What's for Christmas eve dinner?

Ajo colorado (patatas con pimientos)

Chuleta de buey a la bilbaína and some good company...

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Stuck in Stockholm

First things first: anakngsinampalukangmanokputangina!

Let me repeat myself: anakngsinampalukangmanokputanginatalaga!

For those of you who are not from the Philippines, I just said a very bad word in my native tongue. The reason behind my ire (and near insanity) is a very unfortunate incident that happened this morning. I'm supposed to be back home in Malaga and enjoying a full night's rest in the privacy of my flat and yet I find myself typing these words at Arlanda airport in Sweden. Have you guessed why? Because I MISSED my fucking flight!

Yes, that one thing I thought would never happen in this lifetime finally materialized. My flight left at 6.45 am today and I had stayed up all night for fear of oversleeping and missing the first airport shuttle at 4 am. I didn't miss the shuttle and yet the next thing I knew was that airport staff was informing me that I was sure to miss my flight. Why? Because I was at the wrong airport!

So right now, at 21.36, I'm still here in Stockholm and pissed off on what is supposed to be the worst day of my life. Pardon the word pun in the title but I couldn't think of a better one to describe the situation. All I want to do now is get home.

Apparently, Stockholm has more than one airport. By "more than one," I don't mean two or three but FOUR fucking airports. It so happened that I took the wrong shuttle at Central Station and I was transported to the wrong airport, which was, by some strange twist of fate, TWO hours by bus from the right one.

Truth to tell, apart from my constant and strong gut feeling that something terrible would occur on the last of day of the tour (of all days mind you!), there had been some signs that something would go wrong:

1. The shuttle driver announced that the trip to the airport would take an hour and 25 minutes. When I first arrived, the trip from the airport to Central Station had only been 40 minutes. However, I kind of ignored this detail because I thought that the shuttle would simply do more stops than during the first trip.

2. I was supposed to fly from Arlanda airport. When we were nearing our destination, I kept on seeing road signs that said: Stockholm Skavsta Airport. I mistook Skavsta for the Swedish word for airport because in some countries they DO use the local word. In Norway, for example, there are signs that say: Oslo Lufthavn, and the latter word means airport. I didn't realize that Skavsta was the NAME of the airport that we were going to, and it's located in the outskirts of Stockholm in the middle of fucking nowhere.

3. Upon entering Skavsta airport, nowhere in the huge monitor that displayed all departing flights could I find Malaga.

4. At Skavsta airport, the system is different because everybody, regardless of flights, gets to check in at the same counters. I joined the queue and thus wasted some precious time. When my turn came, the check-in person couldn't locate my booking number in their database and so advised me to approach a counter at the back end of the lobby. Right there I sensed something was wrong and yet I kept my cool. The lady said she didn't believe it was a big problem.

And so there. The next thing I knew was that the lady at information was breaking to me the news, rather gently, that I had come to the wrong airport. There was no way I would make it on time because it was barely over an hour before departure and Arlanda airport was two hours away, even by taxi. I didn't realize the gravity of the situation until much later in the day; I would later get increasingly pissed off, and finally, mad like hell.

Of course, the first person to blame for this incident was myself. I had read about Stockholm's having several airports and did not pay enough attention. I KNEW that my airport was Arlanda. But unfortunately, it's not enough to know which airport your flight is departing from, you should also note which airport it is NOT departing from. Perhaps I should have slept last night so that my mind was more alert and this would have not happened.

Apart from myself, who else was there to blame? Who could have known that I was headed for Skavsta airport? Well, the answer is... the shuttle driver! The ticket that I presented to him before boarding the bus had "Arlanda" written all over it. And there's a different fare for every airport destination. He should have read my ticket carefully and not simply punch holes in it.

In any case, thanks to the wonders of the Internet, within half an hour since that painful realization that I wouldn't go home as planned, I was able to book the same flight for tomorrow. My original ticket didn't include a rebooking insurance, so I had to pay the whole fucking amount again, which was heartbreaking. Throughout the trip, I had been scrimping in order not to exhaust my budget limit. I knew that upon returning to Malaga, I would have other expenses. But all that I'd saved during the past 10 days just went to waste!

After a heavy breakfast at Skavsta airport (I ate a lot with a heavy heart!), I headed back to Central Station. I dropped by the supermarket to buy some food for the day because I knew that at Arlanda, where I had decided to stay until departure tomorrow, everything was ridiculously expensive. So I bought two liters of orange juice, one liter of mineral water, a pre-packed cold pasta dish, a sandwich, some donuts and pastries, like I was going on an excursion. Then I headed with my stupid grocery store plastic bag in hand towards the shuttle stop and this time I boarded the shuttle for ARLANDA.

