Jena ist Eigentlich Cool

In a way, I am glad that I live in East Germany, namely Jena. The place has a cool, artsy vibe, without the artistic and intellectual pretentions its Manila version has.



People here are also very race-tolerant. If I was ever hassled here in Jena for my race, they were by people NOT from Jena. The large student population, and consequently large foreign student contingent, helps.

I think the reason that Jenaers are warmer and friendlier that the people in other German cities I've visited is because of it's small size (100,000 inhabitants), and their Socialist background. They actually have a name for people who don't want to mix with other people--"Asi" or asocial. If people call you asi here, that means you're unfriendly. If you don't want to hang out with your friends because of a lame excuse, then you're asi. People here think there is something really wrong with you if you want to be alone too much. It sounds very Brave New World-ish, I know, but it does remind me a lot of Filipinos. The down side is, that also means that people also like to poke their nose into your business, but it isn't as bad as it is in the Philippines.



In a way, Jena is a very different, but also a familiar environment for me. I mean, sure, it ain't as swinging as Manila, but it has its own charm as well.

I'm taking a page from The Satorialist and posting pictures of people who I thought looked cool. It was a Thursday afternoon at the City Center.



The great thing about living here is that people can wear whatever they want not because they want to look cool, or because they are in desperate need for attention. They really do it for art and self-expression.

Oh, and the in thing for chicks here nowadays are huge-ass tatoos, nipple rings, and piercings on the lower lip or on the upper lip, the piercing resembling a beauty mark mole ala-Lorna Tolentino or Marilyn Monroe (depends on who your point of reference is, I guess).

Why I Turned the Other Cheek

"It's not fair," he said.
"What's not fair?"
"That you've been with so many guys already. I lack experience!"
"No, you don't."
"Will you be mad at me if I sleep with someone else? It would be sex, only sex. You know the difference, right?"
"Hmm, maybe it would be okay. I don't know." I sighed. "How many times do we have to talk about it?"
"I just feel...insecure.Would a blow job be okay?"
"Yes, I guess...maybe. I wouldn't know what to do until it happens. Besides, it's not my fault that I've been around and you haven't!"

* * *

The bubble burst about a month ago. I was in the kitchen, puttering around. It was a warm, sunny Sunday afternoon. I exhausted after a night around town, and expecting Thomas home after spending a week at his dorm near his University, 300 miles away. I called him last night. There was a distinct tone of indifference in his voice as he inquired into how I've been, what I've been doing. It made me upset, and decided to drown my sorrows at a local bar, immersing myself in loud music, a mug of Radler beer, and in the company of Anna, a new-found friend.

He emerged from the door, freshly shaved and showered, wearing very nice clothes. Unusual from the unruly-haired Thomas I knew.

"Hi sweety. I have good news and bad news. What do you want to hear first?"

"What's the bad news?"

"I got a blow job from another girl."

My insides froze. But the news was not unexpected. Call it woman's intuition, but I knew when I heard his voice last night that something was up. I steeled myself, sucked in breath, and asked, "What's the good news?"

"You're better."

Doesn't take a genius to figure that out.

* * *

In a broken narrative, he related what happened. A week-long seminar at school. A new girl in class from Slovakia. Had the hots for him. Last night of the seminar, a couple of Slovakian boys and he got together for a beer at the hotel where the Slovakians were staying. She came along. He got drunk.

Is that all? I asked. I would have readily accepted an accident of inebriation. It happens to the best of us, after all. It happened to me.

No, that's not all. He stayed the night at the hotel. Can't drive home. The girl offered her room. She has a double bed, after all. Woke up together that morning. Pillow talk.

Bang.

* * *

In my mind's eye, I saw Thomas as an eight year old. "Mommy, Mommy, look what I've done!" in a proud, lilting voice, as he leads me into a room, introducing me to his masterpiece, his handiwork: A mural of dirt on the wall.

The fool, he didn't see the logic. The story reeked of pre-determination on both parties. He said it was an accident. The fool, the fool.

* * *

In between tears and anger, I explained, as mightily and as lucidly as I could, why it was not cool. Why it was not okay.

It's so hard for me, who's at the other side of the sexual bridge, to explain to somebody from the other end that when you get to where I am, all you'll want is what you already have: A safe place for the soul.

In the end, he realized why it was not okay, how much it hurt. I felt that I loved him a little less. Thomas is mature in a lot of ways, but very immature in others. Ask anybody who knows him well.

* * *

People tell me that I should be glad, because he saw the merit of telling me about it, that he wanted to be open and honest enough, not to lie about it. I carefully weighed it in my head in the days that followed. Was it a deal-breaker? Should I let this mistake overshadow everything we have, and everything we fought for? Was it worth it?

For days I mulled on the fact that we have set about common goals. We want to build a family together. Do I still want to pursue this with him? Do I still see this clearly, in my mind's eye? Am I still willing to make this work?

And that's why I stayed.

I wish I could show him the consequence of his actions. How, even if he said it hurt him as well to see me so wounded, did not make the bodkin any less sharp. But revenge is pointless, anybody who's tried it in real life knows that.

Thomas knows that I am, in a financial, personal and career standpoint, in a better position. I am an emotionally stable woman in my mid-20s. I have the resources to find a better man. I have the money to go back to Manila to pick up where I left off. He himself said it. However, the older I get, the more morally and emotionally ambiguous things become.

Life is comprised of the choices we make. I hope I made the right one.

A Very German Birthday

A year older...a year wiser?

My first birthday here in Germany is a bit strange. It was still fun, in many respects, but it still feels strange. I feel like I am wearing somebody else's clothes. Does anybody understand this feeling?

I have great news as well: I've got a job! I am now a freelance English teacher at Berlitz. Ironic huh? At least I've got a way to support myself while studying here.

P.S. to Leslie: You'll never guess where I'm going to go for training...



My birthday table. It's what they do here. They make a birthday table with all your presents, then everybody sits down for tea. Thanks Barb!



With Thomas' best friend, Marko



We had International Food Night at the English Club the next day. My Pancit Bihon and Lumpiang Shanghai were a huge hit!



John on guitars and Daniel on the Banjo.



Sunday at the Garden House.

Thanks to everyone who greeted me!

Its a Small, Small World

Last Monday at the English Club, we exchanged our weirdest "Six Degrees of Separation" stories. The weirdest one came from John, the American who asked me to make Lumpia for him.

"A college roommate of mine when we were studying in Mississsipi was in a bar in China, talking to a German colleague of his. He mentioned that one of his college roommates in Mississipi, meaning me, was living in Germany.

Then suddenly, a girl from the other table said, `Hey! I know somebody who went to college in Mississipi and is now in Germany!' Turns out she was my 6th grade classmate in (insert random name of an American Midwestern town here)!"

Last Wednesday Barb confronted me and asked, "Cathy, did you put your vacation photos on the internet." I replied yes, why? Turns out Thomas' dad asked her, "Why do I have to see my son's vacation photos on the internet and not personally?"

A wave of panic descended upon my person. Oh My God. The Father of My Boyfriend has read my blog! With all the dirty secrets in it! The gyno stories, the dirty stories, the embarrassing stories!

It gets worse.

Thomas' dad got the tip from his younger brother, Peter, who lives in Berlin. So we call Uncle Peter and get to the bottom of it. Uncle Peter can read English. Uncle Peter can speak English. Little Cathy is screwed.

Uncle Peter says that he got the tip from his son, who is currently in China for a year-long exchange student program. He was randomly searching for his family name in Google Blogs and chanced upon a mistake I made. I made an entry that read "Thomas, me, and his mother at the *** summer house." The stranger would not automatically assume that the summer house belonged to the family. We could have been standing in front of the Arroyo summer house and nobody would assume that it was their real last name. For those who are familiar with the names Barbara and Thomas, added with that last name, it is a dead giveaway.

The son then told his older brother, who also maintains a blog, and then told their dad, Uncle Peter, and then told Thomas' dad, who in turn made the biting comment.

Now Barbara wants me to remove the only picture in this blog with her in it. I said, hello, it is my photo. I can do whatever I please with it. She counters no, it's my face in that photo, and I don't want it there. Unless she's in the witness protection program, Hell no, I'm not taking it away. But I did rectify the mistake and altered the caption. Too late though, as we are still cached in Google.

I know I cannot control the people who can have access to my blog. I need this blog as a writing outlet, especially now that I am an island in a German-speaking land. I am not ashamed of the things that I write here. I WANT people to read my stories. However, the thought that my boyfriend's family have read my Manila life entries makes me queasy. If I turn this blog into private mode (now available in Blogger Beta), what is the use of maintaining a blog at all? It kind of defeats the purpose. Alas, I have no choice now to welcome into my readership Uncle Peter, Tony, Joseph, and Thomas's dad. You are now part of an esteemed list of 10 people who read my blog.

You Always Want What You Can't Have

One of the funny side effects of living so far away from home is that you become acutely aware that you are NOT at home. Everything seems to be better from afar. Manila traffic jams? The sweltering heat? The constant buzz of the city? In Manila it annoyed me to the point of desensitisation. Now I'm all like, bring it on, Manila!

