad, creyendo que la tarjeta no tardaría mucho tiempo en llegar. Eso fue en noviembre, ahora ya estamos en julio ¡y todavía no ha venido la tarjeta! Cuando fui a la universidad hacia febrero para quejarme, me dijeron que no sabían nada de ello y tenia que informarme en Unicaja. En Unicaja, me dijeron que tenia que preguntar en la universidad, o llamar al número de Atención al Cliente, cosa que era tan aburrida y repugnante que al final decidí dejarlo.

Lo bueno de los bancos españoles es que no tienes que pagar ninguna comisión cuando retiras dinero del cajero automático por la noche y por la madrugada, a condición de que saques dinero de la red a la que pertenece tu tarjeta. En Japón recuerdo que tenia que pagar una comisión pequeña a partir de las 21.00 horas, y cerraban los cajeros automáticos a las 24.00 horas. También los bancos españoles abren los sábados, cosa que no se hace en Filipinas. Si eres turista, puedes abrir una cuenta solamente con el pasaporte, así que es fácil recibir transferencias del extranjero. En los supermercados y los centros comerciales, se encuentran pequeños kioscos de los bancos donde puedes abrir una cuenta o hacer otras transacciones sencillas. Estos kioscos abren incluso por la tarde, cuando los bancos ya están cerrados.

A pesar de esto, por lo general, me caen mal los bancos de aquí. Su personal normalmente no sabe qué hacer, dependen mucho de la red informática donde hay los datos de todos los clientes. Lo que pasa es que a veces esa red es difícil de manejar, así que el personal da información incorrecta a los clientes. Aun más, en algunos casos, la información en esa red no basta, así que el personal es incapaz de solucionar el problema del cliente. Cuando ocurre esto, te quedan dos opciones: puedes esperar un poco (ya que la eficiencia del personal a menudo depende del momento) y pedir a dios un milagro; o mejor, puedes tirar tu cuenta a la basura y cambiar de banco.

Term-end

I'm done! I emailed the last requirement for the term to my professor yesterday midnight, with a concise message: Hi, I'm sending you the class exercise. Have a nice vacation!

But I really didn't believe he would have a nice vacation, considering it was now his turn to check our work. Haha!

Anyway, I like those few moments that follow shortly after you click "send." Never do I feel a greater sense of accomplishment than during these moments. It gives a closure to all the hard work, pressure, the sleepless nights and all the sacrifices that had to be made just to be able to finish. Every time I click that button on my email, I imagine all my hard work traveling into cyberspace away from me, then I heave a sigh of relief. But yesterday was cathartic. I was half-screaming, half-giggling in front of my laptop as I viewed the message on the screen: Your message has been sent. It actually felt like flushing the toilet. It meant I could finally go out to enjoy the sun, and the breezy summer weather. It meant that the second term was finished.

It also meant that my first year in the masters program was officially over. Judging by the number of times I had gone back to smoking over the last ten months, it wasn't such an easy year. I mean, academically. The first months had been especially trying, given the language barrier. We were a small class of ten people, and as the only foreigner in this group whose native tongue wasn't Spanish, I was always on my guard not to look stupid. There were four other non-Spanish guys in class but these were Venezuelans and a Bolivian; the fourth one, an Italian, has been living in Malaga for some 15 years now. So every time I talked in class I was kind of pressured, and I thought hard to make sure I was making sense. Looking back, I see it made me realize how helpful my classmates and professors could be.

So what's in store for me next school year? I don't know exactly, but I've got some plans. In the meantime, I will look forward to my backpacking tour next month, recharge, enjoy the sun, and take my own sweet time.

