el puente romano

Cumpleaños feliz

2011-08-17T02:40:00.012+02:00

Hace más de dos semanas mis padres y yo fuimos a comer en un restaurante muy antiguo pero recién abierto. Digo antiguo puesto que el restaurante antes era una casa que se construyó poco después de la segunda guerra mundial, pero que no hace mucho ha sido restaurada y se ha convertido en un restaurante. Se llama "Casa Roces" y era la casa anterior de la familia de Alejandro Roces que, entre otros, fue galardonado por el estado con el importante título de "artista nacional" para la literatura. Se encuentra la casa en el histórico complejo de Malacañang, lo que es el domicilio oficial del presidente de Filipinas.

Por allí están mis padres en la foto...aquel día mi madre cumplió los 71 años y así tiene, más o menos, la misma edad que la Casa Roces.

Cambiar de aires

2011-08-12T12:46:00.002+02:00

Me gustaría cambiar de aires y me gustaría que fuera pronto. Ya estoy hecho polvo y me siento agotado por completo. Actualmente me encuentro en una etapa de mi vida laboral en la que ya no me queda fuerza alguna. Por mucho que intente convencerme de que todo esto pasará, no puedo. Desafortunadamente, no.

La verdad es que tengo buen trabajo, llevo dos años en un organismo de cooperación internacional para el desarrollo, y esto me permite ejercer el máster que hice en España hace más de cinco años. Es un buen empleo, claro, lo que pasa es que ese tipo de trabajo te quema. Te quema mucho y bastante rápido.

Lo primero de 2011

2011-08-01T15:42:00.004+02:00

Hacía mucho tiempo que no escribía nada en este blog, y eso fue por varios motivos. Para empezar, desde que regresé a mi tierra desde Málaga, he tenido que adoptar un estilo de vida lo suficientemente diferente como para ocasionar que se me quite la costumbre de escribir. Ahora no tengo ordenador en casa, aunque antes sí lo tenía, pero me iba fatal internet así que poco a poco escribir algo en mi blog se ha convertido en una tarea cada vez mayor y poco soportable. Es más, como vivo en Filipinas actualmente y no en el extranjero, de alguna manera considero que todo lo que me pasa en la vida ahora está dentro de lo habitual y no es nada interesante, y por tanto, no es tema sobre el que valga la pena escribir.

Sin embargo, a partir de ahora, pienso intentar actualizar mi blog con frecuencia como antes. Recuerdo que hace más de cinco años, tomé la decisión de darse de alta en el blogspot para poder escribir sobre las cosas bonitas que me pasaban en la vida en aquel tiempo. Ahora quiero escribir sobre las cosas buenas que me pasan en la vida cotidiana, pero también quiero escribir cuando todo me va súper fatal y tengo que sacudirme el mal humor, la desilusión o lo que sea.

A ver si consigo actualizar este blog con frecuencia...

Lo que como toda la semana

2010-04-22T06:22:00.000+02:00

No me da ninguna gana ir al trabajo los lunes ya que me tengo que llevar a la oficina una bolsa que pesa bastante y eso me molesta. Los otros días de la semana solo tengo en la mano un ligero bolso cuando salgo de la casa a coger un taxi FX que me llega a mi oficina en Makati, pero los lunes me cuesta mucho más subir al taxi, caminar por la calle y subir la escalera. Lo que hay dentro de la bolsa es lo que como toda la semana - salchicha, rábano y berenjena salados, manzana y naranja. Toda esa comida me la llevo de una vez al principio de la semana para no tener que llevar comida todos los días. Al mediodía suelo comer una salchicha y un poquito de rabano y berenjena salados, y antes de volver a casa ceno una manzana y una naranja, cosa que hace que los compañeros de trabajo me pregunten por qué como tan poco. Les explico que quiero perder peso, eso es verdad, aunque también es verdad que no soporto tener que pensar en qué me apetece comer todos los días. Por eso, me conviene comer la misma cosa de lunes a viernes. Y bueno, hasta ahora ha sido una manera eficaz de perder peso e…

My house hit by Typhoon Ondoy

2009-09-30T10:16:00.016+02:00

During the flood...

Water level in relation to the first floor ceiling...

After the flood... (my mom pointing to the floodline on the wall)

Back to some old habit

2008-04-19T14:18:00.010+02:00

After giving up my mountain bike to an uncle who needs to practice regular cycling following his mild stroke, I finally decided to replace that 10-year-old mountain bike (purchased in 1997) with a new one. Last Easter Sunday, Joy and I braved the harsh summer heat and headed to Raon, Quiapo where there's a line of bicycle shops where one can supposedly find the cheapest bikes, parts and accessories. An hour of haggling with the rather cunning shop attendant saw me opting for this hunky and clever-looking mountain bike you see on the picture above. The good thing about buying in Raon was that you could simply choose one of the bikes on display, and tell them to upgrade some bike parts as you wish. I did ask them to change a couple of the original parts, so mine turned out about double the original price, but I still believe it was a good buy.

My first mountain bike was silver-painted and had an armrest that resembled the bending horns of a bull, and it was my companion whenever I hit the roads at night from my house in Sta. Mesa to places as far as UP Diliman, White Plains, Greenhills and Roxas Boulevard.

My new bike is now almost a month-old, and it does feel good to be back to some old habits.