What I really took for granted, what I realize now, is the food. I had the same old Tortang Talong, Itlog na Maalat, and Guinisang Munggo day in and day out. The moment you step on foreign land, the first thing you will realize is that the food is just not the same. Sure, Eisbein is fine, and tomato soup is great when nursing a cold, but nothing beats Arroz Caldo on a cold autumn morning.

It doesn't help that I am stuck in the middle of the former East Germany, where Filipinos (and thus, Filipino food) are so hard to come by. I never even bothered to cook Filipino food in Manila. Why should I, when I could buy it at the local carinderia?

I have now made it a personal crusade to get myself an honest-to-goodness coconut grater. These people just don't see the point or the need for freshly-grated coconut and fresh coconut milk. I once asked Thomas' brother, a metalworker, to make one for me. As I described my need, he just scratched his head and asked "Why don't you just buy a can of coco milk? Why go through all the trouble?"

Two weeks ago, as I passed by the weekly Tuesday Market at the local town square, I stopped dead on my tracks: The glorious sight of fish being smoked, right there in the market, in the middle of our little land-locked state.

"Fresh Fish." I said.
"Yes?" said the vendor.
"Here?"
"Yes?"
"In Thuringen?"
"Yes!" he said, barely able to contain the twinkle in his eye.
In his glass case, I saw something that transported me back to home--Tinapa, fresh from the Baltic Sea! Oh God, the Germans have tinapa! I could barely contain my joy as I readily handed a euro for a handful of the greasy fish, which I inhaled all the way home.

I have even started making my own Itlog na Maalat. It's not so hard to make. I'm want to go "old school" and attempt to make my own Lumpia wrapper (I've seen it done) and my own Galapong (hopefully, it doesn't stick to the blender's blades.)
I realized that food continually binds me to the Philippines.

At the "English Club" that I attend here, an American member recalled that as he was a Boy Scout, the mother of a Filipino Scout member would make Lumpiang Shanghai for the group every time they would gather at the boy's house. John, the American, smacked his lips as he asked me to make some lumpia for him.

Sure, I said, I'll bring it next time. I guess I am not the only one who wants to recall the joys of his childhood.

I always try to substitute whatever ingridients I could not find here. It's really weird that no matter how hard I try, Pansit Bihon Guisado here in Germany just doesn't taste the same. I know now that Thai Patis for me tastes gross.

When it boils down to it, I have flown so far away from home, only to try to re-create my motherland as closely as I can, if only in flavor.

Seven Songs-A meme by Jac

I was tagged by Jac to do a seven song meme some weeks ago. It was hard to come up with seven songs. I am not really musically inclined, you see. The funny thing about your meme, Jac, is that it made me reflect what is it I really like about these songs. Thinking about these songs reminded me of who I really am. I realized that these songs spoke of what my personality is like. In a bad day like today (the shitty autumn weather, the shitty first day at the Thuringische Landeszeitung office), it reminded me what I had to offer the world. Thanks Jac!




Telepopmusik featuring Andrea McCluskey - Breathe

Love the music, love the video.



Hikaru Utada - Easy Breezy

God, ang galing niya no?



Imogen Heap-Goodnight and Go

It reminds me what it's like to live and fall in love in a big city. Coffee shops, books, art. Gotta love it. Imogen Heap also sang


Frou Frou's Breathe In.



John Meyer- Bigger Than My Body

This is the song that I sing to myself when life gets the better of me. I am so motivated to do something, BE something, every time I listen to this.


Moloko-Sing it Back to Me

This song was playing on my 20th birthday. It was an end of an era, a time when I would go clubbing every night. It is up there with J.Lo's Waiting for Tonight



No Diggity-Blackstreet

So effing dancable.

I've got tons, tons more in my list, like the entire Circus Album of the Eraserheads,Where The Wild Roses Go by Nick Cave and Kylie Minogue, Glorybox by Portishead, Beautiful Ones by Suede and Nirvana's In Bloom. Just got me to thinking that maybe an MP3 Player is not such a bad investment.

Who do I meme? I feel guilty for doing this...JaniPanda and Leslie!

Tales from the Table

*Warning: Sensitive Material

For us girls, finding the right gynecologist is just as tough as finding "The One."
Getting ourselves to open our privates, entrusting our deepest darkest sexual secrets to a total stranger--I would need somebody trustworthy for that.

I can't imagine myself getting a male gynecologist. I've always suspected that there has to be something wrong with a man who likes to stare at vaginas all day long.

Many women are embarassed about going to the gyno, and answering questions truthfully, and for a good reason. How are you supposed to know whether it was proper for the gyno to put his/her finger up your ass during a Pap smear exam? (The answer: If she/he is a good gynecologist who is interested in your sexual well-being, then yes. It is standard procedure.)

I started going to the gynecologist at the ripe old age of 22, for my first Pap Smear test. She was a small, spry woman with short hair. I suspected she is a closet lezzie. Medical examinations always make me nervous. She took a good look in me, and told me, "You have a beautiful pink vagina!" I never went back to her after that.

I went to my next gynecologist upon my sister's recommendation. The good doctor was her personal gynecologist, and was cheaper than the other doctor. I went to her on March and September of the same year. My first visit was to treat a yeast infection, while my next visit was to get my yearly Pap Smear. I hated her. She didn't even ask me any questions about my reproductive history. She was only interested in why I went to her. In my first visit, she gave me a lecture on "Why don't you get married so you won't have these worries over STDs?" In my second visit, she urged me to marry Thomas, and get him circumsized, stat. I felt that she was judgmental of my sexual decisions, and that she did not give me through medical examinations.

I am satisfied with my gyno here in Germany. She physically reminds me a lot of my first gyno in the Philippines, but the guys on the island should learn a thing or two from their German counterparts. She was very personable yet professional. When did you have your first period? Have you ever had a miscarriage/abortion? Have your reproductive organs gone under the knife?

I wondered how come the gynos I had in the Philippines never asked me these questions? How come I had to volunteer my answers to the gynos over there? And why is she really interested in what I need?

She told me to come back after 14 days for my next visit. I plan to keep that appointment.

Life in the Former DDR

As to be expected, life in East Germany is a bit different than in the West. Take for example Barbara, Thomas' mother. Having been born in 1952, she was raised in an environment that is the complete opposite of mine. She claims that 'Socialism' is her religion, and romanticizes the era where people had to line up for days for their yearly supply of potatoes every September.

Just to be clear, not everybody here in the East is very fond of the former German Democratic Republic. The young people, in particular, don't care. Like those old Marcos loyalists, the people who want the DDR back are those who think that things were better back then. The point is, that time is not going to tick back into the past.

Old habits really die hard. She still buys 'Rot Weiß' toothpaste ("This was the brand of toothpaste we had in the DDR!"). She eats potatoes that have tubers growing out of them ("We can only get them every Spetember in the DDR. They are still Ok!"), and is very proud of her crockery ("Made in the DDR!"). East Germans then had to line up and hoard whatever was available back then. Carrots, flour, you name it. Suplies are only available while it lasts. STaples like vegetables were available maybe only three or four times a year.

The modern day East German, instead of hoarding whatever is available from the state grocery stores, is on the prowl for discounts. Everytime Barbara and I go grocey shopping, she buys whatever she sees is on sale. Regardless of whether or not she needs it, regardless of whether or not she actually knows what she is actually buying, it goes in the basket.

One time I was rummaging through her cupboards for something to eat, I chanced onto an unopened bottle of Wasabi.

"Hey cool, Wasabi!"
"You know what it is?"
"Yeah, it tastes great with fish. It's Japanese."
"Oh."
"You don't know what it is? Why did you buy it?"
"It was on sale."

Old cloth, unnecessary flower pots, and unknown spices. We have so much junk in our house just because "You never know when you're gonna need them. You never know when they will go on sale again."

I once asked her if she prefers Socialist East Germany or today's united Germany. She chewed on my question and answered, "We do have a lot of freedoms now. But one needs money to buy it. We had the best schools and everybody had a job. Everybody was really equal."

I was silent after that. I thought about Darwanism. She would never survive evolution. She knows that not everything was great back then. Power failures and heating interruptions were frequent. She once had to spend three days curled up fetal position in bed, while taking care of three children, during a particularly bitter German winter.

I guess the DDR represents to her a time when everybody was happy, she had a husband, a job, and a family. In the present, she was not able to find a job, he left her and her children are grown.

Barbara and I get along very well. It's just that sometimes, I wish she would stop living in the past.

The One Where the Ugly Fat Italian Thought I was a Prostitute

Tip for Travelers Number One: Almost all North Italian gas stations are automated. Not only do you have to pump gas yourself, but you also have to feed 5, 10, or 20 euros into a machine before the pump comes to life. And no, it doesn't give change.

Tip for Travelers Number Two: The only time the pump person shows up is from 8 am to 12 pm, after which they take a two hour siesta, then pack up for the day at 5 pm.

