Saturday, December 29, 2012

Three Christmases

Three Christmases:

One of which has already been written about--this is the Internations Christmas Party from Mars.

The other two:


Christmas with the United Nations, aka, Mike's house party.

This party was the party everyone sort of wishes they could go to after they get married/ get engaged/ grow up a bit and are too old for keggers but yet dread stuffy dinner parties where everyone nips at each other in a kind of slow motion shark tank. Mike, the host, and myself were the only Americans (although not the only Caucasians), and the crowd was Iranian, Indian, Hungarian, Filipino, Brit, and "other" (a painfully shy Middle Eastern man who hardly spoke two words). Mike made turkey, ham, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, stuffing, cranberry sauce, enough liquor to choke a horse, and everyone brought food (we brought naan). I brought Kent, who was as happy as a clam at high tide to settle onto the smoking balcony and talk philosophical politics with the most dangerous man at the party, Ash.

Ash is, no exaggeration, the most magnetically attractive man I've ever seen. His eyes, which are the most beautiful I've ever seen, are huge, hazel, prominent, and fringed with sooty lashes. The man also manages his chi like it's his job, and is most often found draped over various couches like he's being handed an invisible cluster of grapes by a nymph. It's impossible not to try to flirt with him, even though I'm really not, on an intellectual level, interested. But when he gives you that simmering stare, you can feel the rest of the world melt away, and you feel the melancholy pull of a dangerously beautiful man who is not only aware of his beauty, but is an old hand at using it to get what he wants.

Anyway, he was safely tucked away on the porch for most of the party, talking to my date, while I talked to this kid Tomas, a shy, sweet, slightly dorky guy from Hungary, who was solo, his wife being ill that night. He was super nice, and super earnest, in that Germanic way some travelers have, and we talked about astrology (!!). The night wore on, and people got plenty rippered (me and Kent included, we had to leave before things got too crazy), and we cranked up the music and danced a bit, before going home to sleep it off.

There's some things I'm leaving out, of course, like Akosh, the huge Hungarian dude, who barreled around saying things like "Everyone gets drunk now!" and grinning through his Popeye mustache (which was brick red). And Ash flirting with this girl by slipping her sandal off her foot with his foot, which is a move so far advanced even I, a professional flirt from the old school, have never seen anything quite that smooth.

Christmas with the Ozzies: aka, Alison and Stewart's Xmas day dinner:

This was significantly less wild, as it occurred during the day, for one, and for seconders, most of the parties involved were over 40. Alison and her husband, Stewart, were nice enough to make Christmas day dinner for us, and her mother in law and step daughter. The food was excellent, there was champagne and Kent--who is Christian, and whose family celebrates Christmas, (who I brought to this event, as he was stranded here-- his original plan, which I knew would fall through, was to go to India for a few days for his nephew's christening, but this fell through when his boss begged him to stay and work--and I couldn't stand the thought of him being all alone all day, so I sold it to him hard and he came for a few hours) gracefully fielded all manner of questions about India. But in everyone's defense, when you explain that having a good elephant on your coffee estates is "just like having a good farm dog", you kind of leave yourself wide open for a deluge of questions after that. Just sayin'.

After the meal, when we were laying around talking, and he suddenly gathered me up in a closer cuddle, and said "Thank you for inviting me". So nice. No matter how old, how much of a workaholic, or where they're from, nobody oughta be alone on Christmas. And they never will be as long as I'm around.


Saturday, December 15, 2012

Pleasures

Layers of pleasure have been given to me as the Universes' Christmas gift. Thank you, from the bottom of the safe deposit box I call my heart.



All the different pleasures I've had in the last few weeks:

The pleasure of knowing I'm marketable: Our India office is looking at "stealing" me from the Philippines to India. The interviewer's opening salvo? "I have a TON of work over here for someone of your profile." It's nice to know all the heartache, blood, sweat, Excel instructional manuals, drama, late night phone calls, etc, haven't gone to waste.

The pleasure of hearing a clever joke and then repeating it to someone who gets just as much out of it as you did when you first heard it. This has so many layers to it, the pleasure from this is still going on, days later. My work friend Ivan told me this [naughty] joke (I have changed a few things to make it a bit more accessible, as he transliterated it from Tagalog and his telling was oddly disjointed).

You, the teller: "There once lived a shape shifting princess who could become any animal. She grew up isolated since her parents didn't want her to be stolen by the rival kingdom for their own uses. But she was lonely and longed for a mate and a tribe. So finally the rival kingdom's king died, and the princess was allowed to go looking for her mate. She didn't really know what form she would assume, so as she wandered the land, she changed her body to match whatever she saw--- lion (roar!), pug dog (arf!). Then she saw a beautiful creature: tall, with long legs, large eyes, and the most beautiful spotted coat. 

"Oooh, what are YOU! I must change myself to match you! What are you?" She exclaimed. 

The creature responded "I'll tell you what: go to bed with me and I'll tell you what I am." 


"Okay." She replied. 

Afterwards, she said "oh, that was terrific! I especially loved your long....neck." 

"Thanks" said the creature. "Now I'll tell you what I am. I'm giraffe." 

"Thanks giraffe!" the princess said, and off they went on their separate ways. 

A few weeks later, she was wandering again, changing to a frog (ribbit!), a butterfly (flap!), and every thing else in her path when she came across a magnificent creature with large fluttering ears, and massive strong legs, and the most delightful trunk.

 "Ooh, what are YOU! I  must change myself to match you! What are you?" She exclaimed.

 The creature responded "I'll tell you what: go to bed with me and I'll tell you what I am."

"Sure, what the hell?" the princess said. 

Afterwards, the princess lay in a daze. "Oh, creature you were amazing. I especially love your strong, thick....trunk." 


"Thanks" said the creature. "Now I'll tell you what I am. I'm elephant." 

"Thanks elephant!" the princess said, and off they went on their separate ways. 

A few weeks later, the princess was out wandering again when she ran across a lulumummum.

Listener: "A what?"

You: [give them an arch look until the penny drops, which it usually does within a few seconds]

Ivan told me this and the pleasure of being flirted with combined with the intense pleasure that comes from "getting it" creates an almost indescribably sweet kind of enjoyment. I was still giggling over this (relatively mild, but very old fashioned, almost British in its coyness) naughty joke.

I then told this joke to AllwynKent (the guy I'm dating), a man who's repertoire of dirty jokes is extensive, who got it right away and rolled onto his side overcome with waves of laughter, with his eye squeezed shut, from the pleasure of being told a dirty joke by his normally very straight-laced girl [well, compared to my Taurus, there], and of "getting it".

The pleasure of attending a party and being the most visibly "in love" two people there. I could marry the guy for this. Rarely does a man who is earthy, physical, and sensual make for a presentable walker, but this rule is generally suspended with Indians, who of any men I've dated make for equal "husbands" and "lovers". While still holding his own and circulating around, Kent also managed to give me just the right amount of affection and make sure every man in the room knew I was his date. People liked him, and he took the odd party (it was held in an elementary school in the middle of nowhere, with the children's chairs as seats!!!) in stride and was Mr. Romance in the taxi on the way home. When I first started seeing him, I was not as strongly "into" him as I am now- I was just 'toes in' the water, but last night I felt the internal fireworks that signal the beginning of deeper infatuation and liking-- the heady, giddy, weightless sensation we mere mortals call "falling in love". And people, he agreed to watch Moonspinners with me! (In case you don't know it's a feather light spy caper Disney movie set in Crete, made in around 1965 that was a summertime classic in my house for years while I was growing up) Bliss.

The pleasure of being the bigger man: I gave a very expensive, classy, and well chosen gift to my biggest office enemy. He melted enough to grunt out a goodbye at the Xmas party- target acquired, locked on!

