My Blog

I almost hit the ground running, but I preferred to stay in bed the
whole day after the sneakers touched Hawaiian cement and after Dave’s
welcome lei momentarily adorned my neck for a photo. My circadian
rhythms have all gone haywire from travelling, but recovery will take
some time, I know. I’m giving it a week. 

Hawai’i, or the
Big Island as it is more fondly called, is a place I decided to visit
with my very good Musmos friend Dave, who has taken permanent residence
in Honolulu since we graduated from our august university of blue and
white. Kindly note that what people normally refer to as "Hawaii" is
actually the group of islands comprising the State of Hawaii, of which
formally, Hawaii is only a part. Oahu, the most populated of the lot,
is where some of my Cathyness will take root in the next five months.

To
quickly dispense with the boring albeit necessary details: arrived
Kona, rented a car, headed off to our humble hotel (lit and fig: worlds
away from Discovery and Shangri-la), then drove off immediately to the
Hawaiian Volcanoes National Park. En route, at noon, we were at South
Point, aptly named as it is the southernmost point not only of the
Hawaiian islands, but the US of A as well. It was land’s end, no man’s
land, a barren and desolate place. I remember, in sixth grade, and
again in freshman college, seeing a painting of Caspar David Friedrich
entitled "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog" with a man stepping boldly on
a top of a cliff, staring out into the great beyond - it always did
impose a strong impression on me. Though the natural lighting today was
dramatically different as the sun couldn’t have chosen a better time to
cast its fiery aura upon this heathen land, that feeling of terror
albeit of a gentler kind, in the face of nature’s forces, was still
pervasive.

We moved on to the Hawai’i Volcanoes National Park,
which nothing short of amazing! We kickstarted with a hop to the
Kilauea Visitor Center, with a one-hour tour on the wildlife of the
mountain and the summit view of the caldera. The guide, Jason Zimmer,
was native Hawaiian and his local knowledge of the park was impressive.
Categorically one of my happiest moments is learning more about the
geography of a place, in this case particularly its biogeography. We
were warned that taking stones from the park are forbidden, and have
seemed to inflict people with a dose of horrible luck, signs of the
Goddess Pele’s wrath. Each day, the Park receives some twenty to thirty
packages from all over, returning relics from the volcanoes, telling
tales of uncanny misfortune that can be pinned down to no one else but
Pele.

After that, we continued to drive along Crater Rim
Drive, a scenic loop road with designated lookouts and stops. Next were
the sulphur banks and the steam vents, including the Steaming Bluff to
realise that the volcano is still very much alive and hot!  The Jaggar
Museum afforded us a gorgeous view of Halema’uma’u crater within
Kilauea Caldera. Also, we passed by the Southwest Rift, where we saw a
deep fissure cutting through the earth. Our visit to the Thurston Lava
Tube was also pretty impressive - and situated in a rainforest, with
birds’ trills filling the air, it made for ambiance.

Then down
we went along Chain of Craters Road, in the vain hopes of catching the
famed lava flows. The island of Hawai’i, thanks to the geologically
active Kilauea Volcano, is ever-growing. Lava flows continually into
the sea. We wanted to behold that spectacular sight of red molten lava
feeding into the dark waters, at dusk. But we weren’t rewarded…
rather than take it as a sign of bad luck, I merely saw it as a
conveniently excellent excuse, a portent, to return to the Big Island!
I am certainly not one to be disheartened by the elusiveness of the
lava flow.

Therefore, tipped by my friend Andrew that my
driver’s licence plus passport would be valid, I decided to take
courage and earn bragging rights cruising the Hawaiian Volcanoes
National Park, from sea-level to more than 4,000 feet, negotiating
tortuous and steep roads. For someone who’s not even brought her
faithful Jazz beyond the confines of Metro Manila, this is indisputably
my longest drive, temporally and spatially speaking, would you pardon
the geographerspeak. In spite of the occasional and dangerous
sleepiness, and the exasperatingly fluctuating and scanty speed limits,
driving was a unique pleasure. My windshield was spattered
magnanimously with those heavenly bodies.

Panoramic vistas are
known to produce certain strange effects on me. They make me think of
how vast this world is, and how much there is still for me to cover in
my voyages i.e. impetus or excuse for more travel. When clouds tenderly
kiss the sea and the earth, it leads to my heartmelt i.e. questioning
the meaning of life and love. I want to set my Saggitarian spirit free
upon the sprawling "open" i.e. the Eight Elegy. While I indeed marvel
at the majesty of the great outdoors, I often wonder how much I belong
to Mother Nature. Maybe I’m losing my mind, perhaps cultural geography
can be shot, but being exposed to the elements in their grandeur and
violence can not only stretch my imagination beyond the unknown, but it
can also dwarf me, show my diminutiveness. I hate to seem like I
pontificate, but I would like to capture my run-of-the-mill emotions
during my face-to-face with wind and sea. The dizzying heights, the
frailty of man and our lives in terms of geologic time, all hint at my
insignificance.

But that doesn’t really perturb me. For, at
day’s end, I am here, serene and happy to be part of this magnificent
world, to be somewhat stranded here on a remote island, fashioned by
movement in the abysses of the earth. Hawai’i ended up bestowed with an
enviable natural beauty, peopled with a Pacific melange of races.
That’s good enough.

I muse tonight on my good fortune. I came back from a cocktail (my dry imagination considers it unaptly called "Sex on the Beach") and a latte (do they even churn well in the stomach together) with a family friend. The stars were at their twinkling best this evening, long before the thunder rumbled and the clouds drifted into the geographical jurisdiction (somewhere in the heavens there are unmarked but nonetheless real demarcation lines I believe) of this fabled island.

Tonight, I left my wallet in the vault of room, and relied on the generosity and kindness of a few friends - free shuttle, free drinks, free dessert, free tricycle ride back. I feel bad, because I’ve had this rocking great opportunity to spend a week in Boracay, at the famed Discovery Shores, for free. Not a single peso has escaped my wallet.

