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.

40 days and 40 nights.

I rarely write about “current events” but the farcical tragedy of the last four days has led me to tell the story (from my point of view), in a small effort to raise awareness, and to start some kind of discussion about the incredibly tangled failure of 3^rd world governments and countries, and of the growing obviousness of “climate change”, which is pounding the world with a heavier and heavier fist.

On Monday of this week, until today, Thursday, unusually heavy rains, mostly due to an offshore hurricane, blasted Western and Central Luzon (the states of the island of the Philippines I live in). Some places were so badly affected that 32 emergency evac centers were put in place, and 17,000 individuals made use of them. Water as high as a HIGHWAY OVERPASS surged through the lower level shantytowns, destroying tens of dollars worth of property (okay, that was a little mean, but it’s not far from the truth. Many areas, to my uninitiated eyes, looked exactly the same in the “before” and “after” shots, except for the buttinski of a large, light coffee colored river of deadly bacteria laden water flowing through it). According to the local newscasts, the biggest problem the local rescue forces faced was getting people to leave their property.

As for me, I was very fortunate to have power most of the time, and since I was in a 3^rd story building that was set slightly higher than the road, our building was okay. The road itself was completely submerged and impassable by vehicles. In order to grab snacks and some beers for passing the time, I had to wade through knee high water  (in pouring rain). Needless to say, I didn’t go to work for those days, as visions of being trapped on a flooded highway on ramp, in the dark, in the pouring rain, were dancing in my head.

I can’t really say what was more scary, disappointing, or frustrating: the scenes of thousands packed (I must say, pretty cheerfully, props to them) into “covered areas” (that’s like, an outdoor podium with a roof that’s doubling as a rescue area), the video footage of people digging through a nature made dam of “wood, stryofoams, and trash” to try to find usable rubble to rebuild their shanties, or the story that a certain neighborhood had been repeatedly warned in 2009 not to rebuild after a landslide, built anyway (for complex reasons that I won’t even try to parse, but most likely revolving around money, strong family ties, and fear of relocating), and then lost 9 (including an infant) in an identical landslide on Monday.

President Ninoy Aquino, wearing a shiny coated denim jacket, was flanked by (I think? Most broadcasts were in Taglish, which I can only get about 50% of, or heavily accented English) the Marine Corps leader, wearing a raincoat yellow windbreaker, addressed the nation and discussed how he had to insist on the release of some extra rubber rescue boats, since these boats were initially deemed “not ready” for use. Okay, people? What are we keeping 75 unusable rubber boats around for? Posterity?

The existence of the boats, the unsolvable tangle of issues that most likely meant they went unrepaired or un-upgraded, the shilly-shallying about maybe just releasing them anyway and giving it the old college try, the fact that we (as a country) didn’t learn from a very similar tragedy in 2009 and see to those boats then, when the attention (and the wallets) of the world was primed, the need for these boats in the first place (my road has only 1 storm drain per mile or so. ONE. And this is in a tropical monsoon country. Most streets are not built in any kind of grade that would encourage runoff, either). Roofs are flat  or very shallowly graded,(my local grocery store, ShopWise, has gutters that pour rain out onto the un-drainable parking lot, like firehoses. Way to double your pain, ShopWise), there are no public garbage cans or dumpsters, so flooded roads become cesspools very quickly, the lack of a centralized system to handle this (like the National Guard or the Red Cross (we have the Red Cross here, but as far as I can tell, they’re busy handling infant mortality, child trafficking, and drug running, and have their hands full), and so on and so forth.

I was lucky. Me and a friend watched TV, waded to a pizza parlor and had pizza, put together a big puzzle, and had some extremely sweet 5% alcohol wine cooler thingies (those things are a guaranteed headache, but they are so cheap!), and had some fun. But it’s easy to have fun from the 3^rd floor. It’s life on the ground floor that’s shaky.

Early bird gets worm! Worm does not turn!