Tip for Travelers Number Three: Italian hookers congregate in industrial areas, where many cars pass but human traffic is few and far-between. Thomas and I had to pass by a port area to get to Venice. In this particular stretch of the road, I saw several women in miniskirts, three meters apart from each other, hailing cars or hunched over car windows. Prostitutes! I cried out. Thomas could barely hear me above the din, and therefore my remark went unheard.

Our Little Engine that Could could only take 5 liters of gasoline at a time, and therefore could only take at maximum 5 euros worth of gas, (1 liter = 1.30 euros in Italy). One sunny day we were running low on gas, and there were no gas stations in sight. Alas, we only had a 10 euro bill. Worse, it was in the middle of a two week holiday, and siesta time, to boot. Every freaking restaurant and establishment in the area was closed. Heck, even the McDonalds was closed!

What do we do then? We asked each other. I was furious at Thomas for not having his 10 euros changed at the pizzeria where he stopped to take a leak. We drove on and found a gas station in the middle of an industrial area. Problem number one solved.

Where to get change then? With a determined look on my face, I took off my helmet, and tried to stop motorists for change.

I wasn't thinking "OhMyGod, TheyMightThinkI'maProstitute," but more like "OhMyGod, WeNeedCash!" Besides, I was wearing a windbreaker, a pair of jeans, and my helmet was tucked under my arm: there was no way anybody could have mistook me for anything else other than a motorist in distress.

Cars whizzed by me. I was hoping that somebody would stop and pump gas there, but nobody came within the next five minutes. I walked on a bit further when an old white box-type car stopped at the opposite side of the road. I crossed the street with a relieved look on my face.

Italians can understand some Spanish. There was one time, while we were asking for directions, a dude asked us if we either spoke Italian or Spanish. I said we had some Spanish (meaning that our knowledge of Spanish could fill a thimble), after which he proceeded to give directions in Spanish.

The guy was friendly enough, and gave me a smile. From what I could see, he was short, stout, bald, and old enough to be my grandfather. His broad nose had little white hairs on the bridge (ewww!).

With a sheepish look in my face, I explained in broken Spanish that we needed change for 10 euros. "Tienes dos cinco euros para cambio por diez euros? Para gasolina?" At the back of my mind, I prayed that I was understandable, at the very least.

The old man said something unintelligible. I repeated the question, and gave him my ten euros. He took my ten euros, took a good look at it, and handed it back to me. I was puzzled at his behavior. "Scusi?" I asked.

More Italian words followed. Then he reached out of his car window and touched my crotch!

I was so shocked that I was speechless for a minute. Actually, my mind was blank. I just turned around and crossed back to the gas station. The nerve of this man, he actually backed up his car to follow me!

"Thomas!" I cried. "The man is following me! He thinks I am a prostitute!"

I was too far away from Thomas, who was watching over our bike, to be understood. I think it dawned on the man that I was NOT a prostitute, and that I had company, because he drove off.

Thomas doubled up in laughter when I later told him what happened. Then he asked, "Why didn't you slap him?"

In reality, my mind went blank. But in the split second after the blankness, I became afraid that he would pull me inside the car. So I fibbed. "Well, he had his car windows partially closed."

"Then how was he able to reach your crotch?"

Doubly embarrassed by the situation and for being caught in a lie, I sorely said, "Let's drive on. You said that we still have enough gas to drive on for a couple of kilometers."

Speaking in Tongues

One of the disadvantages of moving in a country where you don't speak the language is that it really highlights how alien everything is. The food is funny, the people act weird, and worse, you can't understand them. Reading a newspaper, one of my favorite actvities, is a daunting task in German.

Because of my bilingual origins, I thought that learning a new language would not be so hard. I can fluently speak and write in either English or Tagalog. I can switch between speaking or writing in these two languages with a snap of a finger. It should be relatively easy to learn German, right? WRONG!

There is a difference between learning a langage as a child and as an adult. Whenever I change langages, between English and Tagalog, my mind fluidly switches gears automatically. Like how water flows in a river. The part of my brain that stores German seems to be in a completely different segment. It's akin to driving a car along a street. Whenever I have to switch gears, I have to drive back to the fork of the road that divides English and German, encounter a few humps, before everything evens out.

I have made considerable efforts to speak and understand the language. I took private German lessons in the Philippines, and I take language classes here. People here are amazed that I can speak German the way I do, despite having only started learning it last Febuary. Despite that, I have not made life easy for my poor teacher, who is also the English teacher in the language school I attend. English is so strongly ingrained in my brain that she has given up trying to explain German grammatical concepts in German, a no-no in our multi-cultural classroom, and now uses English for my benefit.

I applied and was accepted for an internship program in the Jena office of the Thüringische Landeszeitung, the newspaper in the state where I live. I hope that will strengthen my understanding of the language, and eventually help me find a good Masteral degree program.

I think that unlocking the key to this riddle is finding the rhythm of the German language. Aside from the craziness of trying to determine what nouns go with the articles der, die, and das, German is a logical language. It should not be too hard to follow something that beats at a regular rhythm.

Unfortunately for me, logic is not my strongest suit, is it?

Motorcycle Diaries

What do you do when you have a lot of time and not so much money? Why, backpack around Central Europe aboard a 50 cc scooter, of course! If you don't mind the occasional run-in with the French Gendarmerie, guerilla camping, or not bathing for a couple of days, I highly recommend it to everyone. I still have my youthful license for a little stupidity!

Okay, I will bore you guys with pictures!


Our little engine that could!


Thr Rathaus (Town Hall) in München. That's the famous tower where the marionettes dance when the clock strikes at 12:30 p.m.


Neuschwanstein Castle in Füßen, built by Mad King Ludwig of Bavaria. This is the template that all Disneyland Castles follow.


Thomas: Stupid for thinking that our little engine that could can withstand the Alps. Me: The girl stupid enough to go 2500 meters (my highest ever!) with him. Yes, I did everything one should properly do in the Alps, which is to drink fresh unpasteurized milk, yodel, and belt out the entire Sound of Music soundtrack.



"Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean."

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She's become the Santa Claus for the love-sick and love lorn. Thousands of people stick love notes and write letters to 'Juliet' in Verona, asking for advise. I highly recommend Verona to everybody. Leslie will go crazy and Gigi will go gaga over the shopping district, which is paved with marble! Verona is more romantic at night. By day, it is full of tourists. Night or day, the city still impresses.


Venice was disappointing. And exhausting. And expensive.


Our little engine went kaput on us. If you're stuck with engine trouble in the middle of nowhere in Northern Italy, during a two-week long national holiday, Moto Casini in Montagnana, Italy is there for ya! Here we are with Corinne and her little sister, Athena, the daughters of the guy fixing our scooter, Stefano. Athena reminds me so much of my niece!


Genova. The city with the weirdest layout ever. Have you guys ever seen the movie The Fifth Element? It's like the way New York was envisioned in the movie. Genova is like a maze.


Basking in the sun, Italian Riviera. I don't know what the big fuss over the Mediterranean is about. Its cold. The beaches in Italy and Nice, France are rocky. The beaches in the Philippines are ten thousand times better.


Monte Carlo, Monaco. Be ready to drop quite a few $$ because even the food is pricy.


Nice at night. Taken atop Mt. Boron.


Another impressive shopping district. Cannes, France.


The French part of the Alps have the most dazzlingly bizzare rock formations. The Earth's handiwork is quite impressive.


Lyon, France. It's a great city to visit, with a lot of very interesting museums.


Like this one, the Lumiere Museum, the house of the Lumiere brothers, who created the Cinematograph. The exhibits of the very first films ever shown is very interesting.


The European Parliament, Strasbourg, France.


Jose Rizal Street in Wilhelmsfeld, where the house he stayed in while he was studying in Heidelberg still stands. A must see for every patriotic Filipino. Rizal is well known here, and you can even ask about him in the local Tourist Center. There's a mini Rizal Park here, and even a chapter of the Knights of Rizal! Rizal always makes one proud to be Filipino! Rizal walked every day for several kilometers to get to University, where he studied opthalmology. A walk in the brisk German mountain weather is no joke. Especially since Wilhemsfeld, which lies in the outskirts of Heidelberg, is a mountain village. So basically, Rizal literally climbed a mountain everyday for three months.


Köln Cathedral.


Thomas with Thomas, whom he met in Bali. Bali/Köln Thomas welcomed us into his home for a welcome respite from camping and tents. His girlfriend is a realy sweet girl. Sorry Les, but we forgot to take pictures of Martin. We were really beat when we got to Mainz.



And back to enjoying hot showers, warm food, and a soft bed in Jena. There is no place like home!

To Italy on a Moped

The beauty of youth is, for those who have it, even if we don't have the money to do the things we want, We are unencumbered by the comforts of money. And we have the audacity to find a solution for everything.

Norway on a Bicycle? Not quite. Three weeks off. We will visit the people we've encountered in Asia, and tour the European countryside. See you in three weeks!

The Tale of Paul and Susan

"They rarely make good movies about long-term couples, and for good reason: our lives are boring."

