Stopping to Eat the Roses

Lesson: From being trapped in a train

2011-08-30T18:34:00.004+02:00

It was summer in Brussels. I decided to take the métro to Gare du Midi (Zuidstation) to get tickets to Paris to visit my sister. Boarding from the Madou station, I squeezed myself into an unexpected mid-afternoon crowd.

I predicted that this would be an in-and-out operation; the train ride itself was supposed to last just a little over 10 minutes. I'd be back in my flat in no time. As I stood in the train, I let my thoughts wander to the boulangerie around the corner from where I lived. I would most certainly stop by on the way home to pick up le sandwich generously stuffed with crab meat. My stomach growled at the idea: I wished the errand would get done even more quickly.

About five minutes into what is usually an uneventful ride, the train lurched to violent stop. Some passengers who, like myself, had been standing lost their balance and crashed into other bodies inside the crammed train. "Désolé." "Pardon", they said as they straightened themselves.

Seconds later, the lights went out completely. Audible gasps. By this time we had reached a tunnel. Until my eyes adjusted, I could barely see a thing. I instinctively clutched my purse close and leaned against a wall. Fantastic, I muttered.

Passengers groaned and cussed, as passengers do when they are inconvenienced. After a couple of minutes, the speakers crackled to life. It was the barely discernible voice of the conductor as he said something of certain importance in Flemish and French. For the life of me, I could not make out a word. That was not simply due to my lack of facility in those languages as neither could other passengers. We waited in silence for a few moments, expecting the conductor to say more or to repeat himself, but it soon became clear that was all we were going to get. More groaning and whinging and muttering ensued. About a dentist's appointment that would be missed. About a child to be fetched from daycare. About another train that would soon depart. About how this is so typical of Brussels.

Ten minutes into this, some passengers managed to get a signal, however faint, and called Brussels' Finest. Our train is stuck somewhere between Madou and Porte de Namur, they barked irritably into their phones, though no one could be certain about the location. Others rang the train authority. Someone on the train got word somehow that there had been a massive power outage, which was why we were not moving. That was likely the gist of the conductor's message.

In the dim light, approaching the 10th minute of being stuck, passengers began to speculate openly, fearfully. Someone voiced the concern that other trains could not see us in the pitch darkness of the tunnel—mon Dieu!—and how we could be veritable sitting ducks to a speeding train that did not get the memo. An animated discussion followed; everyone was suddenly a pundit on the safety of the Brussels métro.

This was an absurd and hardly comforting thought. I brushed it aside quickly. Surely, those folks at the train authority have got this under control. Right?

At a certain moment during our confinement in the immobile train, a wave of panic, hysteria, and frustration palpably gripped the crowd. It was almost as if in unison the passengers decided to completely lose it. Under the weight of the stifling heat and the thinning air, they snapped. By this time we had been stuck for about 15 minutes.

People in our car began to faint, prompting others to kick and smash the windows to allow more air in. The old lady, the teenage girl, the little boy—they all crumpled in their seats. Shards of glass flew; a young man was cut and bleeding. Children started to wail. Many shed a layer of clothing. Some girls were crying and hyperventilating. People were now yelling on the phone, calling for help, asking to be rescued. Many were genuinely afraid, others hysterical.

I stayed where I was, glued against the wall, and silently prayed. With the freneticism in the train, I felt a weight on my chest and gasped for breath. I told myself this was perhaps due to the frissons of panic I myself was beginning to feel but which I tried to fight off.

I steeled my mind and transported myself to more comfortable and safer places. I closed my eyes and saw a park, my flat, the beach. I told myself, This will be over soon. Have a bit more patience. You'll be just fine. You will.

A towering Congolese woman stood beside me. She, too, was trying to keep calm, soothing others and distributing squares of the newspaper she carried so we could fan ourselves. (Print lives!) She handed me half a page, which I accepted gratefully. In the heavy, sticky air shared by perhaps a hundred people, I could not coax wind from it. My head was pounding.

All this while I created distance between myself and the chaos around me. I could not let myself be touched by fear, though it was on the fringe of every thought and breath, waiting to be let in. I had no idea how long we would be in that train, if in the end we would need to be rescued, which could take hours. I reminded myself that panic never helps, that I needed a clear head to get through this.

I realize I am making this out to be the Chilean miners' crisis—it was nowhere nearly as challenging or dramatic, I admit. It is nevertheless amazing to discover one has this inner reserve from which one can draw clarity and calm. I hope to never forget it.

We were stuck in this horrible train for nearly 45 minutes. It felt much longer. When the lights flickered on in the car and the train began to move slowly, one could feel the immense and staggering relief. Shortly we arrived at Hôtel des Monnaies, just before Gare du Midi, where I wanted to go. Police and emergency services were waiting for us. Passengers spilled out, dazed, groggy, unsteady. Some were carried in stretchers. Ambulances stood outside.

I never got a good explanation for what exactly happened back there.

I emerged from the depths of the station and stepped into the sunlight, taking in huge gulps of fresh air, vowing to book online next time.

About the image: Read about the fascinating history of this World War II-era motivational poster here.

The Beatles had them in mind

2011-03-16T13:21:00.006+01:00

Dear Readers, things have been busy of late at chez Rose Eater, and I have let March, well, march halfway through before I came around to posting. But I am ever so pleased to share the reason: there is going to be a wedding in my family for the first time! Cue in theme from 'Love Actually'!
My sister Berry, love of my life, is engaged and is to wed in a couple of months her lovely boyfriend M.J. (He has been mentioned in this blog before, in a post that invariably mentioned good food, with which he is often associated. Clearly, I like the guy.) Berry got the dreamy and romantic surprise proposal she deserved on a bridge (above) in Mangenguey, a tiny, private island in Palawan during a Philippine holiday in October. She promptly let out a tearful, touched "Ja!"--and now we're all about pegs for flowy dresses and fonts for invitations. There's a flurry of activity and swatches and (excited) shrieking going on in our household at the moment...When things get crazy, I simply threaten to swallow her diamond ring; this always succeeds in creating that pause.

My parents and I are flying over to Zürich for the civil rites in May. What makes this event even more special is that it would be the first time for me to travel with my parents to Europe. Berry and I are overjoyed we can show them our corners of the continent, the cities we've grown to love, the little things that have inspired us, the parts of our lives that were lived out largely away from their view for the last two, three years and which we have always wanted to share.

The couple wants to have another ceremony next year in this island in the Philippines. (We've got plenty, all 7,107 of them!) As they both reside in Zürich, I'm handling a chunk of the planning from over here. More checklists in my future! What amazes (and partly alarms) me is that it seems relatively simple--even too simple--to plan for a wedding. Perhaps, I am unfazed because I've handled conferences and other events before. This one just has more gowns, bigger hair.
A part of me is bracing for a scream over Skype on the day my sister realizes we missed out on a major detail of the wedding preparations. I've told her, Just don't forget to tell the groom where and when. I bring the flowers, you two bring the romance. Love is all we need.

Image credit: All photos by Berry.

Wanderlust: Cairo

2011-02-21T07:21:00.009+01:00

This post is dedicated to the wonderful P of What Possessed Me, who lived in Cairo for some time and who helped to fan the flames of this wanderlust. I finally made it there, P!

For my last birthday, F surprised me with a trip to Egypt. Clearly, he is in the running for Boyfriend Of The Year and it is looking very good indeed. He knows that the best way to my heart is through my passport!

F has traveled to Egypt several times for work. On each occasion I'd be green with envy. As someone who devoured National Geographic issues on the Valley of the Kings and sat rapt in front of the telly for countless documentaries on pharaohs, mummies, and other bits of Egyptology, I was beyond thrilled I was going to be whisked away to exotic, dusty, romantic Egypt! This was a long-held dream coming true. (By the way, this trip took place in October, long before the events on Tahrir Square that made headlines around the world.)

We only had four days and hence decided to spend all of them in Cairo, where we also have friends. Because F felt like pulling out all the stops, we flew business class, which effectively ruined me for all future flying, as I've concluded that this is the only way I want to travel henceforth and, yes, champagne and chocolates until touchdown ought to be in the Passengers' Bill of Rights. Don't even get me started on the massage settings of the fully reclining seats...

We arrived to the organized chaos of Cairo, spending nearly two hours in the car after leaving the airport, even as our driver deftly wove through shortcuts in this enormous city. Makeshift stalls created spontaneous little markets in different pockets of Cairo. The atmosphere was frenetic, vibrant, and energetic, verging on the unpredictable. As F remarked in the car, 'Welcome back to the Middle East!'

Tourists have been coming to Egypt for centuries; tourism is a vital industry. I had assumed (wrongly) that Cairo would hence be a more cosmopolitan and more openminded place, perhaps, even--gasp!--liberal (OK, so I might have been a touch naïve about that). Once there, though, I got warned a few times that my skirt was 'too short' (I certainly thought it wasn't), while men in cars would drive slow, roll their windows down, and unabashedly whistle. I went around the city, sometimes on foot, in the company of F and our German friend, who was also male, but that did not stop the staring and the catcalling that I was not prepared to encounter. This behavior came as a surprise.

To balance this out, I have to add that this certainly should not reflect on all Egyptian men; I don't wish to make a hasty generalization. On our evenings out, F and I got to meet several young Cairenes, high on life and brimming with ideas, on politics, religion, and culture, and we felt very much at home. One of these youths would later gain prominence in the media for his involvement in the anti-Mubarak protests.

Nothing, however, could dampen my enthusiasm for this holiday of holidays. I picked a few photos (from my stash of over 300!) to share here.

On my birthday itself, our hosts took F and I on a felucca ride on the Nile. In some parts, the Nile is not just a river in Egypt (ha!); it resembles a sea, so broad in places, with soft, rolling waves. Marveling at its greatness, I could only easily understand how this river spells life in this region.

Turning a year older, softened by champagne.

The Egyptian Museum, where I finally got to see Hatshepsut, legendary She-King of Egypt, resting in the Royal Mummies Hall along with her noble kin. F and I spent an afternoon in the museum with a tour guide who ensured we saw the highlights in this cave of wonders. It was a brilliant decision to get a guide, as there are thousands upon thousands of interesting details and items in this building. Many artifacts are unfortunately poorly curated or have information only in Arabic, in some occasions, hastily scrawled on strips of paper. Now that Egypt is under new management, I hope to see antiquities, our window into this glorious history, valued more.

In Khan al-Khalili, the quintessential Middle Eastern bazaar. It is an enormous souk established in 1382 that has remained as vibrant today, with its labyrinth of shops and stalls selling goods of every kind. These copper lamps with hand-pierced patterns are extremely popular. F and I took a large one back with us to Berlin, where it brightens up our apartment beautifully.

The signboard of Qahwat al-Fishawi. El-Fishawy is an establishment in Cairo that one simply cannot miss. This coffeehouse is partly derelict, wholly unpretentious, and genuinely Egyptian. The walls are peeling, the tea cups are chipped, and the copper tops of the wobbly tables are blackened, but the atmosphere is incomparable. One can sit inside or by the alley lined with mirrors (thus it is also known as the "café of mirrors"). We sat here for mint tea and shisha and observed the events along the clogged arteries of the Khan. Naguib Mahfouz, the only Arabic-language Nobel Prize for Literature winner, wrote most of his works in this café and called himself El-Fishawy's 'loyal son'. Meanwhile, I people-watched.

I think I was swatting a fly on my neck as F was taking this photo. Behind me the pyramid of Khafre, famous for the original casing stones by its summit. Giza was breathtaking and, yes, touristy and probably cliché, but who does not want to see the pyramids on a first visit to Egypt?

I haven't seen touters anywhere as persistent as those in Giza, selling souvenirs, tours, camel rides, the whole nine yards, and not taking 'no' for an answer for the first 50 times. Photo-bombing was also rather popular with them. ('No thanks, I do not wish to have a photo with you and your camel.')

I braved the baking sun, sweltering heat, and blistering sand to have my pyramid sighting and I was rewarded in a big way. F and I spent half a day in there. A very cute thing happened later that morning: F was stopped by a gaggle of Egyptian high-school girls in Giza who wanted to have their photos taken with him. He was so game.

Finally, there she was, beautiful and ever so mysterious. Thank you, Egypt.

All photos mine.

Praha is for lovers

2010-05-31T21:05:00.002+02:00

This is a long-due post about a truly romantic weekend getaway in April. F and I marked four years since holding hands for the first time somewhere in Jordan, by holding hands in gorgeous Prague.

I've wanted to see this city for the longest time. In what was probably among the best decisions we've ever made together, F and I chose to take the car and drove about three and a half hours from Berlin to Prague. On that same weekend, travelers all over Europe dealt with the consequences of a pesky, ill-tempered Icelandic volcano. (Yes, I'm talking about you, Eyjafjallajokull.) The drive was easy and pleasant, and all throughout we had incredible amounts of sunshine. The weather conspired to amp the romance of this weekend. It truly reminded me of those days, four years before, when I was only starting to get to know F. He was driving then, too, down the King's Road in Jordan, the desert blurring all around us.

F chose a great hotel, which very nicely, due to volcanic-ash related cancellations, upgraded us to a suite with a balcony facing the river Vltava. We stuck bottles of champagne inside the fridge and took off to explore the city. This view from the balcony made my heart sing.

The Prague that first-time visitors would like to see is in fact quite tiny - which is great for us as we believe the best way to get to know a city is on foot. Ever so smartly, I decided to not to challenge the medieval cobblestone streets this time, left my heels at home and brought sensible walking shoes instead. Infinitely grateful feet.

We did the whole touristy nine yards. Despite the havoc the ash cloud created on airline travel, Prague still had a sizable amount of tourists that weekend. Lonely Planet might do a better job of detailing the tourist attractions than I possibly can, busy as I was batting my eyelashes at my boyfriend. Meanwhile, here are a few favorite photos from Prague.

The Vltava river
A view of Prague rooftops from the Prague Castle
Prague Castle looms in the distance. Somebody just had to tag this view.
Charles Bridge, best enjoyed from a distance without jostling with other tourists who were ironically bent on a romantic promenade.
"Fred and Ginger" of Frank Gehry's "Dancing House"
The cavernous hall of Prague Castle, where I could very well picture long nights of medieval entertainment. Dancers, court jesters, beer...
Walking towards the Old Town Square, with like-minded tourist hordes.
Some of the 31 luminous, yellow penguins that were part of an art installation on the riverbanks by Mala Strana

The world's fastest escalators. We commuted to get to a restaurant that happened to be on the other side of town. I alighted on these steps with a real fear for my life.

Here's what I gorged on: Don't tell the Germans and the Belgians, in whose countries I've lived and of whose beer I've partaken. But Czech beer is probably the very best I've had in Europe.

This is the Pražská klobása. Anthony Bourdain led us to this sausage stand by Wenceslas Square.

Say good morning to this plate of fried eggs with black truffle shavings, served at Café Savoy, a Viennese Kaffeehaus-styled institution. We enjoyed this restaurant so much, we had brunch there two days in a row.

And finally, enjoying a glass of bubbly and celebrating four years of adventures and capers with my F.

All photos mine.

Body in Berlin, heart in Manila

2010-05-12T14:21:00.003+02:00

As you might have heard on the news, the Philippines had its elections last Monday, six years after Gloria Macapagal Arroyo assumed the presidency. It was also the first time for the automated counting and transmission of election results. The manual method my country employed for years led to stretches as long as three weeks to find out who won in the elections. That span of time gave many opportunities for manipulation of results, for cheating and vote-buying, and for intimidation of public school teachers, who in the Philippines are tasked with handling the count process, along with election officers.

With automation, the process that would normally take three weeks is now 88% concluded in only three days. Nothing short of a miracle! I admit, I did not think I would see this happen in my country. I won't be exaggerating when I say that machines came through for our democracy today.

The man I supported, Benigno Simeon "Noynoy" Aquino, the son of former president and democracy icon Corazon Aquino, is poised to take the presidency. He has a comfortable lead of three million votes over the next candidate, who, in an indictment of the electorate, happens to be Joseph Estrada, the president who was ousted in 2001 and convicted of plunder.

In this sense, I am filled with mixed emotions - overjoyed that Noynoy, the candidate who represents reforms most concretely to me, has won, but also thoroughly dismayed that Estrada, over whose massive corruption I took to the streets as a college student, still looms large in our politics. Which part of plunder do people not understand? I'll be shaking my head over this for days to come.

While Noynoy is the runaway winner of the presidential race, it is by no means because there was no one else to contest him. I have not seen this much fervor and passion among family and friends about candidates whom they believe would usher in a better Philippines. People actually debated policy this time around. We are used to bread and circuses, but finally we had candidates who offered much, much more. While Gilbert Teodoro and Richard Gordon did not come close to claiming Malacañang, they captured the imagination of so many voters, elevated the quality of discourse in the campaign and showed us this is what electoral maturity is all about, and not only do we deserve it, we are also ready for it. Neither Teodoro nor Gordon got my vote, but they certainly earned my respect. Thank you for making me optimistic.

In the coming weeks, a clearer picture will emerge about the new leaders of government, from the local to the national levels. I hope to find that more young people have taken (and in some parts of the Philippines, wrestled) the reins of leadership away from the dinosaurs of Philippine politics. I hope to see more idealistic, reform-minded, policy-oriented people in the ranks of elected officials. I hope there will be more leaders who want to champion reproductive health and the rights of women. I hope there will be a genuine focus on the grinding, generational poverty that plagues the Philippines, and a sincere desire to lift the standard of education that can break the cycle.

I'm making a wish list to send Noynoy Aquino. Thanks to Facebook, citizens are writing down what they think this new administration should prioritize and the compilation will land on the presidential desk before 30 June, when the new president takes his oath.

Hairy matters

2010-05-08T12:13:00.004+02:00

I had my hair snipped some weeks ago. I was starting to get cocker spaniel locks again, and with summer coming up (or so we hope here in Berlin!), my hair was only going to get dry and lifeless unless an intervention was staged pronto. So a visit to the friseur was arranged. It's always a thrill for me, as I don't go to the hair salon often. In Berlin, F and I are huge fans of the Aveda Day Spa in the Hotel Adlon. It is admittedly a luxury but one that I partake of only a few times every year.

After a minty, cool shampooing that I thoroughly enjoyed, my golden stylist N. S. got to work. She gave me a length that's decidedly long but still just at the cusp of being short. I also wanted a 'do that was angular and striking, with fringes. I was getting a bit bored with my hair and often hid its real state behind a ponytail.

N. S. understood, and the result was entirely japonais. My stylist took photos afterwards of my perfectly asymmetrical hairstyle. What do you think?

Photos by N. S.