The long and short of it is, while I work on my thesis and complete my work for my NGO, I’ve been moonlighting with a former professor, who is a consultant. His high profile clients include the Asian Development Bank, and voila, the Raintree family, known for its Discovery Suites, Discovery Country Suites and the jewel in its crown, D’Shores. And D’Shores is certainly unrivalled in its grandeur and beauty.

Thus, I am here, with my laptop and wifi, in my junior suite, on a free 4-night stay. All my meals here, from buffet breakfast to a la carte dinner, and merienda, are gratuit. And in spite of the fact that I am a non-paying guest, I get 6-star service, like no other.

I don’t mean this to sound like an advertisement for D’Shores, but I consider it a cut above Shangri-la (yes I also stayed at Mactan for a few nights for free last April, free-riding on my kith and kin; and at Makati for one night, claiming my soon-to-expire Royal Orchid Miles from work). I’m simply brimming with the details - the very small things that staff pride themselves in doing.

Picture these:

Arrival Caticlan. Step out of the excuse for an airport, the Discovery Shores van is waiting for you. It transports you to a private port, where you ride an air-conditioned, glass blue and white boat. Cold towel and water for freshening up. There is a "boat attendant" who informs you that we will reach Boracay Island in approximately 5-7 minutes, as we are travelling on 25 knots. There is a lavatory at the back of the boat. Dock Caticlan, and there is another DS vehicle awaiting to take you to the resort.

Arrive. A welcome drink of lime with a splash of mint is handed to you ("it’s very refreshing ma’am, I suggest you try it" says the housekeeping staff). The woman fixing your room offers you their welcome foot bath.

Go to the swimming pool (heated mind you!) and take a plunge, spend some time in the jacuzzi. Get up, and at the top of the stairs, your slippers are conveniently placed there, expectantly waiting for you to slip into them. By the time you reach your chair, your clothes are neatly folded, and your blue and white striped plush towel is rolled. Oh - going to the beach produces the same results. And might I add that the DS property occupies one of the best beachfronts "in town."

For four nights, my home is my Junior Suite. I have couch, flatscreen television, wifi, coffeemaker. There’s a chair in my mini-porch, for times when I just want to stare out into the day. There’s also a coffee table and two chairs behind my bedroom. The cynosure of the room are the beds (yes, I have two), which are the works - duvets, goosefeathers, fluffy pillows. Comfort, comfort, comfort. 

Each morning, somebody makes up my room. Each evening, someone comes in to pull down the window screens, replenish my ice bucket with ice, bring a new bottle of mineral water, and put a tiny dessert dish on my coffee table (first day: yema balls; second day: maja blanca; tonight: churros). And in the morning, they pull up the screens to let the sunshine in.

I walk around the property and quite a few staff greet me "Good morning Ms. Cathy." (Yes, it also helps that I’m conducting the workshop for them).

I have to put in a disclaimer. The service is as good as it gets… not perfect, as they’re fairly young, but nevertheless excellent.

I haven’t gone around so much yet, because there’s still work to be done preparing for workshops. But how auspicious… seeing some family friends by accident last Monday and having some "company." My cousins are flying over tomorrow and staying here, too. My mom’s flying in for work on Friday (she’s the interior designer for the inferior Boracay Regency, but her work is fabulous of course!) - just when my D’Shores stay expires… I downgrade to Regency on Friday. Then if I decide to finally spend some of my own money - I move to a much cheaper shack with no 6-star service, no free breakfast, no pool, no concierge, but beachfront.

I pride myself in my flexibility - travelling around the Philippines and the developing world, working for an NGO - they conspire to bring out the best in you. While I would never pay for a luxury vacation (quickly calculating its equivalent in terms of trips i.e. 1 night stay at D’Shores per room is nearly equivalent to a 3-star package tour to Bangkok, taxes included), I have experienced service deluxe in some of the finest places. But don’t misunderstand me. I’ve been through bad times backpacking in Laos, commuting in Mountain Province, and trekking in Central Luzon. I’ve cherished all those experiences, with as much gusto (makes for great storytelling and leaves so much cash in the pocket sans guilt) as the more comfortable ones. But this Boracay sojourn at Discovery Shores has got to be one of my most memorable, ever. Maybe it’s because I know I’ll never be able to afford it… or never bear to shell out the cash for such a stay, even if the impeccable service has exceeded all my expectations.

I rather should be writing a travelogue… a blow-by-blow account of our many adventures in Bali. The diagnosis is clear: I’m suffering from Bali withdrawal, known in circles medical and otherwise as the Bali Blues. This malady has rendered me incapable of writing… I’ve caught myself just drifting off with memories of five stupendously glorious days.

I’ve done my fair share, nay, duty, of travelling. Indonesia is officially my 25th country, to commemorate my 25th year. Since a few years back, I’ve promised myself I’d see a new country each year, and hopefully live to see a hundred before I breathe my last. I’m sure that I’d have to accelerate the travel while panicking the moment I reach half a century, but there’s comfort in the world’s diversity and insatiable need for autonomy. One can cheat by a mere visit to the Carribean or the Polynesian, Micronesian and Melanesian Islands- with names that hardly ring a bell to most people: Tonga, Vanuatu, Barbados, and the list goes on. Europe leaves a lot of room to the geographically technically inclined: San Marino, the Vatican, Montenegro, Luxembourg, Monaco- but no, I have never considered the Sovereign and Military Order of Malta as legit. As well, new countries are born everyday - well, not on a daily basis, but it happens. Look at wartorn Timor-Leste. Think of it as a new country, or you can see it as a slice of Indonesia.

My boss has been to far-flung corners of the globe, from Bhutan to Georgia, and he claims that the most fascinating country in the world for him is Indonesia. I agree that this country is enthralling and its diversity captivating. In so many ways, it’s like the Philippines- the same problems, set against the same natural awesome beauty. And not too long ago, my friends and I set foot on arguably the most lovely part of Indonesia, its major drawcard in fact: Bali, famed island of the gods.