DELE Superior

2008-03-14T04:17:00.002+01:00

After about four months since the test, Instituto Cervantes has finally released the results of the DELE which I took last November. It's a test meant to measure your proficiency in Spanish, much like its counterparts such as TOEFL, IELTS, JLPT, etc. Upon checking their website last week, I found out that I passed nivel superior, the highest level there is, and now it's time to wait for the diploma to arrive from Spain perhaps in 6 months' time.

I would have been happier if it were the quinto EOI diploma (had to drop my quinto class when I left Spain) but really, news of my passing the DELE kind of fed my need for good news these days...I'm happy!

What's a good title for a newsletter?

2008-02-29T09:37:00.002+01:00

There are plenty of things capable of inducing a heart attack but this is the one that almost killed me. We're currently conceptualizing a newsletter on the topic of disability and one of the first things that we need is a title for it. I asked this person who's supposed to work with me on this for a suggestion, and while I was expecting her to come up with "normal" titles such as the quarterly update, herald, the times or something, she surprised me with two very complex suggestions:

1. Self-Presentational Explanations of Behavior for each colleagues
2. Disability Handmaids thru Individuals

What the $#%@?

Deep. Profound...

Fortune plant

2008-01-07T16:31:00.001+01:00

A few days before year-end, my father excitedly asked me one morning whether my digicam had some battery power left. I did not understand the question at first because he would normally have nothing to do with the digicam. But as I would find out at that very moment, the Fortune plant standing right outside our house had started to bear some flowers so he wanted me to photograph it. He believes that the flowers are a sign of luck because Fortune plants are not known to bear flowers, and if they ever do, it would have taken them many years to produce the tiniest sprout. In fact, in our case, we had to wait for at least 18 years.

Apart from my father, our Chinese neighbor was quick to point out with a knowing smile spread all over her face that the flowers indeed could mean good luck. If she and my father are both correct, then the fact that my father got three out of six numbers right in yesterday's lottery (he would usually get none of them right) and that he won P1,000 for himself was the start of this so-called "good" luck. So now, elated over the lottery results, he seems more confident than ever to continue betting in the lottery until the day that he bags the jackpot.

I'm not exactly superstitious but I have something in my heart that I truly desire. The Plant knows what it is.

A quiet day

2008-01-02T08:30:00.000+01:00

The only reminder that today is my birthday, aside from my having to buy a Goldilocks cake before coming to work this morning, is the slew of greetings I've been receiving in my mobile. It all started on New Year's eve, when a friend of mine in the neighborhood got drunk and announced in his booming voice on the videoke microphone that the store owner who lives on our street had set up outside his house, that hey everybody, January 2 is Tony's birthday! Some 12 hours after that, when the clock was a few minutes away from January 2, another neighbor followed suit by messaging me happy birthday, apparently wanting to be the first one to send me her greetings. Some four minutes after the clock had struck 12 midnight, my mobile beeped again with a message from another friend asking for a birthday treat.

When I arrived in the office this morning, I was expecting today to be an ordinary day, quiet, calm and without unnecessary fuss, because for a long time I'd been celebrating this occasion in a sort of low-profile way. That's probably because celebrating your birthday at the tail-end of the holidays is an anti-climax. And so today has been rather quiet, just as I wanted, with only a small cake to somehow mark the occasion in the office, except that my mobile has been getting quite a lot of birthday greetings. In Spain, I would receive about three or four greetings in my email or mobile. But since this morning, messages have been coming in even from people I did not expect would mark this date on their calendars. That's actually great and something to be thankful for.

It reminds you, for better or for worse, that you are in your country.

Dark beauty

2007-08-09T04:11:00.000+02:00

Some three weeks ago we spent a couple of nights in Legaspi City to organize the culminating activity of a disaster project of ours in Bicol in response to the damages caused by typhoon Reming in the last quarter of 2006. There was a tour that took our team together with some local partners and donor organizations to the evacuation centers, avalanche-hit areas, community hospitals, relocation sites and to the famous Mount Mayon which is said to be the volcano with the "most perfect" cone. The volcano was majestic and the sight of it commands your attention even as your plane lands on the airport. It was so pretty it made me forget for a while that I despised everything around me at that time...and that's just priceless!

Overworked

2007-08-08T17:50:00.000+02:00

I've been calling in sick for the past three days because of a bad flu accompanied by a fever and I still consider it a blessing in disguise even if I'm about to consume all my leave credits for the next nine months in just one week. Why? Because for the past two months or so I've been behaving like a workaholic Japanese salaryman. I juggle two jobs at the same time in such a way that I have no rest day during the week. I have a regular day job at a Frech NGO where I work full-time from Monday to Friday, but aside from that I do graveyard shifts on weekends as a part-time Spanish-speaking agent for the booming call center industry in Makati.

So it feels good to be just at home and taking a rest, even if my body feels damp all the time and even if just yesterday my stomach would not admit any substance apart from fruits and hot tea. I swear I could vomit just at the thought of sinigang, nilaga and other oily soup stuff your elders, if you were born in the Philippines, would give you in order to supposedly make you feel better. I don't exactly like having to live with my parents but when I'm feeling sick as hell, that's one of the moments I'm truly grateful that they're here to take care of me.