As soon as we were at the airport, another equally terrible incident almost took place as if the gods were really conspiring against me. Upon entering the vicinity, the driver announced that the shuttle would stop at Terminal 2, 3, 4 and 5. What the fuck? So it's not simply Arlanda airport, but it's even more complicated. I checked my flight booking in search of the terminal number but it was not indicated, so I didn't know where to get off. When the shuttle stopped at Terminal 2, virtually everybody got off so I asked the shuttle driver if that was the terminal for Sterling airlines. As soon as he said yes, I stepped out and made for the baggage compartment to retrieve my backpack. However, I noticed that the shuttle door almost immediately closed and the tires were beginning to turn. The shuttle was leaving with my baggage in it! I lost my cool and ran as mightily as I could towards the front door (it was a looong shuttle) and banged with extreme force on the windows like the Malagueños do, to keep it from leaving. Astounded by the banging, the driver stepped on the brakes immediately and I signalled to him with a hey-you look on my face that my baggage was still in the compartment.

He didn't seem too happy about the banging but hell, I wasn't about to allow another misfortune to befall me. Two incidents on the same day would have been too much for my heart! It's not like I just missed a bus or something, I missed my fucking flight!

And so I arrived in Arlanda Terminal 2 at 12 pm. I think I asked five different people if that was the right terminal for my flight just to be sure and not commit any oversight this time. I pulled a baggage cart and dumped all my stuff into it and then began the long wait for my flight back home.

What did I intend to do to while away 18 hours inside an airport? Well, a lot of things... a lot of pathetic things like stroll around with my baggage cart, frequent the toilet, eat lunch and dinner in a damn corner of the lobby, smoke a lot, whine endlessly and read. I fucking finished a 450-page Spanish novel that I had taken with me for the trip, and it was only 21:00 when I reached the last page.

Towards late afternoon, I got really frustrated and mad about the situation that I felt the need to destroy. I went inside a restroom and broke the flush handle of the toilet seat and flung it into the waste can. I went back to the lobby and realized that it felt extremely good to break the flush handle. So a few moments later, I went to another restroom, took a pee and left the faucet open. Oh, how good it all felt!

It's 00:15 now and I've got nothing else to do for the next five hours before check-in starts. What a lesson I learned today. If you happen to be reading this, make sure the same thing doesn't happen to you! Check your flight details! Otherwise, you'll have to pay a high price for your negligence.

As for me, I will make sure that I'm the first person in line at check-in later this morning. Puchanggala, di na talaga mauulit ito!

Wide awake in Kungsholmen

It's 1.05 in the morning and I can't go to sleep as of yet. I took a nap a short while ago but I decided I would get up around midnight so I can be sure not to miss my flight early today. It is cold here. And nice. Kungsholmen is lovely and it is my last stop in this backpacking tour which started 10 days ago. Later at 3 am I will have to check out of the hostel. It is so cold I have to wear my gloves as I walk two kilometers from here to Central Station where I'm taking the shuttle that goes to the airport. Or else my fingers would freeze and the joints would lock up like they did yesterday morning.

It's a good thing this hostel has free Internet access. The lobby is virtually deserted at this hour of the morning, it's just I and the wavy-haired hostel receptionist, and some light pop music playing in the background.

A short while ago one female guest in her early twenties just walked into the lobby and suddenly broke into tears at reception. It looked like she was raped or had just gone through something equally horrible. She just stood there for a few seconds in front of the receptionist whose facial expression gave a rather baffled but sympathetic look. It was quite a scene. Then suddenly the guy seated beside me at the computer terminal stood up and approached reception. The crying girl fled as soon as she saw him, because it turns out that the guy was her boyfriend. The still-baffled hostel receptionist is now playing psychologist to the guy, and I'm overhearing stuff like a lover's fight, engagement rings, and a huge sum of money that the guy dished out for a whole bucket of beer that the girl spilled in a bar last week. Then the receptionist asks the guy -- have you been seeing someone else while you're on tour, so that your girl might be angry or jealous? Hmmmmm... weird stories... weird stuff happening in the wee hours the morning.

I'm so sleepy, and my head is spinning...

Adventure starts tomorrow

I haven't travelled alone for quite sometime so tomorrow's trip will somewhat be a challenge. I have to admit that I've been quite stubborn because both travel literature and my travel buddy had discouraged me quite strongly from going to that place and yet in the end I chose to heed nobody's advice but my own. All I knew is that I wanted to be there! About this place, Lonely Planet warns: "Travel in _____________ from November to January is a pretty cold, dark and miserable option."