Bali offered us everything that we could have wanted. Rice paddies that we were not able to see; beaches that even in their wildest dreams could not pull a Bora; a sunrise never possibly better than my beloved Mt. Pulag’s; and an annual Hindu holiday called Nyepi that forbade turning on the lights, working, leaving the hotel grounds for a good 24 hours with some spillovers before and after.

Yet it was so much more. We scaled Mt. Batur at nearly 4 in the fricking morning to catch a sunrise that was nonetheless breathtaking, forgetting momentarily the fact that it was bitterly cold, with a meager breakfast to reward us for the hard work. We saw the violent waves crash against hauntingly beautiful Tanah Lot while the sun was setting somewhere behind the clouds. We biked Ubud even if we got lost, Tin’s pants got stuck in the chains, Bhonny crashed and fell off his bike, Coni sped at a diabolical speed and earned from the admiration of the locals -"impressive". We shopped and haggled with the vendors on the beach and almost mistook Jeff as a local. We swam in Kuta beach and played against the breakers, basking in the warm water neath the burning sun, watching the surfers practise their stuff, before emigrating to the comforts of our own hotel swimming pool. We feasted on suckling pig at Ibu Oka, the gastronomic highlight of our tour. We contemplated the mysteries of life, and the mysteries of our still full pockets, at Danau Bratan in the foreground, behind it the bluest sky laced with clouds. We watched the Ogoh-Ogoh parade the night before Nyepi condemned us to silence, with all the Balinese clad in traditional costume and performing their dramas. We hid and managed to turn our televisions on while security measures were being tightened outside to maintain Bali’s pitch blackness.

There was so much to do in Bali, and clearly there was not enough time. I’m missing Bali so much, like a sore and bitter taste left in my mouth, as if I left something only half finished. Much as I’d like to come back, other parts of the world beckon me. But one thing’s for sure: I’ll be back, sooner than I expect. But now, let me cherish the memories, stare transfixed at the gamut of photographs that we’ve taken collectively, and laugh at all the jokes and songs and videos that the fantastic company made from the now-nonexistent and demolished rooms of Colayco, through a brief stint at the muddy confluence of Kuala Lumpur, to the blessed abundant island of the gods, and finally back home.

The clock reads a few minutes before half past two. I’m wide awake, thanks to a 2-hour afternoon nap, a moccha latte, and a really good Singaporean flick. I’m supposed to be working on the supposed culmination of all my academic work in UP as a candidate for the Master’s Degree in Geography, but it’s just so difficult to get the ball rolling. I approach my thesis (yes I’ve managed to spew it out) with a melange of emotions, from fear to excitement to hesitation to downright ambivalence.

There is the horrible temptation to throw in the towel; but I assume that each student, however diligent (and I certainly have never considered myself such) at one point or another finds himself stuck in a rut, discouraged, demotivated, intellectually exhausted or lured towards more attractive ways of spending one’s time. That is my current mode.

Think disaster! Think community-based disaster recovery, vulnerability, resilience, and development. All these ideas are floating around my head, with arrows navigating the grey matter, trying to connect themselves properly to them ideas. This arriving at a conceptual framework, to be illustrated in glorious diagram, is the snag in my laid plans (I am missing an oft-used adjective here).

I feel the pressure from above! My French professor who speaks both Kapampangan and Tagalog wrote to me, saying: "Kailangan mo mag-aim high para sa thesis mo. Dapat Landmark Study ang output mo!… Importante yan to expand worldwide the use of CBDRecovery to foster fast and successful post-disaster recovery and resilience!" Deep inside, I think "as if." In truth, I am frightened that I fall short of expectations, and that my thesis, far from being relevant, will be simply the missing ingredient to my obtaining a degree. In more optimistic moments, I’d like to think that my work can actually serve a purpose other than to fill the space in the shelves of the Department of Geography and add a name to the roster of its very few graduates. Still, there’s a part of me that just wants to get it over with, so I can move on to the next chapter in my life. Unfortunately, I am reminded that I have to refine several chapters in my thesis within the week if I want to get a move on at all.

The day after my birthday, I had lunch with Oliver, the only Filipino I know in Montpellier who happens to be a friend of my Tita Tina and of Don my boss as well, and Sat, his Japanese wife. They treated me to a small Greek restaurant, where I ate pita bread, shawarma and kebab, salad, humus, and the [now] indispensable Coca-Cola. It was so good that I dug through my plate with so much gusto, though still not finishing the allotted, that my stomach, in the true French way of life, decided that it had done enough work and announced a greve or a strike.   

I usually just loaf around the house and curl up with my books on Saturdays, so hanging out with the married couple as they went looking about for a present for a friend about to get hitched presented itself as the best option. Yes, we have Galleries La Fayette here in Montpellier as well, and my eyes were treated to a feast of fineries that I normally would not care too much for. But treated as an educational trip, right ho (Thank you Bertie for putting the words right into my mouth)!

I received a running commentary on the items for sale, and alongside, a better glimpse into the French way of life. It is a well-known fact that these French rather tend towards sophistry. It is a fine, fine country, where culture and tradition are embraced fondly, yet perhaps a little too tenaciously. Everything is admirably French- they created it that way, they live it out with pride and unaffected zeal. One could say that they really enjoy the finer things in life.

Gastronomy can trace its fondest and most elaborate roots here, where a meal is a grand enterprise. You can expect to lap up as many as eight courses in a typical French home, and about three to four in a restaurant. But of course, it is different for students in general, and myself in particular – surely no one expects me to munch my way through a series of aperitifs, canapés, entrees, soups, and whatnot for one dinner, given that I live only for dessert — just to edify the savoury buds and nourish the body?