Sssshhh...

2010-04-26T22:43:00.003+02:00

The tree in our building's courtyard has started to come alive. It's been a long time coming; it remained bare and leafless until only a week ago. F and I would look out from our window and wonder why it was taking so long. But these things just cannot be rushed. Those leaves need to take their sweet time. I took a photo of the tree the moment I spotted its first leaves. I had to zoom in real close, they were rather tiny. This (above) was taken sometime late last week.

Now here is what the tree looks like today (below), after all the sunshine we enjoyed in Berlin over the weekend. Its leaves sprung out almost overnight and turned a loud, riotous green.

Other miracles are quietly unfolding. Over the Easter holidays, F and I visited his parents and we joined them to a garden festival at Schloss Ippenburg, a castle in Bad Essen. Despite my doubts in my ability to sustain living things, I refused to leave the exhibition grounds without a plant. F and I decided on some yellow dwarf roses - and you know how I love roses - and we replanted them in our window sill back in Berlin. Three weeks later, look what we've got here.
Several other blooms join this little one. I am resisting giving them names. And so it is that today I've learned I am merely horrible at pots of basil. I am better suited to nourish roses.

Be my guest!

2010-04-24T13:10:00.005+02:00

I find myself suddenly hosting a dinner tonight at the apartment. Since F and I moved into this flat last January, our second in Berlin, we've entertained only family and two close friends. It has not exactly been hopping chez nous. F is away for the weekend at a conference, and I found myself spontaneously inviting some classmates from my German language school to come over for dinner. This is indeed a first. Yay, spontaneous me!...I think.

I realized immediately after making the invitation: Must make apartment look safe for people. Then it occurred to me as well: Must learn how to work the Nespresso machine. In case the dinner goes awry, I could at least distract them with decent coffee in pretty cups and a dazzling selection of colorful capsules.

And alcohol. Must purchase alcohol. F has some bottles at home of what I can only assume to be vodka. How is paint thinner written in Cyrillic, anyway?

I'm now about to leave for the market to grab ingredients for my spring menu. Here goes: melon wrapped in prosciutto, lemony risotto with asparagus and shrimp, and, for apéro, rhubarb Bellinis. I am no Martha Stewart, but I am going to try to win hearts and minds tonight using color, so help me God.

{Besides conveying my breathlessness and nerves, I wanted to tell you that a post about Prague is coming up. One week later and I am still so besotted with it. Prague in the next post!}

Nine months later

2010-04-23T21:44:00.009+02:00

It has been about nine months since my last entry. I've been reminded constantly to write something, anything, to express some signs of life. I do regret the time I spent away, despite that I did often think about this blog. The urge to write and share as before never dimmed. I'm not sure how to explain it exactly. My fingers were often rendered silent, wordless, the moment I got to this part, though my heart brimmed over with things to say.

I'm not sure how many of you, my Dear Readers, are still around after this long silence. (I would understand if you drifted away.) But, from where we left off, here's what happened:

I continue to live in Europe. I continue to be enchanted with it. The Belgians, those wonderful folks, gave me residency. In 2009, I spent the spring in dearly beloved Paris, the summer in Zürich, and the beginnings of the autumn in Düsseldorf. Throughout those months, I lived out of a suitcase.

I still don't have a permanent job; I am a part-time consultant.

In the fall last year, I moved in with F. We are in Berlin, the city we currently call home. We adore this new home so very much.

I've become rather good at German, thanks to daily and rigorous lessons. I am on the brink of getting classified as an "independent speaker," something that I remind myself when I am actually out and about and have to deal with real German people in real German exchanges, so thoroughly unlike my grammar books, unlike my listening guides. I tell myself over and over I am independent, and miraculously I do understand - and am understood. With every interaction in German overcome and survived, I cannot help but smile to myself. Independent, indeed.

I have been doing a bit of traveling. Last week, F and I celebrated four years since that first time we held hands in Petra. We did so by holding hands in Prague.

I have become a rather decent cook. And, as evidenced by the survival of the beautiful roses on our windowsill, no longer am I the bane of plants.

I am doing well and, on most days, quite happy.

I'm not sure what else seems essential to add here. (Of course, Dear Reader, you can always ask.)

Even when I was younger, I saw myself as a writer. My self-conception has always involved a love for the written word. I'd like to think I am only half-bad at it, perhaps even not too shabby. For a long time, this blog was that space where I could freely express myself, in my own terms. The more I wrote, the more I realized there was so much to share and to give. But I've come to accept I am unfortunately not the committed sort, the kind of person to whom my admiration goes, like the many bloggers whom I cherish.

I do wish I could write every single day. I know that nothing stops me from doing so, except perhaps for the principle I hold dear, that I should write honestly. So when I type these honest words, I see on the screen my feelings and my truths and hence have to confront them.

I shied away from this blog for a long time because it was not always sunny and sweet, and this cloud lingered for quite a while. I was reluctant to see the words that illustrated disappointments, heartaches, restlessness - and yet I could not spin false happy tales. Instead, I fled and lived my wordless life for the last nine months. (I tell you, it has not been easy.)

I would love to try to revive this journal. It does feel like the time to write again, to tell a story, to share an experience. It is time to be honest, and time to come home.

Footballs, not bombs

2009-07-25T12:57:00.003+02:00

I finally saw the Israeli mobile phone TV commercial that sparked such a huge controversy. I'm going to have to agree: this was done in poor taste. In the ad, young Israeli soldiers are playing football across the "security barrier" with faceless Palestinian opponents, under the sunny premise that "deep down, we are all the same". The same - except that some of us are just one anonymous, nebulous entity we don't really see. I suppose that is the problem right there. Indeed, "truth well told," McCann Erickson.

I later saw a video made "in response" to this commercial in which real-life Palestinians, faces shown this time, do kick a football in the direction of the IDF soldiers. Cans of tear gas flew through the air, not feelings of kumbaya.

File this under "What's Wrong With The World, Momma".

Fields of Keukenhof: For all my tulip needs

2009-06-26T10:31:00.011+02:00

This past spring was my first in Europe. Somehow I'd never been on the continent in time to catch the season, always arriving too early or too late. Since living here, I've discovered that truly spring is a reward, a tasty treat from heaven, the biggest picker-upper of all. I cannot stress this enough. After the harsh winter, part of which was spent involuntarily skiing on my boots on the way to the office each morning, every sweater-less day has gained newfound value and significance. Sunshine makes happy.

F took me on a trip to Keukenhof as we were en route to Brussels on one of our commuting days. The Keukenhof is the world's largest tulip garden. I had been fantasizing about it for years, since I was a little girl and saw my first tulip. I believed somewhere across the ocean there was this country just bursting at the seams with these beautiful (and, in the Philippines, rather expensive) flowers, and someday I would run along its bountiful fields. It turns out that running is not entirely possible as these well-guarded flower beds are part of a multi-billion dollar industry. But they're amazing to look at from afar, aren't they?

I was not the only one smitten with tulips. The Keukenhof is a big favorite among septuagenarians and Japanese wedding couples looking for pictorial locations. The garden boasts of - count them - 7 million bulbs, a boast that I believe entirely. I died and went to tulip heaven. Or Lisse, the Netherlands.

Of the 7 million, it was difficult to pick favorites, but these certainly made an impression:
{Yellow Gold, a personal weakness}

{Pink Floyd}
{Beauty Queen}
{Orange Emperor - what a lovely riot}
{Eskimo Chief - I'm sure they meant to say Inuit}

Keukenhof opens only two months a year. The rest of the time the tulips need their rest - all that preening cannot be easy. I'm glad I got to glimpse them, and fulfill a fantasy from childhood.

White-gloved

2009-06-26T10:02:00.003+02:00

He got me posting again.

I was about to tuck into bed when the news broke out on CNN, and I could not look away. I'm so sad about Michael Jackson's passing. I feel for his kids. I grew up listening to his music. I always thought that he was deeply unhappy, though I'd be the first to admit that I don't know him at all, inasmuch as he "belongs" to the public that's trained its sights on him since he was five years old. I'll always wish I had been at one of his concerts.

Thank you for the music, and for teaching me a thing or two about dance.

And a personal fave - my Pops is named Ben:

Rest well and be at peace, Michael.

Wondrous invention!

2009-06-07T14:06:00.002+02:00

Now this helps me keep up with my favorite bunnies on the Internet!

You know who you are. I read you religiously, follow you devotedly.

Girlfriend

2009-05-20T18:15:00.007+02:00

For a few days I was back in Brussels. Not for any reasons of sentiment, but because I had to take care of business. I picked up my little shiny piece of Belgian-ness, only slightly better than Godiva: my residency permit. It allows me to prolong this year in Europe and keep the party (ha!) going. It took ages to arrange for this card, but the people at the desk for étrangers were incredibly polite and helpful, that I'm not complaining one bit about having to make the trip from Paris for this.

Coming back for the residency permit is also a great excuse to spend time with the friend with a heart of gold, P.C. Over steaming orecchiette pasta that she formed last night with her own hands and her clucking that I seem even tinier than the last time she saw me - I swear underneath all the tight-fitting clothes and eyeliner is an Italian nonna - we catch up about her latest exploits. Invariably, the discussion turns to boys, they who seemingly fall from trees and land at her feet. We indulge in ice cream before dinner is ready, drink too much, cuss once in a while, say irreverent things, mercilessly gossip, and together miss and long for other people we know who are no longer in Brussels, this city of hellos and inevitable good byes.

P.C. is someone who would do anything for a friend. Her friendship is not easily earned but once you have it, you get a wellspring of fierce loyalty and devotion and incredible generosity. I am friendly and sociable, but I will admit that I rarely let anybody get too close. I've had few girlfriends over the years, opting for the simple, uncomplicated company of boys.

More importantly, I grew up with a twin sister who is all the best friend one could ever wish for, relieving the urgency to make other friends. But once in a while, you get to meet people like P.C., who are all heart and warmth, who show what it is like to stand up for the people you care about and to give and give and give some more, who are kind and understanding to a fault.

What I admire about her is her honesty. In a city like Brussels, where everyone puts their best foot forward and strives to make the most winning impression, she's a breath of fresh air in her loud, vibrant, none-too-bashful, Italian way. We worked in the same office, often typing away side by side till the late hours of the evening, trying to please some distant, implacable supervisor with our zeal and dedication. With P.C., there was never a dull moment. We'd have little dance breaks in the middle of the room. (We have our own choreography to "Poker Face", which goes well with our Lady Gaga-esque hairstyle.) She'd pop the window open to smoke in the non-smoking building. We'd raid the fridge in the pantry down the hall for chocolate and alcohol clearly marked as the property some nameless bureaucrats of much higher pay-grades.

Or we would attend every single reception and cocktail there was - and in the circuit of the European institutions there are a great many - sending an SMS to each other after we've staked out the event and the open bar. Being an effective networker, P.C. knew how to work a room and get introduced to everybody. She'd be laden with business cards before the night was over. So she would drag me along and introduce me, the lone Asian girl in the European crowd. Before we'd make it to the buffet, she'd have air-kissed maybe 20 people, she was that popular.

Now she tells me that she likes this boy, and it has been a while since she has liked anybody as much. But he is bad news, she laments. And I say, You would not have it any other way. And that is true: she is particularly attracted to the type that breaks hearts and leaves women crying in their wake. This one is not an exception, as his history and track record are well known in this tiny circle in which we all move. So it is good that I've come to Brussels to knock some sense into her head, she tells me as she convinces me to give her a pep-talk, perhaps not different from the one she's been giving herself for days now. And I don't need to say much really, she knows what I think (along the lines of: "Be yet not so stupid").

But she also knows I won't get all judgy and preachy, she won't hear any I-told-you-sos from this corner. I'll be right here, a bucket of ice cream at the ready, spoon in hand, and the assurance that it will be alright.

This photo is of three nymphs at the Louvre. I wish I knew the name of the figure. This instantly made me hear Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" in my head.

In Brussels I fell in love

2009-05-17T20:43:00.006+02:00

It was someone new. Who made me laugh more boisterously than usual. Who made me want to style my hair every day, pay more attention to my nails and take up makeup in earnest again. And wear heels!

Who reminded me how sweet champagne was, and how considerably it improved my French and my dancing. Who chided me for taking myself too seriously, who said I looked nicer if I smiled more.

Who swore to me that tomorrow will be spectacular, that 2009 was still going to be my year, and that I am all sorts of amazing. I partook of this Kool-Aid unreservedly.

Who inspired me to learn more about the world to match the fervor that burned brightly inside. Who showed me how it was to be perfectly content with a wordless stroll across the city, feeling with each step how far I've come in this young life.

Who told me what I was missing, and that it was alright to demand it. Who taught me alone was not the same as lonely. Who said what mattered most was that I could be true to myself.

Brussels will always be a special place for letting me see myself with new eyes and say, "You're not so bad. Not so bad at all."

A life update: Yes, still here

2009-05-17T18:58:00.005+02:00

I thought it best to blog now so as to arrest rumors of my alien abduction. I'm still very much amongst you. I'm just around, dear friends, lurking on some of your blogs, though painfully aware I should be spending a bit more time on mine.

Many times I've found myself back on this page, on this blog that's been dear to me, and being at a loss for words. There's just much to express lately that it can get overwhelming at times, and to figure out where to properly begin can be quite challenging. It reminds me of a state a friend once described: "to laugh and to cry with the greatest force of your life". Not being able to decide which, I chose to still the fingers that touched this keyboard.

This year of peregrination in Europe (as so beautifully put by the lovely Lala) has not been without challenges and tumbles and prickly patches. I've written about some here on occasion. I also remain incredibly aware of the many wonderful breaks I've had all this time, the kindness, the generosity, the sheer goodness of life and people. Truth be told, the good severely outnumber the not-so-much.

So I've moved on from Brussels, the place that surprised me by being dear, for whom I have unexpectedly fond feelings. I'm still figuring out my next moves. I get asked countless times about what I am going to do next, enough to make me want to pass around FAQ sheets to people I meet. And the answer to that - well, honest to God, I have no idea. It's terrifying, yet also quite liberating. I've ceased being in control, and am not unlike the leaf that falls into a stream, caught in the slow current that decides the new places it will go.

These days I am a tireless cover letter factory, churning out one application after the other, day after day. I've been here before. That's a truly sad observation and quite the commentary on my current state of affairs. Alas, one cannot pause from the paddling. I cannot dwell on the emails left unanswered, the phone that is not ringing, the jobs that are not materializing. Girl has got to hustle. Self-cheerleading is a life-skill.

These days I have also been reflecting, and spending no small amount of time on it, on a relationship that I treasure and value, and to which I attribute why I am in Europe in the first place. (There isn't much more I can say about it here.)

That essentially is what has been filling my days.

Well, that isn't completely true. Another part of this update is that I am now living in Paris, with my much-beloved sister. It's springtime, arguably one of this city's better seasons. I've been fixing up healthy, hearty meals at home and for my sister's lunch box. My cooking skills have tremendously improved, after several crafty experiments in our tiny kitchen. I surprise myself with my abilities, frankly! Only last week, I perfected a lemon risotto of shrimp and asparagus. (It turned out pretty darn good, and that wasn't just the white wine talking!)

I've also been going to the gym and working out regularly. I'm one of those people who can blissfully tune out, iPod in ear, and just start taking out their cares in the world on the treadmill or the rowing machine. By doing this at least three times a week at two hours each visit, I have been making amends for months of mindless consumption of pommes frites, chocolate and artisanal beers. I'm still paying for my Belgian excesses. Being able to work out again and get into a fitness regimen is something that makes me happy these days.

When I'm not training to be a kitchen goddess or throwing around kettlebells, I go for walks around this beautiful city. Paris has done wonders for my spirit. I'm surrounded by so much careless, relaxed beauty and languid grace that I find myself whispering frequent thanks to the higher power that created the heart that can appreciate. Indeed, above all, gratitude.

100 days

2009-04-30T15:15:00.002+02:00

Yes, yes. I know there was a lot of governing and serious business going on in President Obama's first 100 days in office. But these images of him with his family are just precious, even inspiring. Never has the White House been awash in so much love and affection.

A slideshow here from the Official White House Photostream on flickr - with more photos of Obama undertaking his presidential duties.

Be well, Brilliant Man

2009-04-21T03:38:00.004+02:00

"We are just an advanced breed of monkeys on a minor planet of a very average star. But we can understand the Universe. That makes us something very special."

Sending well wishes out there for Stephen Hawking. He's reportedly improved, says the BBC. I'm relieved. I kinda like the guy.

Fitness of spring

2009-04-20T14:33:00.003+02:00

Nothing too ambitious. But F and I have been doing some serious hiking, covering at least 5k every day this past week through beautiful rugged, hilly terrain just coming alive in the spring. Exercising in the forest in the springtime makes me want to say, "Thank you, Nature" every time. Working out at the gym doesn't even come close.

We spotted some deer the other day and briefly held their gaze. I must have given them quite a fright when I snapped a twig underfoot, breaking the spell.

I love breathing in the clean, crisp air and letting it fill my lungs. I love feeling the crunch of the ground underneath me. I love the twittering of the birds. I'm far away from the big city (at least for the next two days), and I don't miss it at all. I feel like I am doing myself a real favor.

I am most certainly feeling the exercise where I want it. Yes, in the glutes and the calves. But most especially, in the mind that is also awaking in this marvelous spring.

Image credit: olvwu on flickr

L'invitation au voyage

2009-04-17T15:52:00.003+02:00

It was my last evening in Brussels. P.C., an Italian colleague who had become a dear, dear friend, had offered me room at the inn after I had to depart that gorgeous apartment in favor of the person taking over, a guy who wanted to install his projector to beam football matches onto the wall, in the space right next to the African art and Spanish furniture. I fled in haste.

P.C. is a kitchen goddess, whipping up delectable pasta dishes with whatever she finds in the fridge. She wanted to cook for me, and invited some people over. Among her guests were two Estonian lads, dressed like British dandies wearing Chris Martin's gentle, faraway expression.

We unwrapped Easter bunnies from their shiny foil and distributed each piece around the table. I got the ears as the evening's guest of honor. Conversations. Wine. Beers. Joints. Hamburgers. Godiva pralines. More joints.

There was a sudden lull, and silence fell upon the dinner table. Unexpectedly, one of the Estonians, Top Hat, looking thoughtful, suggested poetry. We went around the table reciting the first poem we could think of. I read Shakespeare. P.C. spoke hers in Italian. I later heard French. And then a made-up poem about cows. And a Simon and Garfunkel song.