Well, we shall see...

English classes OVER!

Words are not enough to describe how relieved, contented, delighted, joyous and ecstatic I am that I have finally quit teaching English. I finally said goodbye to all of my students last week, and I'm posting pictures of some of them here. Oh, how I hated surfing the Net to look for grammar exercises, cutting out stupid visual aids, and having to commute and to show up at their doorstep with a plastic folder in my hands for the past one year or so. At last, all of that is now a thing of the past! And yet I would be lying if I said that I wouldn't miss my students. Their company, which perhaps made my teaching stint less nerve-racking than it would have been, will definitely be missed. The high school teenager you see on the left is Neto, who was my longest student for eight months. Right below are José María, Máximo, Cristina and Lourdes (who are actually fraternal twins), and the very adorable Ángel and Miguel.

Dark skies

I hate dark skies. In Malaga, we've been getting a lot of dark skies lately and the feeling that one gets by looking at them is generally cold. The clouds always seem heavy these days and it's hard to see a patch of blue. So I was surprised when I woke up this morning and found that the park outside my flat was blanketed with sunshine! What a pleasant view it was! I even managed to write a poem, and I feel quite good because I'd stopped doing it for some five years already. Reminds me somehow of my college "literary" past, but at the same time it feels odd to be doing it again. Anyway, here's the poem I just wrote.

Hilaga

Pa-hilaga
ang daang
babagtasin nitong mga paang
hahakbang unti-unti,
papalayo.
Mag-iiwan sila ng yapak
sa rutang walang malay
na iguguhit
subalit hinding-hindi sila
babalik.
Magbabaon lang sila
ng lupa sa talampakan
at sa pagitan ng mga daliri.
Aakyat sila ng bundok
at mamumuo ang putik
sa loob ng kanilang kuko,
tutubo ang mahapding balat
sa talampakan.
Lalangoy sila sa dagat
at mangungulubot
sa lamig.
Pagsapit ng gabi,
dadalawin sila sa panaginip
ng hilaga, at magbubulugan
sa pagtulog ang mga daliri:
Gusto naming matunton ang hilaga.
Paano kung matuklasan nilang
ang hilaga pala'y kathang-isip?

Sunday lunch

I met with my Brazilian buddies Patricia, Julia and Adesly this afternoon to have lunch in a Brazilian restaurant to celebrate Patricia's third year in Spain. I'd promised myself not to pig out, as I usually do in eat-all-you-can restaurants, but there was simply so much food! The waiters kept on making the rounds to drop off all sorts of grilled meat on your plate that you hardly have time to breathe and think before taking the next bite. We went out of the restaurant exceptionally fed, and with bloated tummies! Here are some pics...

Loss of knowledge

There is a certain experience in my life that I have been through a couple of times but which I don't how to describe without sounding vague or ridiculous. If you happen to be reading this and have had the same experience, be sure to leave a message. For the lack of a precise term, I must name whatever it is I've set out to describe here as the "loss-of-knowledge state."

It is a particular moment in your life when all of a sudden you lose your ability to communicate. The change occurs all of a sudden and can usually last for several days or a few weeks. For no apparent reason, your oral (not written) communication skills seem to hit rock-bottom, and you are almost completely inarticulate if not mute. You open your mouth but what comes out are random words, because in your head you can't string coherent or at least meaningful sentences.

While this loss-of-knowledge state lasts, you are powerless and have no control over the situation. No matter how hard you try to concentrate, it seems impossible to express complex thoughts such as opinions, observations or personal emotions. In extreme cases, articulating simple thoughts such as questions or commands can also prove difficult. The loss-of-knowledge state is so overpowering, that you often have no choice but to wait until it is over.

I call it loss of knowledge because I'm referring to one's knowledge of words and of speech. Your capacity for oral speech is momentarily disabled. It usually occurs when you are going through a particularly stressful period in your life, which is best captured by the Spanish concept of "nervios" -- an emotional state characterized by stress and anxiety. If you're thinking that being dumbfounded after a stressful day in the office (because you had an argument with your boss and embarrassed yourself during a presentation) constitutes a loss-of-knowledge state, then you don't get what I mean. Because I'm referring to something worse. Loss of knowledge occurs when two weeks have passed since that stressful day, your boss has given you a salary raise, your presentation has been praised by clients, and yet all of a sudden you find yourself incapable of coherent speech.

