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.