It was now Top Hat's turn. He sucked in deeply on his joint and let the haze sit about him for a while. Then he launched into Baudelaire, with so much fervor there were tears in his eyes and spit on the corner of his mouth. He was gazing intently at P.C., and I had to smile. I hoped she knew...

My child, my sister,
Think of the rapture
Of living together there.
Of loving at will,
Of loving till death,
In the land that is like you!

We sat for a while there, letting the smoke and the poetry descend upon us, wash over us, and nestle between our shoulders. I closed my eyes and let my thoughts wander to Baudelaire, and to the land he wrote of. And indeed, I could in the haze see his face.

How could this not make happy?

2009-04-10T23:48:00.002+02:00

Frilly lightness, macarons, pink dress, balloons, sunshine. And fine perfume. It works for me!

Miss Dior Chérie commercial, directed by Sofia Coppola

Happy Easter

2009-04-10T18:17:00.002+02:00

Making Easter Eggs, originally uploaded by couleewinds.

Good Friday in Deutschland. I am blogging from F's greenest of green backyards, which is now awash in sunshine and blooms. It is incredible to feel the sun on my face, I can't get enough of it! The cheer and the almost holiday-like feel to this Semana Santa is a stark contrast to how I grew up spending it.

I remember back in the Philippines while I was growing up my family would spend this day in the most solemn way possible; sometimes we even fasted. There was no running around and big smiles were prohibited. There were prayers to be said together, treks to churches, candles to be lit. It was a day of severe quiet and almost somber contemplation. Over the years, we've eased up on that and have opted for a more meaningful and, I feel, heartfelt reflection. If I were with my parents now, we would probably be doing the Stations of the Cross as per tradition, but I think these days my father wouldn't object to playing music or cracking a joke anymore.

F and I spent a part of our afternoon today inside a church next to his old kindergarten, atop a hill. He had been baptized there. The church had beautiful picture windows looking out into the city below. It was a perfect place for prayer and reflection - and brought on a wave of memories of my young Catholic schoolgirl self.

I realized in this quiet time that, above all, I am just grateful. I'm far from being the most contented piece of humanity out there, and I do I ever have such long lists of wants disguised as needs, and frustrations and hang-ups like anyone else. I know my flaws all too well. But when it comes down to it, the blessedness of this life is not lost on me.

That's a nice little Easter discovery. I hope you discover this, and more, for yourself, too! Happy Easter!

Thanks to couleewinds on flickr for these pretty eggs

The Universe is right-handed

2009-04-08T02:14:00.004+02:00

Isn't this an incredible sight from some 17,000 light years away?

Dying stars in their last gasp of life, pulsating in the throes of extinguishment. One last dance across space before they truly fade away. I try to wrap my mind around the concept that this event had actually taken place in the past and the light is only arriving here now to make this scene visible to us on earth. Kind of how some things can be better understood through the intervention of time and distance.

Forget "Reach for the stars" - there are richer metaphors to be derived from PSR B1509-58.

The story here: Cosmic Hand Reaches for the Light on space.com

Light bulb moment

2009-04-07T01:13:00.002+02:00

how many?, originally uploaded by suttonhoo.

As I've intimated before, I had huge fears about moving to Brussels. While I had been to practically everywhere else around Belgium, I had not ventured inside the country, much less seen the much-vaunted "capital of Europe". I had some big apprehensions, to be completely honest. I think part of what intimidated me so much, apart from it was a new city away from my support system here, was that I was going to start committing myself to a traineeship not unlike a real job, with its real hours and real commitments - and very real bosses. And I didn't have the confidence in myself that I could keep up. I didn't think I would be equal to the task.

So I came to work early and left my office late, put in a 110% of me into everything I did. As I was working for a European institution, and I'm not European, I felt that I had to do more to close in on possible knowledge gaps and to not be left behind by my colleagues. I did my homework, read a lot, studied hard. I asked questions, met with people, paid close attention. I took this all so very seriously. Indeed, it became a real job in every way.

It truly paid off in the end. I learned so much about how these European institutions work. I can't say I'm the biggest of fans but I have unraveled some of the mystery of this complex system of bureaucracy, diplomacy and policymaking. I got heartwarmingly positive reviews from the people I've worked with, and became involved in some intellectually enriching and personally fulfilling projects as a trainee. I felt that the work that I did meant something and was useful towards attaining larger goals. I wish I could share in detail the portfolios I got to handle and the meetings I joined in on, where the talk was about doing good in the world. I'm not naive; I studied politics and international relations, after all. It is not that everyone checked their self-interest at the door, and the world didn't suddenly become a better place overnight. But there was undoubtedly a lot of sincerity and a lot of will to be a responsible actor in the world, with the understanding that looking out for others is also one way to look out for oneself. How I love that about you, Europe.

And all those fears that I had, from the inane (Will I have to sleep on the street?) to the serious (Will this report even be read by anyone besides, well, me?) - they make sense now. I was afraid because I cared enough to do a great job, to make a mark and to grow as a person. I cared because I wanted this time of my life, this new pit stop in Europe, to mean something. In the end, the dark gave way to light, and it has meant more to me than I ever thought it would.

Image credit: This beautiful little light bulb, captured by suttonhoo on flickr. Many thanks!

A story in reverse

2009-04-06T01:54:00.004+02:00

I seem to have all but disappeared from the Internets, at least insofar as this long-suffering martyr of a blog is concerned. I am not sure how many actually noticed the absence. But I certainly did and I felt it keenly.

I am hard pressed to find a reason that would sufficiently cover why I didn't find the time in all this while - not since February, egad! - to write a post here. May I just offer one explanation/assurance? I was truly quite busy living my (offline) life to the fullest. This I promise you.

I am still in Brussels, and have seen this city once covered in ice and snow become transformed in the beautiful sunlight of spring, and it has made me feel so alive. Apart from the changing season, I have many other reasons to be feeling this way. {Oh words, you've fled me...} It had felt like the winter would never pass, that the cold would never fade. And yet today I stepped out in my sandals, felt the subtle heat on the cobblestone streets, gave my toes a wiggle, and skip-hopped on my way.

Friends, a chapter in my life has come to a close. I passed it in brilliant splashes of flying colors. But I find myself more than a little wistful as I do each time I arrive at the end of something into which I poured heart and soul. For the moment, my time in Brussels has come to an end. A spectacular and memorable end (including one incident of dancing around monuments of Belgian heroes in a public park...) but an end nonetheless.

I have to wake up tomorrow and be ready to move on; the rolling stone that I always call myself must learn to gather speed and momentum and roll away yet another time from this life. I find myself hinged and I think I will remain so until I've given this experience some good reflection.

And so, for me to move forward, this Bruxelloise adventure will have to be told backwards.

Image credit: Andre Jordan for A Way To Garden

Venice for the Friday

2009-02-21T02:23:00.005+01:00

It's a Friday night and I just passed up on a party dubbed as, um, "porno-chic" for the chance to sit at home in my pajamas and watch the graceful and dazzling Katharine Hepburn traipse about Venice and discover love somewhere between the piazzas and the gondolas. My pajamas are neither chic nor pornographic, and I realize, with a tinge of sadness that I won't deny, that I am getting old, choosing the warmth and the serenity of my apartment over vodka and Katy Perry. But at least, old enough to also know how to avoid a situation that will result undoubtedly in a bad hangover, tottering home in the wee hours and embarrassing photos involving fishnet stockings.

Hepburn is the safer and lady-like option for this cold Friday night. It is always summertime somewhere.

2009-02-14T16:25:00.003+01:00

In the dead of winter, I draw strength from my invincible summer. And Shakespeare!

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Love prodigiously, today and every day!

Image credit: malidinapoli on flickr

Things that moved me lately

2009-02-12T19:47:00.005+01:00

It was the sunshine, precious commodity in this city so cold, in this winter so harsh.

It was the testimony of the tribal leader and organizer of a Colombian indigenous people's movement, she who tried to keep her voice steady while narrating how she narrowly missed an attempt on her life that claimed her husband's instead. (Meanwhile, I silently wept in my seat.)

It was walking through the Motangé neighborhood of Brussels, with the smells and sounds and spirit of Kinshasa. I weave around the stores selling chunky gold jewelry and wildly colorful dresses, trip over crates of exotic fruit from many miles away. I hear the French of Africa and it makes me ache for wanting to master the language, too.

It was the meeting of European and African leaders on that touchy subject of trade - and wincing inwardly at the asymmetries in the relationship made to look small and inconsequential when paired with words like "friendship" and "cooperation". It was resisting to pump my fist in the air when an African voice says exactly this. It felt like he spoke for me.

It was about having a home not too far away to welcome me on weekends like the one around the bend. It's nice to be able to say - I'm on my way there, see you in a bit.

All images from flickr's malidinapoli, who looks at Brussels with loving eyes.

Discovering flamenco in Brussels

2009-02-04T12:05:00.005+01:00

I caught a flamenco performance last night, my first cultural event in Belgium since I arrived here at the start of the month, if one discounts my discovery of this nation's famed waffles. The flamenco was marvelous. I was completely mesmerized.

The show was supposedly contemporary flamenco, and so it opened with dancers in some kind of urban ninja-inspired, Jean Paul Gaultier-ish chrome belted raincoats and black vinyl heeled boots of the variety they now bandy about as "severe." (Still unsure about what this means.) The dancing featured fancy footwork and stamping, and, um, robo-movements.

OK, I will admit, in the first ten minutes I was skeptical.

Then the dancing made a determined, and wise, turn for the more traditional, the flamenco that stirs the soul, and instantly this created a frenzy among the audience. There entered romance and flirtation and anger and rage and desperation. It was so raw and so dazzling. And so so alive. In the harshness of winter, which has had a resurgence in Belgium, it was amazing to behold something full of life, almost defiant.

The live musicians performed tirelessly for two full hours, guitars strumming on maniacally, powerful alegrías filling the hall and haunting our evening with lost loves and dashed hopes. There was real, unmistakeable feeling that hung heavy in the air.

I admired the sheer phsyicality of the dancers, whose one simple stretch of an arm revealed a year's worth of push-ups for me. There is also a quality so captivating among rapt and singular-minded dancers, and artists in general, for that matter: When they are completely lost in their craft, they become radiant and beautiful. And so it was that, in the second hour, when the dancers entered with their long, flowing skirts trailing behind them, it was not unlike watching six Miss Colombias in their evening gowns.

I am lamenting that I was obedient to the no-photography signs, which it seemed everyone there promptly ignored, as I would have loved to snap one of this lady in her late-fifties who took the stage by storm with her castanetas and powerful solo performance. It brought the audience to its feet, praising her for the briskness of feet, grace of hand, and steadiness of shoulder that in themselves wove the story. Flamenco is, for me, truly about strong women.

It's no secret how I feel about this dance. I have resolved that the next city where I hang my hat, when I stop living out of a suitcase and finally park myself for at least a couple of years, I will learn flamenco. I will, I will, I will.

Image credit: the first photo from londonist.com and the second, of Belén Maya, from the guardian.co.uk

Finally we're getting somewhere

2009-02-02T10:42:00.002+01:00

Johanna Sigurdardottir, the new Prime Minister of Iceland, is said to be the first openly-gay head of government in Europe and perhaps in the whole world. In her country, the fact that she lists a woman as her spouse in public records hardly generates the attention and buzz that it does internationally. Those Icelandic folks are so progressive. Another reason to come visit!

In other news. Blogging now from Germany on a visit to F. A weekend visit. And it is now Monday. So hard to drag myself back to Brussels, with the knowledge that it is going to be a slow week at the office with the bosses away on missions. There will be jeans-wearing at work! We are taking off in a few hours - F, too, to spend the week over there. Thankfully, the cold snap has given (a little) way to sunshine and perhaps today will not be so miserably frozen.

May I just categorically say how wonderful it is that Brussels is only three hours from Germany? Three hours from home is definitely not a bad deal. My apartment in Brussels has Internet at last but my roommate and I, the technologically challenged, are trying to get the wi-fi to work, a challenge in a house over a hundred years old with incredibly thick slabs of marble and concrete. I hope it finally works this week!

44th

2009-01-23T15:11:00.003+01:00

This whole Internetlessness at home has gotten in the way of blogging, but not a day goes by when I do not miss it and my dear readers! I am hoping the situation will be remedied next week and the apartment will have wireless at last.

I want to know: where were you during The Moment? I was in a meeting on the NATO and blah blah blah future of European defense yada yada yada nuclear deterrent. Then everything ground to a halt because people wanted to tune in to CNN and watch Barack Obama be sworn in as President. Even from just the glow of a widescreen TV, hope radiated, permeated. It is a story I will tell the kids someday.

How beautiful was that speech? There were tears in my eyes.

In the year of America's birth, in the coldest of months, a small band of patriots huddled by dying campfires on the shores of an icy river. The capital was abandoned. The enemy was advancing. The snow was stained with blood. At a moment when the outcome of our revolution was most in doubt, the father of our nation ordered these words be read to the people:

"Let it be told to the future world ... that in the depth of winter, when nothing but hope and virtue could survive... that the city and the country, alarmed at one common danger, came forth to meet [it]."

I have hope, buckets-full!

I have a good feeling about this

2009-01-09T16:18:00.005+01:00

Reporting that I am alive and well and no longer homeless in Brussels! I also survived consecutive -22°C nights on a friend's couch, until my gorgeous new flat fell into my hands. I am now living some 10 minutes from the office in a lovely old building on a quiet street in the European quarter. The apartment came fully furnished, in a charming Spanish style with beautiful wooden floors and heavy chairs and tables. I even have a small private garden that I sadly can only pine for as it is covered in snow and there is no chance for outdoor reading and barbeques, not in these freezing times. Nevertheless, the entire house is airy and spacious and inspires dreams of dinner parties and wine and cheese evenings. I am smitten.

My traineeship got off to a great start last Monday. On my second day, I got to meet and chat with Jose Manuel Barroso at a New Year's reception where he was a guest of honor. Not bad for someone who just showed up for the champagne and oysters. He was so gracious and warm, and I was starstruck!

I still have not seen much of Brussels as I have been spending my days almost entirely at the office, though not always at my desk. I've been on my feet a lot as my office is inside a massive complex with hundreds of corridors and halls. I don't assume I will even know half of it well enough by the time I leave, and every day I have to pause to get my bearings. So I had to trade in my high heels on the first day for my equestrian boots, which was great because it has been snowing so hard lately and there is no way to survive the cobblestoned streets on less practical footwear.

Work is a fascinating place. Work is animated conversations in a cafe overlooking the city with some very interesting, intelligent individuals. Work is meeting people from every corner of the continent and listening to them transform the office into a veritable tower of Babel. Work is partaking of the Thursday happy hour in the pubs just across the street. Work is subsidized lunches! Work is talking about the big and serious decisions that will affect so many lives and so many futures.

I sincerely hope I am not speaking to soon. But I do feel right now that I might actually like it here.

Image credit: Thanks to slowernet on flickr

Christmas Postscript: Zürich

2009-01-03T19:07:00.003+01:00

We just packed away the Christmas ornaments and took the tree out to stand in the snow, where it might remember the woods from whence it came before it, too, like the season, fades away. Nothing quite as melancholy as taking down the Christmas tree. In an attempt to prolong the rapidly-dwindling festivity of the past weeks, I couldn't help but bring out the iPhoto album and reminisce the days that flew by ever so quickly.

F and I went to Zürich just shortly before Christmas. My sister and I weren't able to spend Christmas Day itself together this year, but we had thought of having our little advance fête in Switzerland.

I'd never been to Switzerland before this trip, and so I was completely overjoyed when the country joined the Schengen zone on 12 December, making it easier for me to travel there. Yay!

The first thing about Zürich on this trip that struck me, delightfully, was the snow. Lots of snow on the ground. Copious amounts of it. The snow Germany wasn't getting. The snow that makes for a dreamy white Christmas.

Very much true to form, there was an abundance of cheese in Switzerland. Enough cheese to last me the better part of a year. More cheese than I had ever consumed before in my young life. In the end, I would become all cheesed out, overcome by dairy.
{I surprised myself by actually enjoying fondue - though, it must be said, this one was incredibly good and probably, the best in all the land, I kid you not. Wonderfully paired with kirsch for a rollicking fondue.}

A pilgrimage to the Sprüngli shop on Paradeplatz was definitely on my mind. It was cold outside and nothing went down better than this steaming cup of chocolate.

In Zürich's central station, there stood a tall tree festooned with trinkets and decors of Swarovski crystals.

Naturally, I had to have my dose of the ever-important vitamin M (for meat!).
{Jamon from the acorn-feasting Iberian black pig. Which is another way of putting, "the ham of forgetting your name afterwards".}
{The Berner Platte, consisting of sauerkraut, green beans, boiled potatoes and smoked meats. This dish, as was the one above, was prepared by M.J., who definitely knows his way around food.}
{Cervelat, the popular and controversial Swiss sausage. It is said that national consumption is at 25 Cervelats per person per year. F and I did our best to help our Swiss friend M.J. reach his yearly quota.}
{Nah, we wouldn't hurt Pedro, the Barcelona-born brown bear that holds celebrity status in Bern. He enjoys contraband apples and carrots from tourists, who aren't supposed to feed him in the first place.}

One day, we drove to Einsiedeln. We were originally going to see the town's famous nativity diorama, till we found out it was actually this huge and very commercial Christmas™ affair - that touted itself to be "The World's Largest And Most Beautiful!!!" - and that terribly put us off.

However, Einsiedeln also featured this Benedictine abbey and monastery, which was definitely worth the drive. It was absolutely breathtaking inside (where I clandestinely snapped a photo of the tapestry-like ceiling).
{One of several horses in the monastery's paddock out back.}

I definitely enjoyed Bern the most, with the medieval look and feel that it's retained throughout the centuries. What can I say, I've a weakness for old cities!

I think it was from this vantage point, a lookout over the old quarter of Bern, as Berry and I took the requisite photos for the parents back home, that I truly started to feel the cheer of Christmas, the warmth of which I'll try to hang on to as much as I can in the days to come.

All photos taken by me.

Cold feet

2009-01-02T18:07:00.004+01:00

Hi there. Still reporting potential homelessness in Brussels, though I've a standing offer to crash at a friend's couch till this situation is resolved. When I'm not fending off scammers of the Nigerian 419 variety, where Western Union money transfer has unfortunately become code for "robbery", I'm learning that Patrice in this part of the world is a man's name and therefore I shouldn't be so quick to jump to the conclusion that I'm going to have a girl for a flatmate. Not that I'm picky, but it does help to understand the demographic right away.