The closest comparison I can think of is a writer's block. However, I'm not talking about the few moments or hours wherein a writer can't seem to hit upon the opening sentence of his article. That's a petty kind of writer's block and must not cause worry. The loss-of-knowledge state is closer to a phase in which a writer is totally rendered incapable of producing any writing and has to wait for a few months or even years before his new piece comes out. Thus, I'm talking about a more profound and persistent kind of block.

Those who speak foreign languages are most prone to fall into this loss-of-knowledge state. All of a sudden, they can't communicate in the foreign language they supposedly know.

A couple of years back, shortly before leaving Japan, I felt I went through such horrible experience. Towards the end of my stay, my Japanese-speaking skills diminished almost to a ZERO-level. I couldn't construct complex and meaningful sentences. I could understand what people were telling me, and yet I couldn't shoot back with meaningful answers. For no apparent reason, I was limited to simple sentence constructions like "I see," "certainly," "really?" etc.

Right now I have reason to believe that I've slipped back into this loss-of-knowledge state. I feel that I'm losing my knowledge of Spanish! A few weeks ago, I was at the supermarket and no matter how hard I squeezed my brains out, I couldn't figure out whether plastic bags were called "bolso" or "bolsa." These days what comes out of my mouth are simple sentences with one subject and one predicate, and I can't seem to construct longer sentences that use relative pronouns such as that, which, who, whom, etc. It's as if I hadn't studied Spanish and lived here for two years!

Whenever you're trapped in the loss-of-knowledge state, your best bet is to simply continue talking to a lot of people no matter how dumb you might sound to them. The harder you try to overcome it, the more futile it seems to fight the thing. As for me, I think I am more curious than bothered by it.

In Filipino, there's an adage that goes "Hindi nananakaw ang talino." Which roughly means that knowledge can never be stolen from you. However, if what I'm saying is true, then momentarily at least knowledge can be taken away from you.

So, anyway, does anyone understand this post at all? Have you ever experienced this loss-of-knowledge state?

From Rosa Montero

I've been reading literature quite a lot lately, at least more than I used to since I graduated from college. The last book that I read, La Historia del Rey Transparente, was surprisingly like olive oil. It tastes good but you shouldn't take in too much of it. However, I stumbled upon a nice passage from the book which I would like to share. I'm not sure whether my translation captures the impact of the original, but here goes:

Los hombres suelen llamar destino a aquello que les sucede cuando pierden las fuerzas para luchar.

(Men often call destiny that which befalls them when they lose the will to fight.)

Food for thought?

Japanese friends on honeymoon

This is Tomomi and Yasuaki. For those who are not familiar with Japanese names, Tomomi is a she and from there the rest is easy. I've known Tomomi for some seven years now through a cultural program in Tokyo which we both participated in. It turns out that she tied the knot with Yasuaki last May and they decided to come to Spain for a belated honeymoon. It was fun to see them again! I got to play Mr. Tour Guide -- as I always do whenever some friends happen to be around the area -- and invited the couple to have dinner in my flat. Modesty aside, I must compliment myself for not messing up the food this time. My culinary skills are above average under normal circumstances. Yet for some reason, something fails whenever I cook in volume. So I was surprised (and almost bewildered) when everything turned out fine last week, except for the steak which kind of came out rock-hard because it wasn't completely defrosted before frying. No matter how disastrous that sounds, I was actually delighted. I've hosted more embarrassing dinners in the past :--)

Sleep2

For the past two weeks, I have been rudely awakened in the wee hours of the morning by a tiny and yet powerful noise. My bed is placed right next to the window from where the noise comes into my bedroom and it stays to hover around my face and my ears until my unconscious state is rudely interrupted. My usual response is to clap my hands helplessly in the dark and halve with my palm the air around my ears, but that is not enough to make the noise go away. It continues to fly, like a helicopter soaring above a volcano top, and shoots an annoying zzzzzzzzzz sound deep into my poor eardrums. The bane of my sleeping hours -- a mosquito -- just won't leave me in peace! I have a feeling that the same mosquito has been coming to visit me for the past two weeks. Because my room is always mosquito-free both during the day and right before bedtime, so perhaps it has always been that ONE mosquito with a bad habit of turning up at 3 am. The flapping of its wings, worth more decibels than my alarm clock and cellphone alarm combined, has always been enough in itself to suck me out of slumber. Autumn is officially here, but I can't close the windows at night because that would be too uncomfortable as of yet, so yesterday night my tiny little adversary came back again. This time, he wasn't back to simply demonstrate the vibrating effect of his flying skills, but he even bit me on the face! I just wish that his sucking tubes were clogged with more facial oil, than blood!