The pleasure of showing off your favorite secret spot to a newbie

The pleasure of making an acquaintance into a shiny new friend

The pleasure of feeling accepted back into a group that you felt was a bit cool to you lately

The pleasure of stopping after 1.75 beers and a shot

The pleasure of contemplating moving to a new country

The pleasure of seeing the returns on your project and seeing they are terrific numbers

The pleasure of having a "nice to meet you" email answered in just a few hours


....and on and on....

Friday, November 30, 2012

Where are we?

Well, hello US! I'm back! For now.

In my work contract I'm given a free ticket back to the US once a year, so this year I saved all my vacation days and took about 10 days off, and split the time between the ROC and Buffalo.

The Rochester leg was a bit of a bust, since I was really sick the first two days, but I was able to see Irene and Jessica, who stopped by Kelsey Grange on their way to Buffalo for a reunion-- quite a few people were in town for Andy Capp night and Thanksgiving. That was the much vaunted "Harpie Reunion" and "Harpies Descend", featured on FB. The girls brought me wine (they know me well) and we hung out for a few hours just talking. I loaded them with swag from the Kultura part of the department store, and they seemed like they liked it well enough. The bummer is that I wasn't feeling better- I was having a hard time keeping up with the conversation as I felt like an animated corpse the entire time.

Sat/ Sun/ Monday I just hung out and did little, but Monday however, I met up with a fellow ex pat who's repatriated recently-- this kid Trip (super preppy abbreviation for a III) who worked for my company and who quit and moved back to our hometown about 2 months ago. It was delightful to gossip about work and commiserate about the challenge of hanging out with "civilians"-- either people who've traveled very little, only as tourists, or only worked in places like London, or Toronto. (First world English speaking cities, in other words). It's not that I don't love my friends, miss them terribly, and love hanging out with them, but in general people tend to sort of think it's either doing Red Cross work in Haiti, or a white sand bungalow vacation every day. Which it sort of is an unholy combination of both that takes a longggg time to explain to those that aren't there. It's hard to catch someone up on 2.5 years of cultural immersion in 3 hours.

Anyway, we went to this place:



http://www.highland-park-diner.com/

which has amazing food and a great atmosphere and is easy to get to. Trip looked great, healthy and sassy, and talking about going to Columbia to work there with the company again, and of course be with his fiance, who lives there.

Tuesday my friend Adam from Buffalo picked me up and we tooled out to Buffalo for three days of fun! Actually it was like 2 and some change, since we don't count days that were mostly made of travel, but anways! Upon arrival, Adam and I fixed ourselves several bourbon and waters and spent like 5 hours just talking. Then off to the nicely appointed guest bedroom for me, where I slept like a baby.

 
 
We got up early and went to Betty's, pictured above, which has always had the most amazing brekkers food ever and is open early. After that, we tooled off to Target so I could buy socks and torture Adam by slowly browsing the "undergarments" aisle, and then off to the AmVets so I could buy Kent (the guy I'm seeing) a tee shirt. Kent is a truly cosmopolitan man of the world who prides himself on being well traveled, liberal, and knowledgeable politically. Naturally I immediately hit on the perfect gift, described below.

I threatened him "I am going to get you the most offensively jingoistic pro America tee shirt I can find. It's going to be like, red white and blue camo, with Playboy trucker girlie silouettes on it and it's going to say "Amurrrica! Love it or leave it!" or something equally awful! We were in stiches laughing about it, as it was tickling both of our funny bones picturing him wearing this monstrosity.

Well, apparently those of us who buy those type of shirts wear them to rags or keep them under glass, because the best I could find was a "Proud American blood donor" shirt with a flag waving on the back-pretty good, but a far cry from the horribleness I wanted. I WAS able to get him this shirt (below), however. It's gonna look so rad on an Indian:

 
I got myself a similar shirt (716 area code pride), but that was on day 2, so back to day 1.
 
After AmVets we called Todd Gibney, my old manager from the collections shop, and we tooled out to North Tonawanda to meet him at work. He was on an 11-8 so he couldn't get out for lunch with us, but we sat and talked for a bit, and it felt great to see him. As always, he was a melencholy Buddah, with a warmth and charm that hid (not very well) an iron hand and a sense of sadness that makes one both admire and pity him. I also saw a former immamorta, this kid Tony, and thouroughly enjoyed scaring him a little by taking his number (he left his long term girlfriend for me for a bit, and now that I was back in town he took pains to tell me that things were back on with the GF and it was all going well, etc.) and watching his face flicker between attraction and happiness at his luck in running into me and fear that I would come back and blow up his life again, all for nothing, just like the first time. But of course I was just twitting him, and enjoying it a bit too much. Heh.
 
Then it was off to lunch, and then home. I foolishly fell asleep at like 2 PM and couldn't really rouse myself, so it was a super early day. I went to bed at like 7 PM.
 
 
The next day we toddled off to Spot Coffee for breakfast (in what would be a long string of eating adventures, it was like I did all the eating for the entire trip in this one day), and then hurried over to Sarah's in Williamsville to pick out an engagement ring for Joann, Adam's soon to be fiance. I also got the aforementioned teeshirts on Elmwood and took some pics for FB.
 
 Then it was off to lunch at the newly and gorgeously renovated Hotel Lafayette. I met Sarah Hansen and Christine (the Silver Fox) and we had lunch at the staid, but perfectly acceptable, Pan American Grill:
 


This picture does not really do full justice to this amazing space, most of which was just opened and redone in the last year: https://www.facebook.com/HotelLafayetteBuffalo

It is incredible. It makes me really long for Buffalo- it's things like this that made me love living there and made me so full of hopes and wants for something more, if only it weren't just out of my reach.

After this, we zipped back home to change, then off to my old boss's new office (my old boss is Chris, Adam's best friend in Buffalo), where he and the rest of my former co workers were just wrapping up the work day. Interested workers not so subtley eavesdropped as I chatted with my former coworker Bill Childs, who was an excellent listener and asked all the right questions, and then Chris swept me and Adam down to Witter's Bar and Grill

a little hole in the wall where the Buffalo Chicken Wings are only 35c. (Nothing's too good for our out of town friends! Heh.) Chris and his wife Megan have set up call centers overseas, in Russia, so they were able to compare and discuss the ins and outs of setting up the biz and they were both very gratifyingly excited to see me and happy I was doing well.

Then off to the newly renovated "Blue Monk" for dinner (Duck Fat Frites with special dips like Thai Ginger Melon Ketchup and Black Truffle Ketchup that were to die for!) where I met Amy, a Buffalo friend who follows my blog!!



 We had a nice dinner, and hopefully she'll be able to come on out to meet me in Thailand, Singapore, or Japan this next year (2013 is officially Asia travel year for me).

Well, that's pretty much all I did- a few things of course I wasn't able to get to or didn't mention (Weggies with my mom, a few phone calls to some other friends, etc, but on the whole, this is it), and next edition will be: I know what you DID, now how did you FIND IT? More later....




Sunday, November 11, 2012

Back to the USSR

It really is true: the minute you swear off men and dating forever, a really good prospect arrives on the scene.

The scene: after several smaller and one large heartbreak(s), our heroine has decided that dating in Asia just isn't cutting it. Reasons:

1) Local men are generally either already married or in a serious relationship, and if they aren't, there's a damn good reason why they're single.

2) Ex pats (American/ European) are here to date 18 year old, 4'9", 87 pound girls who speak almost no English and won't give them any lip when they play their iPod at dinner (seen it!).

3) "Other ex pats" (ie, Indians) have given me a million laughs, and a million headaches. (Enter Ant, who I broke up and got back together with about 4 times in 5 months). So they're out.

There's a lot of other reasons, but the big one:

4) I genuinely don't want a BF at this time-- it's a lot of work, trouble, and risk for something that may or may not work out. I see a serious relationship almost like a part time job, and since my full time job and my part time job of trying to f--ing make it in a 3rd world country without losing my mind keep me pretty occupied, I kind of gave up.

