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.