Nicotine

The cigarette vendor downstairs must be very happy. Sales are rising and it's all because of me.

Look at this one-of-a-kind work of art. It's mine...















But don't try this at home.

Cathy in India

Cathy finally jumped into the blogging world, at http://masala-raga.blogspot.com. Her latest conquest - India.

Dreamy state

Since I started this blog, I have been trying not to let pass a single month without posting even one entry. I'm afraid that if I did, it would be the start of this blog's slow but sure demise into oblivion, that one omitted month in my archives list would lead to another and another and another... This month, September, is especially hard for me to keep up to that promise. For all the "focusing" and "getting my act together" that I have been trying to do, it seems that these days I am not in the mood for anything. My mind knows what needs to be done, but my body would rather prefer to be a couch potato, constantly falling into a state of drunken stupor. I'm not in the mood to start working on a journal article which I promised to co-write with my thesis adviser. I'm not in the mood to jog with Enrique and use up my remaining entrance stubs to the public swimming pool. I'm not in the mood to start reading a novel I thought I would finish in two weeks. Nor am I in the mood to prepare hand-outs for my English class. Oh, by the way, how I hate teaching English! All it seems I have the mood for is to solve sudoku puzzles before going to sleep! If for anything, yesterday would be a good example of how my life is recently. Saturday took off with me having a mental list of tasks to be done, but I ended up buying a pack of cigarettes, dozing off in the afternoon, pigging out on pasta in the evening, and staying up late to watch sickening hard porn on TV at 2am. I swear, had the glass of 20%-alcohol wine that I drank been enough to induce vomiting, I would have pumped out of my stomach a whole sea of foul greenish liquid that spells A-N-X-I-E-T-Y. That's the culprit of it all!

Summer backpacking 2006: Portugal

This year's destination for our summer backpacking was Portugal, which flanks Spain on the western side. Because it is so close to where I live, I would compare it to flying from Manila to Hong Kong except that you wouldn't even have to take the plane. A bus could get you there. From the very start we were debating which country to visit, taking into consideration our budget limit, our preferences and stuff we had heard about different places, and in the end we both settled for the country that was right next to ours, as well as two regions in the north of Spain which were Castilla y Leon and Extremadura. Since our point of origin, Malaga, was located in the south, we ended up following an "elevator route," heading off to Portugal and going up, up, up north, then crossing over to Spain and continuing down, down, down until we reached the coastal city of Málaga, our starting point. Well, two-man adventure kicked off in the evening of August 7 and lasted till August 22, spanning a total of 13 cities.