Well, I have a stable of "Chapsticks"-- eligible, friendly men (Haresh, Pree, etc) who can squire me around, and who look good in a sports coat and jeans; but who don't try to give me "the business" in their every spare moment. So my life isn't man- free, per se.

It was at Internations, with one of the aforementioned Chaps, that I met "him". I was sitting on a bench with Preetam, who is a magnet for other people (I can choose my Chaps- everyone I've brought to Internations is one of those naturally attractive souls that radiates good will) and this cheerful, pudgy dude comes up.

This is Anuj, who looks like Pooh Bear with a tan and glasses. Anuj is holding forth on business (pretty much the only topic Indians want to talk about, other than the quality of women they see, have known, or are about to hit on), and Pree is as happy as a cricket on the hearth. ( I sold him on going to the event not by talking about the free wine, the hot white chicks, or the chance to get out of the house. Nope. I mentioned "It's a great chance to network." I had him at "network".)

Now, Anuj is part of a large group of men, who have arrived rather late in the game and are roaming around as a whole. He beckons them over and my mother is proven right (she pegged me as "surrounded by a group of men at any given party" in her fashion type quiz) as within a few minutes I'm swarmed by a group of *very interested* Indians, all trying to be cool, yet studly, all while being visibly torn between the prospect of hitting on a heretofore unknown white girl, and talking business with a heretofore unknown businessman.

Heh.

In the crowd is Allwyn. Allwyn makes no bones about his intentions and (wisely, as it later turns out), forgets all about trying to network and sits down next to me, chatting me up and getting my number. Allwyn has a significant leg up over the other men, as he has a lush, jet black Van Dyke goatee, which suits his face perfectly, and glasses, which gives him the air of being a very tan, hipster Dr. Freud. In contrast to his fashionable exterior, he is extremely earthy- you know those people you meet who are very human but somehow possess a very animal side as well? That's him. His family are coffee growers, and everything about him is warm and dark, like coffee.

In a very gratifying show of interest, Allwyn follows up later, while our two parties have gone our separate ways (him and his group to a club and me and mine to a speakeasy), and he invites me to join him at his club. I'm in the middle of a drawn out, intimate, candle lit discussion with Pree and Haresh about [something or other, this was about 5 cocktails into the night], and I have no intention of dropping everything to rush off to be with a guy I just met. So I offer up "recovery breakfast tomorrow?" He's in for the next day, but he's scheduled to do some damned volcano trek, so it will have to be dinner.

Well, the next day we meet up at 9 for dinner. We have dinner and coffee, then go back to my place to talk and only at 4am, do we reluctantly part ways, having talked through a movie that we finally just turned off to talk uninterrupted.
I had decided to just treat him as a friend, but keep the slightly flirtatious angle and rigorously check for red flags. Marriage/ kids minded? Nope. Into drugs/ heavy drinking? Nope. Sexist jerk? Nope. Local Yokel who has never been outside of his home town and the current location? This is someone who *voluntarily* went camping in Mongolia, people.

Anyway, long story short, he's boyfriend material. I've never really experienced something like this- the light hear-ted flow of talking to a friend, not walking that "don't say the wrong thing" tightrope while trying to read a man's mind and tell him what you think he wants to hear. And yet, I still felt a strong spark of chemistry with this guy, it wasn't like the "friend window" was now closed and we were suddenly dude bros.

So we met up for lunch a few days later, and then had after- work drinks on Sat night. So Sat night we had a little chat, where I really laid my cards on the table and spelled it out. "I'm theoretically OK with Friends Plus, but I have tried it and for me, it's just not going to work. If I'm going to be intimate with someone, it means something to me, and it doesn't have to be dead serious from Day One, but it has to be headed in the direction of commitment."

For me, I want a man who likes and respects me enough to say "I want her all for myself and long term." In general, and in my experience, when a man really likes a girl, he wants her all to himself and wants to make it serious. I've actually had men outright tell me (in the process of trying to date me) "I want you to be my GF!"

He told me (and I believe him) "I knew from talking to you that you weren't someone who plays around, and I asked for your number and asked you out knowing this. I can't be Mr. Romantic, texting you all the time and that, but I want to be with you, and I want to see what happens. And I don't want anyone else."

So that's it, I'm seeing him and while I won't say it's "serious", neither would I entertain offers from other men. He's a handful anyway.

 Basically, I've done a lot of thinking about this, and I have decided that for my purposes (a drama free life), it's either really just friends, or a traditional dating set up, where both of you are interested in finding a long term partner. I don't want to waste time "hooking up" with men who aren't quite right for me, and furthermore, having "question mark" men in my life leaves the field cluttered and crowded, shooing off quality men who are looking for a "girl who doesn't play around."

I have never had a man say that to me, which means that I have internalized this way of thinking and reorganized my life to the point where it's visible through my body language and my choice of words: "Serious Customers Only. No Looky- Loos." Nice.

We'll see. If it works out, great. But if for some reason it fizzles, of course I'll be disappointed but I won't be devastated, since it's really a plus, not a raison d'etre. And people, he's adorable.


Sunday, October 21, 2012

Ladies who lunch

Continuing the theme of "ex pat fashion in South East Asia", I'd like to take you on a little journey through the types of lady ex pats one typically sees over here (this excludes those of Asian origin, I can't really speak to, let's say, Korean wives of American servicemen who're retired and living in Manila).

Types:
The backpacker:
This one's easy, so we'll start with her.
Usually this girl has pretty enviable style, if one could call the studied "undone" look a style per se. Long, lean, tan, with natural hair, very little or no makeup, and a disheveled "long term traveler" look, made up of quick dry nylon pants, well worn no color camis and an armful of local color bracelets-- this is the look. Finished with Merrel shoes and a giant backpack, sprinkle with a determined, slightly self righteous facial expression and there you have it.



The lady of leisure:
This lady is usually 40 or older, and is either on a long term vacation of some kind of following her spouse, usually the latter. She's casually put together, the look some call "stealth wealth"--she's wearing basics, but each of those pieces cost 12,000P. The makeup look is "barely there", usually a coral lip or a light wash of slightly sparkly eyeshadow, but mostly not much at all. What sets this woman apart from school teachers or missionaries who dress in a similar fashion is her "serious jewelry"- this woman usually has some genuine David Yurman or Hermes Fine Jewelry, and not trendy things like Tiffany or Chanel. Her wedding ring, engagement ring, a heavy duty necklace, and a watch that would support a village for a year are the staples, sometimes you see some expensive religious pieces as well- prayer beads, layers and layers of lucky red coral beaded bracelets, that kind of thing.















The career gal:

This is me (although I don't dress like this, so I don't fit this mold, but this is how most women who come over here dress).
Department store linen suits, khakis, neat button downs, low heeled pumps- conservative secretary wear. Sometimes you see a slightly chicer look: all black separates with a flash of color, but mostly these women are wearing protective camouflage and don't want to stand out. It's really a shame, because these ladies have a chance to shake it up and set the tone for female style here, but usually they find themselves wearing the same old Express suits and pumps they wore to church at age 18, out of a combination of resignation and fear.



The missionary:
Not that I really need to spell this one out, but they look like Nikki from Big Love. (In the middle). This look can be surprisingly chic, as most missionaries are in great shape- no drugs or alcohol and no late nights will do that for you-- so their clothes fit very well, and in a sort of post Marc Jacobs anti fashion way, they look good. They're authentic, I'll say that for them.


The anthropologist/ language teacher/ artist/ free student:

That's me. I've only seen one other person (in almost THREE years) that was white and looked anywhere close to my style.

Let me describe her (she looked a hell of a lot better than me, but she has a similar artsy look):
She was tall and about a size 8-10 (not super thin, but on the slender side), with a natural white blond Jean Seberg pixie (reason enough to hate her already). She was wearing a black sheath dress with an asymmetrical panel on the front that had an abstract floral print in acid green and acid yellow on it. I think the only misstep was slightly clunky shoes, but with that showstopper dress, who's counting?