--David Sedaris, The End of the Affair


A few days before their first anniversary, as Paul and Susan were setting into bed, Paul turned to Susan and asked, "Why don't you write about sex in your blog anymore?"

Turning the blankets, just so in the way she liked it, she gave Paul a funny look and asked. "Why should I write about sex?"

"I mean, why don't you write very often about sex anymore?" Paul rolls out his arm, an open invitation for Susan to lay her head on the comforting crook.

Susan chews on this tidbit, and answers, "Because I no longer have sex with strange boys in strange cars anymore."

"But you can still write about us!"

"Hmm, but what we have is ours. Its private, and I want to keep it that way."

"Oh." A long pause.

"Maybe you can create characters," he suggests.

"What?"

"You know, so people won't think its you. Maybe you can introduce them as your friends, Thomas and Cathy. Then you can write stories about them. And then you can say, Thomas and Cathy did that. Thomas and Cathy had anal sex and told you about it. Things like that."

"But I will never have anal sex! Why are you so obsessed about it? Maybe you're gay!"

"Nyahaha! Sooner or later it is going to be mine! It's the only place that I will be the first!"

"Whatever! That's nonsense!"

"Just a suggestion," he shrugs.

Funny isn't it, Susan thinks as she drifts to sleep, that she is having more sex than she has ever had in her life, yet she rarely speaks about it in her poor blog. And she dreams of that day, one year ago, when she and him first lay together on a bed, now thousands of miles away, and the moment few hours later she asked her to be her boyfriend, and he said yes.

...And the Dish Ran Away with the Spoon

We are watching a documentary about the Space Race between the Soviets and the USA:

"Man never landed on the moon. That is such American bullcrap."

He maintains that Man never landed on the moon, never has, never will. He said that the film of the moon landing in 1969 was made in the studio in Texas!

"Have you watched the film of the moon landing? How would man lift off the moon? Not just with the earth's gravitational pull. They need engines! They need energy to get off the moon! No sand was blown away when they blasted off the moon!"

He never heard of Alan Shepard, only of Yuri Gagrin! He said that he saw some stupid TV program that proves man never landed on the moon.

Perhaps, with his ingrained dislike for the USA (he is, after all, East German), he is more willing to believe anything that makes America look bad.

Look, I am not a big fan of American foreign policy, their flawed racist society, or their imperiousness. I do not crave an argument about what I belive, especially who patriotically believe i America the Great. You are entitled to that opinion, good for you. But not to the extent that America never landed on the moon!

The Rules of This Beach

Sophie, Thomas' best girl friend and long-standing crush, recounted a very interesting experience she had last week at a nudist beach. East Germany has a fine tradition of nudist beaches, and Germans generally do not have any inhibitions with nudity.

Sophie is a very charming girl, dark hair, sparkling eyes, with a great body and a quiet beauty that grows on people. Her boyfriend, Tommy, has a very Teutonic, Aryan face. Blue eyes and blond hair, the idealized look of Germans often seen in Third Reich propaganda posters. In short, the golden couple.

Sophie was with her amigas at the FKK (Frei Korper whatever, or Free Body) beach, suntaning without the inhibitions of girls worried about strap marks. Her roving eye noticed that a guy was checking her out. Wary that he might be "that freak on the beach," she kept watch.

A few minutes later, the guy dresses up, comes up to her, and hands her a slip of paper. "You may decide to open it or not," he says.

Inside is his telephone number. This miffed Sophie. In recounting her tale, she fumed, "He should have had the courtesy to be nude as well when he gave me his number. It isn't fair that he was dressed and I was nude; it made me feel awkward."

Now, this isn't a problem that comes up in daily life. There is no etiquette book on appropriate behavior in nudist beaches. I can't imagine Emily Post dishing out advice on how to properly frolic out in the nude.

Coming out to ask a girl out is one of the most naked acts a man can perform. To do it in the buff is probably harder. A girl can adequately judge what she may have to deal with in the future, and dismiss a guy when he isn't up to snuff. Maybe the guy is a grower, and thus felt that he may be unfairly judged, under the circumstances.

If I can only come up with an answer to this one!

The Sun Eaters

When I lived in the Philippines, I considered good, hot, sultry weather to be a birthright. How I actually look forward to the rainy season, a brief respite from the sunshine of the tropics! How I looked forward to December, where the humid air was replaced by a balmy breeze in the Metro.

I could not fathom how foreigners actually did everything in their power to acquire stained skin, while the locals did everything to bleach themselves. Hiding from the sun as much as possible, sun umbrellas and whitening lotions. The heat can give people headaches, heatstroke, and a host of other unmentionable diseases. Oh how we dreaded it and took it for granted.

I have chased the summer across the world, leaving Manila at the tail-end season of perpetual sun, arriving here in Germany at the beginning of bathing suit season. Germany is facing an unusually warm summer, with cloudless blue skies and equally warm nights. Barbara complains that I took the Philippine summer with me to Germany. People I meet give me incredulous looks whenever I tell them I have never seen snow, and I could see that in the faraway look of their eyes they dream of a place where there is no winter.

With frantic cries, they urge me to go outside! Do something! The weather is so great, why are you wasting it by reading! Why are you indoors? Why aren't you interested in sports? The concept of wanting to stay indoors to read a book in during a sunny, humid day confounds them. As if the sun's rays are the last precious drops of water from a spigot in the middle of a desert town.

Here in Germany, people actually pay good money in tanning salons to bronze themselves, believing it to be a mark of relaxation, or of having enough money to travel to some sun-drenched island, sipping a pina colada.

In parks and meadows, people strip to their bathing suits, and, heedless of dermatologists' warnings of skin cancer among caucasians, bask themselves in sunlight, sometimes marinading themselves in baby oil for that crisp lechon effect.

I have also taken quite happily to the sun tanning phenomenon. I bought myself a ten-euro number at the bikini store, and talking my Bundeswehr-issued tube of sunblock, I bake myself on the grass in the local park, my bikini strings unfastened. It doesn't take long for the first furtive glances to go my way.

This Saturday in my meeting with Lars, my German-language tandem partner, I decided that I was bored and I wanted to play a little game. Little Big Lars, with his workman's hands and his naive blond haired-blue eyed looks, was perfectly rigid in his polite German way. I wanted to go to Paradis, the local park, anyway. I put on my bathing suit under my cami. An idle mind is the devil's workshop, indeed.

Trot-Trot. Off we go to put-put in Paradis, as we practice my German and his English. I lay my colorful sarong on the grass. Slowly, my clothes come off. First my top, then my jeans. His eyes nearly pop, and I am pleased with my little victory. He later becomes more relaxed and takes off his shirt, and the conversation flows more smoothly. We lie on the grass, and talk in hushed, languorous tones--a false intimacy, as if we were keeping a secret. In reality we talked about my country, Jena, and that a few miles away, a secluded spot by the Saale river (which was a few meters away from us), featured a sandy beach. He is careful not to touch me, he knows I have a boyfriend. He reluctantly says goodbye at quarter to seven in the evening, the sun still ablaze. It is amazing how a little nudity can engender coziness, albeit artificial.

Borrowed

Me at the Blickhan's home. Shirt, a hand-me-down from Thomas. Knapsack and flip-flops, a gift from Thomas. Bike, "borrowed" from Barbara's friend Carola.

That's how my life feels now. Borrowed. This is not my life. These are not my friends. This is not my apartment. Borrowed.

I don't normally go about in a bike. My alertness in the streets of Manila against pickpockets and an assortment of shady characters has been replaced by my alertness to the urban street traffic. Had some close shaves (straßenbahn, cars). Cobblestoned streets look really romantic, until you ride a bike over them. Now, they just look uneven and painful to me.

I almost died with envy when my friend Leslie told me that she was on her way to the Bench fashion show. Arrrgh. I know that I should not expect to mix with "high society" here in Jena. I don't think that concept even exists here in East Germany. But that was my life, you see, and the change feels really abrupt.

Language lessons every day. I am struggling with the language, but my teacher says I am doing better than expected. The more I learn German, the more I am in love with the simplicity of English.

The sun is just as deceitful, as well. In the Philippines, all I have to do is look at the heavens, seek out the sun or the moon, and I can pretty much approximate the time of day. Here in Germany, the sun is out until 10 pm, and my body is constantly tricked by the extended daylight. It is riled up as long as the sun is out, and I crash and burn into the bed as soon as the sun sinks.

There is a cool indie scene here, as I have said, but I have no one to really call a 'friend.' Mrs. Blickhan, an immigrant as well, told me that I just have to be patient. No Toastmaster's Club here in Jena. All the older people don't speak English, they speak Russian. All the young people know English, but most of them are students, and cannot afford to pay if I were to charter a Toastmasers Club here. I realy want to move to the West. Munich has something like 20 Toastmasters Clubs. Nuremberg, not far from Jena, has one. Mrs. Blickhan, an English teacher, has not even heard of the Toastmasters Club, and she lived in the US!