Though I must admit, from the baguettes to the crème brulee (even though without so much as an iota from the cacao bean), to the crepes to the onion soup au gratin, to the endless variety of cheeses and the wines that abuse the gamut, the food is quite par excellence (no coincidence that this idiom is derived from the French), that suddenly your philosophical foundations are rocked and you might want to rethink those existentialist questions. That on second thought, perhaps we live to eat…

But I fear I might exaggerate my own experiences. I employ the scientific method- observe by smelling, regarding, and tasting, and draw the conclusions as indicated above. My life here is far from steeped in luxury, never mind just culinary luxury. The samples are on occasion only. Furthermore, I am fortunate enough to cohabit with a French girl, who whips up ten-minute dishes with flair, influenced by the cuisines of France, Reunion Island, and Guadeloupe spanning three oceans. That is enough for my four-month stretch here.

Sidestepping this gastronomic report that is giving me hunger pangs, I will catapult myself back to the La Fayette. There were impressive displays of fine plates (think Wedgwood Jasper Ware in French) and cutlery. It amazes me how designing forks can be a never-ending enterprise. Apparently, to make it avant-garde, all you need to do is modify the contours, make it less curvy here, more smooth there, and so on and so forth.

Goodness gracious how they think of everything! No wonder it’s such a rich country- they pay quite a price for these things we don’t really need. They have these little thingamajigs with slits, placed on the table, one assigned to each seat, for indicating the seating arrangement. Or you can use them to place the list of entrees or the menu. My power of description fails me now- I have only ever wanted to be a travel writer, and I’ve never felt the need to justify the existence of kitchen items. Oh perhaps in a few years… if and when I ever tie the knot.

Back home we survive with a spoon, fork and knife. Here they have dessert forks or spoons, a knife for this and that purpose. There’s something to lay your knife on if you’re going to use it again (but you ought to replace it!). Salt and pepper shakers worth 40 euros each, because they are manufactured by Peugeot, whose idea of diversifying the business is shell-shocking. Therefore, the shakers, 12 euros each, were a bargain! Then there was a mini-vacuum cleaner of sorts for sucking out the bread crumbs as you clear the table in preparation for the next course.

There was also a foie gras cutter, my regard of which was accompanied by Oliver extolling the virtues of foie gras. I like foie gras, but for the life of me I won’t be able to tell the cheap that they sell in the supermarkets from the pricey that cometh from specialty stores. By the way, this Fil-Jap couple love to cook, and they tell me that the exorbitantly priced foie gras is so madly delicious, it’s well worth the gold you pay for it. At least, not mine.

Then we proceeded to the wine glasses, of which there are once again too many kinds. So I have come to discover that there is a science to all this. Certain wine glasses, for example, have a certain kind of opening deemed “just right” to allow for optimum oxidation of the drink. For champagne, there is a certain height, so as to appreciate the bubbles foaming in the glass. You have to drink white wine before red wine lest you get drunk much too soon. Oenology is big business here, especially in regions like Languedoc-Rousillion (where I am), with vineyards that spread out as far as the eye can see. I learned from the Valenzuelas that during these wine tasting trips, there is a bucket in front of you, where you spit right after tasting. Then you describe.

To me, it seems like a futile attempt to convince my taste buds that there are differences among the bottles of red wine, and among the bottles of white wine. However, according to the couple, it is a taste that eventually develops, like olives I suppose. Lora told me that one must eat 40 olives before appreciating them, and I’m nowhere near that figure. I guess my body has to be a channel for barrels of wine the length of the Canal du Midi, or a handful of Bacchanalian feasts, before I can pretend to be a wine connoisseur. I happen to like the stuff but I’ll always prefer iced tea! In Paris, upon the insistence of a friend, I even shunned the good old coca-cola for the red liquid and liked it actually. But I still prefer good old fashioned wood-stoked pizza with coke.

Delighted yet overwhelmed, I remarked, what’s all this for? Oliver told me that before, they were also in my state of mind, thinking “the hell we care!” as regards the dicta of French dining. Yet, the realisation is, as you become older, you begin to be more appreciative of culture, tradition, and art, spheres where the French earn A’s. When you’ve had countless bottles of wine, before you know it, you’ll serendipitously just know if it’s good or if it’s bad, and why two similarly looking bottles are disparate in their prices will appear like common sense.  

I don’t want to sound blasphemous, but my Bible here is Lonely Planet. But for many who visit France, they take time out to buy a red book known as the Michelin guide to restaurants, that star-awarder to the restaurants. I will borrow Bertie’s description of Anatole, who is “God’s gift to the gastric juices.” These Michelin restos are peopled by Anatoles. Most of them are tres chic. Lose a star, and you lose your elite clientele. Three-stars restaurants can charge as much as an oh la la figure of 350 euros for a four-course meal. Factor that by seventy, and I can conclude that a month of NGO work in the Philippines will only feed me potatoes, though artistically done.

C’est France. It is a country that for all its faults, teach you to search for beauty, and upon finding it, to roll it around your tongue, gaze at it for a momentary eternity, or simply, revel in it, not releasing the moment. Do that repetitively, and I suppose we will have learned from the French how to live.

The atypical way I’ve spent today has given me much pause. It strikes me as odd that at twelve midnight, the text messages do not come one after the other, the phone is not ringing furiously as it does each time every year.

Before the eyes shut last night, I was conversing with God (my only Constant), and I felt reassured of some real purpose here on earth. And although I was not contemplating existentialist questions, I felt a wonderful affirmation of faith in me by a Father in whom I have placed all of mine. Let me sing one true tune of a beautiful letdown.

Strangely, I actually had a good birthday, quiet and uneventful. I chatted with my friends and spent the good part of the morning thanking people for their emails (for goodness’ sake not text messages). Unlike most of my Manila birthdays, where the default is revelling in the good company of the near and dear, here there was neither need nor pressure to spend it beyond simple.

I had dinner with Magali at a nice Bretonne restaurant. Galettes and chocolate crepes, done in authentic Bretonne style, with a nice pitcher of apple cider to complement the enjoyable meal, in Place de la Comedie, Montpellier’s cultural heart, is the closest I can get to an authentic Bretonne repast. Even if Brittany is hundreds of miles away, a slice of northwest France.