Lisbon. Our very first stop was Portugal's capital, where I learned the Spanish term for "steep road," or "cuesta," because I would hear José María utter it in a characteristic frustrated tone all the time. Much to our disappointment, a big part of the historic quarter was spread out in an elevated section of the city. So walking the streets of Lisbon was like training to be a mountaineer, aggravated by the 40-degree summer heat which made us buy bottled water a lot of times. Portugal's capital for the most part is dirty and disorderly. The old houses seem to fall into ruin, paint chipping off their walls and droplets of stale water skydiving onto your head from the rusting roofs of five-storey buildings. Right below is a typical residential building in the historic quarter. Belém. Strictly speaking, Belém is still part of Lisbon except that it is six kilometers from the city center and looks like a different world altogether. It sits by the river and offers a splendid view of the waters lined by a bridge so tall it is almost a skyscraper! Belém's main attraction is a 16th-century monastery declared by UNESCO as a world heritage site, which transports you back into an era long gone as soon as you step into it. Here's a picture of the lovely cloister.Sintra. Before we decided to go to Portugal, I'd told Jose Maria that we must strive to do some physical activity, aside from the usual church-hopping which he liked no end. Sintra was the closest we got to being "physical." There was a fairy-tale-like castle on top of a hill from where, on our way back, we had to hike because a fallen tree somewhere had blocked the roads that the buses couldn't pass. We saw a lot of trees, some ducks, horses, and a rather boring lake. Not bad, haha! Here's a picture of the castle.Évora. This place is white. The houses, the public buildings, even the restaurants are white. It reminds me of the Spanish region of Andalucia where most of the old houses are white. The only thing that's not white in Évora is the cathedral and some unpainted buildings that have retained their natural stone color. The historic centre, also a UNESCO-protected site, constitutes a small town in itself and is set apart from the rest of the city by walls. Here's a picture of a white building.Fátima. On our fifth day in Portugal, we found ourselves with nowhere to go. The previous night, we had been to check out the gay scene in Lisbon (which didn't amount to anything really), so we woke up with bloodshot eyes and a mild headache. At the bus station we wanted to pick a destination at random and it somehow occurred to us to visit Fátima. The city itself is not a marvel but the Virgin's apparition to Lúcia, Francisco and Jacinta piques the curiosity of many. The place was filled with pilgrims, camp sites and rosaries for sale. Here's a picture of some devotees who walk on their knees from the southern part of the square to the miracle site.Coimbra. We arrived in Coimbra on Sunday morning so the place seemed peaceful and dreamy. Only a few cars were on the streets and most commercial establishments were closed. If there's one thing I liked about this city it certainly was the university, which the Portuguese consider as the "Oxford of Portugal" because it is old and has great architectural value, unlike most modern European universities. A small corner of the 18th-century library is shown in the following picture.Oporto. Old houses, huge crowds. Pretty much resembles the 19th-century Manila I've seen in black and white photos. I consider Oporto one of the most memorable for four reasons. First, because on the day that I had to wash my clothes all the laundry shops seemed closed and I felt seriously threatened to put on used underwear. Second, because we group-toured a wine stockhouse and it was my first time to go to a wine-tasting (pic below). Third, because Oporto wine is sweet and has 20% alcohol content! Fourth, because it rained a lot even if it was summer.Braga. This is one place I don't remember a lot about. I think it's got the usual churches and other historical stuff. We were supposed to go to Bom Jesus do Monte, a church perched on a hilltop, but we missed the city bus, which made us miss the funicular, which gave us no time to hike all the way to the church because we had already bought the tickets for the ride back to Oporto. To José María's disappointment, we just meandered around the foot of the hill. Here's a picture of the main plaza.

Summer backpacking 2006: Castilla y León

From Oporto, Portugal, we took a bus that headed eastward towards the Spanish region of Castilla y León, passing by the seemingly endless expanse of dramatic fields and cinematic sky views between the two countries (pic below). Spanish police conducted a short inspection at the borders, after which was a stopover at a highway restaurant, where, for the first time since the start of the trip, we had a complete two-course meal with wine and dessert. Something that simply wasn't the custom in Portugal.León. The road trip from Oporto took about ten hours so we arrived in León at night. We went out of the hostel to take a walk and sat on a bench in front of the cathedral. Apparently deceived by my oriental looks, a Japanese couple approached us to ask me to take their picture. After the shot, the woman attempted some small talk and was surprised that I was talking to her in Japanese even if I had just told her I was Filipino. That incident reminded me how long I hadn't used my Japanese...whew! Here's a sample of what's inside the lovely cathedral.Salamanca. In Filipino, the name of this place means magic, and indeed it is magical, for José María at least. He adores the place so much that he was at once incredulous and threatening when I told him it was somewhat visually boring. I thought Salamanca was lovely, but the uniform stone color of the buildings in the historic center was quite monotonous, unlike the varied hues of the old houses in Oporto. Here's a picture of the Casa de las Conchas, or the Shell House, which looks much better in picture than it really is.Segovia. One thing that surprised me about Segovia (aside from its breath-taking cathedral, its 1st-century Roman aqueduct and the alcázar) is that it is so expensive. At lunchtime, we had a rather difficult time scouting for a place that would suit our shoestring budget, since most restaurants were offering a standard two-course meal at 20 euros! For the first time in Spain, I felt like I was in France! Right below is a picture of the very old but still standing Roman aqueduct.

Summer backpacking 2006: Extremadura

From Castilla y León (where the weather and the people were quite cold), we headed south to Extremadura where we felt again the searing summer heat. By this time both I and José María were already exhausted and looking forward to returning to Málaga.

Cáceres. At the heart of this city is a medieval town so little changed since the 15th and 16th centuries, it's worth visiting even under the sun's scorching heat. This town, often used as a film set according to Lonely Planet, is set apart from the rest of Cáceres in a walled space. The old buildings are all made of the red-brownish stone that you see in the picture below. We were there on a Sunday so the town was very quiet, I felt like I was transported back to the Middle Ages! Mérida. I'd heard good things about Mérida even before, but all that went down the drain as soon as we got there. Aside from some major sights like the Templo de Diana and the Teatro Romano, the only thing that Mérida can boast is archeological ruins dating back to the Roman times. We gawked at A LOT of rocks -- or whatever's left of the settlements that used to occupy the city -- I almost wanted to study them. Here's a picture of the Teatro Romano.