It wasn't quite as dramatic as these Dries Van Noten images, but it was in the same league. She owned the room. Update: I have located a picture of this lady that I took and will now post it. If you are this lady and would like me to take it down, just contact me and I'll gladly do so. But it's pretty good press, if I do say so myself!



The other version of this is older women who don't really fit any mold- they're here for unknown reason, and they look like a million bucks, usually wearing something along these lines:



These women, if I had to guess, would be Foreign Service employees or the like on their day off. They've been here for a long time and have clocked all the best places and know where to shop and what will flatter them.

Jet setting tourist:
These are the Europeans who are here on holiday (they don't really count as ex pats but they usually run in the same circles, so for all intents and purposes they are ex pats). They're usually very well put together, and they make one feel like a bag of laundry. One such young lady I saw was wearing a perfectly fitted 1950's style day dress in a bright turquoise floral print, perfectly accessorized with an artsy necklace of the type that combines pearls and chains.

This picture captures the mood and feel of the European lady on the bounce (there's another look as well, I've only seen it twice, but I'll include it after this).



The celebrity:

I've only seen two people (well, two white people, I've seen dozens of Koreans dressed like this) who fit this description, and one was in the most expensive mall in Manila, the Rockwell. She was 6 feet tall and wearing platform boots, so thin you could count her ribs through her tee shirt, she had hair like Slash from Guns and Roses, and she was wearing a hat indoors, in the middle of summer. And I think it was a floppy felt 1970's hat, but I can't be sure because I was too busy picking my jaw up from the ground from whence it had fallen.
This woman, to quote myself, was the type that, when she walked, she left a wake.

She was actually more dramatic than this illustration given her cloud of hair and Eurasian features, but you get the general idea. I'm pretty sure this person was a performer of some kind, there's no way someone like that is teaching history at Manila British School.



And that's it, basically. Sadly, there's only about 3 women for every 1 million Filipinos (no lie, there's 8 mil in Manila alone, and I've seen 2 other white women in my office building and about 5 on the streets, 4 of whom were clearly tourists)

So for those of you reading, take the challenge and step it up! Wear something different than your usual khakis and tee and Merrell walking shoes! Mix it up!







Friday, September 28, 2012

Addicted to The Wrinkle Rack

I started reading a very exciting book about the cost of "fast fashion", a topic that's very close to my heart, since as a child my mother made almost all our clothing, and my whole matriarchal family line, including my sister and myself, sews to varying degrees. My sister can make basic clothing, quilt, and knit (and crochet, too, I think) while I can mend almost anything and sew very simple things, and my mother can tailor a 3 piece suit.

I actually have a tattoo of an old- fashioned sewing machine on my arm, in the crook of my elbow, and it's a comment on craftsmanship and a dying art that most people have to stare long and hard to figure out what it is. (There it is below- I took the image from a book I found in the Buff State Stacks and had tattooed on me by my inanamorta, a tattoo artist).

The book "Overdressed", which is worth a read, even if it lingers a little too long on factory conditions in various developing countries (something I know a little too much about, seeing as I live there already), goes over different aspects of fast fashion- touching on how it came to be, and ultimately, what is the cost.

I'd like to discuss the state of the Philippines when it comes to cheap, trashy, poorly made clothing. First of all, it's almost ground zero for that type of clothing (China is the real Ground Zero). You may have noticed, those of you who shop and read clothing labels, that much of your inexpensive clothing is Made in the Philippines. Secondly, ever wonder what happens to the clothing you gave away after it leaves the local Salvatore Armani? People, it ends up over here. (More about that later).

Here's the deal:

There is a thriving "seconds" market here, on many levels.

Level 01: Stores:
The first level of "seconds": the inexpensive fast fashion stores like Zara, TopShop, etc. These places take very high fashion cues like digital prints, Native American influenced prints, color blocking, etc, and make quick, cheaply made copies of them and sell them from between 20- 100$. It pains me intensely to see a crappily made, cheaply fabricated dress being sold for 100$ when I know I can have a custom made, custom fit dress that no one else will have, that will last much longer for, like 20$ (I have my own tailor-- more about that later, too). Most of these things will do in a pinch, and there are some cute "finds" there- I have a striped tee shirt that's cut away at the sides so that it flatters my shape much more than a square shape, that I picked up for 20$. But the material it's made from is NOT breathable, so it must be worn only in air conditioned spaces.

Level 02: The Baratillijo:
The second level of "seconds" is the open air clothing sellers that sell blatant fake copies of well known brands, the most popular being Burberry, (PUKE!), LV, Gucci, Coach, Abercrombie (really, Asia?), Melissa shoes (the saddest part is that the original Melissa shoes, disgusting plastic jelly shoes for adults, which are extremely popular over here, are only 80-100$), Hollister (again, really Asia?), Aeropostale, American Eagle, LAMB and this bag, (by Longchamps, which retails for 200-1000$ for the real thing)

 which is one of those mystery products that looks like a million dollars in the original and like SHIT in a copy. This item especially gets my goat, for some reason. Fake Chanel bag? Fine. Fake Stephen Sprouse LV Speedy? Go on with your bad self. But this bag, which is so basic and so utilitarian to begin with, and not that flash, to buy a copy of this bag, instead of perfectly serviceable unique tote from a local brand for the same money? Ugh. It just screams "I'm a sheep! I want to look like I have money but I have no taste or original thought! Whee!"

But back to level 2. These copy items are available in downscale malls, open air stalls, and on the street, being sold by roving vendors.

Level 03: Ukay- Ukay: 
These are your thrift stores, where your shitty merchandise from Zara and level 02 vendors goes to die. Occasionally you can find a real treasure (I have found many, but I have an eye developed from years of shopping at thrift stores and a knowledge base of what quality merchandise looks and feels like from my momma). It's unclear how many people shop there, or what they buy, but stores are usually pretty bumpin' when I go there.

Here's a short list of what I've found at Ukay-Ukays:
Chinese "coolie jackets"-- chinoisiere print silk quilted winter jackets with frog closures--one for my niece in yellow and one for me in shocking pink, for about 50P each.


A weekender bag made of real leather, very well made and sturdy, last owned by an American Express executive (the business card was in the luggage tag), for 450P or about 10$.
Several cool, asymetrical shirts for about 5$ each.
A few cute jackets-- brocade and such, for about 5-6$.

The main issue with Ukay-Ukay stuff here is that people really wear their stuff to death and if something is donated and it's in good shape, there's a good reason. It's called pit stink (or in the family vernacular, it's been "pitted out"). This is when a garment doesn't have stains, but it has a permanent funk that you can only notice when you start wearing an item and your body heat activates the pit stink. I've had to let go of a few poly blend sweaters for this reason, to my chagrin.

Level 04: The discount stores/ supermarkets:
This is the cheapest shit that you can buy. There's a place called Pure Gold (or as I call it "Pure Crap"), that sells, like, outlet level super cheap crap that falls apart after one wash. It's usually the kind of thing you wear when you have the flu--- tee shirts, baggy sweats, cheap socks, etc.

Why? 
Aside from the fast fashion stores, whose raison d'etre is extensively covered in this book (http://www.amazon.com/Overdressed-Shockingly-High-Cheap-Fashion/dp/1591844614/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1348896537&sr=1-1&keywords=overdressed), most of these things exist for a tangle of interrelated reasons:

1) the Americanisation of the Philippines (and all of Asia). This has also been covered extensively by many people more qualified to do so than me, but as one example, there is a huge quantity of beautiful, unusual, and inexpensive local batiks that I buy and have made into simple dresses. Who else does this? Grandmothers. Only. I've often come across a very elderly lady wearing the same fabric as me, made into a loose housedress/ mummu and been like "Awwww, man!" Wearing local stuff means "I'm poor / out of it / some kind of revolutionary nut".