For the first time in a long while, I am actually quite jittery about the prospect of moving. If I'm being honest, I'm more nervous now than I was when I moved to New York to study and packed up my entire life on the other side of the world - and, in comparison, Brussels is right next door! I wish I understood why. Oh Deutschland, you've made me soft...In my mind, Brussels is a gloomier, darker, edgier place - though it's certainly not too far from my support system here (just an hour from Paris and three from my F).

Perhaps, it's just the winter playing off of my anxieties. Or, perhaps, it's because after months of being the master of my own time, I'm now going to have to learn to answer to a timecard and appointments and real responsibilities.

And those lingering doubts. Will I measure up? Can I do a good job? Not trip on my heels? Make it without a siesta in the middle of the workday? Not make a faux pas of international proportions?

Will I make new friends? Will I be happy? Lonely? Sad? Hungry? I worry about crime and cold - and wonder why this would occur to me only now after having lived in and survived some rather dangerous cities and heavily snowed-in parts of the world.

Will I be relevant? Will I do something that means something?

I'd wish to be all perky and bright. But today, this girl's gotta keep it real and admit that she is more than a little terrified.

Image credit: Many thanks to the talented jovivebo on flickr

Prosit Neujahr!

2008-12-30T18:10:00.004+01:00

Dear Readers,

I wish all of you what the Germans call "ein gute Rutsch" - a good slide - into 2009! It has been a real pleasure to have shared 2008 with you.

While my profile might say this blog was started in February 2007, it was only a year later when I earnestly began to write Stopping To Eat The Roses. A late bloomer in this business of blogging, I have to say it's brought me a lot of joy and excitement, and certainly wonderful friends and kindred spirits from across the world, as only the Internet can bring together.

Through this blog, I've come in touch with so many people whom I admire and who inspire me in different ways. My Internet friends have made such an impression on me, not only with their style, humor and wit, and incredible way with a camera or a pair of scissors; they've charmed me with the way they see life and the world, and how they find beauty in the little things. Someday I'm going to have them all together in the same room and champagne and laughter will flow profusely.

What an eventful year 2008 has been, also in my offline life. I am truly grateful for all the opportunities to broaden my horizons and to learn something new and amazing, to enlarge my life and grow as a person. Despite the challenges and uphill climbs and low-intensity battles, I can honestly say I'm in such a good place and I have a very blessed life. There's been so much love, compassion, generosity and grace - it takes my breath away at times.

When I'm reminded of how my own cup brimmeth over, my thoughts cannot help but also go to people in the world who are needing every little bit of kindness and mercy in their lives, people who struggle with very real pains and lacks of the sort that my comfortable life can't fathom. To them go my prayers, that the coming year will bring relief - from war, sorrow, hunger and pain - and my earnest promise that if there is anything I can do, as a person, with my talents, education, experience, and energy, I will strive to find the best way to serve.

I hope you meet the new year in the company of those you love. And dance. Wherever you may be, dance into 2009.

Where the Hell is Matt? (2008) from Matthew Harding on Vimeo.
{Many thanks to Persephone at Post-it Notes from Hades for leading me to this video.}

Much love and Happy New Year,
V

Another suitcase in another hall

2008-12-29T12:48:00.004+01:00

And so the adventure in rose-eating continues, this time taking your blogging girl to (as hinted before) the bureaucratic core of Europe. I'm relocating to Brussels as soon as I find a flat - a room at the inn! - and will begin an internship there for the next few months.

If I sound totally nonplussed about finding shelter in the heart of winter in a strange city I've never been to before, it's because, frankly, I've gone through so much these past weeks that I can laugh at this bit. Or, at least, until it's just me, two suitcases and the streets of Brussels. But let's hope it doesn't come to that!

I've written before that it hasn't always been easy traveling the world and pitching my tent on my particular passport. I have had some pretty amazing opportunities come my way, and I didn't let a small detail like 'nationality' stop me from going after my dreams and goals. I've had pebbles in my shoes but I kept walking!

When this particular opportunity cropped up to intern in Brussels at an important European institution (in itself a happy story, where I just learned about everything within only two days of the deadline, on a particularly competitive year for traineeships), I knew at the back of my head I would have to deal with the inevitable visa question at some point - and it often isn't an easy one in my case. This time around, it was made more complicated by the fact that I am already in Europe and the internship was starting within the space of a month or so from the time I got news that I was accepted. (High fives all around, by the way!)

I was on my computer for many hours, researching regulations, and on the phone with various consular folks. I even marched to an embassy in Paris to try my luck there. I won't bore you with all the tedious bits and details now. But in the end, the embassy of the country I'm moving to agreed to let me apply without having to return to my country of origin, which would definitely have cost me huge sums of money and a month of thumb-twiddling, downtime I absolutely don't need right now. I very well couldn't have accepted the internship if it had been decided that I needed to fly home first; it simply wasn't practical.

Now, this might seem rather plain and obvious, to let someone get their visa from within Europe when they're already there and from all appearances have entered the EU legally and with all the right documentation and shiny stamps and stuff. But I shall never know what goes on in the minds of those who formulate such cumbersome rules. I won't even try to go there.

After having weathered similar experiences in the past, I chose to approach this dilemma more openly, with an attitude of just pushing as hard as I could and, frankly, letting heaven take care of the rest. It was Christmas season, I was not in the mood to wage campaigns on visa regimes and let a stressful situation take over my life entirely. I learned from the last time and told myself there was no way I was going to be all dark and gloomy and defeated. (On a side note- isn't it just crazy that most of my recent woes seem to be tied to visas?)

There was a lot of persistence and hard work on my part, that's for sure. Still, at the end of the day, I have to thank some persons - complete strangers - who pulled through for me at the embassy in Berlin, going out of their way to seek authorization to issue me a visa from within Europe without requiring me to go back home first and ensuring that the terms would allow me to make the most of my internship at a European institution. It was definitely an irregular procedure that defied every rule I had read - despite previous knowledge of this, I continued to press on, and was so glad that some people were actively supporting me. I received incredible assistance, and all throughout the process the consular staff in this embassy was polite and sympathetic, even friendly.

Without any exaggeration, it was the most respectful experience I've had with an embassy anywhere. It was refreshing to be treated so kindly and openly, to be regarded as someone who could contribute positively as a foreigner to a new society, to be evaluated beyond just one's nationality and whatever notions come associated with it. I'm telling you, that's simply not the case everywhere, unfortunately. This is the part I am most grateful for.

I guess I'm writing it all down here so I won't lose sight and forget this instance of kindness and assistance I received. I'm also immensely grateful to my family back home - my parents who got some last-minute document requests in order and who just cheered me so much with their unflagging optimism. In this part of the world, I've got a great support system as well - my sister Berry, F and his family - on whom I leaned for encouragement and help, as I am useless with a fax. It was easy to be hopeful surrounded by such people. I couldn't have weathered this one without them.

And prayers. Turbo-charged prayers and storming of the heavens. Those, too. In fact, those most of all.

I'm looking forward to this new chapter, my sojourn in Brussels and the opportunity to get excellent training and proximity to issues I'm passionate about in the field of human rights and security. And pulling out whatever French I can still muster. And moules and what's been touted to be the best fries in the world. Naturally, I'm taking you along. Let's go to Brussels!

Image credit: Is the above photo yours? Please let me know so I can credit you right away! Thank you.

Weihnachtsmarkt: A German tradition heartily embraced

2008-12-28T18:10:00.006+01:00

A Weihnachtsmarkt - a German Christmas market - is truly one of the highlights of the season for me when I'm in this part of the world. Ordinarily, I didn't imagine myself as one who would enjoy standing outdoors in 3C weather, shuffling my feet about on cobblestone-covered streets and going into thick crowds of shoppers. A Weihnachtsmarkt, however, is one of those rare occasions when I do so happily.
{This is a typical sight in Christmas markets. Check out those candied apples!}

I love seeing handcrafted wares, which are often lovingly and carefully fashioned throughout the year and get their chance to be displayed only at Christmas. It's like walking through a large Etsy village. One can easily find trinkets and embroidery, glass and soaps, toys and art, food and wine - usually crafted by the very vendors themselves. I love the idea of work that isn't anonymous, that's proudly made and personal.
{The last photo shows miniatures of structures in the old district of F's hometown, many of which are hundreds of years old. These buildings still exist today.}

I'm not gonna lie: I come out mostly for the food. After walking through the shops laden with beautiful crafts, I am invariably drawn to the smell of food, and in a Weihnachtsmarkt there's always plenty. Here are some of my favorites:
{Bratwurst! I admit the bottom photo is less than appetizing, but I swear the wurst was incredibly tasty, probably among the best I've had in Germany, where sausages seem to grow on trees.}

{Reibekuchen, or potato patties. Best served pipingly hot from the plate and with generous helpings of apple sauce. This got even me, a not-so-big fan of potatoes, raving about it!}

{Hot champignons on a cold day, served with spicy gravy. It truly doesn't get much better than that.}

One Weihnachtsmarkt fixture that has a special place in my heart and that we intrepidly transported across the border to Switzerland --
{The "coal miner's kiss" - or Köhler Kuss - which has gone through name changes after some rather politically incorrect monikers in the past. It's filled with foamy, marshmallow-like stuff on the inside, sealed under a soft chocolate shell and a wafer bottom. My favorite variant carried a hint of citrus. In the bottom photo that's me and F tipping our little chocolate treats.}

No post on the German Christmas markets would ever be complete without mentioning probably the most popular part of the tradition - glühwein!
{Here's a steaming cup of mulled spiced wine that goes straight to the knees. Two such cups can severely impair judgment and result in coming home with more handmade soldiers and Christmas angels and possibly one piece of living room art, than originally intended.}

Look who's back!

2008-12-28T17:51:00.003+01:00

It feels like ages since I last posted. So many bottles of wine, so many platters of food, so many songs have passed. I'm back, just when STETR was about to protest and auto-blog, mostly about its mistress' laziness and procrastination and abandonment. And over the Christmas holidays at that.

I was earnestly trying to limit time on my computer these past days - right after I sent off Christmas letters and video messages to my parents in the Philippines. It's been impossible for me to unplug completely - there's always this one more compelling reason - but I've done a reasonably good job so far. However, I've missed blogging and, with recent events, have much to tell. Sitting by the fireplace, with a blanket by my feet and a glass of white wine next to me, I am now primed for catching up with old friends!

And so, hello again!

How were your holidays?

Zürich

2008-12-18T09:44:00.003+01:00

Your gal is off to Zürich today. I'll be blogging from Switzerland, if my fingers remain intact in below zero weather. I was wishing for a white Christmas - but from the looks of it, it's going to be that and more. I'm feeling rather merry and I hope it is catching on, wherever you may be!

Catch you in a wee bit! Stay warm and toasty!

Image credit: Dom Dada on flickr

Barbara to the rescue

2008-12-11T23:04:00.006+01:00

Poor dear Tangobaby has an ear worm of the "At Seventeen" variety. I've already suggested "We Built This City" to wipe that song straight out of her consciousness and replace it with, well, a different sort of bad.

I've been listening to this one song lately, and yes, singing along with it, too. You can almost see the sparks between Barbara Streisand and Neil Diamond in this video of their live performance sometime in the '70s. It's so convincing, it makes me hope there's something going on off-stage, after they've sung this song, because the way they look at each other has got to be real. It's like she's really telling him - hey, you don't bring me flowers anymore.

Unexpected: Église Saint Thomas d'Aquin

2008-12-10T14:42:00.000+01:00

Earlier I mentioned that I discovered a beautiful church on a quiet alley just off Saint-Germain. I've since returned to Église Saint Thomas d'Aquin three times.

In the Philippines, a devout Catholic country, one can hardly find any church this empty. But on each occasion I've stopped by Saint Thomas d'Aquin, I've found myself very alone. It's a wonderful place to be reflective and to still one's thoughts.

This church was built in 1682 by the Dominicans, originally in the Classical style. It would take almost a century to complete, and would, soon after its construction, be taken over by military forces when the religious were expelled from France. At one point it served as storage for artillery.

Churches are silent survivors, witnesses to successive upheavals in France. The most dramatic was the violent anticlericalism following France’s 1789 revolution that stripped churches of their riches, transforming them into “temples of reason” in the service of the new secular republic. Churches were razed; stained-glass windows broken; altarpieces and statues smashed; tombs emptied; church bells melted to make cannons; gold chalices sent to the mint...

Miraculously, many works of art were inventoried and carted away for safekeeping. Paintings were considered part of France’s heritage — not vile religious objects — and were largely spared destruction. Quoted from here.

Saint Thomas d'Aquin can be accessed through rue de Bac and boulevard Saint-Germain. It sits in quiet splendor at the end of an alley, and one can all too easily miss it.

The spectacular ceiling.
The Transfiguration, above the altar, is the most enduring piece of art inside the church.

An advent wreath.

Image credit: All photos taken by moi.

Parisian gems

2008-12-07T12:07:00.002+01:00

If I seem to write an awful lot about food lately on this blog, please bear with me. I've no illusions or plans of making a transition into food blogging (from my original course of "me"-blogging), but it is just that I've been eating quite well in Paris - in fact, much, much better than on previous visits to the city.

It definitely helps to have a sister who lives in Paris now who's steadily growing in her familiarity of the best bistros and boulangeries and grocers in the city. I'm happily on the receiving end of that knowledge and expertise! Food is also something that I deeply enjoy, and I could talk about a great meal for days.

Now, I totally missed out on taking photos from a lovely late-night crepes feast at Cáfe Breizh on rue Vieille du Temple (Lala, this sounds like your part of town). Their buckwheat crepes were insanely delicious and satisfying, though I passed up on adding crème fraîche to mine. I thought a creperie was quintessentially Parisian. David Lebowitz writes about Cáfe Breizh here - to which I say: yes, it was really that good!

But, besides crepes, I've discovered a definite picker-upper after a long, mishap-marked day. (Just to clarify: it didn't happen to me but to a friend.) Said mishap will not be elaborated on here, but suffice it to say afterwards we needed to go grab some beers to shake it off. It was a mercy mission I joined in happily!

Ze gettin' place for beers was L’Académie de la Bière, a name which says it all, in my opinion.
Our artisanal beers arrive, and we eye our glasses like parched men in a desert. I've been missing good beers; Germany has totally developed my liking for quality brews. My glass is on the left, containing a very dark and rather bitter beer, as I prefer it.
We pair the excellent beers with mussels, one bowl cooked in white wine and another in a light mustard cream sauce. Both were amazing. Soon, we were smiling and laughing. It was now easier to imagine better days lying in wait.
To satisfy other cravings, this time for Asian food, Berry took me to Place d'Italie, where one can find various types Asian cuisine and an array of supermarkets with imported goods from half a world away. I've never seen that much supply and variety in one place here in Europe. (How about it, Germany?)

Berry brought me to her favorite Vietnamese pho place, Pho 14. Could make a good name for a hip-hop group.

Meanwhile, I sampled a bahn (also known as a bun), which is essentially the pho minus the beefy broth - lettuce, beef, spring rolls, vegetables, and vermicelli noodles. Absolutely delightful. I will definitely return to this place!
Did you know about Denmark's Order of The Elephant (Elefantordenen), bestowed upon the Danish Royal Family, heads of state, and other members of such an illustrious crowd? Well, I hadn't ever heard of it myself till I visited Musée National de la Légion d'Honneur, which currently runs a small exhibition on the fanciest ribbons and medals. I'm totally liking this elephant charm, though to the best of my knowledge (read: I spent a week in Copenhagen and saw a few castles nearby), there are no elephants in Denmark.
This manteau was embellished using real gold thread. I'm not surprised.
There were rooms of baubles and sparkly things, but the highlight of the exhibition was definitely this brooch owned by Karl Anselm, 18th century Prince of Thurn und Taxis. It is made of gold, diamonds, and amethysts. And gasps.

In and around Saint-Germain

2008-12-06T01:10:00.001+01:00

When I have it good here in Paris, I have it très, très bien. While it can be cold to the point of smarting, I've also witnessed some truly glorious, gorgeous days. For example, last weekend, we spotted some sun from our fogged-up window and hurriedly dressed to go out, convinced we had about three, four hours tops to enjoy it.

Check out this amazing bolt of blue!
On the way to breakfast, I spotted the Église Saint-Thomas d'Aquin, a 17th-century church built by the Dominicans that boasts of a fascinating history and impressive art. It was used for storage of artillery during the Revolution. It warranted a real visit, and I would later stop by to explore inside. It's absolutely beautiful. That sunny afternoon a wedding was taking place. I spotted bobbing hats in the British tradition inside. More about this church in a next post!

We choose to stop by Les Deux Magots, the celebrated café of intellectuals, artists and writers such as Simone de Beauvoir, Ernest Hemingway, Pablo Picasso and Jean-Paul Sartre. Except that I didn't know this trivia at the time. I just noted how it was nicely situated, in the heart of merry and bustling Saint-Germain-des-Prés, just when we needed to sit, get something to eat, and enjoy the sunshine. I didn't even see the statues of the Chinese traders inside after which the café was apparently named.

I must say, Les Deux Magots is the ideal place to people-watch and trend-spot in the district, and I wouldn't be surprised if many pass their hours this way - explaining, in turn, the six euro espressos. Hemingway would have totally risen up in arms about this. Not to mention the crowds; it would be impossible to write a novel in there today.

Breakfast was a croque-madame.
And we had some, er, guests who partook of morsels. These birds were so used to patrons feeding them a bit here and there, they fearlessly swooped down to our table. And, much as these kamikaze bombers were a nuisance, we enabled them, if only to snap this photo.

Elsewhere in the neighborhood, as we embarked on shopping, I saw penguins roaming alongside Les amis de la terre. As there are several government buildings and ministry offices in the area, it's not uncommon to run into protests, assemblies, and the attendant heavy security. Plus, these folks are French and they do so love their public demonstrations and free speech!

Returning home in the evening, we stopped by a little boucherie on rue du Bac for a tasty rotisserie chicken. And guess who was there, too? Sofia Coppola herself, whom I had narrowly missed the first time Berry saw her around the block. No, I didn't start gushing over Lost In Translation or her father. I just sort of...didn't say anything (though smiled a lot), seeing this was a person who clearly relished how easily she blended in and went mostly unrecognized in Paris. She seemed quite nice, though, even a tad timid.

And here's the butcher, Berry's go-to man for meats, by his shop-window. He's a nice guy, but still mistakes us for Japanese.

Confidential to my friends

2008-12-05T00:36:00.011+01:00

Ohai! What's goin' on?