Chasing deadlines

2007-02-18T15:56:00.000+01:00

And so it's been roughly 1.5 months since I left Spain and came home to Manila, and now I find myself in front of my laptop in a room very much different from the one I had in Málaga. It's a room I had lived in practically my whole life but now I must get used to it over again. Since the day I arrived, I have been quite busy catching up with family and friends I didn't realize I hadn't produced any writing until now. So, it's taking me some time to finally write this project document. There's now a half-filled page on the computer screen with some occasional scattered notes at the bottom. If I were in Spain, I would probably finish this assignment in a flash because all the information and supporting documents that I need for it are all in. However, there seems to be a harsh spell of hibernation wreaked upon my person that I can't help it at all. To my suprise, I even forgot that the deadline for the document was Tuesday. Somehow, I mistakenly lost track of the passing of the days I thought that February 20 was still Thursday. That gave me some justification to put off the task and go to a friend's house yesterday night for some beer and pizza. Ufff...had I known, had I known!!

Happy birthday to me

2007-01-03T02:04:00.000+01:00

Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to me. I've just turned 28 today and it feels quite odd because I'm leaving Spain tomorrow to go back to the Philippines for good. For the past two weeks I've been very busy meeting up with friends to say goodbye, packing up my stuff, closing bank accounts, paying last-minute bills and simply trying to get over with a thousand things that one normally has to finish when leaving a country. Once I arrive in Manila, numerous lunch/dinner dates will be arranged to meet up with old friends that I haven't seen for a long while, and surely most of these people will ask me: Why did you come back? Shouldn't you have stuck it out in Spain, considering that you already made it there? And I wouldn't be surprised if some of them would think that I was stupid for making this move. Truth be known, it was a hard decision to leave Spain, and Europe for that matter, because I will be leaving behind wonderful people, places and a lifestyle that I've grown increasingly attached to over the past two years. However, I thought hard about it and no matter from what perspective I looked at it, reason wouldn't have me stay much longer. Why? Because I felt that if I did, this country -- and my personal circumstances here -- would shape me into someone that I don't want to be professionally. And I can't live with that. Thus, I finally decided to put an end to this chapter of my life and start a new one in Manila. So...goodbye Spain!...but...to all my friends in the Philippines, see you soon!

Goodbye home sweet home 2

2007-01-03T01:31:00.000+01:00

What's for Christmas eve dinner?

2006-12-25T23:55:00.000+01:00

Ajo colorado (patatas con pimientos)

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

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Stuck in Stockholm

2006-12-14T21:18:00.000+01:00

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

2006-12-14T00:59:00.000+01:00

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

2006-12-04T16:17:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-12-03T20:07:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-26T13:47:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-19T21:21:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-16T22:34:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-06T15:53:00.000+01:00

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

2006-11-02T23:19:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-29T13:34:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-15T18:23:00.000+02:00

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

2006-10-15T18:16:00.000+02:00

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

Dreamy state

2006-09-24T13:41:00.000+02:00

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

2006-08-30T10:10:00.000+02:00

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

2006-08-30T10:09:00.000+02:00

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

2006-08-30T10:08:00.000+02:00

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

2006-08-07T09:01:00.000+02:00

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

2006-07-14T17:23:00.000+02:00

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

2006-07-07T00:52:00.000+02:00

Judgement day

2006-07-04T23:32:00.000+02:00

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

2006-06-30T14:52:00.000+02:00

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

2006-05-25T20:40:00.002+02:00

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

2006-05-20T22:10:00.000+02:00

Like my new haircut?

2006-05-12T19:59:00.000+02:00

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?

Scholarship talk

2006-05-10T22:46:00.000+02:00

If you're chosen as a scholar by the Spanish government, they initially give you a scholarship contract for your first year in school and then, depending on your program, you will need to renew this contract every year until your graduation. The maximum number of years you are allowed to renew the contract for a masters course is two, and for a doctorate, three.

The thing is, the Spanish government has this bad habit of not granting the contract for the succeeding years of your program. This means that they will stop financing your studies at some point. To further put this in layman's terms - this means that one day in your otherwise quiet life in the boondocks of some third world country, the Spanish will invite you to come and study in their country. So, accepting the invitation, you pack your third-world belongings and book the next flight to Spain thinking yourself the fortunate ambassador of your country. One of the chosen "few." However, after some twelve months of slaving over graduate-level coursework, you find a letter at your doorstep saying: "Sorry, we have decided we will not finance your studies anymore." And that's it. You now pack your first-world souvenirs and take them with you back to the boondocks, together with some course credits that are probably good for nothing. No masters degree, no PhD. Goodbye and to hell with you.

The thing is, there's not even a good justification for the non-renewal of your scholarship. Judging by the kind of inconsequential documents required of all applicants, I think they have to be god in order to carry out a fair selection process. In other words, if they have some 1,000 applications at hand and they need to reject 300 in order to suit a given budget, how do they choose the unlucky 300 on the basis of inconsequential information (e.g. applicant's personal details, coursework description, academic institution, etc.)? Their only choice, it seems, is to do a lottery. Throw all the application papers up in the air and renew the contract of all those which manage to land inside the box; those who fall out of it will then receive rejection letters.

Fortunately, when I applied for renewal last year, I was one of those whose papers landed inside the box. So my contract is guaranteed until graduation. But this year, I heard from a mailing list that the infamous rejection letters have been sent out and so far the known casualties number about 50. Most likely, these people will have to leave Spain without a graduate degree; that, after leaving their jobs and families back home just to come all the way here. I don't understand why the Spanish government has to take in more scholars than they can possibly finance to graduation. Isn't it absurd? To me, it doesn't make any sense, but to them it somehow does.

GIANT PAELLA!!!