Jena is in Thuringen, the border state between the former East and West Germany. Thomas said that I should teach English to make some extra cash. I think I would do it not for the money, but so I would not die of boredom. The moment people hear the unmistakable sound of a native English speaker emanating from my mouth, they would seek me out like heat seeking missles, eager to practice their English with me.

The beauty of Germany is that everybody can wear those cool threads from the fancy magazines because of the cold weather. The bad news for attention whores is that nobody would really notice. I've seen it all: Punks bleeding on the streets, hungover and grumpy. People in traditional dress. Goth kids who wander the city in groups. I am seeking out the cosplay kids in the area. So far, no dice.

Fashioning a new identity is never easy. I have had to do it several times in the past, by necessity of a lost love, or a new situation. This is no different. I hope that I will like myself at the end of the tunnel.

Why God, Why?????!!!!!

From Jessica Zafra

David Sedaris, the author of Naked, Barrel Fever, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim, and Me Talk Pretty One Day, is coming to Manila for a series of readings and book signings. The schedule:

July 27, 6 pm - Powerbooks Shangri-la
July 28, 5 pm - Powerbooks Alabang
July 29, 5 pm - Powerbooks Greenbelt

According to the poster, you can have one book signed for free. If you want more than one copy signed, you have to buy a David Sedaris book from Powerbooks and exchange the receipt for a signing pass.

Why??? Why would you allow my favorite author at the moment to visit Manila just when I left it? Why?

VIVA ITALIA!

I bet my dad's happy now.

Fuck you, Zidane. Was the head butt worth the World Cup championship?

Pasensya na, my money was on the French.

P.S. Germany took a cue from the Italian play and played great defensive. And to think that the best players passed on the game or were too injured to play! The fact that second stringers won the bronze was a message to the Portugese. 'Our best players don't deserve to break a sweat from you stuck up brats.'

Scheisse!

Tsk tsk. Talo.

I think the predictability of the Germans did it in. The play was too careful and technical. Plus, the Italians had a great defense strategy, and Juergen Klinsmann was not immediately able to counter it.

Nevertheless, it was a well played match. The Germans did well.

Exuberance

That is Germany today. Exuberant after winning yesterday's match against Argentina. I predicted that Germany would lose to Argentina.

I was with Lars, my Deutsche language tandem partner. "The only thing that could beat the Argentinians's skill," I told Lars, "is the determination of the German team to win."

And what a will it was! A squeaker of a game. Damned those Argentinians, they can squeeze more time out of a game than man can squeeze blood out of stone. I thought that I saw the best of Argentina in their 120 minute game against Mexico, but this game was a whopping 130 minutes.

In the end, an old-fashioned shootout between Germany and Argentina determined the fate of the World Cup. The substitute goalie of Argentina, who was called in after the main goalie was injured, sucked big time.

I honestly have to express my disappointment at Argentina. Their skill warrants enough respect that they don't have to play dirty. ?Por que, Argentina? And what poor sports you have in your team. Germany won the game fair and square. No need to brawl.

I watched the game in a cafe located inside Jena's Rathaus (town hall). In my white shirt and Deutschland flip-flops, I cheered for Germany. Behind us was a hilarious group of senior citizens who were so engrossed at the game. These young chaps thumped tables and sported viking hats, a funny sight indeed. In the streets of Jena, I was accosted by a group of drunken middle-aged men, who shook my hand as people sing-song screamed "Finale! Oooh! Cantare! Oooh!" People hollered and honked their car horns an hour after the game. In Germany, this is an arrestble offense, but the police gave the offenders a reprieve. A woman in her car gave me the thumbs-up sign as she honked at anything and anybody." A boy living next door shouted "Detschland!" at random people.

Don't cry for your team, Argentina. You did well.

In Memoriam

Most of us have heard of the brutality of Nazi Germany. The first real education I got about that time was when I acted in a play in my university. In it, I portrayed a German scientist who relished her work in finding a way to burn bodies more effectively in pyres. She was a dispassionate observer, who had no interest in the war or the reasons of it. She marveled in the science of fire.

But it never really hit home. Weimar, 20 kilometers out of Jena, hosts the Buchenwald concentration camp. Home of the SS, and site of the massive death, suffering, and starvation 250,000 political prisoners, Jews, homosexuals, and gypsies. Last Wednesday Julia took me to the camp, a depressing place that settled heavily in my heart.

I did not bring a camera with me, and I would have preferred not to, anyway. The beauty of Weimar was a chilling setting for the nastiness humans can inflct, and continue to inflict, on each other.

After watching a short film about life in the camp (yellow stars for Jews, red stars for political prisoners, and pink stars for homos), we went on a sobering tour of what still remains of the camp.

We went into a hall of 26 bunkers, where political prisoners were kept. They frequently committed suicide, choosing what they felt was a more dignified death than the slow hunger of the that killed the other prisoners around them. Prisoners strangled each other so they can get a bigger share of potato peels. Outside, the SS officers and their families frolicked in a zoo that they forced the prisoners to build.

Buchenwald is a place of memorials. Some of the cells contained photographs and a short biography of the tenants, placed by their families in memoriam. In another room, paper cranes, a symbol of peace, are placed on a bed.

The crematorium was truly disturbing. The entrance contained an autopsy table, where the SS conducted "experiments" on the Jewish population. Jews and homosexuals were fair game in the camp. They were the first picked out for torture, and were consistenly chosen by the SS for the most humiliating, degrading acts. Political prisoners were allowed to become "guards" within the camp.

The basement contained a wooden chute where bodies were slid for storage. An elevator with the width of a human lengthwise carried the bodies up to the crematoriums, which burned 24 hours a day. A storage facility for bodies is filled with marble plates, giving names, and hopefully, a rightful burial for those that perished.

One stood out. From Luxembourg: "To our mother who survived the hell of Buchenwald."

The German legacy is checkered, punctuated by wars, power plays, everchanging borders and anti-semitism. I think that Germany has learned its lesson. Unfortunately, I believe the human race has not.

I was so burdened by Buchenwald that I was very careful to not allow any part of my body to touch the walls. I did not want to take the place's oppresive memories home with me. I slept fitfully that night, haunted by the ghosts of Buchenwald.

*Alter Schwede!

Germany is in a tizzy over 'Worldcupitis,' a term coined by footie fan Rene Enriquez



We caught the game at an open-air pub in Deggendorf. 130 kilometers away in Munich, over 100 thousand spectators gathered in an arena with bated breath. In the rest of Germany, Germans bit their nails in front of giant TV screens, in pubs and restaurants, cheering for Germany.

Sweden verus Germany, Germany won 2-0. Germany caught two points early in the game, psychologically breaking the Swedes, who never recovered after that shock. Homecourt advantage? I don't think so. I think the Swedes were beaten before they even begun.

The people were so funny, they were not there at the game, but they cheered like crazy when Lukas Podolski scored both goals for Germany. They uttered a collective sigh of disappointment when Germany came thisclose to scoring another goal, and clapped for the great effort. They even made a 'human wave'!

In Leipzig, 100 kilometers from Jena, Argentina battled against Mexico. It was the most brutal match I have ever seen! Compared to the frenetic match of Sweden and Germany, The match between Agentina and Mexico was almost like watching ballet. The footwork of the Swedes and the Germans looked like that of a lumbering schoolboy compared to the grace of the Argentinians! The long shots and amazing passes of the two teams drew the match out to an amazing 120 minutes!

The players were almost superhuman, like cartoon characters even. Players would collide in mid-air, their heads knocking together like two coconuts, and they emerged unscathed. Gallant warriors with busted knees were escorted out with applause. It's the Latin in them, you see. In the end, the Argentinaians won, a very close 2-1. The match was so close that 90 minutes into the game, both teams were still stuck in a 1-1 tie.

So now, Germany and Argentina are both headed to the quarterfinals, leading up to the championships in Berlin. I fear for Germany. Germany vs. Argentina this Friday. Argentina is no pansy, literally toying with their past opponets.

In streets across Germany, people honked their cars and proclaimed "Berlin! Berlin!
Wir farhren nach Berlin!"

* A German expression of disbelief, like "OhMyGod!" or "What the F***!" Literally means 'Old Swedish dude'

The Germanization of Cathy

My progressive and steady immersion into German society has been fun, queer, and frustrating for me, a hard-core English speaker. My transformation from Arashi-Kishu, PR Writer, cartoon voice dubber and independent woman, to Arashi-Kishu, poor German student, has been a strange trip so far.

I arrived in Jena after a long drive down the Autobahn. I was welcomed by Thomas' mother, whose English was even poorer than my sorry German. However, I was told that my German is already good, even better than some of the Turkish and Russian immigrants here in Germany.



It is as warm right now in Germany as it is in Manila, but the wind is not as humid. Summer temperatures in Germany remind me of Sagada.

Jena is very beautiful, and really green, reminiscent of photos of the French countryside. Jena is a bit my kind of town. It is very laid back. One can walk the streets barefoot, with no make-up, or dress practically in rags, and nobody would care. In the office, every day is casual Friday. People in Jena are deeply into sports and the outdoors. This university town prides itself with its glass and lens industry, and its share of intellectuals who call it home. If I would compare Jena to an American city, it would be somewhere in Colorado.