OK, I'll start. Here's what I've been up to: I've been painstakingly uploading photos online from my brief stint as a Parisienne (is it just me or is Blogger being all sorts of uncooperative of late?), knowing that the next weeks in Germany will be spent mostly in the lovely Weihnachtsmarkts - the postcard-pretty Christmas markets - and guzzling mulled warm wine and making sure my nose is still attached to my face. There were some pretty neat discoveries I made in Paris that I wanted to share before the holidays take over!

Speaking of the holidays, I've been shooting short videos of snowy days for my parents back in tropical, sunny Philippines. Does that sound weird? I remember the first time I had ever seen and experienced now in my whole life. It was on 4 December 2006 - yes, that recent - at around nine in the morning, just before I left the apartment to walk to university. I was squealing, so delighted and mesmerized by the sight of falling snow. My roommates, who grew up with four seasons, thought I was crazy. But it's a magical first and one simply can't forget it. Within an hour our whole street and campus were blanketed in fresh snow. Today was one such pretty snowy day and I wanted to share it with my folks back home, warm and content as they are.

I'm also leaving for Zürich in a week for an early family Christmas celebration. It's going to be my first time in Switzerland, and I'm terribly excited. Also, grateful for the Schengen Agreement. Swiss visas begone! Lindt & Sprüngli flagship store on Paradeplatz, you have been warned. If you have any ideas about what else is fun in Zürich besides high-quality chocolate, I'd love to hear them!

F is currently in Kiev on one of his world peace missions, making remarks not unlike those made in the movie EuroTrip about his hotel and environs in general. However, he is European, so I suppose he can get away with stuff like that.

While I have to be cryptic on the rest of the details, I wanted to share that I'm {highly likely} relocating to another European city at the turn of the new year. Not Paris (I wish). Not Berlin (though that would have been just as cool). It's for the bureaucratic heart of Europe, let's put it that way. Any guesses? That was a dead giveaway, I think! It's quite exciting but also rather scary for me. Things are just cropping up unexpectedly, developing so rapidly, that I feel the need to just pause and catch my breath and go 'Whoa'. A real need to process this life, is what it is. Still, I'm exceedingly thankful for the wonderful opportunities coming my way and being very, very hopeful.

This is what's going on in my neck of the woods. Your turn!

Image credit: Via the exceedingly useful ffffound! (On that note, I would really love to get an invite to this service, Internets.)

A small question for Beyoncé

2008-12-04T14:49:00.004+01:00

(Yes, Knowles. How many Beyoncés are there, anyway?)

Girl - how does this not break one's spine? It does not look easy. It's jazz on crack and high heels.

Sorry to post a video you're probably rapidly get sick of already this season. I was just mystified by the sheer dancing prowess (something I want for Christmas). Jump to 1:57 where she does this mean robo-Bobblehead motion that gave me a stiff neck just watching.

Cool change

2008-12-01T12:11:00.004+01:00

I'm starting the last month of the year (and probably my most favorite) right by introducing a new look to this blog.

May I please draw your attention to the header? Yup, please glance up. That's 'Stopping To Eat The Roses' in not-Comic Sans! I would like to thank the lovely and kind Peonies and Polaroids who vanquished hideous fonts forever from my masthead. You're a doll! Victory is ours!

PC users, in particular, will notice the immense difference. I still haven't figured out how to make the text in Baskerville display properly across browsers, though, but take heart - one day we will make it right!

You may have also noted the robin's egg blue. No, no, it is not at all because it's Christmastime and I'm hinting at presents from a certain jewelry store using the same shade on its gift boxes...Not at all.

Subtle changes, a nip and a tuck here and there, will take place over the coming days. I may not have a tree to decorate, but by jove, I have a blog and it will be merry!

This is me being festive, folks, on the most wonderful time of the year. Let's all sparkle in December.

Le Grand Pan: le grand happy

2008-11-30T19:19:00.015+01:00

Bonjour, dear Readers!

Since that last post, in which I may have depicted myself as blogging from some enclave deep in the Arctic (or, as I still vividly remember it, the U.S. Northeast), I have emerged from underneath thick covers, put on my warm clothes, and braved chilly Paris - refusing to be denied. I've been imagining myself as a newly minted resident of this lovely city - with her broken French and metro navigating skills leaving much to be desired - deftly avoiding the tourist traps, doing as the locals would - and this has opened up a world of little quotidian delights.

There was a singular experience, however, on this particular trip; it was anything but ordinary. My friends and I had dinner at famed bistro Le Grand Pan. I must say, it was the best dining experience I've ever had in Paris. Yes, just had to put that in bold.

It started with the reservations - absolutely de rigueur in this town, but especially at this tiny bistro with a big reputation. The place can only seat about 40 persons at a time. Berry took care of calling them, bracing herself for a barrage of rapid-fire French on the other end of the line, only to find an eager receptionist wanting to practice his English on her. So it was all set!

We arrived for the second seating, at 10pm, to discover out that we had been expected for the first at 8pm. Apparently, there had been a misunderstanding with the reservations. Indeed, adventures in language (though we were less amused at the time, obviously). The bistro was packed, nary a vacant seat could be found. Entering the door, I was practically cheek to cheek with another customer. The waiting staff said there was no chance of getting seated as we had hoped, though we could also see that for ourselves.

Now, Le Grand Pan is located in the 15th arrondissement and is probably the only reason we would find ourselves in this part of the city. There would certainly be the odd Italian or Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood but we had trekked so far across town to have to contend with mediocre alternatives. It was starting to look like a disaster, heartbreak was in the air...till M.J., Berry's friend, declared- No, we would plant ourselves at the bar and wait for a table. We're not going anywhere! Such was our persistence. (Besides, it was stormy outside and that crowded bistro was enticingly warm!) We were going to have our Le Grand Pan dinner at all costs.

We negotiated with the food servers, who promised us a table in, oh, an hour and a half. We took it anyway - much to their surprise.

Plunking ourselves down at the bar, we made ourselves cozy. We were plied with champagne, assorted charcuterie, and a delicious shrimp starter. Let me tell you, treats like these made it easier to be patient. At the third glass, I was filled with bonhomie.

The restaurant was so full, it was impossible not to interact with other patrons. Like the gaggle of girlfriends in their 60s guzzling champagne right next to us at the bar, who were betting with each other whether we were chinoises. The staff was incredibly friendly and warm as they were efficient, bussing and exchanging air kisses as they wove their way around the madhouse. It was loud - not at all like the imagined romantic French bistro - but it was filled with boisterous and hearty charm. Think of a restaurant with all your jolly, drunk uncles thigh-slapping with laughter.

Finally, our table is ready - an hour and a half later, as promised. Time passed us by without our noticing. Now we are famished and more than ready to get to work on the pièce de résistance - this gorgeous Basque côte de porc.
I would make the worst food critic as I can't say much to the ingredients and the technique and whatnot. All I can authoritatively write is that this was so worth the wait. The meat was cooked in garlic and other spices, so tender and juicy and flavorful. We had hand-cut pommes frites (more like wedges, actually) and a salad on the side, paired with excellent red wine.

At some point in the dinner, I became intoxicated - with everything. Even the part of just being there. The opportunity to meet affable, young chef Benoit Gauthier, French bistro scene wunderkind, who personally brought the apple digestifs and espressos to our table, was a treat as well.
In all, it was an incredibly satisfying dining experience - thanks to the food, the atmosphere, and the company (fellow porc destroyer M.J. and Berry, whom we discovered that night to be a lover of friendship songs from the Barcelona Olympics). Even the near-miss of earlier, the botched reservation, seemed to add to the specialness of the evening. That night, we set a high standard for future good times in Paris. It will be terribly hard to beat.

Image credit: The first two photos, of Le Grand Pan on an obviously calmer day, are from linternaute.com, with thanks

Weak (but warm)

2008-11-23T15:56:00.007+01:00

Still in bed, in my pajamas and thick socks and a shirt that proudly proclaims a dodge ball tournament from two years ago. I did get out of bed earlier for a warm shower - only to crawl back in, happily defeated. It is snowing in some parts of Paris today, although all I can detect from the windows is a heavy and cold sort of rain, of the teeth chattering variety.

If I were any more courageous and determined, I would put on my boots and a coat and brave the weather for the promise of this.

Alas, it seems my love is strong but not strong enough.

I'm going to stay in here a little longer.

And: a tiniest peeve

2008-11-21T14:58:00.010+01:00

For someone who knows a little bit about HTML and CSS, and who now has a lot of free time to obsess about details, I'm quite disappointed at me. It has come to my full attention that this blog is not displaying accurately to some of you, my beloved readers. And by accurately, I mean, no, I do not use Comic Sans in this lifetime.

In particular, those who are using PCs or browsers other than Safari have been deprived some of formatting and frills. I died a little when I discovered the sort of fonts associated with this blog. And yet you, dear readers, still forged ahead and continued to read and did not allow yourself to be deterred by the ugliness. You're a saint. Or one who might like Comic Sans, so I'll stop knocking that font now. You'll just have to pardon that; here I was thinking that my blog conveyed some modicum of style and commanded a little bit of respect, only to discover that for months I've been at the mercy of fonts of all shapes and sizes that I wouldn't dream of using myself.

I'm going to tinker with the blog's CSS and figure out a few cross-browser issues. As soon as I'm done twirling my hair and reading poetry online and finally get out of my pajamas...

Meanwhile, I'd like to show you how S.T.E.T.R. really looks, if technology were only universal and love always prevailed. Please click on the image for a larger view. FYI, the text is written in Baskerville.

In comments, please tell me how you view this blog in your part of the world insofar as your powerful computing device will let you.

An enjoyment

2008-11-21T13:18:00.006+01:00

I am enjoying so much catching up on my favorite blogs (yes, yours!), so you will have to excuse me for being more present over at your place than chez moi in the coming days.

Life in Paris has been charmed and comfortable thus far. Yesterday, I narrowly missed Sofia Coppola as I walked to a rendez-vous with my sister somewhere in the neighborhood. Berry caught a glimpse of the director before she blended in with the well-dressed and trendy crowd of Saint-Germain.

Another enjoyment: fragrances. Walking home on such high spirits - as only my confirmed addiction to chocolat chaud at Angelina can create - we passed a tiny boutique of Annick Goutal parfums. I've seen it several times before; it initially struck me as a bit too grandmotherly for my taste. Till they sprayed the tiny alley with the irresistible scents of neroli and rose and I had no choice but to step inside to discover the source.

The perfumes make me feel startlingly and refreshingly like a woman. (Yes, I did just say that.) Certainly, a woman who knows what she wants. And what I want are the lemon and citrus fragrances, as in Les Nuits d'Hadrien and limited edition Petite Chérie. I love the pots of creme de corps, the elegant perfume pumps, the ribbons and laces, the shapely bottles...

I don't exactly have an itinerary whilst here - think of this trip as a delicious, languorous stretch. But I've my heart set on trying Le Grand Pan, which was reportedly named "the best bistro in Paris" by some serious food aficionados recently and which serves Basque cuisine (its côte de porc is legendary); and stopping by the Musée National de la Légion d'Honneur to view the ongoing exhibition "Honneur et gloire: Trésors de la collection Spada". Some serious bijoux and sparkliness will be on display.

Naturellement, I'll tell you all about it.

One small squiggle for Girl...

2008-11-14T17:44:00.007+01:00

Chez Rose Eater is changing call signs for a wee bit. Starting tomorrow and lasting through an indeterminate number of weeks, I'm going to be based in Paris. I know, I am making it hard for you to like me right now. If it's any consolation, the sun sets already at three in the afternoon there and everything is so darned expensive (like my favorite salmon sandwich with lemon zest from the corner boulangerie that's the price of a full-fledged meal and an espresso in Bonn).

Mais oui, Paris!

In other exciting news, I have started my Arabic lessons. I've been at it since last week. I'm still steadying the tremors in my hand from practicing the flowing Arabic script. My sloppy squiggles were giving me grief. But after 18 rigorous hours, involving mostly a re-wiring of my brain and leaps of imagination - and lots of "Yes we can!"-type cheering - I was amazed I could actually make out letters and words. I could read. The world had meaning!

Sure, with the way my writing looked, one would imagine I had taped a pen to my left foot, but it was certainly not unlike David Sedaris and his "Me Talk Pretty One Day" moment.

Oh, and I took the Arabic class almost entirely in German, and surprisingly, didn't get a nosebleed.

Fun! Adventure! Language!

Image credit: This little girl whose calligraphy got me beat is by Noor Maryam on Flickr

I believe it's what they call "childhood"

2008-11-12T09:16:00.003+01:00

This impossible wave of cuteness and positivity just gives rise to my old hope that the return of these old favorites is not far behind. Bring them back - yes we can!
The Care Bears. If, like me, you grew up in the '80s, there was no way you could have missed these cartoon characters so cheerful and good and eager to help it made your teeth ache. (I was, however, also intrigued by the dark and gruff nature of Grumpy Bear, who had a raincloud for his tummy symbol and looked like he wouldn't mind a cigarette now and then.)

The illustrations were drawn by the same artist behind Strawberry Shortcake. I love the coloring style and the elaborate detail.

The Bears lived in the Kingdom of Care-A-Lot, which featured the Forest of Feelings. They went out together on missions of caring - presumably, handing out anti-retroviral drugs in Africa, distributing relief goods among earthquake victims, and rebuilding houses destroyed by hurricanes.

Their weapon of choice - The Care Bear Stare, where they fiercely concentrate their gaze until rainbows of love and hope, goodness and balloons just exploded from their bellies and snuffed out all sorts of grief and evil in the world. Wars ground to a halt, nuclear weapons transformed into massive elaborate floral arrangements.

(OK, this part did not really happen in the cartoons. The Care Bears were blissfully apolitical and behind on geopolitical events. And Care-A-Lot did not have cable.)

I loved them to bits, especially when they huffed and puffed and expanded their chests while saying "Care! Share!" Real good role models, you know? I still have the old sticker books - amazingly well-kept, each sticker in place, the pages yellowed but the illustrations still as lovely. As a kid, I imagined I would one day be on a sticker-attaching frenzy, so I kept saving them for that moment.

You keep saving them for a special day, and the next thing you know you're some years shy of 30 and out of the loop, unaware that some of the Bears have been retired, repackaged to be patriotic (with a US flag on its belly - presumably, he's Thinking-Of-Our-Troops Bear), or reassigned a new gender (So it's now Miss Funshine Bear?). There's fewer of them now, they're careful about sharing (never with straws or lollipops or strangers), and politically correct.

Sometimes you just long for when it was perfectly alright to hear: "Whenever you see the symbols on our tummies, you know you have a friend!" I miss those caring days myself.

Miriam Makeba

2008-11-11T16:50:00.002+01:00

I wish I discovered her sooner. She was incredibly beautiful and strong, all things graceful about women.

I've been listening to her music all day - and grateful that we will have that, so powerful was her message that it will outlive her. Here are two of my favorite videos of her - Khawuleza from 1966, and the South African national anthem, N'Kosi Sikelel'i Africa, where she is featured with other artists. Both renditions truly so moving, I had tears in my eyes in the end.

It's getting better already

2008-11-10T22:52:00.010+01:00

Things are already making a turn for the better. Need evidence?

Coming at the heels of Barack Obama's victory (and I link to this as if you were living under a rock and oblivious to history), the world has beheld the Baby Pygmy Hippo - above, Monifa from Australia - and, for a full week now, the Shiba Inu Puppies Sensation.

I was late to check out the live stream video of the puppies in action, although that "action" bit is debatable since their days consist mostly of lying on their backs and having those doggy dreams, where they give off those faint little barks that make you want to protect them forever...

F and I spent ten minutes transfixed despite vows to not get sucked into the vortex. It's all cuteness, all the time - a canine Big Brother where the misbehavior is far less tolerable and of a less skanky nature. I do so hope they are living in a happy home and not in a miserable puppy mill somewhere. It would be heartbreaking to know that I participated in their exploitation (or "broadcasting adorability throughout the world", I'm not sure).

These balls of fur just bring out the high-pitched baby-talker in me, proving once again that dogs have the incredible ability to make grown women sound unstable and mildly hysterical.

Onto other stuff - less cute and furry - I am doing wonderfully. Thanks for all your well wishes, you people are so good I don't know how I deserve you! I've just completed my research internship and I'm looking forward to days of flight and fancy.

OK, that's not entirely true. I've still got jobs to hunt, employers to impress, doors to kick open. But it's all good. More than ever, I feel ready and poised, eager to judo-chop challenges in my way.

Plus, I've got puppies to coo at when the going gets tough.

Still in history-defying haze

2008-11-05T15:40:00.008+01:00

I am still giddy and more than a little weepy. And incredulous and grateful and overjoyed. And awash in optimism. And in love with democracy.

Clicking through the photos from last night's resounding Obama victory, I get goosebumps. And I feel the happy tears again prickling the back of my eyes.

I don't think I will ever forget where I was the moment Barack Obama was declared the winner of this race. (I mean, besides the Situation Room.) Americans may have voted for a president, but the rest of the world - especially young people hungry for inspiration and hope - has gained a leader and a model as well.

Let me thank you again, America. Your beacon shines bright for all of us. I'm so grateful, I could hologram myself there and hug you all.

Obama images by Michael Macor of the San Francisco Chronicle and Joe Raedle of Getty Images

Yes, we did!

2008-11-05T08:18:00.002+01:00

This girl who stayed up until 6am in Germany, glued to The Situation Room, just to catch this precious moment in history, and who shed happy tears and jumped in joy over Barack Obama's overwhelming victory just has this to say:

THANK YOU, AMERICA. Yes, we can. And tonight, we did!

2008-11-01T18:22:00.000+01:00

Sheepish Little Panda needs to get away this weekend, but promises to come back in fighting form.

Dear Reader, I am packing up my apartment and living out of a suitcase and juggling projects and trying to stay warm and pondering some life questions. The cup brimmeth over.

To the lovely folks I owe some tags, I shall get on it - cross my heart!

Have a relaxing weekend and enough fun for the two of us, will you?

Let's hear it for the girls

2008-10-29T13:55:00.001+01:00

I'm honored to post about The Girl Effect, a campaign that aims to draw attention to the impact of girls in the developing world on economic growth, health and stability in their communities. Not enough research has been done to measure the contribution of girls, and yet existing data suggests that girls can overwhelmingly turn the tide in their own poverty-stricken lives and that of their families when they are given access to education.

As you may be aware, in many parts of the world, girls are still considered far inferior to boys and therefore do not enjoy equal opportunities very early on in life. From my own work, I've found out that societies where women and girls were treated brutally in war-time are the same societies in which the standing of women was already poor in peacetime.

Consider these facts:

"When a girl in the developing world receives seven or more years of education, she marries four years later and has 2.2 fewer children.

Out of the world’s 130 million out-of-school youth, 70 percent are girls.