2006-04-28T17:28:00.000+02:00

Last week was cultural week at the dorm so management organized some interesting activities (sports, concerts, plays, etc.) among them the cooking (and feasting on) of the giant paella that you see on the picture. It's the Spanish way of celebrating something in their community, just like the Filipino tradition of roasting an entire adult pig usually during town festivals and the like. You think this paella is big? Well...it is actually smaller than the one I saw before in Intramuros, Manila during one of the cultural events organized by the Instituto Cervantes. That must have been 1.5 or twice the size of this paella! Oh well, I did not really get to taste this mouth-watering dish because I was too busy with thesis work (read: nerd). Manolo said they were selling it at 50 cents a plate! (photo taken by balate)

A Fil-Korean Wedding

2006-04-24T20:43:00.000+02:00

Last April 16 was the wedding day of Cathy and Jay which was celebrated in Changwon, the groom's hometown in South Korea. Cathy was one of my fellow delegates when I traveled to Japan in 1999 for a sponsored cultural tour in which we met Jay who was representing his country. Now whenever I think of their wedding, only one thought enters my mind: oh myy, time flies! Why? Because then we were just a bunch of university kids put together by a wealthy airline to offer us our first taste of Japan, but now it seems that everybody from that group is getting married! What a pity I couldn't go :--( I would have witnessed a good friend's wedding as well as catch up with some of our friends from that 1999 tour (group pic above). Not to mention I miss Korean food, too! (thanks Debs for the pics!)

Semana Santa

2006-04-14T17:23:00.000+02:00

In Spain, at least in the southern part which is the region of Andalusia, holy week is celebrated by the locals by holding about six processions a day from Palm to Easter Sunday. In big cities like Malaga and Sevilla, this tradition transforms the occasion into a major tourist magnet as people from all over Spain and from abroad head south just to witness this religious spectacle. Generally the processions are organized and participated in by church groups called cofradias or hermandades and center around the parading of a trono (float) that depicts a scene related to Christ's Passion. The tronos are really heavy. They are carried by about 25 men called costaleros who each have to carry a weight of 50 kilos and are followed by a long line of followers wearing ku-klux-klan costumes.
Here are some pictures from this and last year's holy week in Sevilla and Malaga (dated pictures borrowed from Jose Maria).

About Ampy (part 1)

2006-04-14T04:08:00.000+02:00

Last April 7 my relatives in Manila celebrated a very important occasion in our family. It was the 80th birthday of Ampy, an aunt of mine on the mother's side and our oldest living member. I thought I should write something about her in my blog because she is one of the major influences in my life.

When I was a child, I lived for six years in Ampy's house in Malate. My parents wanted to send me to St. Anthony School which was within walking distance from her place, so they transfered me there as soon as I finished prep. It was a huge house passed down by my grandparents to their children. For six years, I lived there with two other aunts, an uncle and her wife. My mom and I would stay in Malate from Monday to Friday and then go to Sta. Mesa to spend the weekend with my dad.

At that time (1985) I wished that Ampy were my real mother. I was very fond of her and I had reason to believe that I was her favorite. Still working then, she took me to children's parties and family activities at the office. I have plenty of memories of the Central Bank, where she used to work just like my dad and an uncle, including KFC in Harrison Plaza where she often treated me to a delicious meal. In the evening I would always wait impatiently for her to come home from work because she often brought home a surprise. No matter how unspecial it was, whatever she carried in her handbag was always a subject of competition between me and another aunt who was mentally challenged. Usually it was leftover sandwich, banana cake, chocolate cookies, empanada, fruits or whatever foodstuff the manang on her floor was selling.

Ampy had a masters in Public Administration and was the breadwinner of the family. She was administrative officer at the Central Bank and provided for two other aunts who were unmarried and unemployed, and for an uncle without a steady job for a long time. Since by then my lola had already died while my lolo lived with a second wife until his death in 1988, Ampy played the role of the family's matriarch.

In the house, she kept an extended collection of stamps. In her room, she had several rows of shelves which she dedicated to a huge collection of Filipiniana dolls. Back then I didn't appreciate the sheer size of her collection but the dolls numbered about three hundred, excluding some which were constantly kept in plastic bags. Curious, I often played with these, messing up the dolls' arrangement in the shelves on the condition that I put them back one by one in place.

About Ampy (part 2)

2006-04-14T03:47:00.000+02:00

Like my other aunts and the women of her generation, Ampy was a person of faith. More than anything, her world revolved around prayer groups, catechism and the bunch of equally religious men and women at St. Anthony Church whom she always called "sister" or "brother." Living in that house where religion was the norm (except for my uncle who was non-practicing) was no doubt one of the most exciting episodes in my childhood. I lived in a world of superstitions. One night, we suddenly even had to drive to a family friend's house to witness a esperitista session. The owners claimed that the house was being inhabited by evil spirits.

In Ampy's house, too, we often had bouts with the devil. Mentally challenged, my other aunt launched into cursing fits on certain nights. Sometimes, she would appear so enraged with almost blazing eyes and walk around the house murmuring frighteningly, that we thought her possessed by the devil. Sister Luring, one of Ampy's church friends, taught me a Latin prayer to use against evil spirits. It was salvum pactum iguritatis igosum, which she had lifted from a black, crumbling book and which I memorized by heart and muttered repeatedly from my room against the devil enslaving my aunt.