2) The price points. Everyone (virtually everyone) wants to have a pretty extensive wardrobe, and the only way to do that on the salaries over here is to buy at the discounters or the open air market. Also, once you get into this way of living, it's really, really hard to get out. I found this out the hard way with shoes. I have literally purchased over 100 pairs of shoes since I got here, and I've had to resole or otherwise repair almost all of them (or throw them away or donate them) after about 3 months.I have only a few pairs I haven't had to: leather motocross boots I got from the Ukay Ukay, and a pair of Hush Puppies that cost 40$ and KILL my feet if I don't wear heel bumpers with them)

 If you want cute shoes (and who doesn't?) you have to settle for Payless-quality (ironically, Payless is actually more expensive than most of the shoe stores here) shoes that fall apart within a few months. Made of  cheap, thin cotton or blended "mystery meat" material, with glued on soles made of cellulose or very cheap rubber, with very low quality fastenings/ stitching. But you still need shoes, and they wear out really quickly from walking on the horrible roads/ being sweated in by bare feet (wearing socks is torture over here) so spending a lot of money of shoes is not a good choice for most people. Enter the gerbil wheel of cheap shoes.

3) Culture/ fitting in: Almost everyone wears the same thing here: skintight jeans, converse sneakers or fabric loafers/ espedrills, and a tee shirt or polyester blouse. Period. Sometimes you get a flimsy little dress and boots or plastic flats. For professionals, it's poly blend pants and a silky top, or a "church dress"- usually a cotton dress that one would wear to a summer cocktail party. If you want to be some kind of asshole (like I do), you can wear that Japanese asymmetrical tunic with your handmade cotton eyelet bloomers and your repaired, resoled Banana Republic leather flats. You can do that, or you can have friends/ a BF. Your choice.

4) Disposability: If you stain or rip a 3000P item, it's extremely painful. 300P, not so much. Most people here take public transportation or walk, and it's stain-situation- alley over here, so expensive, delicate, well made clothes just won't stand up to walking 45 blocks with a baby and groceries in your arms. It's just not practical.

What there is not:

Good quality, reasonably priced items. There's the Gap and Banana, but for those that want a more funky look at the same quality and price point, you're SOL. There is one option, which is the dress department at SM department store (they sell mid price dresses from 25-100$, and they're not half bad, but they're going to look shabby and dated after about a year), but I have had a HELL of a time finding clothes over here. I have an ongoing album project on FB called "The fashion project", in which I try to photograph everything that I buy over here. I would say 75% or more of those items are now gone (donated to my cleaning lady or the local Ukay Ukay), as they became virtually unwearable after only a few months- became pitted out (I live in the tropics, after all!), became pilly, became limp and shoddy looking, came undone in one way or another, or just lost their luster. The few items I have held on to are dresses, most of which were over 1000P  (generally the threshold for quality over here). I have purchased a few things out of desperation, only to give them away after taking a good hard look at myself in the item- it just doesn't fit right or flatter me, or there is really no occasion on which to wear it.

What I do (usually):
Have it made. By a tailor.
The irony of this is that all through my childhood and into my early teens (when my parents got divorced my mom had to give up sewing, as she working and going back to school and didn't have the time anymore) my mom made beautiful, perfectly tailored, totally unique items that we helped her design. I have wonderful memories of going to the fabric store to pick fabric and then spending a long time going through the pattern books, which are huge, phone book size books with pictures of the patterns you can buy. My mom made things like skirts with button holes for the matching top to button into so it stayed crisp and neat, entire wardrobes of mix and match cotton separates with appliques, and Halloween costumes, as well as very elaborate costumes for various events-- a few that stand out are the 1700's Revolutionary era dresses *including petticoats* outfits she made FROM SCRATCH for my sister. These were museum- quality garments that we've loaned out to several institutions and they still look as good as the day they were made.

However, when you're a kid, having handmade clothes is a bit of a trial, as all you want is United Colors of Benetton, Guess, and Hypercolor items, so you can look just like everyone else. Often in my 20's, as I grew older and began to appreciate vintage clothes and handmade, couture items, I would joke "I would kill for my personal tailor today. Too bad it was mostly wasted on me as a kid!" (We would get fitted by my mom and *always* bitch and moan about it. Today the only time most people are fitted for anything is for their wedding gown- for me, this was a monthly event, something that usually only the "1%" of society have ever experienced, a privilege that, like most things in youth, seems like a chore at the time--- "Oh, mom, do we have to take the Rolls again? It's so gaudy!")

What I do is take an item that fits well (usually a dress or Gap basic, like a simple bubble skirt with pockets), buy fabric and notions (if I want special notions like cute buttons or a colored zipper) and take it to my tailor (via my cleaning lady- yeah, I'm a high roller. I've actually never met my own tailor, the cleaning lady does it all for me.) to copy line for line. If it needs alterations, as in the case of a vintage slip I had copied in 2 different breezy Hawaiian prints, I'll ask for a higher neckline or a lower hemline (using diagrams in a note). This costs about 20$ a pop for the labor and about 10-15$ for the fabric and notions. It takes about 1-2 weeks.

I've had dresses, skirts, jackets and pajama pants copied. A few items have "flopped" mostly due to the wrong fabric choices, but overall, it's been very successful, and a great way to extend the life of a favorite item that is getting worn out (you can alternate it with your copy or replace it with your copy, as I did with a favorite linen dress that had seen better days). I had fabric given to me as a gift from an Indian colleague (I asked for fabric as a souvenir from his homeland when he asked me what I wanted) and the result was a hit- the sari fabric made into a cute little button front day dress, is adorable and flattering.

Below is an item I had copied and then added my own contrasting buttons to by hand (they used regular clear plastic buttons). Never in a million years would you see something this "The Sartorialist" in the stores.


The best thing I ever had made was a pair of eyelet bloomers that I use under dresses that are just a bit too short or under tunics as a pair of casual little shorts. I used a cheap cotton skirt as the raw material (I frequently remake items this way) and had my tailor copy a pair of lingerie bloomers (an item you can buy in the department store here, and ladies, if you haven't tried bloomers under your looser dresses and skirts, you MUST, it's a lifesaver.). Bingo! something custom made for me that no one else will have, that looks great.

I also had the below made- a little copy of a Gap skirt in toile de joie (with switched out buttons in contrasting paisley by me).

I would encourage all my 3 of readers in the US to source your clothes through thrift stores, local boutiques, or have them made (if you can source a crafty friend or put the time in yourself, those of you who live in Brooklyn should have no problem finding someone!), as you'll find that these clothes just look and feel so much better than Target's paper thin cute tee- du- jour.

Happy hunting!


Saturday, September 22, 2012

Davao Days II

Three Davao stories:


In which I finally get the elusive Travel Channel experience that seemed to come so easily for other people, yet not for me.

Monday night I was killing time waiting for an acceptable hour to toddle to the Marco Polo lounge, which was recommended to me by my coworker, Trip. (Yes, that sentence sounds like something from P.G. Wodehouse. Welcome to cognitive dissonance 101). So I naturally availed myself of the 100 channels to be had on the local premium cable lineup, including "Fashion TV", which exclusively shows runway shows and "events", during which you can hardly make out the players for all the strobe lights/ razzi flashes. Good stuff.

We already know based on my previous entry that I wound up watching Mystic Pizza, which was terrific. At first I was channel hopping between it and other stuff, and then it kind of sucked me in until finally I was fully involved and mentally running down the list of who I would recommend this to.

So just ride with me on this next part, because it's a bit woo woo, but I swear that movie somehow put me in a different frame of mind- like all was right with the world. I was also wearing a new dress that I had just purchased earlier that day, so I was set to have a good night. Usually when I'm dressed up, it's a bust, but this was a delightful exception to the rule.