One girl in seven in developing countries marries before age 15.

When women and girls earn income, they reinvest 90 percent of it into their families, as compared to only 30 to 40 percent for a man."

Here's a video that concisely frames the issue.

Paris is Love

2008-10-27T00:26:00.008+01:00

Merci beaucoup for the lovely birthday greetings! It was the first birthday my sister and I spent together in years. That part alone sufficed to make the day special. And to be in Paris for it - well, now that's just Christmas coming early.

The trip was splendid in every way - not the least for the amazing weather. Out on the streets people were incredulous. What stroke of luck, what a beautiful blessing. I cherished those gorgeous days, too, knowing that winter is slowly creeping in and soon we will pine for moments just like this. We'll talk about them as we do the Good 'Ole Days.

Paris indulged me with other delights as well.

And nice little presents, like my birthday bunch of roses (from F) whose fragrance filled the room. And, of course, sweets. (I also got a belated present, a book by Kevyn Aucoin. Does this mean better makeup and sculpted cheekbones will now be in my future?)

The best-est bits were the time I spent with ma petite Parisienne, who's growing into a fine young lady right before my eyes. To me she is golden, although I think she'd much rather be the last bronze girl in Paris. Those moments will be left un-blogged, but only because some things are so precious to me it's hard to find the words.

Birthdays tend to inspire introspection, of the "What have you done with your life", stock-taking tradition. Frankly, I don't navel-gaze often enough and probably should, instead of instantly putting on my game face and soldiering on through my (little) crises, the roiling tempests in my teacup. Think of all the poetry I'm not generating. I'll spare you the vehemence of my promises to do more sit-ups and get enough sleep. There's still so much I'm working on about me, and nothing like a birthday to inject fresh impetus into the ever-evolving project of self.

This year, I've realized that I happen to actually like me. I think I've generally gotten kinder to myself and I'm quite pleased about that. I'm still going to be self-deprecating, though, and will continue to try horribly to win your approval. This part can't be helped.

But I feel it in my bones, I hear it in the wind: This year will be fabulous. And so will I!

Meme Fun: "Fourth of Fourth"

2008-10-26T20:38:00.008+01:00

The mistress down at Hades knows that I can't resist a blog meme, a.k.a. The Painless Post Generator. You got me at a particularly weak point, Persephone, when my brain is still addled by all the sunshine I got in Paris, the sunshine I couldn't dare wish for here in Germany - yes, the same Germany that might see snow this week.

I am still finding ways to incorporate French into my Deutsch conversations, hoping to sound exotique but resulting in being unable to function in either language, and ending my sentences with an affected 'Oohlala' like a native - so hung over am I from my trip. I needed this meme to get me to drop the macaron and start typing.

It's called "Fourth of Fourth" and it works this way:

...[T]he idea of this meme is that you go into the fourth folder of your photo files and pick the fourth photo from that folder.

Here's how I managed:
It's the campsite of Bait Ali in Wadi Rum, southern Jordan, which I visited about two years ago.

At the time, Bait Ali didn't have a snazzy website and they were still constructing facilities. I would like to claim that we were in the middle of the inhospitable desert and slept out in the open amid the distant howling of wolves. The truth is, Bait Ali is a Bedouin-styled modern campsite with hot showers and kitchens, located in the heart of a beautiful, Tatooine-esque landscape. The tents on this photo are about the roughest it can get out there. They even have pillows inside.

The intrepid adventurer that I am, I...actually slept in a real room with a bed and a door and electricity. There goes my desert cred! Bait Ali was gorgeous, and we straggled in there with no reservations. We were welcomed so warmly despite the fact we, mostly impoverished students, couldn't pay full price. They were amazing anyway.

This photo of Bait Ali is quite special, as I only got to know F during this trip to Jordan. We shared a tiny rental and sped down King's Highway, racing alongside our friends in what we would later dub "The Jordanian Job," our Honda Jazzes standing in for Mini Coopers. Somewhere between enchanting Petra and the glistening sea of Aqaba, we embarked on our own adventure.

I'm tagging my favorite Señorita Lala; the duo with such artistic flair, Juliet and her Rhan; bearer of gorgeousness Peonies and Polaroids, and; the lady whose photo folders no doubt hold magic, Tangobaby.

Anyone else want to post a "Fourth of Fourth"? I'd love to see what you have there!

Revelry - and with good reason

2008-10-22T01:06:00.003+02:00

It's a special day here at Chez Rose-Eater. Why, there's a birthday involved! Berry's and mine. So I'm dressing up this blog in pink, which I never wear in real life but is my way of being all celebratory today. Please don't get too attached.

The offline birthday will involve little fervent prayers at the Sacre Coeur, a museum romp, a jaunt in Bon Marché's La Grande Épicerie (in relation to which, as I've told Berry, it would disappoint me terribly if heaven did not look like something like this), mugs of hot chocolate at Angelina, and a cozy dinner that, I hear, will involve copious amounts of beef and rhum.

In between festivities, there will be champagne-guzzling and street dancing and twirling and hugging and kissing. And smiling. Lots of smiling.

I didn't want to leave you, dear Reader, out of the merrymaking. So here are a few of my favorite things for my favorite people:

Balloons, these ones from a Gay Pride Parade

Those little pieces of heaven called macarons

Roses, or, as I'd prefer to think of them, "love in the open hand" (so very Edna St Vincent Millay)

And, certainly not least, Baby Bulldog here, who wants to give Baby Panda, over at the blog of Animal Cuteness Authority, P, a run for his bamboos. We both know it's going to be a long shot, but he owes it to himself and his butter-soft pink paws to at least try.

I blow you kisses from this corner of the world, which gleams ever more brightly today, for these two girls.

Images on Flickr from Iopolis, Papyrarri, Eat My Heart Out and Bullmarketfrog with profuse thanks!

Dispatch from Paris

2008-10-19T21:36:00.009+02:00

Bonjour! I am now blogging from Paris, which has been spectacularly bright and sunny since I got here last Saturday. I don't believe this has anything to do with me, however.

A while back I posted that my darling sister Berry was moving to La Ville-Lumière. She did so some months ago and is now officially a Parisienne, though she still wanders about the city like a wide-eyed tourist. That part cannot be helped. We are now in her dainty bachelorette shoe box in the St Germain district. Merci beaucoup to Lala and Mary-Laure for their grand ideas for a grand time in Paris!

The last two days here have been spent catching up with Berry, whom I haven't seen in months. And these were no ordinary months, too: they were marked by transitions and changes and incidents of growing up. We have alternately been that voice on the other end of the line - that one that reassures, calms, and talks you out of jumping off the ledge. It's just wonderful to finally be in the same room as her. My world is steady on its axis, my ship on an even keel.

And so, while Paris has so very many attractions, the one that draws me here now is my sidekick from what we like to call The Zygote Days, the driver of my getaway car, the one I know and love best.

Dainty girls via ffffound!

Writing like I mean it

2008-10-15T15:11:00.003+02:00

I have some Serious Writing to do in the next couple of days. Yes, more serious than blogging! And I've sweets to consume while I am at it. On top of having to contain the waves of excitement and giddiness over le voyage this weekend. 'Tis a hard life...

Posting will be light for a wee bit. Doesn't mean I love you any less.

Image credit: Sassiness via ffffound!

Work-life balance: The Single-Take Lip-Dub

2008-10-13T20:15:00.005+02:00

I wish I had enough co-workers who were bold and spirited and adventurous enough - also, with lots of free time partly spent in stairwells and photocopying body parts - to pull off something like this single-take lip-dub video with me. Some folks from France (purportedly, AOL employees) got together and combined to create the Workplace Of My Dreams. Where we dedicate ourselves to applied research and sing about it. And, later, break into mindless dancing in the building lobby.

And maybe someday when we're more coordinated and can afford a director and shiny, colorful clothes, we can do something like this. I will stand in for Feist, naturally.

Note to self: Must add groove to qualities I am looking for in an organization.

Google cares about your dignity

2008-10-13T14:21:00.006+02:00

One has to be touched that Google cares about your well-being, relationships and job security - as evidenced by the creation of Mail Goggles, the last line of defense, strewn with math, before you shoot off that impassioned and heartfelt but likely misguided and possibly drunken email to an ex or a boss, one which you will most certainly regret in the morning.

When you enable Mail Goggles, it will check that you're really sure you want to send that late night Friday email. And what better way to check than by making you solve a few simple math problems after you click send to verify you're in the right state of mind?

Why wasn't this invented in 2005?! Although in the state I was in at the time, only multivariable calculus could have stopped me from hitting "Send".

Image credit: The Official Gmail blog

Bright over bleak

2008-10-13T08:37:00.005+02:00

It's a Monday. I am uncannily chirpy and energetic and actually looking forward to the day. I know - what is the matter with me? As the Germans would say, Was ist los? It helps that I got up at 5am, stretched, and served myself a mighty big breakfast (bratwurst and eggs, and a shortened life span). And then I resolved to smile a lot today. I should really have a wattage warning about me.

The errant body clock is still not functioning to a tee. But I'm not blaming it entirely on Palin. I've been assiduously hunting for New And Exciting Adventures (a.k.a. jobs). Lately, this has been weighing on my mind so much that I'm having recurring dreams of rehearsing a song number because, in this dream, I had written singing on my CV and I was so sure I would be asked to perform at the interviews.

I will reflect on what this means. And whether or not I should junk the research life for the bright lights of show business. And whether or not a heartfelt "It's All Coming Back To Me Now" by Celine Dion does indeed go a long way in life. We'll see.

Meanwhile, let's all have a great week, lovelies.

Image credit: I call this the Sunflower of Optimism, and have Paolo Livorno on flickr to thank for it.

Impending adventure

2008-10-12T18:16:00.006+02:00

Today was I delighted by some wonderful news. As though I had woken up and found all this prettiness waiting for me.

But even better.

What could bring on such a joy? What could thrill as much? (Besides bratwurst and bulldogs, of course.)

Don't these photos, all from the sensational, utterly romantic Cherry Blossom Girl, tell you the cause of my face-splitting smile, the beaming of which must certainly transcend the spheres of the Internets right now and, hopefully, infect you - so wide and radiant it is? Don't they reveal the source of my glee, which has now eclipsed the heartache my (now vanquished visa) woes caused me?

If I'm still not remarkably obvious, as I usually am, here's a hint: It involves drinking "life to the lees."

More (no-brainer) hints:
And now that you know what I will be up to next weekend, aren't you just happy for me?

I knew you would be!

All images from The Cherry Blossom Girl (in itself a dead giveaway), with profuse thanks and undying admiration.

Bon weekend

2008-10-11T18:11:00.004+02:00

'Tis the weekend of wine and writing.

When I was younger, I joined essay writing competitions - of the world peace variety - to afford trips abroad and pay off my credit card. This went on for a while.

I'm going to be writing out of necessity again for the next couple of days. But I will do so gratefully. My little gig, many years ago, had allowed me to get out of here, wherever here was, and see a chunk of this breathtaking world. Which I promptly wrote about.

I leave you, along with sincere wishes that you have a most refreshing weekend, this song from beloved Cat Power, "Lived In Bars", featuring the awesomeness of the Memphis Rhythm Band.

we've lived in bars
and danced on tables
hotels trains and ships that sail
we swim with sharks
and fly with aeroplanes out of here
out of here

A woman from Rwanda and everywhere

2008-10-10T23:20:00.005+02:00

My cherished blogging circle spread across the world has been sharing the story of Vestine, a survivor of the 1994 Rwandan genocide, first put forward by Maryam in Marrakesh, who has met her personally. I'd like to share it with you, too. Please take time to read about Vestine - as my own words will no doubt fail me, and Maryam has herself so well conveyed Vestine's tragic tale which, it is my fervent hope, will someday find its healing and peace.

Gender-based violence in armed conflict is a field that I am studying now (and a subject that enrages me only about a thousand times a day). One may argue that rape and violence against women and girls have characterized wars for centuries. That does not make it any more acceptable or less horrifying - and it must end. The nature of conflict today puts civilians at even greater risk, and in that group, women and girls have become especially more vulnerable.

A culture of impunity, a broken-down public health infrastructure, and the generally low standing of women in society aggravate- indeed add insult- to the horror and agony of survivors of GBV, women and girls of extraordinary strength and grace.

The Rwandan genocide may be over, but the quest for justice and the journey to healing for victims like Vestine is only beginning. At the same time, there are raging wars that are claiming women and girls around the world, such as in the Congo today.

Please, help. Go over to Maryam's.

To read more about the issue, click here, or email me for related articles.

Many thanks to Lala and P for re-posting this moving story. And, of course, to Maryam, who told the world.

A skill-set for your next office party

2008-10-10T19:50:00.011+02:00

With that last post, I remembered this admittedly dated but still funny video of the mime Johan Lippowitz, here performing “Torn”. Natalie Imbruglia joins in on the action in a little bit. I love how they render the word "real".

For the next talent duel, I am considering challenging F to a mime-off. Bring it, baby!

SingStar

2008-10-10T19:01:00.007+02:00

I’ve just discovered a new pastime while here in Germany. It’s a karaoke game on PlayStation called SingStar, and I am hooked! I can already imagine the many weekends that will be spent this way. You couldn’t pry that microphone off my hands when I’m in the zone, which is, well, every time we play.

F believes it was only a matter of time before I would get addicted to it, because I am Filipino and therefore predisposed to breaking into song. I won’t disagree with that, as we are indeed a merry and musical (and not quite bashful) people.

This SingStar actually belongs to F’s mother, who's always been cooler than the two of us. She is officially a gamer and now harbors intentions of acquiring the next-generation console before the year is over. She reached the highest level one could get in the game, which is – surprise – SingStar. I hit it once with a rendition of “Reason” by Hoobastank. It was my first time to encounter the song and, if I may so, I rocked it - leading me to believe I am really a natural-born SingStar. (See previous paragraph on being Filipino.)

I’m still trying to get the hang of singing not from the heart – as one presumably would in a hardcore, all-out karaoke fest with plenty of alcohol and joie de vivre and no shame, as in that charming scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding.

Instead, with this game, one has to follow a line on the screen that indicates the ideal pitch and tone and the duration for which one must prolong a note. This line is the law. For hitting all the right keys, you get a blinking message that says, “Cool!” and a starburst, which should be satisfying. Why, thank you! I was getting all blue in the face trying to elongate that last syllable from a line in Heart’s “Alone” – which can be tough, I’m telling you, when shrieking is actually built into the song itself.

The repertoire isn’t exactly the largest, though the mix is certainly eclectic (Bowie to The Supremes to Good Charlotte). And there are scores at the end, naturally triggering a fierce competition between F and I. It is a furious singing battle. Soulful expressions, hand gestures, closed eyes, stage presence – these do not count for points. What matters is complete obeisance to The Line.

F sings “Friday I’m In Love” like he means it. I go for a Roxette song and bring my A-game. We do a duet to Meat Loaf’s “I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)” – and we discover, wow, this song has so many levels. It really could be our anthem, when the day comes I ask him to hide a body for me and such business.

Next stop: Guitar Hero!

The Elusive Sleep Sheep

2008-10-10T06:24:00.002+02:00

It’s a little past five in the morning and I still haven’t slept a wink. My body clock has been off-kilter ever since I stayed up real late last week to catch the Joe Biden-Sarah Palin debate. (Apparently, I do care that much for American politics, as I don’t really watch TV anymore.) Germany is five hours ahead of the U.S., so we went to bed only at 6am. True, it was totally unnecessary to wait for the pundits to weigh in with their oh-so-important assessments and their unabashed glee for the chance to use the word “folksy” – but I still did.

F and I didn’t mind the lateness of the hour as we were, frankly, quite excited to watch the first and only vice-presidential debate, and not only because of Palin’s car-wreck magnetism. We sat in front of the TV and tuned to CNN, with our beers and snacks and high expectations for truly entertaining (and educational!) television. And, indeed, it was. (I teared up a little when Biden spoke about caring for his sons following their car accident.)

But gosh darn it - a week later and I am still wide awake at unholy hours! The saving grace is that, as a researcher, I’m on this truly awesome invention called flexi-time and can saunter into the office past noon with a clear conscience.

However, I have resolved to reset the jackhammered-to-smithereens body clock this weekend. Have you got any ideas on how I can make things right? Besides acquiring a TiVo in the future to get my life back and giving up on politics completely, of course.

Image credit: Grac on Flickr, with thanks

Dear American Friends

2008-10-09T21:48:00.007+02:00

Dear American friends:

Should the November elections result in a "Palin-McCain administration", I promise to light a candle every night and say a prayer for the health and longevity of John McCain. Long may he be President of the United States.

Because the alternative is too frightening to contemplate - for the umbrella of job creation, for Russia and Putin (who, apparently, tends to rears his head) and for the country which she will be "the executive of".

Yours fondly,
Vanessa Six-Pack

A word on the absence

2008-10-04T00:39:00.013+02:00

A few weeks ago, I had a sad.

It had something to do with immigration legalese, with whose details I shan't bore you. For most of last month, there was a big, fat cloud hovering above me, heavy with the very real and serious possibility that I had to leave earlier than expected unless my visa kerfuffle got sorted out.

This meant going all Carpe Diem with everything I had been working on for the last few months here in Germany, pouring in longer hours at the office and summoning (with great difficulty, I will admit) that second wind so I could soldier on in the face of such stressful circumstances.

And, of course, I thought of F, too. For the first time, we're actually in the same country, able to see each other whenever we wished. Although there's something rather poignant about the idea of sending love letters in bottles borne by currents, I've gotten rather spoiled by regular dates and movie nights. It would be truly sad to revert to the long distance, just when we were having it so good.

So I was a Glum Chum for some days, living out of a suitcase and cracking jokes about my door getting broken down by immigration police. (I have a flair for the dramatic; the outcome, even at its very worst, couldn't have been as bad. But it - morbidly - made me laugh to think about such a scene.)

Then I just got over it and realized that, should these be my last few days here, then I might as well live it up. I took out my sorrows on this hapless bratwurst.
And tried to befriend the graceful swans on the river Alster, in Hamburg. One of them followed me on land and menacingly hissed as if to show me what's what. I bet it would have Z-snapped if it could.
I visited Hamburg's famous harbor, where hundreds of ships pass every single day en route to places I've never been.Later that day, at a friend's party, I went through champagne, White Russians (Caucasians?) and raspberry martinis like someone with nothing to lose. Which I was. Emerging accounts have it that this dainty girl in her frilly little black dress and glazed eyes out-hood-talked the German rapper in a trucker hat. I have no memories. The following days were spent just doing what I loved, what I would miss the most.

