Internations mixer
About a week ago I ran into an acquaintance, named Divine (an Indian male), who’s one of those super outgoing, bubbly, party people type. He and I were chatting and I mentioned that I’m looking to relocate the Manila for a lot of reasons, one of which is the lack of ex pats here in Clark. He perked right up and said that he belonged to a professional networking group called InterNations, and as it was members- invite only, he would send me an invite. A few days later I set up my account, to find that the next event was scheduled for April 14, that very Saturday, in Manila. There’s only one chapter in the Philippines, and that’s in Manila—so off to Manila I went.
Since my Holiday Inn Priority Privilege card recently expired, taking it’s buy one get one coupons with it, I had two choices: either bite the bullet and pay full price for the Shangri-La that is the Manila Intercontinental, or bite the *other* bullet and go for a less fabulous hotel at a cheaper price. I doodled around on the internet and found a very promising contender: The Oasis at Paco Park boutique hotel. At half the price of the Intercon, it had a pool, three restaurants, and appeared to be in a reasonable, not too inaccessible section of town. Sold! I booked a “recently renovated Deluxe room” and took the Saturday morning shuttle to Manila.
After doing some obligatory shopping on High Street (the only area of the Philippines that looks like Pittsford, NY, with it neatly laid out sidewalks, zebra striped pedestrian crossings, working stoplights, lack of tricycles and chi-chi boutiques, it’s a pleasurable retreat from the noise, crowds, and pollution of the “other” areas of Manila), I headed to the hotel to settle in and go for a dip before heading out to the Manila boat club.
The hotel itself was an unassuming three story building, built in two wings that overlooked a central courtyard that contained the pool (which was mostly a 20 foot wave machine being relentlessly churned by three swimming wings wearing toddlers). There was no elevator—a large central staircase led up to the two upstairs wings, and then a smaller, wooden, spiral staircase led up to the third floor. My room was neat, and airy, with a well appointed bathroom, an armoire with sticky drawers, a flat screen TV set at “hospital bed” level on the wall opposite the bed, and a dressing chair. The bathroom itself was slightly unusual in that it had no shower stall or tub- the floor was just slightly sloped in to a central drain and the area around the shower curtained off.
Overall, it was pretty much exactly what I’d paid for. A reasonably-priced middle budget hotel room. In the oddest, most inaccessible, taxi drivers have- never- heard- of- it- place ever. Taxis were a major expense, as most wouldn’t run the meter, instead charging a flat rate 3 times what I was used to paying in Makati. To go to any of my favorite haunts (Cubauo, Makati, etc) it was pricey.
After a dip and a shower, I put on a sequined tank top and a pair of cropped trousers and high heels ( a move I would later regret), ate a very filling dinner at the hotel restaurant, and then hopped a cab to the Manila Boat Club.
The MBC is one of those places I’m very familiar with in the US- a historical landmark that’s hard to find since it was built first and then the city grew up around it. It was located on a small side street in a very windy, cramped, odd little baranguy. But me and the taxi driver found it nonetheless, and we pulled up to what turned out to be a country- wedding- style convoy of cars crunching up a long twisted gravel driveway, disgorging their well- dressed passengers, and then making 47-point turns to get out of there.
The MBC is a wood frame two story building whose main entrance and main hall are located on the second story, which is accessible only by a rickety, ancient, much-repaired wooden staircase outside the structure. This leads you to a slat- floored wooden deck, which is the only way to get to the main hall. Immediately I saw that the slats were just far enough apart to create a heart thumping night of regret for wearing heels and I tottered quickly inside after claiming my two drink tokens (heavy, shiny poker chips, the good kind). Inside was exactly the kind of place I’d been expecting---- a very functional sporting hall that had made one or two rattle-trap concessions to leisure- one of which was a wooden case, about 4’ by 3’, with 12 inch glass front individual “lockers” for the members to lock up their Johnny Walker Blue Label to have at the club when they want it (at least one Blue was resting comfortably there at the time).
The main hall with the bar and trophy / photo wall was a loose square that overhung (one could look into them via a balcony) two racquetball and one handball courts, with a narrow (extremely, only about 12 inches wide) steep staircase to the lower area, which held the courts and the locker rooms.
In the hall itself, two ancient fans of the type your high school brings out when the air conditioning fails, chugged away “cooling” the air, since the MBC was built in 1894 and hasn’t been renovated since, apparently. Overall it was tatty, privileged, sporty, and ancient- preppy heaven overlooking the Bay, which obliged by sparkling darkly and romantically and sending a heavenly breeze into the over heated crowd, most of which was on the balcony, since inside was a sauna.
Members of the MBC, which mostly concerns itself with rowing crew, were lolling around, red- faced and a bit tipsy, handing out begging brochures for donations and chatting up the guests, asking even the most far fetched candidates (like me) to consider joining the rowing team.