Thomas, me, and his mother at their summer house.

Germany is in the midst of World Cup fever. People huddle in front of giant screens in town squares, or at homes, nursing beers and wearing the German colors, even when nobody could see them.

First part of my immersion. Thomas said that I needed a backpack, like him, with waist support systems and all that jazz. Then, he decided that I needed flip-flops. World Cup commemorative sandals were on sale. I wanted Brazilian flips, but he would not hear any of it. I decided to give in because I think he would have been offended if I did not buy the German team slippers.

Next up is our search for a bicycle. Everyone here goes around in a bicycle. Thomas asked me whether I knew how to ride a bike, I said, Of course! So I took his mother's bike for a spin. He almost had a heart attack because I didn't follow 'the rules.' Shit, in Germany, even children need to pass a test to be able to ride a bike through the streets! How anal is that?

"Thomas, you asked me if I could ride a bike. I said yes, meaning I could propel a bike forward. But you never said anything about rules!"

I got a thorough lecture about German road rules after that. I will get my own bike next week.



This is Julia Blickhan, my sponsor and a lovely, lovely woman. She is a Greek engineer and English language teacher, married to a German kinetic scientist, and the mother of Thomas's best friend, Marko. She is like a second mother to Thomas. She is grown-up in a way adults rarely are anymore. She is a very positive role model. The moment I met her, I knew that I met my idol. Everything for her is 'excellent' and 'ganz toll.' The next day, we went to a place called 'Erdbereenland' and picked and ate strawberries to our hearts' content. The guy who collected the fees reminded me of Dana Carvey circa "Wayne's World." Funny.

The next day, we were off to Deggendorf, deep in Bayern (Bavaria) and where Thomas goes to University. I was priviledged enough to join Thomas's class in a team-building exercise, in cooperation with the German Bundeswehr (Army). The class pretended to be inhabitants of a foreign land, with funny customs, and the Army guys were supposed to teach us how to build a raft. We were supposed to learn team building, and the Army guys learned how to deal with inhabitants of a funny country with funny customs. We did the task by the muddy banks of the historic Danube River. Toll!



German Army men tapping the keg, which officially launches the after-raft building party, which was scheduled deliberately before the German game against Ecuador. Portable TV and shitty antenna be damned, we had to watch the game. Germany won 3-0, and I never had so many estatic soccer fans around me ever since I dated a footballer in UST. "Sh-la-la-la, shalalalalalalaaaa...." However, unlike my ex's friends, they were mostly drunk. Alexa, Thomas' classmate, said that this is the first time Germans allowed themselves to feel patriotic about their country since the Second World War.

We got free German Bundeswehr-issued energy drinks, sunblock, and insect protection lotion! Cool souveniers, if you ask me!



The Bavarians speak with a funny accent, with a hard tongue that I have to train my ears to understand. Herr Ang was right; everything separating Austria and Germany is artificial.

My immersion into the language has been exhausting. My ease switching between English and Tagalog had me thinking that I could snap my brain into another language easily. Ooooh boy. After speaking to Julia for an hour in English, my return to German-speaking society gave me a headache. Sometimes, I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of German, and I could not help but feel myself innundated. The constant stream of German is a tap I can't turn off. I have consistently been told that I speak great accent-free German, and nobody could believe that i had just learned the language three months ago.

I have learned slang, a complete departure from the bookish, proper German I learned from my amazing teacher, Herr Ang. My "Ich weiss nicht" is now "Keine Ahnung," and anything unusual is "Kommisch, oder?" My partizip II (the German way of expressing the past tense) has been reinforced. Before I came to Germany, even if I was told that Germans rarely use the simple past tense in their conversation, I insisted and persevered in drilling myself on it. Oh well.

I will start re-learning German next week, in my new language school, and open a bank account for myself here.

As they say in Bavaria (and Austria), "Servus!"

Auf Wiedersehen!

Thuringen: Das grüne Herz von Deutschland!

I am leaving on June 13, and will arrive at Frankfurt am Main the next day. Then off I go to Jena. My life since February has been in a tizzy because of all the preparations! Moving out of my flat, things to buy, German lessons, packing. Leaving a life is not my idea of fun :(

Sa mga ka-berks, I have a thing on Friday, 9 pm, sa Kapitolyo, Pasig. Last chance na natin to, e-mail or text me if you wanna join.

Auf Wiedersehen Manila! Bis Zwei Jahre!

Culture Vulture

So sue me, I am the artsy-fartsy type. I like going to plays, watching movies, going to exhibits, that sort of thing. I think that being a Libra has got something to do with it. My grandmother was also a great influence. She traded antiques during the 80s, and from her I gleaned a great appreciation for old knick-knacks and paintings. Its just sad that I don't have the same regard for music, unlike my father, who dabbles in visual art and rock and roll.

Photos

Two of the photographers I greatly admire today are Rene Enriquez and Juan Caguicla. They are so talented, it makes me weep with envy.

Rene's knack for composition is so amazing, his images are so clear. he has a great eye for timing, catching people off-guard and knowing just when to take the shot. A man asleep, children playing, an ephemeral butterfly landing at the lip of a small birdbath. quiet, unexpected moments as life unfurls. It helps that he is a painter. Painters are reputedly better photographers because they are formally trained in proportions, colors, shadows, that sort of thing.

I first encountered Juan's work during an exhibit that Elber put together last year. I was so amazed by the works of this man, how he plays with shadow and sepia, how it seems dated yet timeless. One of his photos was especially striking: A lonely tree seemingly ablaze in a dry field of brush, its leaves shimmering, disappearing. into the air. His work reminds me of the trompe-l'oeil movement of the mid 19th century, except this time, his photographs looked more like paintings than the paintings trying to look like photographs.

I accosted him later to congratulate his work and ask how he did it. He told me that he was dabbling with infrared film at the time, but he didn't have time to talk shop because he had to leave.

Juan currently has an exhibit at the Greenbelt 3 Mall, which would end on June 1. His exhibit called Parispace/Paristreet was commissioned by the Alliance Française, who sent him to Paris to uncover ordinary life existing along these amazing landmarks romanticized worldwide. I had to see it because I was interested at what Juan had to offer this time, and because already missed the Christian Lacroix exhibit.

I was not so impressed by most of this current collection. Perhaps I was caught off-guard because was used to his style of staged photographs that look amazing, not photos of pedestrians caught up in daily life. Catching a bird mid-flight as it hovers over the Louvre for me is not impressive. I liked the street-scenes in black and white better. I loved the very strong shadows of those pictures. It made me do a double-take and examine whether the photograph was taken in 1906 or 2006. I am interested how well Rene could have interpreted the same project, since this is more his genre.

Actors

Let us now move on to my crush of the moment, Daniel Brühl



This is Daniel Brühl. He is a German-Spanish hottie of an actor from acclaimed German/ European films such as Der Liebe in Gedanken, Joyeux Noel, and Goodbye Lenin. I am telling the 100 percent truth and not flattering my boyfriend when I say Thomas is 10 times more good looking than Herr Brühl. However, he has an intensity on film that I have yet to see in American or Filipino actors. I think the only time I have seen somebody with the same intensity was Nikolaj Lie Kaas in Reconstruction, an indigestible piece of Danish filmmaking that left me piecing together the fucking movie for days. Maybe I am just dumb like that.

Anyway, Thomas said that actors are self-absorbed assholes who completely in love with themselves. I agree. However, that will not stop me from attacking Herr Brühl and mawing at his chipmunk cheeks if I ever see him in the streets of Berlin. Please stop me.

Unfortunately for me, is engaged to this.



German actress Jessica Schwarz was once crowned Miss Teen Germany or something. They have been together since 2001. She is perfection. *sigh* A girl can always dream.

Coupling



I am a fan of the BBC show Coupling. Thank you Star World! The Kumars at Number 42 may be gone, but replacing it with Coupling is genius! BBC shows rawk. Seriously, the writing is so sharp and intelligent. It's so addctive, almost like crack, or granulated Milo. How can people compare it to Friends? It's more like Sex in the City. Star World, please continue to bring British shows to Asia! Too bad Coupling has ended. Jeff is really whack!

Pop that Cherry!

* Warning: Adult Content

During a recent Toastmasters seminar on injecting humor into a speech, the facilitator asked us to form groups and share our fears. He said that these fears will be great source material for humor.

You all know the geeky guy, right? There is one in every school, in every clique, in every office. The thin, lanky, most probably bespectacled one who is so wrapped up in his work/interests that he doesn't have time for girls. The one whom everyone predicts will be an old bachelor. Well, this particularly geeky guy admitted to the group that his biggest fear is that he'll wind up as "a 40-year old virgin."

Another discussion late Monday night with my roomates, over another geeky guy, made me wonder about the premium men put over virginity. I know that doing something for the first time is monumental, but I feel that this worldwide obsession at becoming somebody's "first" in the sack has more to do with the male ego than with actual "purity."