Dear Reader, things did not get better - at least not right away. But my spirits lifted, clouds parted, and I spent my days to the full, savoring every moment I believe I had left. I knew that, even if things didn't work out the way I wanted them to, I would be alright. There are wars in the world, far bigger crises going on; I would certainly survive this one.

A few days later, the Visa Gods smiled down on me, ending weeks of uncertainty. Within just 15 minutes, a kindly consular official hit "print", generated a precious little sticker, and put me out of my misery. Now that I've stared into what looked like certain disappointment, I think I know better than to take things for granted - especially not that ability to tap into some inner reservoir of strength and calm and humor, to ride these rough waves.

I heart J.E.

2008-10-03T18:22:00.003+02:00

I finished Jane Eyre and I must say, breathlessly, I love this book to bits. Why did I never read it before?! No matter, I just did myself a huge favor by picking up a copy of it. May I recommend, if you haven't yet read this classic, to rectify this immediately?

I am thrilled. Thrilled, I say. I am taken with its story, smitten with its characters. Charlotte Brontë was clearly ahead of her time, hammering away at the subjugation of clearly bright and spirited women and wrestling with the oppression of blind and manic religiosity. There's this little shocking detail about a married man falling for another woman. It is an incredible romance, with the added benefit of an expanded vocabulary and a glimpse into more genteel times. Indeed, it is that "vivid kind of goodness" that Jane Eyre waxes over in the book.

This beautiful classic spoke me to me in many ways, but most audibly as a testament to the strength, grace and character of women. Here the narrator (Jane) stands up for sisters everywhere:

Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

On restlessness and the gnawing need for "self-actualization" and the spreading of wings:

I longed for a power of vision which might...reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen: that I desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my reach...I could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to pain sometimes.

How could one resist Mr Rochester, even as he was cruel in his mind games:

I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you--especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I've a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you--you'd forget me.

Jane, casting all caution to the wind and speaking freely when confronted with the prospect of losing the one she loves to a woman he clearly does not care for:

Do you think I am an automaton? — a machine without feelings? and can bear to have my morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drop of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you. I am not talking to you now through the medium of custom, conventionalities, nor even of mortal flesh: it is my spirit that addresses your spirit; just as if both had passed through the grave, and we stood at God's feet, equal — as we are!

Oh the indignation! Heart in the throat, yet still spewing eloquence!

After reading this novel, I resolved to strive harder to become a woman of substance. Although I do still want to be called "pet lamb" from time to time. And I might be taking a page from this book and start calling you (dear you) "Reader", as it is charming and almost conspiratorial.

Tell me, has Jane Eyre (or any other novel) had the same effect on you?

Image credit: The scrumptious foto decadent

What bulldog puppies are for

2008-09-18T11:58:00.008+02:00

I know: There should be more action here, and I do feel bad about it. It isn't even because I've been caught up in my work in the salt mines, which I love like a fool. I've been sorting out some visa-related issues lately and they are so hairy it is not funny.

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter what I've accomplished, what degrees I've earned, where in the world I've lived. In the eyes of some authorities, I am only as good as my passport (and all that implies).

But I love my country, though I grieve over a lot of things about it - social injustice, for one. I also won't change a thing about me, except maybe stretching more. I am reminded of the time I went to Tallinn and was made to promise that I wouldn't try to ensnare the heart of an Estonian boy for his European citizenship. (Yeah, but what protects me from his attempts to get my citizenship?)

I was going to say that I am a decent, law-abiding and educated woman, and that should be all the reason to go easy on me, for borders to swing wide open.

But then I realized: decency is relative, often boring; laws themselves can be unjust and should rightfully be swayed; and education is overrated. It is my right to see the world and follow my feet. To those who worry I might be a threat to a society or to its people simply because of my nationality, I have this to say: You should really get out more.

Plus, I have great hair in my passport photo, and you can't take that away from me.

_____________________________________

OK. Now I got that off my chest. I've been looking at bulldogs to cheer me up. Dogs are my coping mechanism. There's something in that sad face makes me smile.

Thanks to these folks on Flickr, and the multitudes who share their bulldogs' photos and do us a real service.

These roads just got dangerous

2008-09-12T15:31:00.000+02:00

I drove a car, and the boyfriend crazy, the other weekend.

It's been about four years since I was last behind the wheel, and that was when I was still taking driving classes in Manila. With perfectly clear and sharp hindsight, I realize now I should have taken those lessons more seriously! They say if you can drive in Manila [or, insert here your favorite rambunctious, semi-lawless, dog-eat-dog city] you can drive anywhere in the world. While that may be true, and I don't doubt it, I did go around with a driver for the most part when I still lived there. Real driving ability, if I could claim to possessing that, would have only come in in the event of an emergency. (I have had, however, recurring dreams of being able to expertly parallel park and speak fluent French. Does this mean I should take my driving act to France?!)

Basically, I must have promptly jettisoned everything I ever picked up from driving school and replaced them with all sorts of less useful information. I could barely remember how the freakin' clutch...thing...worked. So for a full hour - 40 minutes of real action, 20 minutes of drama - I tried to revive those six months of instruction, which came in waves of recollection and awareness. ("Oh! So this is what happens when I step on this too hard. And that is the smell of burning tires!")

We drove around an empty parking lot, moving back and forth, forward and reverse. Occasionally, I would try to negotiate power moves that F was not ready for. Too many Angelina Jolie films in my life, I'm telling you. F deserves some kind of an award, though, for being supportive while trying to hang on for dear life. I guess I should be glad for his cavalier attitude towards self-preservation, which is probably the only way we could have gotten and stayed together.

This, my friends, is going to take a while.

{This photo is of a tree-lined boulevard cutting through F's neighborhood. I find it quite beautiful.}

A wedding in Bucharest, part 2

2008-09-11T15:25:00.006+02:00

The religious ceremony was scheduled for Sunday, in the 18th century Oţetari church. It was about 34 C that afternoon, the sun was shining brightly and the sky was a brilliant blue. Hair salons are closed on Sundays in Romania, so the bride, D, kindly let her own hairdressers get to work on my ponytail, which withstood the day's action-packed activities.It was my first time to witness Orthodox rites. I didn’t get the memo that these tend to last nearly two hours, standing up – a real test of stamina. Had I known this previously, I would have packed my heels in my purse and worn flip-flops. The poor ventilation (understandable in the old building), the wafting clouds of incense and the protests of my aching feet combined to make me light-headed. But as the grandmothers and other folks twice my age didn’t flinch one bit, I resisted the urge to ask for a chair. Or to faint, which would have been a real scene-stealer.

The rites were memorable and touching – and I don’t even speak Romanian. The groom and the bride were fitted with crowns and circled the altar several times amid a lot of singing. It was truly joyous, and I remember saying a prayer for every happiness to come their way. The officiating priest kept on forgetting M’s name, though, and it had to be supplied to him by an acolyte in a whisper too audible in that tiny church. That provided some comic relief.

Two hours later, from the relative darkness of the small church with about 50 people crammed inside, M and D emerged into the bright afternoon light. The festivities would now commence.The reception began at half past six in the evening, at which point the guests had been plied with much champagne as to be more festive, boisterous and jolly than usual. The newlyweds started the dancing shortly thereafter, and this went on until about 3am. I reckon the couple danced for about 5 hours, mostly in the traditional circles that, to spectators and the uninitiated, appeared to be a piece of cake. I, however, can assure you it was just like running on a treadmill for a good 20 minutes at a constant frenetic pace – but in heels. I achieved my desired heart rate in no time. The only thing that kept me going was a real fear of getting trampled underfoot if I so much as paused. Later in the evening, several women, including myself, kicked off our heels and danced barefoot. Let there be no impediments to our merrymaking!

How Romanians love their group dances.The real superstars, however, were M’s parents, who outdid and outlasted the younger folks as they tore through the champagne-drizzled dance floor.A folk singer later performed a song about saying goodbye that was designed to tug on the heartstrings and draw a bumper crop of tears from the newlyweds’ parents. Well, she succeeded alright. M had one parent crying on each shoulder halfway through the song. I cry at weddings, even ones conducted in a language I neither speak nor understand, and so this scene brought the waterworks on for me as well.All this while, food kept on coming to our table in a steady procession of Romanian dishes that people nibbled on when they took a break from dancing. At around midnight, a huge platter of grilled meats and sausages arrived and I was incredulous that we were still eating! F and I, and our brave stomachs, took it like sports and ordered espressos to go with our champagne and wine. Here, F and I take a breather from the festivities and from smoke inhalation (as practically everyone in the ballroom lit up).Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, the wedding cake was ushered into the ballroom in spectacular fashion, with little Roman candles and sparklers. Champagne flowed once more. And yes, we had some of those, too.F and I left at close to 3am and somehow managed to make it to our flight back that same morning in some kind of out-of-body experience. We woke up and we were back in Germany.And, indeed, there may have been an excess in wine and song and dance. But so, too, in joy and cheer and love and friendship. And of all these one simply cannot have too much.

A wedding in Bucharest, part 1

2008-09-11T14:51:00.007+02:00

It took me a total of two days to still my quivering feet after the weekend’s raucous merrymaking in Bucharest. And yet the weekend, the wedding – they seem to have happened so quickly.

F and I were there for the wedding of M, a dear friend from grad school. It was quite remarkable that we found ourselves in Bucharest for such an important occasion, considering I almost didn't get to know M at all. We had met only during our final semester, at a formal. I had never seen him around campus before.

F, who flew in from Germany to be my date, and I had been sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for a cab. Both of us had too much to drink that I might have been wearing his tie at some point in the evening. M had plopped down beside us on the couch in a similar stupor, and the three of us started chatting. We became fast friends, in that open-hearted, intense way the intoxicated welcome strangers into their lives. From that evening on, our time at school was spent finishing papers and partying like it was 1999.

A few days after M graduated and returned to Romania, he was dragged to a George Michael concert, and there he met D. They’ve been inseparable since. When he told us that he had found The One, F and I immediately booked our flights to Bucharest. We wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

We arrived the night before M got married. He met us at the airport, after our flight from Germany had been delayed a good four hours. (Just a small PSA: Do avoid flying WizzAir. And the Baneasa airport makes Philippine domestic terminals at Christmastime look positively efficient and orderly.)

After leaving our bags at the hotel and shaking off our weariness, F and I were whisked away to Caru cu Bere, a Bucharest institution from the 1800s known for its traditional cuisine and impressive architecture and interiors. I dare say it is the place to dine in the city, and F and I were touched that the couple spent the evening before their wedding with us.Despite the fact that it was a Friday, we miraculously found a table. I ordered my favorite Romanian dish, mici, the grilled naked sausages made from lamb, pork, and beef and incredible amounts of garlic. M once prepared a batch of 80 for a barbecue when we were in the U.S., and I had been missing it ever since. Caru cu Bere also brewed its own beer, which had a lovely bittersweet flavor not unlike the German Radler or the Spanish clara. F and I finished off a liter each.Last Saturday, M and D made it legal at the city hall, alongside nearly a hundred couples. The whole process lasted about 20 minutes, including the time spent toasting with champagne and shuffling out to make room for the next couple. Despite how harried it was, I still managed to get misty when M’s mama hugged the couple and I saw that M was trying to regain his own composure. Upon exiting the city hall, husband and wife were met by an arch of flowers under which they would pass, amid singing and greetings. I found this incredibly charming.And here they are - officially Mr & Mrs.

{Up next: The adventure continues with the religious rites, not fainting at the church, and hardcore Romanian-style partying.}

Magnificent weekend

2008-09-04T18:01:00.004+02:00

There's still a Friday standing in the way - but not for me! Lovelies, I am jetting off to glimpse the "House of the People" and witness a good friend from grad school get married this weekend in Bucureşti. (I could have just written Bucharest, but the cedilla was too exotic to resist.)

I have got the nicest little visa, with what can only be described as an otherworldly halo about my photograph, courtesy of their Cold War era-styled consulate.

May there be dancing and wine, romance and light! And in 33-degree Bucharest, may all these converge!

Bulletins to resume next week. Meanwhile, have a splendid weekend, one and all!

Image credit: Ian Cowe on flickr

Adventures in Deutsch

2008-09-03T12:33:00.003+02:00

Last night was the first meeting of Deutsch Kurs A1.1. Or, as I prefer to subtitle it, “Butchering the German language: 16 Ways”.

As a believer in starting right, I brought my A-game to this first meeting. Arriving a good ten minutes early, I chose a seat front and center and arranged my water bottle, pens and notebook on the desk. I came in hopped up on chocolates, a power walk, and the knowledge that I had read the course book the night before and therefore would not be fazed by anything. A brief stint as an English teacher at a German elementary school last year had also somehow given me an edge in this room full of beginners. And, of course, there’s the undeniable advantage of the German boyfriend.

I couldn’t have pictured a more diverse group assembled to study German for the first time. There were 16 of us. Among my classmates were several Americans– two young people who looked like they’d really rather be out by the Rhine tossing frisbees, and two older men whose wives had signed them up for the course; a keen Japanese man who had already filled in the workbook exercises; a timid Lithuanian woman who made German sound positively French with her soft, melodic voice; a Russian couple in their 50s who held hands throughout the class and helped finish each other’s sentences; a Croatian man who called me Fraulein; and a shy Turkish woman whose husband sat beside her in class for moral support. When it was time to introduce herself, I swear I heard her say “Pretty Shakira”.

Together we hurtled headlong into the world of Deutsch als Fremdsprache, led by the experienced Frau Lehrerin, who is by now hardened to the sound of her native tongue getting badly mangled and twisted. She will be speaking to us exclusively in German for the entirety of the course, unless there was an emergency and our lives actually depended on her use of English. Heavily accented, tentative and timid attempts at perfunctory greetings, introductions, saying a little something about ourselves – and that unflagging topic, the weather in Germany – reverberated inside the classroom throughout the evening.

I signed up for this class because I wanted to expand beyond the languages I already speak fluently. I’m sure my friends spread throughout the world would agree: having a grasp of the language spoken in the area in which you live enhances the experience of being in that society. I also think the process of learning a new language can be great fun, too.

While today was a bit (OK, truthfully – a lot) slow, I’m looking forward to when the material gets more challenging (from chapter 3 on, when the intimidating cases come in) and when we in the class grow in confidence. I’ve got to hand it to some bold students today who went in there and read whole dialogues from the book without the benefit of, you know, any comprehension whatsoever.

With such fearlessness, it’s certain that things can only get more interesting from here.

Und Sie- did you have to learn a foreign language? Which one?

Image credit: cpluv.com

As I continue to use the Internet for good

2008-08-31T21:10:00.017+02:00

I saw a feature on Dutch physicist, artist and kinetic sculptor Theo Jansen on German TV one evening. And immediately I knew I had to reach out to this stranger just to tell him he's da bomb. The man is possessed of a genius.

Theo Jansen has spent the last 18 years working on what can arguably be called a new strain of life. Strandbeests, or "beach animals", are wind-powered mobile machines developed using genetic algorithms and assembled from plastic piping, wood and sails.

Prototypes that exhibit durability move on from the sand laboratory to become more advanced versions (Beast 2.0?) later placed in the "wild". There, exposed to the elements of the beach, only the truly strong and hardy survive.
Over the years and much tinkering by Jansen, one might say the beasts have evolved and adapted to their surroundings. Some of the creatures are so sophisticated, they can detect when they've come in contact with water and move away from it. Today the strandbeests are completely independent of their maker, living on their own in herds on the coast of Holland. I now have the crazy idea to drive up there and go see them for myself!

Observe the strandbeests in their natural habitat in this must-see BMW commercial.

I wrote unabashed fan mail to Theo Jansen right after watching the feature. And he has graciously written back, saying that encouragement is always appreciated.

Particularly, I suppose, when you're building new life forms.

Image credit: strandbeest.com

Kites are fun*

2008-08-30T21:55:00.015+02:00

I've been missing mi familia back home lately. We don't get to talk often on the phone, though my mother has now mastered email. By harnessing communications technology, we have a constant back-and-forth, with my sister Berry in the loop as well. I'm sure Ma reports every excruciating detail, including what I had for lunch, back to Pa, who's usually more of a typewriter kind of guy, except when he makes a rare appearance on web cam. I have hinted before that my father is rather old-school. He's more likely to pen letters in his distinctive flowing script on stationery than to type an email. But the darling man tries to keep up with my sister and I as we travel around the world and move farther away from home. This does a lot to trim the 17 hours of distance between us right now.

Though I've officially moved out for sometime now, family remains important to me, perhaps ever more so. So if mine isn't close by, I worm my way into another's and make myself at home.

Today F generously lent me his wonderful dad for the afternoon. Together Big Poppa F and I went, just the two of us, to the Drachenfest. It's an annual, three-day kite and balloon festival held in an old airstrip in the middle of cornfields and farmlands. Despite the name, there were no actual dragons, only enormous kites and inflatable figures looming against the stunningly bright blue sky - and the cute, blonde, and bawling evidence that, contrary to what national birth figures suggest, Germans are, in fact, actively reproducing.
F's dad's favorite was this string of colorful pterosaurs. (It was his idea to go to the Drachenfest, by the way.)
And mine - a giant purple octopus, whose long tentacles fluttered gracefully in the wind. I thought it was the most self-assured kite of the bunch.
The weather was spectacular and the afternoon absolutely perfect for flying kites. And for lifting the spirits of homesick Big Little Girls.

* While this is true, it's also the title of this song by the Free Design. Flute playing ensues.

Been there: Luxembourg

2008-08-29T19:27:00.020+02:00

F had the spontaneous idea of driving down to Luxembourg last week. Admittedly, before he brought it up, I hadn't actually considered a trip to this diminutive neighboring country, even though it was just there. But I figured that I should take full advantage of the Schengen Agreement and do as much traveling as I could. Besides, Luxembourg was a mere two hours away, the quirkiness of F's GPS notwithstanding.

I'm glad we went, because we drove through a lush and rustic part of Germany, dotted with castle ruins and vineyards and farmhouses - and do I have a weakness for all three. The drive was absolutely scenic.

The city of Luxembourg was quite charming. And again there was the temptation to break into song ala Belle in Beauty and The Beast (it doesn't take much). I loved hearing French all around, although German and Luxembourgish are widely spoken, too.

When we arrived in the Alt Stadt, the weekend market at Place Guillaume was preparing to fold and people were taking unhurried strolls along empty and quiet cobblestone paths.
There were stately buildings all around, such as the Palais Grand-Ducal, where the Grand Duchy still performs the functions of head of state, and the National Museum of Art and History, which currently runs a tongue-in-cheek exhibition on tourist kitsch. Think Mona Lisa fridge magnets.