I set off on foot to the Marco Polo, which is the tallest building in town, and visible from everywhere except my hotel and the 3 blocks between it and me, so I had to ask and kind of kick around trying to find it (actually, I have a pretty good track record for finding things based on where I "think" they should be- I have rarely been truly lost, even in countries with no street signs and no grid layout. I'm not sure where this hunting dog pointer nose comes from but generally I can just "feel" that the temple we want will be over the next rise, and usually I'm right-- of course I've consulted a map beforehand, I'm no fool!) until I stumbled on this rad place called Pasalubong Center (Souvenir Center), I dipped in and I found the coolest, cutest thing ever!

After a few moments of me getting hot under the collar as people fawned all over me to try to get me to spend 5$ on their generic crap, I saw a mannequin wearing blowsy shorts and a little halter top made out of flour sacks. Sign me up!! I literally bought out almost the whole stock of this "clothing" line ( I guess you could call it that). It consisted mostly of tote bags of various sizes, but it also included a little evening purse, a mob cap, oven mitts, slippers, apron, (I got the apron for my coworker, Ace, who explained to me that for men from Pampagna---which he is--- not being able to cook well is "like having a small dick"---yes, he used those exact words-- "People will be like "awwww, man, that's too bad", he went on to say. So an apron is the perfect gift for him. Since he really can cook.)

For some reason, even though I consider clothing items too personal and even more so since Ace is technically my boss and the type of person who can make "an advantage" out of even the most innocent gesture, so far all my gifts to him have been clothing- my desire to give the awesome gift far outweighs my fear of making a faux paux.

These items were about 1-2 dollars each and I bought about 8 of them. The staff was ecstatic. I was thrilled. For once me and the local sales people were getting what they wanted- no one was being cheated or settling for less or angry, or feeling ripped off. After we tallied the amount and put all the small bags in a larger bag,
one of the girls asked me to pose for a picture, and for some reason in that moment I just said ok, and I was not uncomfortable at all. People, this is major.

Allow me to explain: I have several travel themed channels on my TV lineup and in ALL of them, the plucky star bounces around in a dubiously lighted (and probably no- potty- having) locale, drinking fermented yak milk beer and laughing with joy when groups of little ruffian kids chase him or her down the street screaming. I mean, what an act to follow. For me, nothings worse than this type of forced cheer when interacting with people who sort of hate your guts for reasons that are buried in 1000 years of colonialism, or whatever.

But even Trip, who is about 5 times as cranky as me, manages to dredge up a chummy rapport with taxi drivers and the like, agreeably nodding and going along with all but the most egregious statements, can do it. For me, this was a major thorn in my side- what was wrong with me? Who did I think I was, Queen Elizabeth (not for nothing is boyfriend's most frequent nickname for me "Queen"---even the ROYALTY OF INDIA calls me by "Queen")? I felt like I was learning something really unpleasant about myself, due to my lack of what we might call "the human touch". But for some reason, there is the hot, stuffy, down- home bazaar it lighted on my shoulder for no clear reason, just a gift from beyond- happiness, relaxation, lack of self-consciousness, a lightness of spirit that allowed me to just take a picture with  a shopgirl and not think twice.

In which a strange coincidence occurs and makes for good chika (gossip). 

In the class I was teaching, there was an older woman, probably in her late 30's (which is older for the industry, most people are already grandparents at that age over here), who is kind of....odd. She's the kind of person who is just *waiting* for the moment to start a fight, the type of person who is shown on COPS berating the suspect with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. You know the type. Lawn chair psychologist.

Anyhoo, two HR reps came to say hello to our entire class as a whole and open the floor to any general questions, and to introduce themselves. Well! This woman, who's name shall be Denise for this article, barks out  to the female member, "Yeah, stop texting my husband. There's such a thing as interoffice email. It's called rude."

 The room was just frozen with tension, and the HR gal feebly said "I don't want to discuss this here". "I DO!" bellowed Denise. The teachers and myself were giving each other "how bad is this about to get" looks. "I'm not going to talk about this" the HR rep added in a whisper, as Denise reiterated "Just stop texting him, just stop." 

Well, we went to break after that and then, I swear to god, 20 minutes after this, Denise gets a call on her cell. She rushes out and has a loud conversation outside and then on her way back in, says in a stagey tone "Okay, if you can't handle it, I'll just call the Embassy". (Sigh.) Turns out her HOUSE WAS ROBBED. For the 3rd time. And Denise isn't "tolerating" this anymore. This translated to going to gather up her kids and going to a hotel (not sure how the Embassy figured in this, but you know these type of people like to appeal to "the authorities" as a means of threat they will never carry out). Once again, the teachers and me turn to each other, kind of speechless. "Maybe HR did it." I cracked, and we had a long attack of the church giggles after that. Wow, what a bizarre incident.

In which I meet an Englishman poolside.

On Thursday I met an older, rather rumply Englishman at the Marco Polo pool, after having casually noted "I never get the same bartender" to him while we waited for our drinks. Well, this was all the encouragement he needed. Starved for conversation (as so many ex pats are) he ambled over and stood behind the chaise lounge next to me and we chatted it up for about 30 minutes to an hour. I was more than willing to have him sit down and for the conversation to lapse into companionable silence, as I was there mostly to read and get some sun, but he kept it going through various gambits- "Sooooo, uh, how long have you been here? What cities have you been to?" Etc. He was friendly enough, and a decent conversationalist, one who was thankfully NOT trying to defend prostitution or it's kissing cousin, marriage for money, but neither was he anyone I would date or even really befriend in a serious way. Typical one off "chance meeting".

Well, after about an hour, and 2 drinks, he wound it up and started making noises about wanting to see me again (inquiring about my travel plans, etc) and then suddenly turned into Prince Charles. "This was very....very nice. Very nice indeed. Yes, very....very lovely. So nice. Well, if you do....if you do happen to come this way....very nice, very nice. If you're here, you're here, and if we meet again, well, you know,, and it's just nice to meet people who, you know, just for....a bit of fun, or....just very nice, very nice."

I'm not 100% sure, but I think I just got asked for a no- strings- attached roll in the hay by a stranger. But I'll never know, since I before I could investigate further he slipped off, still muttering about how nice it was to have met.


Thus ends the Davao stories.












Friday, September 21, 2012

Dispatch sa Dabaw

Back from Davao.

The company sent me to our remote site for one work week to debut the design I made for the chat queue- this is too cool, people. Not only did I get to design something from scratch ("We're in uncharted territory here", my immediate supervisor confessed), but I also got to be the one to teach everyone how to use it. It's not quite the top to bottom sealed up design of Apple, but it's as close as it gets in corporate Philippines- I got to control almost aspect of the design and execution. I created a product no one has ever seen or used before and is now being requested by some of our biggest clients and is being pitched by our project managers to pull in new business for the company.

Let that just sink in for a moment, I'll be here, having an iced coffee.

Since I've come here to Manila, I've been able to do my dream job of working with clients and trainers to design training materials from the top down and from the bottom up, so to speak- I also have the freedom to complete gut and redesign the "Foundations" or "Induction" program that we have at my company where new comers learn basic communications and language/ customer service skills.

Reading the Steve Jobs biography (the 10 pounder white one) sort of crystallized my way of thinking and designing, helping me understand not only my own father (my roots) but myself- why I get so intensely emotional about design, why I pushed August so hard to make things a certain way, why I am able to sell my vision to others so fearlessly (It's called "The Reality Distortion Field", or "If you sell it they'll build it, or allow you build it"), why my ideas are so clear and so new, so weird to others, why I have so little patience, why Excel makes intuitive sense to me (I may be the only person in my American peer group who understands how to make Excel formulas and build charts from them, without attacks of nerves), how I think and feel about some things, and why I have such a divisive persona--- some people seem to really, really dislike me upon first contact and others seem to sort of mentally fall down and fall in love that never goes away, all without me "doing anything".