I did not particularly enjoy my first time. I did it more as a rebellion toward society, toward my Catholic upbringing that mandated that I remain "chaste" until I marry. I didn't buy that for one bit because I was surrounded by unhappy people who did everything right, who had sex upon marriage and followed everything that was supposed to make them happy. Yet, they ended up separated from their spouses, bitter and vindictive. I stupidly decided that this had to end. I must not be a virgin by age 20. Then I got a boyfriend when I was 19. A varsity soccer player in my school who was born and raised in Ghana, of Filipino descent. He was, uh, okay. He did the thing in increments, so as not to shock my system. I don't really know if he--or if I was any good. I just remember that it triggered in me a whirlwind of confusion that added to my already unstable mental state at the time. And this lasted for about three to four years of absolute craziness. I consider it a mistake on my part, but in hindsight, I think that it did a lot to help me "grow up."

I don't know if guys really enjoy popping cherries in a non-ego related way, but I don't really enjoy popping guy's cherries. Really, guy virgins are...hmmm. Weird.

One of my exes said that I was his first. He later proved to be a cheat and a liar so I don't really believe what he said. However, I have been the "second" of two guys.

The first one. I was 23. He was 19. He was a varsity arnis player for the green school along Taft. (haha!)With his trained, buff chest and arms from hours and hours of martial-arts stick fighting, he was really strong. We were both anime freaks.

I was impressed by his size. It was huge for a Pinoy! However, his gifts in the equipment department was unfortunately overshadowed by his lack of skills. He tended to move his entire body, not just his pelvis. You remember the Sex in the City episode where Carrie had a guy who was a "jackrabbit?"* Yeah, that. And he liked to flop his dense, muscular body on top of me after exhausting himself. I would lie there. As I felt myself slowly suffocate, I would strain to say "get off me *pant* please"

I tried coaching him. Later, with a pillow, I guided his hips, like a good teacher should. "Yes. please. use your pelvis. Only your pelvis. Hop along, thrust. Yes!" Apparently, he didn't take instruction very well. He accused me of stealing his mother's watch as his weird "escape option" because he couldn't bring himself to say "break na tayo." In retaliation, I did not return his comic book collection. Bwahaha.

The second guy also had the weird jackrabbit thing going as well. As we were knocking boots, the headboard started banging the wall so heavily, one would think that a jackhammer was demolishing the wall behind us. I lay there, and I was like hey, okay, relax! Thankfully for him, he actually asked what he should be doing, and he was a very good student. He actually developed into one of the best lovers I have had.

So in conclusion, virgin guys are usually so happy to be actually doing a woman that they think a vagina has the same qualities as their right (or left) hand. Be gentle, my dear virgin men. relax. Breathe. Rough sex does not automatically mean good sex!

*a jackrabbit is a guy who basically masturbates using a vagina instead of his hand.

Against My Skin

I never noticed it until Thomas pointed it out--I, and my fellow Filipinos--are racist against our own skin.

It elicited an outraged "What?" from me, and it led to one of our great cultural debates, where I began to see things from his perspective, and hopefully, his to mine. In the next couple of months, I slowly realized the sad truth behind his observation.

Before Thomas, I had gone out on a couple of dates with white guys, one was pleasant, one was not so. In my limited contact with foreigners, mostly Americans and Canadians, I was shocked with the condescending behavior most of them regarded Fiipinos. I really got on the defensive whenever they would buy me presents and treat me to dinners, because I also had this pre-conception at the back of my head that they might think that they were "buying" me.

I could not blame them, nor myself. In the Philippines, people discriminate against the women branded as "mukhang katulongs," or literally "a girl who looks like a domestic helper." There is an immediate pre-conceived notion that an Asian woman+Caucasian male= Mail order bride, or prostitute. As I mentioned in my 'Yan and Pinay post, I do not begrudge them for this sad economic reality, but the truth is, I really do feel that the YAP will only lead to further discrimination of Filipinas because we bought in to the discrimination. It is a no-win situation--Filipinos against Filipinos. It really is a situation that, I believe, we brought upon ourselves.

Thomas is really frustrated at my seeming reluctance to move to Germany. Of course, I am reluctant , because I have an entire life here in the Philippines that is not undesirable. But he pointed out something else--my belief that German embassy officials will make things hard for me because I am Filipino is clearly a chip on my shoulder, my belief that I will be treated less favorably because I am Filipino. Perhaps, he is right.

I see this discrimination even in my own family. My aunt's behavior of expecting Thomas to finance my life is clearly borne from this perception.

In my month-long travel around the country, people would impolitely assume that I met Thomas through the internet or through some pen-pal community. From Ilocos to Bohol, people would ask if I met him through a chatroom. Where? Could I go to this website? No matter how I explained that we met in the Philippines through work, no body would believe me. A tricycle driver in Vigan directly asked me through what web service did I meet Thomas, immediately assuming that we met through the internet, without even asking me how we met. When I told him that we met through work, my office was two buildings away from his he replied, "Aah...ganun. Anong gamit niyo, Yahoo o Hotmail?" (Oh. So what webservice do you use? Yahoo! or Hotmail?)

In the Visayas, people would ask me what penpal service I used to snag my man. It was hilarious, but very telling of the mentality of our countrymen. To them, I was not a Filipina. I was desperate to get wealthy. (Ha! If they only knew!)

In Carmen, Bohol, after camping on top of a Chocolate Hill, Thomas and I bought a coke from the store at the foot of the hill. The store-keeper, apparently alerted of Thomas' presence from the locals the night before, was obviously disappointed that he had company. "Ay, may kasama pala!" She them proceeded to introduce us to her sister and niece, both emerging from the front door with wet hair fresh from the shower. One of the girls came out with just a bathing towel on. Thankfully, Thomas expressed disinterest. Inside, I felt fury and mirth. Mirth because the situation was indeed funny. Fury because the woman was practically pimping her relatives! A look around their community, however, made me understand why they felt that a union with a white man is their only way out.

Because of my travels, I no longer begrudge the pairings of the young Pinay with the old white geezer. Hopefully, my mind will expand a little more if I leave of the country (temporarily!). When you think about it, it really benefits the country. Old men who would not get a second look in their country team up with young women who would never get a second look in our country create a better, and hopefully, a more loving life together. The world could always use a little love. If not, at least they can help populate the country with Assunta de Rossis.

OMG Amazing Race Scandal!

You know guys that I am a mucho Amazing Race effing junkie!!! I would've joined the damned thing if Thomas were here!!!

I am a devout reader of Michael K's D Listed blog and saw these amazing photos of the Hippie guys! Shit, I think they're the bomb and I would totally date them! They're so bouyantly weird!

And it seems that they're gay! OMG, Then I would really totally do them? GAAAAAH my fag-hag tendencies are coming to surface again!



According to MK, they were in a party after the race but before the airing!!!! Da sheeet!!! What kind of party is that?????



I mean, the frat boys, I think they're obnoxious, and my gaydar was going totally bling bling with them boys...but they ain't my type

Flux

I have so many stories to tell, yet it seems that I never have enough time to commit to tell them!

Seasons change. Friends come and go. Fashion, haircuts, jobs, apartments, impending relocations.

So many things have happened to me since I moved out of my parents in 2003.

I lost my favorite aunt. I got a part-time job. I met whom I hope is the love of my life. We toured the country. We taught each other things that we know eill alter us forever.

I hope that following my heart will lead me to places where I need to be. Wish me luck.

Cheer If You're Winning!

ZsaZsah Zaturnah Ze Muzikal!
CCP Tanghalang Huseng Batute



Filipino Comic book heroes have another wonder-man/woman in their esteemed roster! Here comes Zsazsah Zaturnnah! Ada, a gay beautician/ beauty salon owner from Smalltown, Anywhere, Philippines, becomes the mysterious recipient of a glowing stone that falls from the sky while he showers in his batalan. His hilarious sidekick/assistant beautician/flaming queen house mate, Didi, convinced that the stone is mystical and imbues a person with superpowers, talks Ada into swallowing the fist-sized rock and he promptly becomes…Zsazsah Zaturnnah! A 6-foot titan haired woman, with double D breasts and the powers to leap from tall buildings unscathed! Dodge bullets! Do super Kung Fu!

At first, Ada is bowled over by the fact that she has become a woman. But then a group of alien lady warriors called “Amazonistas”—Dina B., Sharon C., Nora A., and Vilma S., and their Queen, Femina, try to invade the earth by targeting their small town. They send a giant frog rampaging through the barangay. Ada knows that only ZsaZsah can save her town, and the earth, in an ultimate battle between good and razor-clawed, Celia Rodriguez-inspired evil Femina.

Ada/Zsazsa also has to deal with her burgeoning romance with Dodong, his hunky next-door neighbor. Can love triumph over social conventions? Will Zsazsa defeat the frog and the Amazonistas? And will she get the guy?

This deliciously campy comic book, released in 2003 by Carlo Vergara, created a stir among gay and straight comic-book aficionados, even becoming something of a mainstream hit. Its tongue-in-cheek humor, its steady pulse on 70s and 80s pop culture camp won over many readers despite its heavy use of swardspeak, which left some heterosexuals scratching their heads in incomprehension. When time came to bring Zsazsah to life, her exploits were turned into—what else? A musical!