The Chemin de la Corniche, "Europe's most beautiful balcony", offered fantastic views of the Citadelle du St-Esprit and the river valley below.
After a surprisingly delightful lunch by the Théâtre des Capucins (where I had an amazing scampi salad and F finished off a quiche Lorraine), we lingered by the Three Towers, the remains of a 12th century fortress. That could be me. Or a Japanese tourist (I so get that all the time).
One impressive little detail - wifi hotspots all over the city! From public parks to bus stops to street corners, there were routers everywhere.
There are more modern sides to Luxembourg, such as the European quarter on the Kirchberg plateau where several financial institutions and ministries are located. As for me, I was enamored with the more dated, medieval, and antiquated parts of the city - the aqueducts and the stone gates and the palaces. All beautiful, in a very storybook kind of way.

Memo to self

2008-08-28T21:33:00.012+02:00

With any luck, your supervisor will come into the office tomorrow with a minor amnesia, unable to recall who you are, much less the paper you're supposed to turn in. And then you can be sassy, put your feet up and file your nails at your desk. (And, potentially, blog!) And leave for lunch at 11 and not be seen or heard from for the rest of the day.

A girl can dream.

Lovelies, I am currently writing like a madman - furiously trying to string some sense out of the alphabet soups of the fascinating world of international treaty bodies and instruments of law, policy and practice - you know how they love their acronyms! - and I'm sure I've already lost you at this point. The goal is to have something on hand tomorrow. If all else fails, I'm thinking along the lines of a convincing decoy of a stack of papers. By the time the boss notices I have nothing but Lorem Ipsum printed a hundred times all over them, I shall have already dashed out of the office.

Like I said - madman.

Hopefully, that's just going to remain a crazy fantasy (also known as Plan B). I'll post more sanely when all this is safely behind me. And, quite possibly, it will be about a Luxembourgeoise weekend.

I can has bamboo?

2008-08-28T00:50:00.005+02:00

It's terribly unoriginal, I realize, to re-post images from, of all sources, that little-known place on the Internets called I Can Has Cheezburger. But this made me laugh so hard in the middle of "working" that I just had to.

Pandas - masters of the art of death by cuteness.

The small rebellion of the day

2008-08-27T12:53:00.007+02:00

I am "working from home" till Thursday.

Cue in glee.

Technically, it didn't have to be my home. So, unbeknownst to Office Overlords, I packed a bag and left the city for F's quaint hometown in the German countryside (one whose name is intimidatingly spelled with 17 letters). I will, however, attempt to keep to the traditional definitions of "work" while I'm here, sipping champagne, admiring rose gardens, listening to Viennese kaffeehaus music...

I know. I'm snickering, too. Good luck with THAT.

There is a field not far from here that looks exactly like in this photo, with the freshly mowed wheat. And I'm so thrilled to be truant, albeit still in a decidedly responsible way, that I could imitate this jump. At the very least, I feel like her on the inside.

Image credit: "love, love, love..." by Mell0n C0llie on deviantART

Back when I had the time to read and comb my hair

2008-08-26T21:30:00.018+02:00

The wonderful Persephone strikes again, and this time it's a far more revealing meme than what’s playing on my iPod. The lady wants to know about literature. Gadzooks! I believe this is my karma for judging people who own a copy of He's Just Not That Into You.

The Big Read (whatever that is) reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they’ve printed.

1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicize those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you love.
4) Strike out the books you have no intention of ever reading, or for whatever reason loathe.
5) Reprint this list in your own blog so we can try and track down these people who’ve only read 6 and force books upon them.

Here's a little piece of me bared on the Internets!

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
~~2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien~~
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte {I finally have a copy and the will to read it!}
~~4 The Harry Potter Series - JK Rowling~~
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6 The Bible {Yes, from Genesis to Revelations. I was nine, precocious, and it had been a long summer.}
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte {Didn't make it past Chapter 5.}
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12 Tess of the D’Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy {Read only till Chapter 3.}
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare {Yes but rather incompletely...I enjoyed Taming of the Shrew and King Lear best.}
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
~~16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien~~
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
~~19 The Time Traveller’s Wife - Audrey Niffenegger~~
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot {I adore this book.}
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy {It sat on my bookshelf for an entire year before being donated to a local library.}
25 The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy {I felt this book so much, so deeply. I believe I was ready for it.}
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
~~33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis~~ {However, his Till We Have Faces should be on this list!}
34 Emma - Jane Austen
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli’s Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48 The Handmaid’s Tale - Margaret Atwood
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52 Dune - Frank Herbert
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov {This is SO next.}
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
~~68 Bridget Jones’s Diary - Helen Fielding~~
69 Midnight’s Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce {Does skimming count?}
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray {Read it in high school. It stayed with me.}
80 Possession - AS Byatt {I do, however, have Virgin In the Garden on my nightstand.}
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte’s Web - EB White
~~88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom~~
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad {I definitely want to read this as I've been interested in the Congo of late.}
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo {Read this at age 11 and saw the musical later in life, in New York. Both so memorable.}

As you can see with some titles, I only chewed on them for a few pages, took them up in starts and stops, but couldn't quite finish the entire thing. I read weightier books when I was younger - not merely under the influence of the English teachers who animated my high school years, but also because I was thoroughly head over heels, desperately in love with literature at the time. I would love to revive that.

The provenance of this list is rather questionable but I'd personally like to see Faulkner and Vonnegut in the future, for example, along with some poetry - say, of Neruda and Gibran and Tennyson and Shelley, to name a few. And there's still so much out there I haven't yet discovered, that I can't wait to.

I'm quite late in the game here and this meme has already made the rounds. Please feel free to leave reading recommendations, comment on my choices, or say which book you believe should be on this list. And hey, don't judge. I did my best with Ulysses, alright? The darn thing was just taking up all my youth.

Image credit: The Power of Books (2003) by Mladen Penev

Prodigal daughter of blogging

2008-08-26T14:16:00.010+02:00

finally strolls in, tail between her legs, looking rather sheepish. Tries to cajole you out of your stony silence. Doesn't succeed. Hopes you don't hate her.

Evidently, I have commitment issues. I was overtaken by life these past weeks to earnestly sit down and write. And I am finicky with my writing, even on such a disposable medium. I just couldn't find the quiet, in my room and in my head, to start tapping on my keyboard. Little did I know that days would turn into weeks of being away from this blog.

I do feel bad, however, for not leaving a note to announce the intermission. Thank you so very much for checking on me and asking whether I've dropped off the face of the earth, decided to be a Luddite, and such. I've been well, thank you! Your thoughtfulness is touching, and frankly, it's My Friends Who Live In The Computer whom I've missed the most.

Just a few of the things that I've been up to while being all truant and neglectful:

1. Finally got a haircut. When I mentioned long dried-out cocker spaniel summer hair previously, I was really describing the state of my own tresses. They weren't damsel-like in the least bit and badly needed a date with some shears. And when I say haircut, I mean it absolutely literally. I just couldn't be cajoled into spending a lot on salon and styling here in Germany, so I went to this neighborhood friseur that promised no frills whatsoever. It was so darned straightforward that the "cutter" (as hairdresser sounds too elaborate for what she actually does) actually trimmed my hair while I was standing up. Yup, not even a cushy stuffed salon chair. Pretty unorthodox, don't you think? Or perhaps, this is what they now teach in beauty school for the cheapskate woman on the go. Clearly, my demographic.

The result wasn't so bad. Four inches off and refreshed bangs with added volume, for the super low low price of €19!

2. More follicular news. I've been experimenting with curls. I've been a little bored with Asian Girl ruler-straight hair and thinking that I could rock ringlets and waves, of the early Lindsay Lohan persuasion. Sometimes, it doesn't go so well with the curling tongs and I end up looking rather mousy and unkempt. Not exactly Young Hollywood. But I plod on.

3. In a move that will hopefully earn me props with Tangobaby, who knows makeup, I've now been wearing eyeliner. "Sporting" might be more accurate. Now I totally understand Cleopatra's fascination with kohl. The results have been dramatic, in the sense that an eyeliner is a Sharpie in my unsteady hand. I walk the streets thinking myself all sophisticated and sultry, though I suspect the world actually sees an emo kid instead. The best, I think, is the look of slept-in makeup, which gives me the appearance of a world-weary bar singer. Eyeliner has so many levels.

4. I finally picked up a copy of Jane Eyre.

5. F and I drove to Luxembourg. There was no special reason to go, besides that it's so close by. It was, as expected, tiny and quaint. Also, distinguished and posh and with more handsome mature ladies bedecked in gold jewelry and Louis Vuitton per square mile than I've seen elsewhere.

On the way back we drove through the beautiful Mosel valley, named after the river that snakes through it. It's a wine-growing region of old farmhouses, cobblestone streets, and miles and miles of vineyards. Definitely postcard Germany. Wine season begins next month, and I've got my heart set on being back there. You reading this, F?

6. I signed up at last for an intensive German class. I will be studying the language, intensively, three days a week at three hours per session. Mein Gott. Total commitment! I truly hope to have the stamina and the discipline to do this and not, say, cut class to sit by the Rhine instead with a beer and a book. First day starts next week.

So there, you see, nothing particularly eventful has happened lately, though a thousand little hilarities seem to ensue in my life every day.

Image credit: Table 44 by Moss Koete on deviantART

They call me Chiquitita

2008-08-08T12:57:00.009+02:00

So I was in the doldrums, but steadily on the way to the Land of OK. The fast train that got me there, however, was the film Mamma Mia! I had to go to an English-language cinema in Cologne to see it. And I'm probably the last person to have caught the film, and I still haven't seen the play. But I listened to ABBA as a little girl, and I know all their songs. It was when I got much older, when people pulled faces whenever ABBA came on the radio, that I started to, um, tone down my professions of liking for their music.

Mamma Mia! wasn't the greatest cinematic event of our time, and it's a foregone conclusion that Pierce Brosnan won't play Bond in this town again. Meryl Streep, however, did not so much mesmerize as grab the audience by the collar and haul them all to sunny Greece. It was hard to tear away from her. And Colin Firth was there, and oftentimes that fact alone does suffice. The movie was light and buoyant, if campy - it is based on ABBA songs, after all - and my sandals tapped on the floor throughout.

I sat in the darkened theater, transfixed, concentrating my willpower on not bursting into song. Then again, so was everyone else, it seemed.

This is the song that cheers me up when I've "broken a feather". I won't lie, I love ABBA. And there's no way I can deny it.

Far from perfect

2008-08-05T17:38:00.008+02:00

{Update: Big bushels of thanks to everyone who left a comment or wrote an email in response to this post. It was most comforting to hear from you, wonderful you. You make me feel normal and not a bad person at all - the latter being truly one of the most important things to me.

I didn't have the big fiery explosion I probably should allow myself once in a while, but I do feel quite good about myself right now and the peacenik I've realized I am.

And so the image below has gone from "I will cut you!" to "I can trim the ends of your dried-out, cocker spaniel summer hair and make you bangs." And is that not a good thing?}

_________________________________

I hate being angry. It "shrinks the heart and makes life small".

Once, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in a fit of rage. And I scared me. It wasn't the nostrils flaring, the furrowed brows, the menacing snarl. It was because the person I saw reflected could deftly shoot arrows of stinging words, could cut someone down to excruciating size, could set fire to bridges - and, more disturbingly, would not hesitate to do so.

I'm not all sweetness and light and emotional intelligence. But to see myself as vitriol personified took my breath away. I wouldn't want to be up against me on a very bad day.

For reasons unblogged, for the life that goes on between posts, I've had a cause to be mad. A bona fide, honest-to-goodness justification. Notwithstanding how I felt, it was a hopeless situation, one beyond mending and soothing.

What made it worse was that I couldn't confront it at the time; there was no chance for one big howl, one big cry. There was no satisfying catharsis that lets one empty out all the rage to make room for gentler feelings.

The frustration only fueled my anger, in a "I need to throw something and hear it shatter into a million pieces" sort of way. (In the end, no glassware or ceramics were actually endangered.)

For many days, my anger stewed, bubbled, boiled over - till there was little left, reduced to a dull throb. The details of how I got here, so sharp at the height of my feelings, have become hazy. And now that I finally have the chance, I'm unable to find both words and energy to express my indignation.

I probably should be glad that I'm on the way to becoming a "bigger person". Yay. Then why do I feel so small?

Image credit: inne.com.ar

Motivation

2008-08-04T07:25:00.003+02:00

I'm telling myself that I'm taking this train back to B-town on this chilly Monday morning because I am driven, I am passionate, I am committed.

And not because I have to.

Let's all have a great week, lovelies!

Image credit: kerismith.com

Escapism

2008-08-04T00:06:00.011+02:00

I am a girl living with three deadlines, four papers, and a boss with an excess of confidence in my mastery of statistics hanging over my head. One would think the cold, hard and immutable reality of these demands on my life would have prompted me to work like a maniac, as I rightfully should.

Instead, today I went to the zoo.

The trip quickly became all about which animals I'd like to keep in my apartment. On that fantasy list went a couple of cuddly alpaca, a zebra (the grevy stripes would add character to the room), a Capuchin monkey, and some sprightly chickens native to Tanzania. It's just a more diverse and international version of the Bremen Town Musicians, if you will.

But from animals I would like to have, I found the one I would like to be. Here's me in my next (glamorous, jet-setting) life.

Flamingoes, too pretty to care about SPSS and getting published.

With a turn of the graceful neck, a flex of the skinny knee, they do their part in saving the world - restoring one harassed, weary, cynical soul at a time.

Papers schmapers, indeed.

Image credit: Long-legged beauties captured by Bruno LC, dbullens, and There and back again, on flickr

Procrastination Nation

2008-08-01T13:03:00.010+02:00

Just betweeen us friends - I have been truant lately (and this probably explains the revived sunny outlook on life). I took off from the office last Wednesday and hopped on a train for a city two hours from B-town. I may have told a terribly elaborate story just to be able to get out of there, and it is likely it did not contain one iota of truth.

Fine. I lied.

To assuage my Catholic school-ingrained guilt reflex, I piled into my suitcase four books and lots of printed material whose weight alone reassures me I can get some work done while I'm here.

Or so I thought.

I've been here two days now and have not written a single sentence for my report. Not one. I have been sleeping in, stalking blogs, sitting in the sun, hanging out on the golf course, painting my nails, and sipping Riesling. I do, however, make a big show of taking all my work with me and fanning assorted reports in front of me, as though I were earnest and not actually checking out food and design porn on my laptop.

I've also found out my brain now works only in 15-minute blocks of concentration, after which it needs a chew toy. Is it just me, or are you also finding it hard to focus and get anything done these days? Can I blame it on the fact that it's summer? Also, does my salvation lie in unplugging the router?

I would really reflect on this more - but first, a nap...

Image credit: jerm9ine on flickr

"My First Crush"

2008-07-31T01:50:00.000+02:00

The video below is an old favorite and, in my opinion, YouTube gold, by the gifted illustrator Julia Pott.

I couldn't help but smile at the references to conversations with neither side wanting to be the first to put the phone down, the excruciatingly sharp memory for all manner of details ("everything that he said to me and everything I'd said to him and everything that we did..."), the heartfelt love letters never sent, even some stalking...

Oh the exquisite agony of a crush.

Julia makes these pretty prints, available on her etsy.

I definitely would have written - and sent - a letter to the boy I fancied along with one of these. And then studiously ignored him in class and pretended nothing ever happened.

Girl-crush

2008-07-28T12:13:00.002+02:00

Oh Natalie. Can do no wrong. Also, can do no dancing. But then again, there are many other attributes besides.

A groovy if cheeky video, "Carmensita" from Devendra Banhart.

Wish you were here

2008-07-28T11:57:00.005+02:00

Your girl in Bonn had two hot dates this weekend. To be accurate, they were F’s mom and dad. They spent a night here after weeks of driving across, it would seem, most of the German-speaking world in a mission to test the mettle of Guide Michelin-ranked kitchens. Their visit was warmly welcomed, as I am terribly fond of F’s groovy parents. Besides, the embarrassing fact of the matter is that the two of them have a more bustling social life than I do. My big weekend plan was mainly “The Congo: From Leopold to Kabila”, some pillows, and pajamas.

F remains away from the homeland. Ironically, he is in mine. In the briefest of pauses, he came back to Germany from a three-country Caucasus romp, surprised me with roses (yes, I’m still gloating), and then hopped on a flight bound for Hong Kong. He is at the moment in Manila, and still has other stops in his Asian itinerary.

The irony of this situation is not lost on us. Inasmuch as we try to bridge the geographic distance, in this relationship that’s been played out with us mostly on different time zones, we somehow also end up creating this distance simply because of the goals we have.

I’ll just skip the part where I try to sound like this mature and understanding girlfriend who doesn’t for a minute wonder if we can actually manage to be in the same city for freakin’ once.

Anyhow.

Saturday was a thunderstormy mess, getting in the way of a planned leisurely stroll along the Rheinaue, a beautiful public park about the size of downtown Bonn, and where a beer-tasting festival had been slated. Ever the optimist, and encouraged by a few moments of sunshine, I had put on shorts and sandals. Lightning flashed over the Rhine in a way that did not inspire promenades. So, instead, F’s parents and I ducked into a pub in the city center.

I enjoy being with F’s parents. They’re serious foodies, and I think most of what I understand and appreciate now about wines I picked up from their discriminating taste and proclivity for finishing a bottle before bed each night while we watched the news or just sat around to talk. (Or, my big favorite, take out F’s album of adorable baby photos – much to his torment.) They are incredibly warm, open-minded and easygoing, and it is like hanging out with your crew. Except that these ones, you know, actually sired your boyfriend and changed his nappies at one point.

After dinner, the three of us joined a crowd, numbering about 50 people at first, to catch the open-air concert of one Sergeant Garcia (pictured above), whose brand of music was supposed to be along the lines of “reggae, hip-hop, and salsamuffin”. The third category sounds more of a curious pastry with a zing.

But the sargento, with his heavily French-accented Spanish, and band of mostly Cuban musicians, was ze bomb. They were a young Buena Vista Social Club, if you will, with touches of the Fugees.

In no time at all, and perhaps it was the beer, wine, and champagne at dinner, F’s parents were grooving and busting salsa moves in the square. They are cool like that.

It rained again for a few minutes, and the fog machine became redundant, almost as optimistic as my outfit. Sergeant Garcia asked the enduring crowd, which ballooned to nearly a hundred at this point, as we braved the weather and stood in the puddles – “Alemanya, show me how caliente you are.”

And that we did, dancing in the cold rain.