Montpellier is now even prettier. At night, the Christmas lights festooned on the trees lining the esplanade dazzle the eyes, and while a cool wind blows through and the fountains continue to breathe water unto life, all is calm.

It’s funny. My parents almost seemed to have forgotten my birthday, for they called forty minutes prior to its end. My mom, having two daughters in two separate time zones, one facing westwards to the Pacific, and one facing southwards towards the Mediterranean, suffered some unforgivable confusion. In a neat summary, I’m very happy to have heard the voices of Abe, who was so thoughtful as to call me at 04.30 Manila time; my parents; my sister (at 1.30 a.m. of the next day); Wes; Tita Citas. I know Enzo tried to, but unfortunately to no avail.

In the late afternoon, I spent time in the chapel, and I guess that’s what deeply colours the day and soaks it with meaning J I prayed for all those who remembered me, and I thanked God that I am where I am, in spite of the loneliness. A distinction is often made between alone and lonely. But I’ll call it as I see it, and it’s loneliness that insidiously creeps in at night, when the clouds swallow up the last vestiges of light. 

Also today, I’ve felt that God was happy that I was born, and was celebrating with me. In what one could coin as my innocent arrogance, I’d given God that metaphorical pat on the shoulder and slap on the back and say, a job indeed well done Father! I am all gratitude. Maybe I’m not alone in that.

Of course I mean this as a pun. In spite of the many warnings I had received about the dangers of taking the train at night, I went ahead with my plans. Before purchasing my tickets, I sought the advice of the ticket agents, and they both gave me the go signal. Train travel at night, alone. How bad can it get?

Nevertheless it was not without some trepidation that I boarded the train headed for Marseilles at ten minutes past seven. Unsurprisingly, I made a mistake again on the car, and found myself, heavy pack on my back, moving to and from in an already moving train, trying to find my seat. About thirty minutes to Marseilles, the train grinded to a halt, and it was announced that due to some circulation i.e. traffic in Marseilles, our arrival would be delayed, by an unknown number of minutes. We passengers simultaneously moaned and groaned in our seats, and I was beset with worrying about catching the Nice-bound train.

Finally we arrived in Marseilles with less than eight minutes to go before my next train would depart. The train station was filled with a flurry of motion and chaos, disgruntled passengers rushing to their final destinations and appointments. SNCF agents were handing us with envelopes, for us to request compensation. The efficiencies amid inefficiency! I quickly found the right platform where the slow train would take me to Nice-Ville. But it too was delayed, for fifteen minutes, then thirty, then forty. Upon hearing fifteen, what seemed to me like three-fourths of the people on board got out to catch the TGV i.e. fast train for Nice. At that time I wasn’t really up to a French adventure; I wanted something slow yet sure. And I certainly was in no mood to practise my ailing French with irate customers. Alas, I waited and eventually the half empty train ploughed on in the night, an hour late. And enfin, my feet found themselves in Nice, where by the entrance, Tito Albert was already waiting for me.

Outside the station, I breathed in the air of Nice, though at one in the morning, it was nippy. A mere five minutes walk and we came to their apartment in Rue de Paris. An embrace with Tita Citas, and some midnight meal. I was offered longganisa, and those who know me well know that it’s something that I don’t even remember having ever tried in my life. And yet, I was too shy, yes that’s right, I was too shy to build up too strong a resistance. Oh that’s owing to the fact that some other Filipino dish was offered that I knew I wouldn’t survive through, faddish as I am. I gratefully accepted the longganisa, and fearing the worst, opened my mouth, glass of water close at hand. It was a thorough surprise that it was actually edible, more so, it was quite good! I finished my bit, and amused myself by mulling over the irony of it all. Tasting longganisa for the very first time in Mediterranean France is quite an experience.

The next morning we took a brief stroll around town, and we went to Espace Masséna, a lovely “public square enlivened by fountains,” which charmed me off my socks. With the sun warming everything its rays touched that morning, I could think of nothing more tempting than to stay there and curl up on one of its benches with a good book. Because all good things must come to an end, we made our way back to the flat for lunch, but only to permit a better thing to happen. We had sinigang for lunch, and even if the kangkong that I so dearly love and sorely miss was gone, one hundred times I rolled the sourness in my mouth, never wishing the sensation to stop. I guess that is one of my strongest reminiscences of home, the sharp taste of sinigang na baboy.

After, with time on my hands, I went out in search of the Musée National Message Biblique Marc Chagall. Though not artistically well-versed, I would like to believe that I still have some innate capacity to appreciate art. I might as well make a mini career of art history while in France, so close to the opuses of the impressionists, and other methods of painting. True, I first encountered Chagall in a favourite British film by the name of “Notting Hill.” But this particular art museum exhibited works of a biblical theme, particularly around Genesis and Exodus. I found the experience positively delightful, and I felt that strange solace that comes to me by being alone, exposed to art and literature. Let’s just say that I there is no time when I am more susceptible to succumbing to books and artefacts than when I am entirely on my own, with only my opinions and my voice to hear. I think the last time such an overwhelming feeling of such swished through my consciousness was in the Museum of  Fine Arts, Boston.

Having locked some images in my memory, I walked some steps up in the hope of visiting the Matisse Museum, but I had to be back home soon, so I decided against it. There will be a next time, I am quite confident. Thus, I paid a visit to Notre Dame Cathedral. I am quite sure that this is the third time that I’ve seen it, but I was baffled that I’ve actually forgotten if I’ve been inside. My travel memoirs are usually sharp. My bad memory notwithstanding, I made my three wishes.

The next item on our itinerary was a kid’s birthday party somewhere near Villefranche. The view along the coast was dizzyingly breathtaking, with the buildings basking in the Mediterranean sun, perfectly illustrating how civilisation can create something so postcard perfect along the Cote d’Azur. From the Filipino house that we visited, the view was just so breathtaking that I made sure that I wouldn’t forget. Low-lying mountains, pretty apartment buildings, a clean harbour with the boats of the wealthy, luxury cars whizzing past, a gradually fading sun replaced by a bright though unfull moon, and I momentarily forgot that somewhere in another part of the world, this kind of setting is just that, another far-flung locale.