Come to think of it, my siblings are like this too, I don't know where we got this, but if I had to guess it would be the cosmic blending of two extraordinary personalities- the intense visionary side and cold brilliance of my father combined with the zany, pinwheel sparky, scatty warmth of my mom- all three of us have this, with my brother being the warmest and the most down to earth, my sister being the most intense, and myself being the coldest and most remote, and all of us absolutely convinced we're doing the right thing and pulling up the whole room with us.


Anyway, back  to the story!!

Sunday I hopped on a flight to Davao, which is located 2 hours by plane away from Manila, in the farthest south island (well, the largest farthest south, not one of those pinpoints), in Mindanao (see above).

I checked into the hotel and trundled up to the pool, which was going to be closed (ARG!) for the rest of my trip, so I had to get my quality pool time early. After getting settled in and putting on sun lotion, I sauntered up to the pool bar, where the largest land dog I've ever seen was chained up, just out of site. This thing was like a combination of a St. Bernard and a dinosaur. It was just coolin', gettin' some sun and pantin' in the shade. I jumped out of my skin and the dog was like "Hey man, don't hate. Just cause I'm big don't mean I'm a monster!" 

After a few hours with one eye on Mount Apo over there in the corner, I toddled off with the sun setting behind my back, off to bed.

The next day I woke up early (work started at 7 AM over here), and off to the work site. The town literature says that Davao is the second largest city in the Philippines, but to me it was a sleepy little hamlet, barely populated. After the insane congestion of Manila, this place was like the world after a zombie apocalypse---eerily quiet. It was a nice change of pace. I went to the same place for lunch every day, taught my classes and got to know the staff out there, used my borrowed desk and took a few pictures, and every day at 3 when work got out I either went to the mall to browse around or off to the Marco Polo lounge poolside at the Marco Polo hotel- the nicest place in town.

I'll have to fill you in on all of the details later, because for some reason I just can't break out of the expansive philosophical mood I'm in long enough to focus on the details of the trip, but suffice to say it was really relaxing, like an unexpected vacation. And! I saw the movie Mystic Pizza, which if you haven't watched yet, watch *immediately*. If you loved Moonstruck or L.A.Story (and if you don't, I DON'T KNOW YOU!), and you like the slightly daffy sweetness of 1980's love stories, the hazy innocence that shines through the oddball lightness that suffuses the film, dipping the whole movie in milk and honey, this movie is for you. And if you've ever wondered if Vincent D'Onofrio was ever handsome (answer: yes, in an Italian beefcake, hunk of love way). Do yourself a favor. Netflix this sh*t today.
























Sunday, August 19, 2012

Welcome to The Dark Side of The Moon. Tips Accepted.

Okay, the rest of Day 1-2.

After my terrifying ride on a kalesa, I called it quits on shopping and decided to go to this resort that I had heard about that was "10 minutes" away. I threw on a bathing suit and hailed a trike, and off across the fields we went. For like half an hour.

The deal in the country side of the Philippines is that it's really eerie to me. It's a very hard to describe mix of gorgeous and awful. Waving fields of hallucinogenicly green rice paddies interspersed with shanties made of trash, water buffaloes and goats nibbling the grasses next to the burned out rubble of a once lovely two story house, where one can still see half a staircase rising to nowhere, garish tarpaulins hanging in an empty field advertising cell phone services, monumental, pristine "Inglesis Cristo" churches whose flanks teem with tin shacks full of ragged squatters....yeah, that.

Resorts in the Philippines are like every other luxury here: a Batman's Joker reminder that everything comes with a price. Yes, you can be the richest mofo for 50 miles around, but that ain't gonna buy you a Mercedes Benz, so to speak. No matter how much money you throw around, you can't buy something that's not there. You can't buy a decent club sandwich, that's for sure.And all this (waves hand at the decaying lemon of resort) means that you can take a vacation any time you want but you can never leave....

The 2 or 3 "resorts" I've been to are a kind of cosmic joke- and very surreal. It's hard to put your finger on why they are so off putting, so let's see if I can set the stage for you. Imagine a rural country road that runs in both directions as far as you can see to the horizon; civilization is limited to farm houses. In the middle of an abandoned field is a shoddily made, oddly designed, massive McMansion with a crappy square pool. This is the "resort". The sea is visible from the second floor but not accessible from the resort itself, as the quarter mile or so between the house and the sea is rice paddies and scrub. The beach is grey pebbly "sand" anyway, not inviting. The pool itself is surrounded by a fence, on which laundry is hanging (yes, really). Two canvas lawn chairs are to lounge in. No umbrellas, no towels. The pool is completely deserted, in fact the entire place is empty. How on earth employee get here and home is beyond you.

The bleating of kid goats can be heard above the faintest noise of crashing surf. You enter the main house. There is a vague, slightly disturbing "Norway" theme, which mostly consists of extremely frightening troll doll statues and some inspirational posters of various Fjords (really.). It's 2.00$ to use the pool. While the staff vacuums the pool, you toddle up to the 3rd floor to have an "elevens" cocktail and survey this blasted moonscape you've landed on. The restaurant is, like the rest of the place, a hastily knocked together movie set, someone's idea of "class", and it's also empty. The waiter is hurriedly pulling on his iridescent uniform shirt. He doesn't understand what "tonic" is, (His first attempt is straight vodka with ice, floating in a martini glass) so you make your own drink, which 1.50$.

Oh, and, guys, guess what's on the stereo?
"The Name Game", in a kind of 1980's remix version. Also on? The other "hits" on this album of the damned, including: oh, who gives a fuck? It was bad enough that the rinky dink synthesizer chorus of "let's try Mary!" was ringing through this place.

There is no one visible in any direction, as far as you can see, which is about 5-10 miles at a height of the 3rd  floor. Outside the restaurant is a sad little roof deck, which is obviously for use by the weddings and celebrations that never happened here. The place SCREAMS "tax shelter for off shore slumlord from Norway."

After the pool is clean, you go for a dip. At first it's very nice, having the whole place to yourself, dozing in the sun, reading the amazing memoirs of Francine Du Plessix "Them", and making sure not burn in the sun. But it's creepy as hell. I don't exactly know what was the main problem, but if I had to guess, it would be maybe one or all of the following:


  • *extreme* mismatch between the setting and the house/ buildings
  • total lack of human habitation
  • the way the place had been designed on a dime budget and probably looked like crap on it's opening day and was now in the early stages of neglect, but in every wobbly chair, cut- rate flatware fork, and dusty liquor bottle you could read the eventual decline of the place as clearly as if in a crystal ball
  • goats. Apocalypse goats.
  • cognitive dissonance that comes from looking at a lushly watered suburban lawn and McMansion in the fucking Philippines in the middle of nowhere.

So yeah, it wasn't a "bust" per se, but it was awfully weird. Had a sub par club sandwich (cheese which I didn't eat, bacon, ham, and that's it.) It was a "fair" BLT without the L or the T. Had 2 more drinks, made by me, since the waiter was helplessly fumbling when he ran out of tonic and tried to give me a full glass of straight vodka again, which I noticed right away and asked him "hon? This is a little strong. In fact, if I drink this I'll be asleep on the floor." Heh. 

Awhile ago I saw a special edition of "No Reservations" in which the always charming Tony Bourdain (my celebrity "free pass") kind of recaps the last 3 years of traveling the world, with his "greatest hits". It includes the amazingly sexy moment where a tipsy Tony, normally so cranky and sarcastic, leans in to the camera, biting his lip a little abashedly and admits that his favorite moments are when he feels most connected to humanity, in the sweetest, most charming manner possible. "Yeah" he gruffly whispers, lowering his eyes and smiling a little ruefully. At that moment my ardor, which had never really waned, was stoked to a full bonfire. But! that's not the main reference here!