I hunkered down with my complimentary wine and in a few moments was approached by a friendly, pretty older woman. Clearly a Filipino (can’t escape them, apparently), she was an over- 40 vivacious firecracker. With fluffy shoulder length curls, a well- maintained unlined face with full Janice Dickenson lips, and the general air of a Latin Lover, she put one in mind of Charo- a sharp bombshell who only looks bubble-headed. Wearing a pink tank top with spaghetti straps and a complicated pearl necklace with a tangle of chains wrapped around a central rose amethyst (or something made to resemble it), she was the type of women who I have had a lot of experience with. Outgoing, nervous, talkative, perky, bubbly, and a bit over the top—that was her. She gave me a tour and we chatted for a bit- she was even nice enough to “check in” with me later from across the bar- giving me a nod and a thumbs up when she saw me talking to another American.
I drifted into conversation with a hearty Fallstaff-ian type named “Chip”- a 30- something guy with glasses and sandy hair, who owned his own aeronautics company- making and supplying airlines with electronics. It was really a breath of fresh air to talk so easily with someone who wasn’t a creepy 65+ ex- pat with odd personal habits (the kind of American you usually find in Clark, sadly).
We chatted for a bit and then I drifted outside to get another drink token. Once inside, the man next to me, who I took for an Indian at first, turned to me and started talking. His name: Tony. Now, loyal readers will know that a man named Tony has 150% better shot at getting me to talk to him (for starters!) as I have a huge Achilles heel for “Tonys” and have dated, at last count, at least 4. Tony is (I would guess) a late 40’s Filipino who bears a strong resemblance to an Indian- dark complexion and plum colored lips, as well as the type of business- casual wear that Indian men love (button down shirt, non- fashion jeans, and loafers). He looked kind of like an Eastern Jeff Goldbloom- he had that same academic, nebbishy, full- of- character- but- still –well- made face. A face with a story, and topped with exceptional hair- wavy verging on curly, just kissed with sterling grey. I told my friend Lea about him and before I even got the full phrase out of my mouth she was joining me “Husband material.” Some men just radiate this “husband” vibe (I imagine women do too, for men) where you just immediately picture the past, the present and the future with them and all the generations that came before and all that will come after. They just seem grounded, safe, trustworthy, but still attractive. Too bad he didn’t have a brother! (He’s taken—women aren’t fools. This lilac Rolls Royce Phantom was very much NOT on the market!)
At any rate, he was soon joined by his beautiful (and AGE APPROPRIATE- THANK GOD) wife, Lena. ¾ Spanish and ¼ Filipina, she was petite with lovely bones- pale skin with caramel freckles, unusually beautiful peat moss colored eyes with flecks of green, wavy mostly salt and a little pepper a la Joni Mitchell hair, and a slight space between her front teeth. She looked (for those of you who know who this is) like a warmer, more down- to- earth version of Cheri France, who was one of the most exotic, vibrant, and fragile women I’ve ever seen. In the 90’s there used to be this “type” of woman you’d see everywhere- long, coarse, thick wavy hair, space between the teeth, wide, coal- fringed eyes, freckles, long thin bones, and “ethnic” wear- float-y skirts with heavy sweaters- potters, singers, dancers, weavers, tea-store owners. Not sure what happened to them all, but those over 30 will know EXACTLY who I’m talking about. She was one, and I liked her.
I fell in love with these two- we spent about an hour talking about culture, books, food, travel, you name it. They run a college and high school that has a British curriculum but is located here (kind of a sister school type thing) and Tony asked me “What would it take to get you here to Manila?” I laughed “Uh, a bag of popcorn and 50 cents? I’m actively looking to relocate!” They gave me their card and made me promise to call them, as they are always looking for English Teachers.
I left them to their own devices and circulated for a bit, getting hit up by a few enterprising sales people from real estate and Mary Kay, and watching the Marlboro and Winston girls make waves. Before the smoking ban in bars in, I believe, 2003, one of the coolest jobs ever was “Camel Girl”. The cig companies would send these super- cool super- good- looking shills into the bars about once a month. Hand over your ID and give them your email (to prove you were 18) and pull out a crumpled pack of cigs to prove you were a smoker and they would give you free cigs and free logo merchandise. My sister got a very cool messenger bag out of them, as I think she actually knew one of those guys. This was the highlight of the night if you happened to be there when the “Camel Guy” was there. A ripple would go through the crowd: “Camel guy’s here! Get Lindsay out of the bathroom!!!”
Well, here in a country whose motto is “Smoke UP Johhny!”, they still have Winston/ Camel girls. Very, very pretty, and very “done” in skin tight strapless sheath dresses and sky high heels (they had to tip toe around, poor things, to avoid getting stuck in the slats—many of us, myself included, solved that issue by going barefoot eventually) they worked the crowd like the pros they were, showing off their LED Winston packs like Filipina Vanna Whites.
After a few hours, the crowd was starting to dance and break up into hot little groups of people reliving events that just happened a few moments ago (a group of prep school bandits was in awe over their QueenPin having shed her sandals and participated in an impromptu game of pickup volleyball with a group of men “You’re a rock star!” the suburban mall Suzy Cream Cheese gals gushed over her.) and the DJ was playing 1970’s wedding friendly hits, so I made me exit. A long taxi ride later with a taxi driver who was either partially deaf or slightly mentally handicapped or both (it was a bit terrifying listening to him try to make out directions over the phone from my hotel), and I was home, happy as a clam.
One of the most perfect nights in memory.