Ampy, for her part, taught me a technique to acquire the gift of tongues, or the proverbial miracle at Pentecost described in the Bible. During their house prayer meetings, her churchmates would close their eyes, pray aloud simultaneaously, sing and chant as if they spoke in different tongues. The technique was to produce the "la" sound repeatedly and with increasing speed until your summoning was heard and the holy spirit descended upon you. As an observer, I was fascinated by it no end. My life there was practically fantastic and supernatural. No wonder, my life ambition then was to become a priest and religion was my favorite subject in school.

Around the age of 8, I despised without effort my mom's being overprotective, so Ampy was the understanding and lenient alternate mom I had. She answered my questions about school work attentively, unlike dad who was rather impatient. Ampy never spanked me and she scolded me rather diplomatically. I felt extremely bad whenever she got mad, because it meant that my behavior had been truly unacceptable.

The few times that she did lose her patience happened while watching the televised Marcos electoral campaigns towards the end of 1985. My mother's family was from Ilocos Sur so Ampy was a die-hard loyalist. Growing up in a house full of Marcos t-shirts, pins, calendars and plastic fans, I was a young little loyalist myself. Whenever Marcos was shown on TV in his campaigns, I would shout at the top of my lungs "Marcos pa rin!!!" together with the huge throng of loyalists listening to his speech at the Quirino Grandstand. I would run amok in the living room, beat the sofa with throw pillows, roll on the floor and shout so loudly that the Cory fans in the neighborhood discovered our political clingings without difficulty. These outbursts were comparable to the cursing fits my mentally challenged aunt was capable of, that Ampy had no choice except to pin me down on the floor. In front of Marcos on TV, she would make me lie on my stomach and she would sit on my back like a cowboy on his horse. We would stay that way for about an hour in the living room until the campaign show ended and I was too exhausted to shout.

About Ampy (part 3)

2006-04-14T03:38:00.000+02:00

Ampy in the middle (around 2004)

In the latter part of the 80s, Ampy reached retirement age and bought a piano and an electric organ with her end-of-service payment. They were meant for my mentally challenged aunt who played the piano like god, and for me who was learning it then. In 1991, when I transferred to LSM in high school and my mom and I moved back into my dad's house, Ampy asked me to take the electric organ so I could continue playing. I was hesitant knowing it was expensive and a major investment on her part, but she insisted. Unfortunately I didn't become half the piano player my mentally challenged aunt was.

In high school, we still frequented Ampy's house on some weekends and special occasions. Sometimes she and my relatives would visit us in Sta. Mesa. However, because of the distance, the contact became naturally less. I entered adolescence and became too tied to my world in the new school. In college, just like any adult, I became even busier that sometimes I tried to cut short our phone conversations.

As I was growing up, I failed to realize that Ampy was getting old. She used to seek my help in dyeing the hard-to-reach parts of her head but I didn't think of it much. I was too amused by the act of coloring her whitening hair. To me she was like any friend I had; I didn't even call her auntie or tita. I didn't realize our age gap until college, when I got frustrated because I couldn't take her to Enchanted Kingdom to ride the 360-degree roller coaster. As a teenager, I wanted to bring her too to clubs and discos but realized she was too old for that.

It came to a point that my fingers could count the number of times I'd been to Ampy's house in a given year. During one of my visits, I learned that her stamp collection was gone. She had also donated to some cause her beloved doll collection. Only my mom was enthusiastic enough to visit her sisters weekly while I was too busy with school and increasingly scarce in family occasions. Then one day I started getting wind that Ampy was having eye problems. Thru my mom, the news reached me in trickles. I would hear that Ampy visited the eye doctor frequently. I would hear that she had difficulty writing letters. I would hear that she had small accidents in the house bumping into the table or a chair. That one of her eyes had completely lost vision. Until one day I just heard that she finally ended up totally blind.

Or rather, good as totally blind. Because although one of her eyes can still see, the images are so fuzzy and bereft of light that she can't be on her own elsewhere but the house. Why that had to happen to her was beyond my understanding. It brought to pieces my concept of justice and fairness. The doctor said she was a case of glaucoma discovered too late. According to my mom, Ampy said she had been seeing fuzzy light for some time and thought it a form of divine apparition, which in reality was the symptoms of the disease. Given my mom's talent for animated storytelling, that version of the story must have been an exaggeration.

About Ampy (conclusion)

2006-04-14T03:36:00.000+02:00

After graduating from UP and landing my first job, I began taking Ampy to dine out on special occasions, only to realize that I knew very little about her history. She was three times my age and had been alive long before my parents sent me to live in Malate. I did know a few basic things, though. That she had been married to a certain Brigidier, who had children by his first wife. In fact, I often answered the phone whenever Ludy, one of her step-daughters, gave a her call in Malate. That soon after their marriage Brigidier died and Ampy would never marry again. However, I knew nothing about the kind of life that she'd led with this family. How was she as a wife? As a mother? The only thing that reminded me that she had her own family was the letters delivered by the postman. They were addressed to Ampy "de Leon." My two other spinster aunts carried "Singson" as their surname.

So as much as possible, I converted our occacional lunch dates into interviews. I was interested in knowing the 70+ long years behind my aunt. She held the key not only to her history but to the history of my mom's family. The names of far-away relatives, stories about the old ancestral house in Cavite and in Kalye Remedios, of life during the war, were things I hadn't paid enough attention to as a young resident in our ancestral house for six years. Now that I was much older, I wanted Ampy to retell me these stories. Unfortunately and quite to my shame, I have made very little progress in this small project of mine.