Footnote: Well, that's it! Till the next backpacking trip!

Sleep

It's a little past 8 am in Malaga and I just got up from bed after five measly hours since I drifted into slumber last night, or rather, early this morning. For the past four weeks since I transfered to my new flat, my body clock has seemed to be bewilderingly odd if not completely altered. Every morning I wake up to a mild headache generally at around 9, and no matter how late I dozed off the previous night, watching TV, surfing the Net, or simply doing stuff in the four corners of my room, it seems that I am unable to sleep beyond 10 am. My consciousness snaps back into reality, autmotically it seems, without the aid of an alarm as if it were a timer-controlled machine itself that does everything painfully on the dot. Worse still, on certain days of ill-luck, I wake up to the unbearable noise of a neigbhor trying to start his shitty car in the parking lot below, right outside my room's fourth-floor window. It is the kind of noise that makes you want to drop a rock on the roof of his car, because it sounds like the pleading of a helpless pig about to be butchered at the break of dawn, but then you are not capable of such evil too early in the day. You just wish for his pathetic car to deteriorate into a state of complete malfunction.

You see, having to wake up early is rather unfortunate as I can't take advantage of the fact that I have nothing much to wake up early for these days. I'm taking a break from teaching English, something that I don't enjoy doing, and the rest of my daily errands do not generally require that I leave the house first thing in the morning. It would be nice if my sleeping habits could change before I get busy again. I would love to sleep like a lazy, pot-bellied father who burps and snores in his bed until 3 pm!

Today I have to go downtown to buy a battery for my digicam and a book to bring along for the trip. Time flies I didn't realize that it's been a year since I first backpacked with my travel companion, Jose Maria, and later tonight we will set out again to do exactly the same. I wonder what little adventures or misadventures we will bring upon ourselves this time...

Weekend getaway

Two months ago I was at the height of thesis work. I was so burned out and tired of thinking I thought there was no other way to keep me from going nuts but to reward myself with a few days of completely brainless existence. So I searched the Net for low-cost flights (and there are many in Europe) and booked a weekend flight to northern Spain. The journey didn't turn out to be an entirely brainless activity, but spending a few days in Bilbao, San Sebastián and Logroño (May 5-8) did keep me within the bounds of sanity.

Bilbao. This city and the entire region to which it belongs, Pais Vasco, is famous more than anything for its culinary tradition. The mere mention of the place is enough to conjure images of its famous chefs, elite culinary societies (most of which are male-exclusive) and the locals' fondness for an excellent meal. I was surprised that in restaurants in Bilbao, and in the entire Pais Vasco for that matter, a complete two-course meal with dessert comes with a whole bottle of wine -- unlike in Málaga where they serve you a small glass. So as soon as the waitress landed the wine bottle on my table, I thought to myself, "Huohhhh, am I supposed to drink all of that?" I looked around me and all the other tables had a whole bottle each, except that the wine was being shared by two or more people. I, on the other hand, was alone. It didn't matter since I love wine, and I consider myself a borderline alcoholic. It's just that I was too drunk whenever I stepped out of a restaurant that I often had to doze off in a park before I could set out again. In my sober moments, I visited the famous Guggenheim museum, took a funicular to a hilltop, but spent most of the time in the old quarter where the city's famed pintxos and bar scene are concentrated.



San Sebastián. I arrived in San Sebastián too early in the morning, around 9 am if I remember correctly. Aside from the closed shops and the nearly empty streets, one of the first things that greeted me was rain. It was pouring, the sun was nowhere to be seen, and there was no heavenly sign that that day was a great day to live your life as a tourist. My poor little umbrella was useless because it was windy, and my shoes and pants were getting soaked. However, the odd thing was that I didn't seem to mind the rain. In fact, I was happy to be walking aimlessly in the rain, following the stretch of the sea and watching the violent waves crash against the stones. I was even whispering to myself a Pinoy pop song, against the defeaning sound of rain hitting the pavement. Hahaha. Funny how even a rainy holiday could bring joy to a burned-out graduate student. Eventually the pouring came to a halt and I was able to explore the city without the need to balance an umbrella and a camera in my hands. I visited a couple of churches, hiked to a hilltop overlooking the sea and saw a group of old men fishing in the river on a lazy Saturday afternoon. I took pictures of some banners of the ETA, an armed Spanish separatist group based in País Vasco.