I need to speak now about the kind Filipinos who accommodated me. Tita Citas and Tito Albert are members of Couples for Christ, and friends of the parents of Ria, my very good friend and kabarkada. Through the kakapalan that is so typically Cathy, I asked Ria’s parents to link me up, and a connection thus was forged. They are Kapampangan, like everyone else in that birthday party. They work as caretakers of the homes and the boats of the filthy rich, for whom the French Riviera is a playground. It was simply surreal to witness about some thirty children speak fluent French and understand English, Kapampangan, Tagalog, with an and/or combination. The Filipino community here is about a thousand or two thousand strong. They live comfortably, respectably. What’s more, they find ways of helping our fellowmen back home. I’m pleased to find out that Gawad Kalinga finds support as far as France. They own nice cars and nice houses. I refrain from using a pun now.

I’ll cut this short, and will just say that I managed to eat well during the dinner, and observed how the French habit of kissing everyone on the cheek, a la beso-beso in the Philippines, has been adopted by Filipinos in France. It was a pleasant enough evening, though I really didn’t have anyone to talk to much. After, we went for a quick stroll down the Promenade des Anglais. I remember walking by it at night ten years ago, with my entire family. Then, I took a smooth green opaque stone and another one, for Lei. I have retained an image of myself staring at the Mediterranean some four years after, while my mother patiently waited for me to ruminate on the vast potential I could see in that sea of calm. All I really wanted to do was to remember, while all the Promenade could offer me were mere reminiscences. How I miss my family.

The next day, I went to Filipino mass with my host family, quite eager to hear mass in my native tongue, even if that’s not my custom. As it were, imagine my utmost shock to see three guest priests. Why, they were the same three Bicolano priests I had first seen at the French Embassy, and later in Hong Kong Airport, before we boarded the same CX Paris-bound flight. Fr. Nung, Fr. Dawe, and Fr. Toti. I had the privilege of sitting beside Fr. Nung then. After the mass, I made my way to the sacristy, and we had a little reunion. This was followed by an invitation for the three priests, which I put forward to Tita Citas, to join us as we visit Èze and Monaco, and to which they gratefully obliged.

Èze is an enchanting French town perched on top of a hill, promising charming views of the sea and the rest of the Riviera panorama. We hiked up, and took lots of photos. But when we got to the top, to the exotic garden, my hopes of seeing the “dramatic lovely clifftop view” (according to my indispensable LP) were dashed. Four Euros just to breathe it all, no thank you. I need mention that the drive up to Èze and Monaco were along coastal roads that provided remarkable views.    It certainly was not bootless; proof that the journey makes it worth it. Of course it was worth it! Finally, a new place to visit for this third-time traveller to France.

I spent all of one hour in another country, that is, the Principality of Monaco. My third time as well, but a visit to Monaco is always refreshing, even sans the Monte Carlo Open or the Monaco Grand Prix. At every corner there is the glint and chintz of wealth. This is perhaps the height of fashion, to sport Lamborghinis and Ferraris, where the BMWs and the Audis look cheap. A highlight could also be the famous yet simple tomb of Grace Kelly, with its perpetual show of flowers in the Cathedrale de Monaco. Imagine a place where its 5,000 true citizens needn’t pay taxes, but enjoy human security in its many dimensions. Life is good in Monaco, but of course, expensive! It turns out that a small simple apartment costs something to the tune of fifteen million Euros. Multiply that by seventy, and there you go. While fairly plausible, I’m uncertain if that is a reliable estimate.

Then it was time to go. I caught my train and made my way back to Montpellier, happy with a well-spent weekend of discovery, as well as food for contemplating the Filipino Diaspora.

I nearly died tonight. Fantastic sequence of events, this day, to weave a tapestry of images I’ll never forget, in a way my great grand children will never understand. And so I write to commit this to the annals of my personal history.

I have been left with memories of moments that seemed to hang in perfect counterbalance. How I awoke early enough to buy my train ticket and hide from our lecturer, whom my housemate was to pick up at the train station, lest I would be late. I bought my ticket with a 10.84 euro discount, the compensation I received last Tuesday for the one hour delay in Marseilles last month. The queue moved quickly, and I had enough time to go back to the house and enact the routine of the domestic life, that is hang my clothes dry and do the dishes. How I decided to be good and attend the lecture this frosty morning, in part owing to the fact that Dr. Aste, today’s lecturer, was the professor of my professor Sir JC, and I might have to work with him in the future for ANGOC. Before leaving for lunch, I approached him and he complimented my French, and I guiltily made up this cock and bull story about not being able to make it this afternoon, because I needed to call my mother with regard to certain problems in the land of my birth. I still had time to eat a healthy lunch and chat with the cousins and a friend, though a fusion of guilt and excitement.

Then the karma onslaught started to tease me. I had calculated the time needed to get to the train station, in my normally photo-finish manner. After the plain crazy rush to get to my plane in London, I now am a staunch believer in the importance of running after trains and defying sliding doors. Thus, I literally ran to catch the tram, where I-don’t-know-where-the-hell-they-came-from half the world seemed to compete with me for tramspace. Due to the tiny frame, the perseverance, and the panic, I managed to find some cubic feet to accommodate me. As the train was packed, I couldn’t insert my ticket in the composter. I was honestly too lazy and hopeful that the girl next to me might leave and ignore the fact that I hadn’t validated my ticket, which will merit an extra ride and savings of 1 euro (that’s seventy one peso coins!) for this trip alone. I spent an obscene un-Cathy like amount in London, and have been feeling the invisible drainage of what little resources I have left. Though my expenses have been cashless, I know that I can smell the high street of indebtedness. The proximity is too close for comfort, so I am now officially more of a travelling miser than I already have been. So I was evil, and cheated the Montpellier Agglomeration of 1 euro, and was punished with a ride from hell. The train halted at a station midway in our journey, and it seemed like forever. A sixth of the tram population left, while more innocents came streaming in. Doors opened, doors shut, tempers flared, and the clock ticked. When I finally came panting to the train station, I was rushing to validate my train ticket three minutes before the stated departure time and find the platform. But lo and behold, in orange caps on the electronic signboard, train late for 1 hour.