 It also includes a laugh- out- loud- funny series on his awful trip to Romania (I later got to see the full magilla, which was just as pant-pee-ing-ly funny). In this clip, a very chagrined Tony tries to contain his mounting anger at the awful, tacky tourist hell he's been shanghaied into visiting by his guide. In the special, Tony describes "this place is putting me in a homicidal rage for some reason". I didn't feel a homicidal rage, but I did feel a similar out of body "REALLY?" feeling, as when Tony's guide, high as a kite on animal tranquilizers (he took them for a back injury he sustained while pushing the broken down car-- really! Look this shit up on YouTube, you won't be sorry) and local hooch, gives an obscene, far too long "toast" to a table full of stunned, politely disgusted Romanians, where Tony is caught giving the camera a long suffering "I just got here, but please get me the hell out of here" look. I longed for a camera crew to fully document the surreal awfulness of this place. I know *exactly* how he felt. A kind of "is this it? Were those horrible "Left Behind" books true and now I've missed my chance to repent and join those apple cheeked jerks from elementary school who warned me not to use god's name in vain? Oh crap!" 

Anyway, after a few hours, I'd had enough and ordered a trike to take me home. 

Upon reaching the hotel I fell into a coma nap, then awoke around 6.30, and rushed to the bookstore to buy a book, since there's not enough to do here and I was almost done with "Them". After the bookstore I wrote my previous entry for this blog and then went out to do some "night photography", something also recommended on various tourist sites. For some reason, my mood had improved about 500% (probably the sun and the pool, which acts like Valium for me- it's like taking an the world's most powerful opiate, that lasts for about 12 hours. Cancer be damned, almost nothing feels better than sunning myself to a point just shy of pain and then jumping into the pool to cool off, sunning the water off and starting all over again for several hours. As a result I have an enviable, dermatologist scaring, year round tan)

I actually enjoyed taking some night photos, most likely because the crowds were gone and I could actually browse through the shops without being brushed up against 8 million times by jerks who don't say excuse me (the entire native and visiting population of the Philippines). 

I then had a totally wretched "grilled cheese sandwich" (bread that had been waved over a toaster, badly cut wedges of industrial cheese, and TONS of mayo, smushed together by someone's toddler. Barely edible.) and then called it a night. The night's cheesy movie on premium cable? "Fright Night" with Colin Farrell (actually pretty good, but had some holes and flaws, as does everything old whisky eyes touches). Grateful sleep. 




Bear Trapped

Day 1 in Vigan:

Somewhere a kitten is howling angrily. The streets are slick with rain. One can hear hoofbeats echoing off the cobblestone. It should be quaintly adorable. It's a tourist trap from top to bottom.


I took a flight from Manila to Laoag airport (you have to overshoot the location by about an hour's drive to shave a much, much longer bus ride off your trip) at 10 AM. From Laoag "International" "Airport" (shown below *in it's entirety*)


 you have to take a shuttle bus to the town of Laoag proper. Honestly, I sort of feel I should have just stayed in Laoag, it's the second most pleasant place I've ever seen in the Philippines (the first being Baguio). Clean, tidy little streets with cute little houses, vibrant flowers swaying in the midday breeze, little kalesas (horse drawn carts) hanging around outside McDo, just chilling, and a general air of a mildly prosperous sleepy bedroom town that time and the cares of the outside world have passed by. I was even thinking "gosh I wish I had some more time to explore this little place. It's so nice!"

The shuttle takes about 30 minutes to get to town proper.On the shuttle from the "airport" to the town proper, the little self important dudette who takes the names comes on board and then counts you off, summer camp style, to make sure the people who signed up 10 seconds ago are really on the shuttle and no one is wandering the 4 square feet in front of the bus going "where's the clearly marked, garishly decorate shuttle that everyone and their dog Fred is pointing to? I'm so lost"!

 then you have to take a bus, which supposedly takes 70 minutes, in reality takes 2 hours, since there is only ONE road and you, tricylces, vespas, pedal bikes, shuffling old ladies beating a herd of goats, etc have to share. Finally the bus dumps yo' ass by the side of the road (!! but actually not that shocking if you've taken any buses in the Philippines before; there's not really any stops that are clearly marked, people just kind of hop off wherever) and it's off to the wonders of the only town in the islands that has 2 World Heritage Sites--- the ladies toilets and the bookstore, bum-dum-bum! Ha ha, no actually there are 2 UNESCO Sites here and I'll probably go to them tomorrow. Sigh.



My hotel was quite nice, a converted Spanish Mission house with very beautiful open courtyards overlooking the street on each floor. Decorated with *massive* old fashioned furniture (the kind you could see desperate families burning for fuel on a particularly bad winter's night) that got in line twice when God was handing out curlique's, the room was "fine". Some minor complaints would include BLAZING fluorescent lights on the vanity table, a very odd shower arrangement (a glass door swings out from the middle seam, using a round dowel handle. The whole operation weighs about 50 tons, is totally inefficient, scary, and dangerous, yet someone thought it was the last word in class: Philippines "upscale" hotels in a nutshell), the fact that on the second day my comforter disappeared, the craptacular cable that features 15 sports channels, HBO and Starz and that's basically it, the windows that don't open, and so on.

You *do* get all the free lukewarm bottled water you can guzzle, however.

After toddling over to the (very typically) shy, nervous, fawn like staff at the tourist information center who hardly spoke any English (why they employ knock kneed, stars in their eyes freshman from the local high school who look like they're on the verge of tears to answer pointed questions from aggressive Koreans is beyond me, but eh, they do!) to grab some brochures and not get any questions answered, it was off to eat.

Then it was over to Cafe Leona for a pizza and a drinkie and home to watch The Season of the Witch (Terrible! Terrible dialogue, terrible plot line, and yet somehow strangely enjoyable) and pass out.

Next day! It dawned rainy, but I was hoping to go to the ineptly named "OveMar" resort a few miles away to swim, and get some sun.

First, brekkers: Cold "sausage" (cut up hotdogs) with RED onions (I mean, really! who in their right mind serves RED onions for breakfast!) and passable toast (stone cold) with eggs over easy. (Hard as a brick yet edible). Hey, it was free! (It came with the room).

Next was the one experience everyone says you have to have here: riding in a kalesa. I picked one called "Ferrari 1" and clambered on board and off we went for a joggly, extremely weird adventure. I really shouldn't have done the whole horse drawn carriage thing, but I wanted to "have the experience" and I also wanted to support these old dudes who were hanging around looking kind of desperate. But guys, I was on the verge of tears the whole time. I *know* horses like to work, and these were all healthy, and the guy did not mistreat his animal in any way. They seemed like they had a good relationship. There was just something really upsetting about the blinders, the bit, the tragic little plastic flower on the horses' bridle, the whole thing really bottomed me out emotionally. Also, getting in and out of a horse drawn carriage the first few times is *harrowing*. You have to balance your whole weight on a little step that's about 6 by 6 inches, and the driver's hand (I now clearly see the need for "footmen" in yesteryears) while you try to step down from about 4 feet off the ground. Eek. I just couldn't get various wrenching death scenes from the Black Beauty books out of my mind. I was a wreck.

We stopped by the old bell tower (eh) and then off to the WORST PLACE IN THE WORLD. (And I have to go back there tomorrow to get souvenirs. This place was the souvenir market, housed in these preserved old buildings that looked like a musuem diorama. I tumbled out of the carriage to shop around for "pasalubong" for my work buddies and I was like, in a K hole of despair. Cheaply made, boring, repetitive and tasteless geegaws and knicknacks assaulted me from every corner. Key chains, shot glasses, tee shirts, bags... the thing that got to me was every single one of the 20 shops carried the same goods. I gave up, feeling WAY too emotional after about 15 shops and several "hard sells" where the clerk circled me like a shark on chum "Yes ma'am, tee shirt ma'am. You like? We have size. Come in. Touch." Ugh.

Then it was off to OveMar, which I'll write about later since this internet cafe is closing up soon.