To this day Ampy still writes letters to me while I prefer to call her occasionally given that writing snail mail is one of my greatest shortcomings. It's as if to prove with pride that the fuzzy vision of one of her eyes is still enough for her to write. I don't know how she does it but her penmanship seems exactly the same as that when her eyes were still functional. Also, on the phone, she doesn't sound like an 80-year-old woman. She's still as sharp as ever that sometimes I feel embarrassed when she catches me paying little attention.

She never fails to send something over to me thru my mom -- usually some vitamins, ointment for a body pain I'd complained to her about, or some gift which she fishes out from her cabinet of old stuff. She used to give me money when I was younger. Now, she doesn't earn any more money but still looks for something to give me from whatever belongings she has left in her old age.

One time, according to my mom, Ampy said I was like her own child. She does have step-children but since the death of her husband, the connection has diminished if not completely disappeared. She never bore her own child. On my part, I have this fear that she will pass away while I'm out of the Philippines, that one day I will get an emergency call from my mom that Ampy is gone. This fear is so great that sometimes I get paranoid and call home suddenly just to check on her. It is one fear that I hope will never materialize because I love her so much.

Ms. and Mr. España 2006

2006-04-06T11:48:00.000+02:00

After fervently wishing for Manolo to leave me alone in the living room, I was able to catch the last few minutes of the show Mr. España last week. I was delighted to see a Malagueño grab the title from Mr. Madrid and Mr. Sevilla, and I felt even more pride upon learning two days later that Ms. España 2006 was also a native of the province where I live in Spain. This year's title-holders are both from Malaga, and what a coincidence it was! Well, at first I thought they weren't too exceptional, that this year's pool of candidates was low-quality, that they just happened to be more acceptable than the rest in that sea of ugly faces. I still believe that the winners from last year were much more stunning - Mr. Zaragoza (2nd runner-up) and Ms. Girona (Ms. España 2005). Lately though, it seems that these two Malagueños are slowly growing on me and I think that they're actually hot!

Juan Francisco García Postigo and Elisabeth Reyes

Deadly odors

2006-03-28T19:33:00.000+02:00

Goodbye winter! Hello spring! While in other parts of Spain this does not automatically translate to warm weather, in Malaga and in most coastal provinces in the south it does. There is no more use for thick and stylish winter coats. No more decorative mufflers. In the run-up to summer, fashion shifts toward plain shirts, rubber shoes, beach shorts, open-toed sandals. Temperatures are rising and because of that people sweat more. The transition from night to day can confuse somebody who's not from here. At 8 pm it's still possible to lie naked in the balcony and sunbathe. Yet there's hardly a trace of sunlight at 7:30 am.

Now, let me repeat something that I just said. People sweat more. Which is, actually, the sadness of it all. Riding the bus can never be so traumatizing as it is this time of the year. With the bus windows closed, it is possible to die from smelling sweaty armpits. It doesn't help to open the windows since the buses here have probably the narrowest windows on the planet. In fact, in case of a fire, not even a baby can escape through the windows, the only way to get out is to break them. Thus, in such an enclosed space, a suspicious odor can spread and propagate itself fast. Sitting beside a stinky old man in the bus, you are forced to choose between not breathing (the more hygienic option) and gasping for polluted armpit air. Both of these options are unfortunately deadly. You could either expire from lack of oxygen, or you could expose your bronchial tubes to serious damage and develop fatal lung problems in the long run.

Either way, the experience makes you realize that deodorant manufacturers aren't making that much money in Spain. It could even lead you to practice pyschology or attempt a bit of philosophizing: Why does this cretin seated beside me not use a roll-on? Perhaps something went terribly wrong in his childhood. Perhaps he was abused by the quirky ice cream vendor in the neighborhood...Is odor, like beauty, in the eyes of the beholder?

In winter, unlike in spring, everybody is fresh and clean-smelling. But as temperatures rise, the Spanish ability to wreak havoc on the health of your nostrils becomes a daily fact of life. Take for example one of my students. Lately it's become terrifying to teach him English for one and a half hours in his study room. He recently gave up wearing shoes in the house due to the changing of the seasons. Instead, he wears foamed slippers which are more comfortable in warm weather. The only problem is that he's got athlete's foot, and every time I'm with him I can almost see the stinking fumes rising from his feet and preparing to invade my poor nostrils.

The thing is, I can't even put up a fight. It's not polite to cover my nose all throughout the class!

Sick and alone

2006-03-17T10:43:00.000+01:00

I'm sick. Spring has not yet officially set in which means it is still winter in Spain, but last Sunday it was so hot it felt like the worst days of summer. I took a walk outside the dorm under the sun's scorching heat and then I drank ice-cold beer as soon as I got back in the flat. That's how I started to cough, my throat got inflammed, etc.

Almost a week after it all started, I haven't fully recovered. Perhaps because I was foolish and stubborn and continued to smoke which irritated my throat some more. Right now my body hurts, my head aches and I chill at the wee hours of the morning. I barely sleep from too much coughing and I can't wait to stop blowing my nose.

At times like this I'm painfully reminded of the fact that I live far away from family. Just when I'm sick and there's no one to take care of me, I kind of give in to self-pity. That is perhaps my weak point because never do I succumb to self-pity unless I'm ill and I have to do the house chores myself. I pity myself because I'm feeling sick like hell and yet I have to cook for myself, wash the plates, do the laundry and go out to buy medicine.

Right now I'm thinking whether I should use my medical insurance and check in at a hospital. At least there somebody would bring me food, medicine and everything would be comfy. But if I don't recover over the weekend, the doctors might decide to keep me. That is not good since I have important things to do next week.