Ana and Nick

It's just amazing how family ties could be broken so suddenly. One day, whole families of your relatives pack up and migrate to far-away countries. Cousins graduate from college, look for a job abroad, and the next thing you know, you only get to see them in once-in-a-bluemoon family reunions. I'm not trying to sound too melodramatic about it, rather I'm stating it matter-of-factly. Because really, that's the way it happens. I've experienced it plenty of times, not only with family, but also with dear friends who have chosen to stick it out in foreign shores. Over time, the best scenario would be you finding Christmas cards at your doorstep, getting long-distance phone calls on your birthday, or opening an email from unknown origins that sometimes you would even mistake it for spam. There is, however, an exciting part to it. When, how and where you will see them again is always uncertain, that when the next encounter finally comes, it could be full of surprises. And it's just amazing when you realize that such ties have not been broken a bit. Rather, they have simply taken a new form.

Ana, my cousin, and her English husband Nick came to visit me in Malaga last week. It was a reunion after years of not seeing each other. In fact, I can't remember exactly the last time I'd seen her. For sure I was in her wedding in Manila about 10 years ago. Maybe I saw her again after the wedding, on the few occasions that she would come home for a short vacation, but I'm pretty sure our succeeding encounters had been rather brief. She left the Philippines in 1992, worked in Hong Kong for several years, then the next thing I heard was that she would tie the knot with Nick. I was quite young then that I didn't realize she was going to the UK for good, or at least I didn't realize what that meant.

When I went to pick them up at the airport last week, she was so surprised I had grown so big! She had to literally look up to me to see how my features had changed, and I had to bend down a mile to give her a squeeze. The Ana that I saw was not greatly different from the one I had known. Sure, she seemed to have put a couple of pounds more. Sure, she was a bit tanned, and looked a bit more mature. But really, she still retained this bubbly attitude and that positive aura she would always generously exude to everybody around her.

During their short stay, we managed to go out together often enough. We went to Calle Larios to dine a couple of times. During the day, they set out on their own to visit the museums and the Alcazaba, and they rented a car to drive in the suburbs and go to Granada to see the Alhambra. On their last night, I brought them to my flat and cooked dinner, which unfortunately, turned out a disaster. All this time, we were reminiscing a lot about our days in Manila, that at some point Nick looked sleepy because of all the family talk. Already, many years had passed, so sometimes we would disagree over names, places, dates and how events had indeed taken place. But all the same it felt good to remember: events like the Baguio outing with Marie and Dan, and our days in Sta. Ana and Paco when our families used to live in one house, and symbols like the duhat tree in Ampy's house, Ate Soly's cat, and their helper Rose. For sure, years later from now, we will talk about their visit to Malaga, and look back at what a great time we had.

On their last day, Ana and Nick came to the flat again in the morning to drop off a guidebook they had borrowed. When it was time to say goodbye, I was quite unsure how to call my cousin - Ate Ana, or simply Ana - as I felt slightly embarrassed. I was already too dambuhala to call her such. But then she said she was still my big sister, all 4-or-so feet of her, and that if ever I needed help, I should not hesitate to call her. I gave her a beso and a huge squeeze. They were flying back to Winchester that day, miles away from Malaga, but I wasn't worried a bit. I was fully aware that circumstances change, but some ties are hard to break. She is still my big sister, and I am still Ton-ton to her.

Arriving in Malaga

Whenever I go to live in a foreign country, usually it is the first days that pass unnoticed. The first moments in the neighborhood, the first visits to the local store, the first trips out into the city prove hard to remember. The first people I say "hola" or "konnichiwa" to are the ones that I will most probably not run into again during the rest of my stay. Time goes, like a bored guest would slip out of a party, and before I know it, the first whole month is over. But where has it gone?

I try to recall my first week at ICU - five years ago - and I wonder how it went. Not that everything is beyond retrieval; in fact, some moments do stand out, like arriving in campus from the airport at midnight, sleeping in a room without bedsheets and electric fan, and bugging the cleaning lady for some hot water to steam up my cup ramen the next morning. But those days are now significantly fuzzy, and laying out the chain of events is like piecing together a grand puzzle. Every time I do a mental rewind, I see things pass like a flash of light.