Logroño. This city is part of the region of La Rioja, a name you will see printed on most wines of Spanish origin. This region, which boasts numerous vineyards, is where the finest red wines in the country are produced. I'd squeezed in Logroño in the trip because I was eager to see the famous vineyards. However, I was disappointed to learn that they were closed on Sundays, even those in the town of Haro where a good number of them are concentrated. Good thing I stumbled upon a wine shop where I was able to grab a couple of reds. I was fully aware that they were also being sold in Málaga, perhaps at a friendlier price, but it felt good to buy them in that dimly-lit, traditional-looking store in Logroño. Much like buying peanut brittle in Baguio. Apart from the vineyards, there was nothing really much to see in this city. I wandered about the town park for a while, observed the Río Ebro and passed by the Universidad de La Rioja before heading back to Bilbao from where I was to fly home to Málaga the following day.

Goodbye home sweet home

Judgement day

And so judgement day (read: thesis oral defense) finally came to pass. It was held at one of the conference rooms in my university yesterday, July 3, at 10 am. The panel was composed of two Spanish professors and one invited German professor who is, incidentally, the executive director of an NGO to which I'm applying for an internship (I hope I made a good impression!).

I was given half an hour to deliver my presentation, after which there was a question-and-answer portion that lasted for another thirty minutes. I was so nervous! In my batch, I was the first one to finish the thesis and I had never attended the orals of the previous batches. But I guess I did a great job because the panel's verdict on my thesis was a resounding sobresaliente cum laude, the highest distinction possible!

Here are some pictures from the oral defense and our class get-together that followed in the evening. You will see how (excessively) tanned I am!

Departures

I hate departures. Especially if somebody else is leaving and I'm the one being left behind. It feels like shit, 100 per cent.

One of my dorm friends, Ashley, is leaving today. She was an exchange student for a year at my university, and today she's leaving for Madrid from where she will fly back home to the US.

Gabriel, the waiter at the dorm cafeteria, will also be leaving next Friday for a two-month vacation in the US, after which he's coming back to Malaga to get his stuff and move to Salamanca. He's moving there to continue college.

It's actually goodbye season in the dorm. Summer has set in and one by one, the doors are being locked and the flats are left empty. This has been my home for the last one and a half years and soon I'm moving in to a new flat. I just can't wait to take my own leave coz I don't like the thought of being left behind. It puts me in a really damp mood.

Dane Cook

By now you must have heard that there's a certain Dane Cook that exists in the US and that he is making waves of tsunami proportions in the stand-up comedy scene. So much so that TIME magazine picked him for its annual TOP 100 World's Most Influential People issue. It was Ashley who introduced me to his website a year ago and since then I must admit that I've been a fan. Man, this guy is true energy, if he were a drug, he would certainly be classified as illegal, because he'd be likely to cause a heart attack. He is good-looking (according to Ashley, and I agree) unlike the typical, funny-face comedian, and most of important of all, he's got talent.

Here's what TIME has to say about him: He longs to own a pet monkey, take part in a heist, watch a pedestrian get hit by a car. When a couple in the supermarket line gets into a "nothing fight," Cook abandons his cart to go listen. Creeped out by that weird guy in the office? Cook's advice: make friends. Then when he starts shooting up the office, he'll skip you, offering instead a friendly, "Thanks for the candy." Sweet.

If you're dead bored at home or trying to kill time in your office cubicle, remember that coffee is not the only thing on this planet capable of keeping you from dozing off. Check him out at www.danecook.com. Once you get inside the main page, you will start hearing Dane's booming voice from clips of his past performances and it won't stop until you leave the site. Have a good laugh!

Almost a miracle

Like my new haircut?

As soon as the plane touched down in Malaga, I promised to myself: "I will get a fucking haircut." As it was, my hair was already too long that all throughout the trip I had to apply scandalous amounts of gel just to keep it from blocking my eyes. My fear was that I would bump into someone on the road or just fall into the river or something. So on the day I arrived from Bilbao, one of my first errands was to scout for a decent-looking parlor downtown. My heart wanted something radically different from my usual hairstyle (see pic on the left), but at the same time I didn't like to ruin my usual "respectable" look (hmmm...). Hair, after all, takes a while to grow. To make the story short, it turned out that I would settle for the "cresta" (see pic below), a punk-like cut whose name in Spanish evokes images of standing chicken feather. In front and at both sides, it seems like a semi-military cut but as soon as you look at the back of the head you will find a hidden suprise of thick and long hair. In the pictures below it may not seem too obvious, but I think I look quite scary in this haircut. Hahaha. So this is it, my summer look. What do you think?