Hmmmm...

Galicia, a timely distraction

2006-02-27T23:10:00.000+01:00

A couple of weeks ago I hopped on a bus at 12 midnight to join a free trip sponsored by AECI for its scholars. I was somewhat hesitating at first to sign up for it since I would need to take some six precious days off my thesis calendar (feb. 8-12). That was a decision that my heart was not prepared to make, but then again the destination was tempting enough to make me realize that hey, it's my chance. So off I went to Galicia. A Spanish region in the north facing the Atlantic Ocean and set apart from Malaga by some 16 butt-numbing hours of road travel. I'd never been to that part of Spain before, so it's a good thing I grabbed the chance!

Although slots had been limited, it turned out that the size of the group was sheer, big enough to make the locals think that we were either a bunch of college kids on excursion or a busload of Japanese tourists ready to attack with our cameras at the first sight of a fountain. All in all some 150 graduate students coming from different cities in Spain got together for the event, the majority of whom were Africans and Latin Americans. The group was so big it was impossible to get to know everyone.

We spent most of the time in Sada and A Coruña but for me the real highlight of the trip was Santiago de Compostela, famous more than anything for El Camino de Santiago, which is a pilgrimage to the city's cathedral braved every year by thousands of tourists who come on foot from as far as the Netherlands. Given how lovely this UNESCO-protected city is, I might just be crazy enough one day to do the camino, which according to former pilgrims requires typically 30 days of walking!

Every corner you turn to in the old quarter of Santiago de Compostela seems to be a discovery in itself. There's always something that will fascinate you for a while: an old building, a plaza, a home-made food shop, an old-style house, a bench in the park, and yes, some nice fountains. It was nice to get lost in the narrow streets of the old quarter. Most of the old houses and buildings are well-preserved that it is possible to see the natural stone color of their facades.

During the trip, I found some really fun-loving buddies although most of the time I was drifting from one group to another. In Santiago de Compostela, and even in Sada, we often hanged out in cafes to have a taste of the local fare. The ones that really tickled my taste buds were pulpo a la gallega (octopus cuts in olive oil and paprika) and pan gallego (the local bread). Though I didn't intend to spend too much while on a free trip, I dished out a few bucks to bring home some vino de ribeiro (a regional wine, cheap but really nice) and la tarta de santiago (a local almond cake), for which I would perhaps be willing to kill just to be able to buy them again (they're not sold in Malaga!).

On the second to the last day, we missed the chartered bus that was supposed to take us back to the hotel at night, we decided to have some drinks at a bar. The place was still empty when we arrived so we had the whole bar to ourselves. Slightly inebriated, my fun-loving buddies had the bright idea of taking some "compromising" pictures with their digicams. Too bad most of these fun-loving buddies were women (sigh...). After posing for some "wild" shots, the Russian girl left our table to work up a conversation with the "handsome" waiter stationed at the bar. In the end, she earned the waiter's email address.

After the trip, AECI sent an evaluation survey by email to all the participants of the event. By the way, aside from sightseeing, the trip included a dialogue with an AECI official regarding problems with scholarship rules and a really short group discussion on international cooperation, multi-culturalism and the spirit of volunteerism. To be honest, my thesis-pulverized brain could not exactly decipher the purpose of that event except that we were pampered to our heart's desire and billeted in posh hotels. Because of that, I have purposely put off sending back the evaluation survey, lest I would be forced to tell them that the event seemed quite pointless. After all...I'd like them to pamper again the scholars next year!

Brokeback Mountain

2006-02-04T21:46:00.000+01:00

Two nights ago I watched Brokeback Mountain on my laptop but until now I still can't flush it out of my system. I'm not even sure if the movie has hit the theaters in Malaga. I just downloaded it from the local area network of the dorm, not knowing I was in for a great movie-viewing surprise.

I'm actually feeling exhausted now because I've been stuck in my room for the past two days working. I wasn't supposed to touch this blog until I was done with my thesis' first chapter. However, I felt today that I must do something, somehow, in order to free my mind from the torments of Ang Lee's masterpiece. I needed some form of catharsis.

The thing is that the movie is so sad, and the sadness continues and overpowers you as the days pass after you've seen it. It is like a wound which is healing on the surface, when in fact the flesh underneath continues to hurt like hell and rot. It was just unbearable to see the story end that way because the two main characters' fate was rather unexpected, and to make it worse, it is final.

The movie reminds me of Bridges of Madison County, over which I cried buckets but which none of my college orgmates liked. Brokeback is very much like Bridges. Some parts are slow and have little dialogue but the air is always thick with subtle tension. It forces you to deal with death, regret and separation which are some of the things that I can't handle when watching a movie.

The movie reminds me, too, of an old flame. The situation was not exactly identical but the setting was Mt. Fuji in Japan. How's that for a movie title? I guess that makes Brokeback even sadder for me, but enough now with comparisons.

My birthday and New Year's

2006-01-13T14:07:00.000+01:00

What exactly my left hand was trying to do in this picture escapes me, but here I am on my 27th birthday. The celebration we had was rather quiet, in compliance with my personal birthday custom ever since God knows when. As soon as I got out of bed, my mom and I walked to Carrefour to buy a birthday cake, strawberries and ice cream which we would later discover was lemon sherbet. I cooked paella again, garnished it with a couple of lemons we had picked from trees outside the flat, and brought out some leftover wine from New Year's. My mom sang to me happy birthday.