But my first night in Malaga was different, and it would be quite difficult to forget. After 18 hours on the plane, flying a Manila-Bangkok-Frankfurt-Malaga killer route, I arrived in my new flat at about 8 in the evening. Before that, I had a nerve-racking week in Manila and spent six hours wandering inside the Frankfurt airport to wait for my connecting flight. So my body was craving sleep, which proved elusive since I didn't have the heart to decline my flatmate Sergio's offer to bring me to a botellon on my first night in Spain. We all set out to Plaza de la Merced, that part of the city center where the locals normally gather for a botellon, the typical Spanish street party. Young people usually flock together, often in an open space like a plaza, with their own glasses, bags of ice, cola and rum to chat and drink the night away. The party starts at about 12 midnight and lasts until the wee hours of the morning. That night, I was actually drained, my mind half-asleep, but it was constantly aware of the new sensations around it: the sound of Spanish spoken everywhere, the sea of western faces, the ground wet with melted ice and spilled rum, and the amazing architecture surrounding the plaza that I only used to see in Intramuros.

My first night, October 7, was an initiation of sorts to the Spanish culture of fun, partying and taking it easy, thanks to my flatmate Sergio, Veronica, Ismael and his other friends in the picture whose names I now struggle to recall. I also got initiated into the European culture of beso. That day I kissed - on the cheeks - the most number of women in one night in my entire life. Pity I couldn't kiss the men...

El Puente Romano

So here goes. I finally muster the courage to blog. From this point on, I have an online diary. I now have my space on the Net. The idea has been floating in my head for the past couple of weeks, and it's funny how I end up creating this account now that I haven't exactly time in my hands. I would have, and should have, set it up much earlier. Only I was afraid of facing the pressure. The pressure to write, the pressure to think and unveil all of that in this diary which is public. When I come to think of it, my most writing-productive days were way back in college. I used to slave it out in the weekly school paper, make money through essay contests (haha!), and scribble poems and stories on tissue paper. But that was 40 million years ago, when my self-concept and that of most people in my circle were undeniably tied to "writing," only to realize a few years later that such things would change. The closest I get to writing these days would be quite embarrassing for anybody to admit: term papers and email.

Not that I have little stuff to write about; I actually consider myself luckier than most people I know. I got my first overseas trip at the age of 20, a month-long cultural tour in Japan, and from that time on, my travelling days have never stopped. To date I have been to six countries in Asia and Europe, lived for some time in two of them which were Japan and Spain, where I live at the moment to get my masters degree. In a few weeks' time I will go on a 3-week backpacking tour of five countries in Western Europe. To my dismay, most of these days have passed without me documenting them except in fancy albums I store in my flat in Malaga and in my parent's house in Sta. Mesa. But there are things which pictures are not capable to tell, like losing your way in a mountain trek, spending the night in a creepy hostel, throwing away excess baggage at the airport, or inching your way through a group of bullish street dogs. There is a wealth of life experiences I could make a fuss of, and now I decide to write them down. It freightens me to forget so I must write. And hey! I could write them in four languages: Filipino, English, Spanish and Japanese! And next year, maybe in French, too!



For my blog, I choose the title El Puente Romano. I almost put off opening this blog today, because I couldn't seem to hit upon a nice title as I was setting up the account. Most blogs I have seen have author-descriptive titles, but I hate self-description. So I choose the name of my favorite spot in Spain which is The Roman Bridge of Cordoba. It is a multiple-arched bridge with a dilapidated water wheel at one end and a tower at the other and spans over the Guadalquivir river of Andalucia. Last winter, I took a morning walk along the bridge covered with so much mist at 6 am it was almost blinding. There was a small statue of the Virgin Mary at the middle part, and dried rose petals scattered on the floor. I could count the few strangers at the bridge at that time of the morning, and feeling this deep sense of peace from the silence and the cold, my heart began to sing..."Kulang man sa 'tin itong sandali, alam ko na tayo'y magkikitang muli. Hangga't may pag-asa pa na haharapin, ikaw lang ang mamahalin..."

Haaayay! Chinky!