This is what you may say stuck in the merde. I had to be in Toulouse as quickest as possible, because I needed time to settle down and get my bearings. There was another Toulouse-bound train, but it was a slow one, with multiple stops, and would arrive at the same time as my hour-late train. Also because I habitually don’t like ever altering my means of transport, which is the only constant in my travels, I decided against it. Happy with my decision and with my supposedly brilliant calculations, regret mocked me when the delay was extended for another thirty minutes. I cannot anymore recall if I cursed in French, Tagalog or English, but the frustration was undeniable.

I thought, this is the reward for paying for your ticket with compensation money. Another ironic opportunity to ask for one. Since today, my admiration for the efficiencies of the French SNCF has plummeted dearly, even if it’s not their fault that there was an accident somewhere between Nice and Montpellier. Maybe I just want to blame the French. A caution for me to be more prudent with planning my crammed voyages.

After an eternity in a transient world, I was in Toulouse, at six o’clock, with less than two hours to perform magic to get to the Zenith. I was relying on directions I heard by telephone, which sounded simple enough. Vacillating between finding things on my own, as I am stubbornly wont to do, and asking the information desk, I was left with no choice but to follow the latter. Staring at the map was an unproductive exercise of the eyes that would later revel in the sight of Chris Martin. I couldn’t find the damn transfer to a Charles de Cite, which the man I asked informed me that it was Avenue Charles de Fitte and was simply the road up above my Metro stop. Up above, I asked an unfriendly man in a bike if he knew where the roundabout was, and he simply snarled, “which roundabout,” and directed me to a friendlier lady. In my halting French, I asked her if she knew where the Pompiers were, and thank God, something to stem the flow of karma that was threatening to deluge me. In less than ten minutes, I found my hotel.

The receptionist told me that I must be a great fan, coming “all the way” from Montpellier. Actually, he thought I came from America, because of my [French] accent. Being the second time I’ve been asked that, I’ve found the remark un peu discomfiting, but at least he’s the nth person to voluntarily reassure me that I speak French well. He also informed me that there were other guests from wherever who also are in Toulouse only for the concert. (In addition, the group in front of me in the concert queue came south of the border, that is Spain). He advised me that I ought to hurry up, and indicated the main roads I would have to ply for 45 minutes, on foot. It was a very easy path that he taught me, and it would take a moron to get lost. Along the way, I remembered that in my haste, I forgot my eyeglasses. The walk lasted only 25 minutes for me, and when I saw food, I remembered how hungry I was and went to the sandwich barbecue stalls, and pointed to the sausages and a coca. One must forget about dietary preferences, and temporarily I made it a point to forget that my sausages were swimming with the enemy, that is in the very same oil as some hamburger patties! That act of adultery cost me 7.5 euros. I ate like there was no tomorrow, but as I was already approaching the front of the queue, I had to content myself with half and leave everything in the rubbish bin, an image I would like to deliciously return to in later moments of famine.

When I had passed through the right doors, I realised that I had selected to watch Coldplay perched comfortably from up high, in something similar to dress circle. But I had a very good view, and lots of leg room, fronting an aisle that divided us from a lower section. Still, I bitterly looked at the hordes gathering right there by the stage, and I asked the usherettes if I could transfer later on, to which they replied in the affirmative. I promised myself I’d join the crowd later on, perhaps during the last twenty minutes. How I entertained myself with all sorts of rationalisations. Like, the front act would not be worth standing for anyway; the crowd was too airtight to permit real moshing; Coldplay music is for appreciating with all the splendour and glory of sitting down with a good view as I had; and I’ll descend later.

The front act was a band good enough called Goldfrapp, but who wore out their welcome after singing for what I think was too long a time. They took a bloody hour, and by then everyone was restlessly yet silently clamouring for Coldplay. When they were done, we had to wait another twenty minutes or so before the band of the decade came, and man oh man oh man. They kicked it off with Square One, then sang their songs, all of which are classics, of course. I was so elated when they sang Yellow, and then enormous yellow balloons with golden confetti inside were falling from the zenith of the Zenith. It was a teary-eyed Cathy listening to Yellow and Speed of Sound, which were incredible. Chris Martin on the piano is really an experience to behold, I wish it had never ended. Among others they performed were that Johnny Cash song, Till Kingdom Come, White Shadows. Their false finale, which I shamefully almost fell for, so long was their absence, was Talk, which was equally stupendous.

Since I purchased my ticket online almost three months ago (thanks to In Cathy’s Place in the Coldplay members website), I had been hoping that they’d speak and sing in English of course! Apparently, Chris Martin peux parler un peu francais… “Je suis desole, mon francais est tres merde!” Of course that instantly drove the crowd wild. And Chris Martin began Yellow with “Regard les etoiles… look how they shine for you…” He actually speaks good French, just a very thick Anglophone accent, like mine, I suppose.

Those who deeply love music and live acts know how it feels to hear the starting riffs of your favourite songs being amplified, with the volume and the suspense mounting together. I felt that sheer serendipitous euphoria pulsating strongly within me, to the tapping of the ivories and ebonies and everything else. A singular sensation it was, singing our hearts out to the Scientist, In My Place, and Fix You. These were the encores, and here comes the most exciting bit.

During the last measures of In My Place, Chris Martin decided to run up the aisles (not through the mob) and the next thing I knew, he was about to pass us by. Like everyone else beside me, I extended my hands and touched his arm, elbow, chest all in an instant! Past memories of my Beatlemania, Oasis- and Blur-mania came flooding back, but this time this is it in the flesh. As in High Fidelity, one of my greatest regrets in life is having missed the sixties. Now I felt a resurgence of the soul, a reassurance that hey it’s not so bad to live in the new millennium, in fact it’s okay! Then Chris Martin came running back in our direction, and this time I got to touch his back! I hope I don’t sound too heretical if I liken this momentous occasion in my life to the leper’s touching Jesus and being healed instantly. To go on, it was the dark night of the soul till Chris Martin alive.