Tanghalang Pilipino’s exuberant staging of Zsazsah shows how much fun the cast had during the staging. Lyricist, composer, and musical director Vincent De Jesus’ use of gospel and soul music, and the uplifting vocals of the chorus, provide just the right light-hearted treatment of this highly entertaining and outrageously gay musical. The collective crescendo of their voices is infectious; one can’t help but dance and clap along with them. Kudos goes to the production for the excellent casting, even of the small roles.

The cast had a grand time delivering the zingers in the script. Ricci Chan (of Magandang Umaga Pilipinas, most popular for his portrayal of Angel in the local production of Rent) is a scene-stealer as Didi, with his commanding vocals and balahura lines such as “Ikaw talaga, parang hindi ka sanay sumubo ng malaki!” In the hands of skilled Chan, he made the material shine its brightest.

Eula Valdez as Zsazsa, the gay Ada’s alter-ego, was a revelation. With this play, Amor Powers has proven that she can not only play api on screen; she can kick, act, and sing her heart out! Hats off to her, she really gave the performance her all, especially during some of the dramatic scenes. She has emotionally connected to her character. However, her portrayal lacked an indefinable je ne sais quoi. Perhaps, like Julie Andrews in the movie Victor, Victoria, it’s hard work if you’re a woman pretending to be a gay man. While Ada is a soft-spoken barrio bading, Valdez was still acting a bit too feminine for the part.

Kalila Aguilos as Femina plays the villain to the hilt. Her rendition conjures images of all of the istariray kontrabida actresses local cinema could muster. Her snooty faux-British accent, her raised eyebrow, her commanding portrayal of Femina is the icing of this deliciously pink cake. The final showdown between Femina and Zsazsa in an abandoned kakanin factory is hilarious!

Hopefully, Tanghalang Pilipino will re-stage Zsazsa for the scores of people who were unable to buy tickets to the sold-out show. TP didn’t anticipate the popularity of Zsazsa, the comic book and the musical. Perhaps, they will be accommodated in a theatre bigger than the 100-seat Huseng Batute Theatre. While director Chris Millado’s innovative use of the small space is commendable (especially with the use of Barbie dolls in the giant frog scene), the play would have benefited from a larger venue. Such close intimacy of the actors with the audience is not a necessary requirement for the material at hand.

Overall, the musical never hit a false note. It remained faithful to the comic book without sacrificing time, and with minimal changes in the story.

While non-Filipinos and expats may have a hard time catching the gay lingo and the Filipino pop culture references, it does not diminish the power and energy of the play about Ada, a small town bakla who, because of a giant stone from the sky, discovered that he had he heart of a lion.

* to be published in Asian Journal

Sagada High

Warning: Adult Content

Before we set off on our trip, my brother leaned over into our car and asked us, "Hey when you get to Sagada, can you score some pot?"

First off, I feel like I have to explain why this is okay for me, as an older sister to a younger brother. My relationship with my siblings may be hard to understand by outsiders. We are a very-close-knit set; we cover each other's asses. We party together, we support each other. We are really good friends.

We discovered sex, drugs, and all that jazz independently. We confide and seek advice with each other. We know our limits, and I know my brother isn't a pothead.

The mountains up north are famous for producing quality weed, and of course, just like my brother, I was curious as to why this was considered the best in the country.

We really enjoyed our trip up north. Crisp mountain air, small, artsy, laid-back community, amazing food and great restaurants, this was right up my and Thomas' alley.

Thomas, like me, also enjoys the occasional joint. When we got there, he was also eager to sample the goods. I was reluctant to ask around for a score, so Thomas did the asking. We didn't have to go very far.

As we suspected, where there was smoke, there was a joint. On our second night there, we returned to *Bonfire Inn, where we had dinner the first night. We were greeted at the entrance by two teenaged kids making merry with liquor, who offered us a swig of their Tanduay. We refuse, as we raise the bottle of tapuy (rice wine) we brought with us. Instead, Thomas asked if they knew where to get something "to smoke."

"Oh, just go inside and ask for *Janice. She works for the restaurant inside."

So off we go and hunt for Janice. A few moments later, she materializes and she immediately understands what we want from her.

She took us to a dark corner, and produced a wad of tissue from her bosom. Gingerly unfolding the fabric, she says that her hash is P 500 for 10 grams. "I have good stuff, good stuff," she assures us, when we question the price.

After the purchase, we go back to the boys. They ask us if we were able to purchase something. We nod. Alwin and Mark. Alwin studies in the local high school, while Mark is a university student in Baguio. The examine our block, sniff it. Yes, this is a fresh harvest. We invite them to sample it with us.

We didn't have any paper with us, but they had cigarettes. Mark demonstrated a technique that I could not perfect. With his lighter, he burned off a corner of the stone, which later crumbled after pinching it off. Then he heated the cigarette stick, loosening the tobacco inside. After emptying the cylinder into his palm, he mixed the hash and the tobacco leaves, then scooped the mixture back into the paper vial. He is very adept at the skill.

I inhale during my turn. Heavy smoke fills my lungs, and the sweet aftertaste of the hash ring my lips. With each puff, my eyelids grow heavy, and words begin to fail me when I try to form sentences.

A man approaches us from the opposite side of the fence by the entrance. He offers us weed, saying that he has a fresh harvest. We negotiate--P 200 for 10 grams. He says he has to go home to get the merchandise.

Alwin creates another stick. After sharing the second joint, Mark begins to utter gibberish. Alwin apologizes for his friend; he's been drinking since 8 pm. Thomas, Alwin, and I take alternately take a swig of either tanduay or tapuy.

In the middle of the conversation, Mark suddenly falls silent. We leave him, thinking that he was trying to collect his wits. He suddenly falls on his side, on the grassy earth. Clutching his stomach, he vomits. Thomas says that he is puking in the right position; no need to worry about choking.

The man returns, and produces dried stuff that fills half of a small plastic bag. He also gives us a fresher batch "for free," wrapped tightly in paper like a giant ball of candy. We thank him for the stuff, and leave Alwin. "Take care of your friend, make sure he gets home," says Thomas as we wave goodbye.

The next day, we buy rolling papers from an artsy cafe in the mountain town. We ask for advice how to take it back home, fearing random inspections from police. You'll have to try your luck, says the storekeeper, there is no surefire way to prevent it.

Back to earth, during my brother-in-law's last night in the city, Thomas and I, My sister and her husband, and my brother sit in a circle and enjoy a joint--three joints, as perhaps our parents had, enjoying the smoke, the cameraderie of friendship and relations. The pot mixture turns out to be too strong for Thomas, and I help him back to bed.



NikkiAlfar

Tobie Abad

Gabby Lee

Andre Mischa Cleofe

*Name has been changed

Infamy

To understand what this post is about, first you have to read this

Done? Good.

Now I am amazed at the ripples that some of my actions cause. Last Thursday, My friends from the younger set of the Executive Toastmasters Club decided to go out for some drinks after the meeting. I was coaching Lyra, one of our newest members, on how to pick a topic for her Speech number two for her basic manual (hehe, TM geek-speak).

The discussion drifted to places where we can go hang out outside of TM, and she mentioned that she goes to the annual Cosmo Bachelor's bash as a panata (personal vow). Leslie and I were not able to go because we weren't able to score tickets, plus, Thomas and I went to Marinduque for the weekend.

"But I did attend the 2004 bash. In fact, I went up the stage for one of their contests," I noted.

"Oh yeah? I was there too! Who were you there?"

"I don't know if you'd remember, but I joined the lick-the-chocolate-syrup off the model contest."

"Oh my God! Who were you there?"

"I was the girl who made the model lie down..."

And she lets off this shriek, "OH MY GOD! YOU WERE THAT GIRL!!! YOU'RE INFAMOUS!" and she starts laughing her head off.

In an excited voice, she tells me that the 2005 party was boring, and I spiced up the 2004 party, asked me what the hell I was thinking, blah blah.

And here is the kicker! "Ohmygod, my girlfriends and I were debating whether or you were a tranny!

And I had the biggest laugh of the month! I get it all the time, and all because of the same reason she gave. "Because we weren't sure if there was really a girl who would have the guts to go do what you did!"

"Actually I went backstage after that and spoke to the other male models. They were all shocked at what you did and they all felt sorry for the model. They felt that he was exploited!"

A kick in the head, eh? Should I say go girl power?

I retort, "Hello, the felt exploited? This was a party where they had male models gyrate in cages!"

"Oh my God, I can't wait to tell my friends that I met that infamous girl from the Bachelor's Bash.

Dammit, and I still have leftover mouthwash to prove it!

---------

On another note, Michael (aka Basang Panaginip )has compiled a list of the sexiest bloggers in the blogosphere. And yes, I am on that list! I even ran into an old college classmate. Read his selection, he has led me to some blogs that I now read avidly. Thanks for picking my blog, I am so flattered! I guess my name does indeed live in infamy!