I didn't stumble upon life-changing epiphanies on my birthday, neither did I see the light at the end of the tunnel. My body was too tired from all the holiday rush. I was just thankful for all the good things that had come my way in the last 27 years, and I started to watch TV on the couch, wishing I could do more for myself and for others in the years to come.

NEW YEAR'S EVE
In Spain, doce uvas is a tradition observed on New Year's Eve which consists of eating consecutively twelve grapes at every strike of the bell in the countdown to the new year. People normally gather around a plaza with bags of this fruit taken from home, to await the striking of the cathedral bells. The 12-second countdown starts with the first strike. One grape must be swallowed for every strike if one is to have good luck in the following year.

In Malaga, my mom and I went to the Plaza de la Constitución to see how this was done. We didn't know that we had to eat the grapes while the bells were being struck, starting instead to chew just when the countdown had finished! As soon as the clock struck 12, couples kissed, champagne bottles popped, cameras flashed. My mom and I were busy spewing out grape seeds on the floor.

There was a live concert at the plaza where we stayed for a while to dance (my mom danced, too!), light some fireworks and just immerse in all the revelry. We reached home at 2:30 am and I sneaked my mom into the flat under the security guard's nose, and we resumed pigging out on the night's fare.

Travelling with Mom

2006-01-12T18:37:00.000+01:00

The holidays turned out to be a dream come true. My long-standing plan of taking my mom to Europe and traveling with her was finally fulfilled. How do I sum up the adventure? A contradiction of sorts. The whole time she spent here was exhausting for me but invigorating, quick and yet somehow dragging. Her presence was both a welcome respite from thesis work, and a daunting challenge to make each day perfect.

We left Malaga for a week-long tour before Christmas, wrapped in heavy clothes to fight the winter cold. She was the star of the journey, I was the tour guide. The baggage boy, the photographer. Given her age, I thought the trip would be too physically demanding. However, it was clear that my mom was giving it her best. We made it together to the top of the Florence Cathedral, hurdling 463 steps!

The experience was a learning chance for her. I fed her bits about history and art, and stuff like ionic, doric and corinthian columns. The itinerary I had prepared took us to three cities, which were Rome, Florence and Barcelona.

ROME
The first thing that welcomed us in Rome was a door. We flew in at late night and headed straight to the hostel, only to find no one to open for us the door. We frantically knocked, pushed the door bell and called out. However, the hostel looked closed for the day. I thought for a moment we would have to sleep on the streets! I walked back to the station, called the hostel owner's mobile, and when I got back to the hostel, my mom had already made friends with other hostel guests. Apparently, management forgot we were arriving!

Despite that, and a failed pickpocket attempt on the train, Rome was still a favorite. We went to the Pantheon, Colosseum and the Vatican City (see pic on the right), and traversed the narrow cobbled streets around Piazza Venezia. Revisiting Rome, I realized its charm was not only found in the major sights, but more in its old office buildings, its colored walls and 10-foot wooden doors. Tourists throw coins into the Trevi Fountain believing that would ensure their return to Rome one day. My mom and I followed suit, using one-peso coins!

FLORENCE
Florence has a lovely cathedral, the Duomo, whose marble facade boasts charming shades of green. I wasn't really planning to take my mom to the top, but somehow we entered a wrong door, found a ticket booth, paid, and before we knew it, we were climbing our way to the rooftop. Aside from the Duomo, the city's real gem was Michelangelo's David (the pic on the left is a copy of the original statue). When we went to the Galleria dell' Accademia, where the real statue was being kept, I couldn't take my gaze off its imposing and seemingly perfect physique. David's body looked incredibly strong, alive and human, it sent my poor hormones into a panic.

The hostel where we stayed for two nights turned out to be much better than Rome's. The place looked spanking new and guests could freely use the Internet to boot. There we ran into Diana, a Filipina who was part of the establishment's housekeeping staff.

BARCELONA
In Barcelona, we shared a flat with Lendert and Yushin, a young Dutch-Chinese couple from the Netherlands who had just been engaged when we arrived. I swear the guy was a real looker in person, I couldn't help but envy his girlfriend! We got to Barcelona in the late afternoon of the 24th and had a simple Christmas dinner with them in a Chinese restaurant. We spent Christmas day itself gallivanting around the city, relaxing, buying souvenirs and preparing for the long train ride home.

Random thoughts on the eve of mom's arrival

2005-12-07T21:41:00.000+01:00

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

2005-12-04T20:58:00.000+01:00

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

2005-11-16T01:24:00.000+01:00

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

2005-11-15T21:12:00.000+01:00

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...

2005-11-02T20:11:00.000+01:00

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?

2005-10-24T01:23:00.000+02:00

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

2005-10-13T01:33:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-30T23:27:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-28T01:46:00.000+02:00

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.

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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

2005-09-25T15:22:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-17T01:02:00.001+02:00

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

2005-09-12T02:24:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-12T02:23:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-12T02:21:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-12T02:20:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-12T02:18:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-12T02:17:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-12T02:15:00.000+02:00

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

2005-09-08T21:21:00.000+02:00

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

2005-08-09T01:45:00.000+02:00

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?

2005-08-04T03:18:00.000+02:00

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

2005-08-03T17:04:00.000+02:00

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

2005-07-31T19:08:00.000+02:00

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

2005-07-31T00:30:00.000+02:00

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

2005-07-27T02:52:00.000+02:00

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

2005-07-25T12:38:00.000+02:00

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

2005-07-25T03:44:00.000+02:00

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!