Alas, Chris Martin apologised before beginning Fix You, that it was to be the final song. Apparently, running up and down the width of the venue proved to be fatiguing for him. With our final sympathies and regrets, we all sang Fix You together, lighters and mobiles swaying in the air. Magnificent conclusion, and all worth the trip to Toulouse. Too impressive to describe in words.

On my way back to the hotel, I was thirsty and I couldn’t find a single shop open to sell me some coca. I drank like there was no tomorrow from the tap in my room. At least it was warm inside, and I slept cosily and happily, one of the best nights in my life, ever, even if there’s no one to really share it with.

This has been a very detailed entry because I want to reread and reread this, never forget, and always savour the memory.

Paris has to be the capital of all things in French, including the Pinoy population in the country. I was looking forward to mass in Tagalog. In the Philippines, I will almost always prefer the mass to be said in English, but abroad, I yearn to hear the cadences of our national language.

It was in a chapel across the Eglise d’Auteuil, and so much commotion was going on. Four, five hundred Filipinos trying to get inside a beautiful chapel (which would be a big Church already back home), while chitchatting with each other, or selecting from a panoply of Philippine foodstuffs, from bangus to pansit palabok to chicharon, was a sight to see.

The priest was a very good one, and told a memorable homily. A very prayerful man asked God if he could see heaven and hell. Because he was pious and prayerful, God decided to grant his request. When he visited Hell, Satan greeted him warmly and threw great parties for him, the guest of honour. When it was time to visit Heaven, God welcomed him with open arms and treated him as especially as Satan had. This man then came to the decision that there was no difference really between heaven and hell; consequently, he indulged in a life of sin. Finally, when he died, as can be expected, he went straight to hell, where Satan immediately shackled him. Bewildered by the different reception, he asked Satan why the change of treatment from before. To which Satan retorted, “The last time you were just a tourist. Now you’re an immigrant!”

Of course, the story is much funnier when told in person, maybe employing Wes’ excellent raconteur skills, and in Tagalog, but the long and short of it is that it undeniably found its resonance in the crowd. We all applauded heartily when the homily was over.

During the mass, you just see all these Filipinos, from all walks in life, and you automatically feel bound to them. It’s just surreal how the children speak only French, though some understand and can speak Tagalog in varying degrees. No matter our flaws, I am proud to be who I am. I am happy to be with these people, who, though away from the motherland have never been alienated from it. In fact, sometimes I fear that they help our country more than I have.

It amazes me how much of Paris you can cover when you don’t have money to spend time in the museums and other attractions. From the Place de la Concorde, I admired Paris. Tasteful ornate fountains, grand old buildings, cool breeze, majestic trees, wide boulevards, wow. I glimpsed the Eiffel Tower in all its glory from a distance, as well as the Arc de Triomphe. I promenaded along the Champs Elysee and passed by the Petit Palais, as well as other nameless buildings that are no less than the named in their beauty.

In the Jardin de Tuilleries, I sat myself on a green chair and inhaled everything I could. Sensory overload, with the chilly wind whipping against my skin, the chirping of the pigeons perched on marble statues, the distinct smell of autumn, the grey sky, and the Paris monuments. When I travel, I love sitting down in the parks and just taking all in, to freeze the memory until a suitable time to retrieve it comes.

I had dinner with a Pakistani friend, and saw Paris after six years in all its illuminated splendour. The Eiffel Tower apparently had installed a new set of glittering white bright lights for the Millennium. A literally dazzling addition, I must say, that plunged me into a state of enchantment. Paris simply must be seen at night to understand why it has deservedly been crowned as the City of Lights. The Notre Dame, Arc de Triomphe, Eiffel Tower, Champs Elysees, the bateaux cruising the Seine, and the rest of the grande ville, were simply cooperatively twinkling, standing proudly.

I’ve always thought Paris was a cliché, where everybody wants to go for their honeymoon. But to be fair, there is something about this city that makes you grope in the light or dark for another hand. Perhaps it is its grandeur that overwhelms, that desires to be shared. It is a city where strolling on your own, as I’ve done, heightens the liberating feeling of individuality, but concurrently renders stark the solitude and loneliness. I am left a melange of alone and lonely. 

The Centre Pompidou, housing the Museum of Modern Art, was sublime. The building itself is an architectural wonder, the first of its kind to have its “insides turned outside.” I watched one of those gifted entertainers pull volunteers from the crowd and have them star in a fourteen act play, my bellies shaking with so much laughter! The art museum was simply impressive, and the display was thematically arranged in a “Big Bang” style.

The philosophy of art baffles me more than art itself, but it was wonderful to be immersed in so much beauty. My English professor once told us that the highest form of art is that without words, which quite puts my biases for literature and music in an awkward position. The showcases of iconoclastic, rebellious, foolish, impressive, and downright weird “art” were mind-teasers, and the whole John Bergman “Ways of Seeing” floats back to my consciousness. I will certainly explore art some more. What better place to do it than in Europe? The last gift of the Centre Beaubourg, as it is also fondly called, was the superb views it affords of the Eiffel Tower, at night.

The next day, Sandra, the nineteen year old girl with whom I was staying, and I went to visit the Musee de Rodin. Entrance free, thanks to the first Sunday of the month! The gardens were beautiful, and Rodin’s sculptures are nothing short of amazing. A pity though that two Van Goghs were on loan to the MoMa in New York, damn! But I saw the big and small Thinkers, among other opuses.

Oh Paris, a city steeped in so much beauty, it leaves you at a loss for words. I have to steal Lonely Planet’s commentary, that it is the one and only Paris, and nothing comes close.