A full day before noon!

Since I arrived in Manila, my social life has experienced a definite upswing, but it’s been a bit of work, as those who’ve been following my blog know. There’s been some ups and downs, and the same hustle that one would have to follow in the US to make and keep new friends/ contacts is applicable here. You can’t really rely on someone else to be dazzled by your awesomeness enough to just keep texting and emailing you.

I actually must hang my head in shame on this since after a pretty good start, I’ve let a few things slide. Firstly, in promoting my blog I joined an expat blog ring that I *never* check the message boards for. When I did check it after a few months (!) of neglect there were actually a few invitations from ex pats there that are now hopelessly out of date. ‘I’ve got wine!’ one even caroled promisingly, making me very sorry indeed that I let that go. (Sadly, it’s still being let go. I just never got in the habit of checking it when I pop into internet cafes, and an early “troll” experience made me a bit nervous about checking those messages.)

Secondly, after a few delightful outings with some of my newest friends, I slightly dropped the ball a bit and hung back, from a combination of being overwhelmed with work/ personal life drama, and being just broke enough that going out was not an option on those nights when I was remembering about my new friends. (Why am I broke? Manila is like NYC- when you get here you gotta bring your GAME and that means a lot more money is going into transportation and personal upkeep. Throw in a 200% raise in my rent and the loss of a stove for cooking cheap meals, and hello Greenwich Village in the 1970’s!)

Well, a few weekends of hanging around the house with just my puzzle and “Spy” wine coolers to pass the time, and I was back on the “making friends” merry go round real fast.

The first step I took back on the friend path was actually about a month ago- I got a tip from I’m not sure where to check out the American Women’s Club (it may have been in this little book “Silvia’s Book”--- a kind of yellow pages/ address book for ex pats in Manila- hello, where have you been all my life, book?!--so I checked it out on the web, and found that a bi weekly “Arrival Survival coffee morning” was coming up. These informal gatherings are hosted at the home of an AWC member, who was kind enough to open up her house to the unruly gaggle of ex pat ladies in need of coffee cake and a friendly chat.

When I got the confirmation email that stated the coffee was set up through the church and kids were welcome, I must admit I was a bit wary. Visions of awkward Amway/ Tupperware parties I’ve attended flitted through my mind. But I persevered, and it really worked out well. The house itself was in DasMarinas villages (Dasma to those in the know) one of the toniest neighborhoods in Manila- a gracious enclave of lovely 1950’s and 60’s California Cool/ Mediterranean houses set back from beautifully landscaped lawns and protected by piqué iron gates painted immaculate white- a kind of mini Beverly Hills, without the flash and the sparkle factor.

There were about 6 ladies there, 3 of which were over 40, with the rest of us scattered through our early and middle 30s. (unless I miss my guess!). The hostess was a mom of 3 who looked fresh as a daisy but not annoyingly put together, and she put on a very nice spread- coffee, coffee cake, fruits, tea, water, you name it. We congregated in the living room, which was refreshingly minimal, without some of those oversized monstrosities you see in some suburban homes- multi seat couches, huge looming lamps, sofa sized pictures, etc. Through the sliding glass doors a small turquoise pool sparkled in the intermittent sunshine. It was the picture of understated, homey, comfortable elegance. Naturally I was beset with “I must move here- itis”.

We all had a nice chat, for about 2 hours, just giving tips, laughing at some misadventures, and sharing stories. Just delightful.

The hostess was nice enough to loan me her driver to take me over to the church, where the headquarters of AWC is, so I could fill out an app and stick my head in the door. The office was manned by two Filipinas who were nice enough, but for one startled moment we were both caught off guard as I looked around trying to make sure I was in the right place.

After that, it was on to phase 2 of the day: Travel Plans!

A surprise four day weekend caught most of us here in the Philippines with our travel plans pants down, so like everyone else, I thought I was doing something “clever” by rushing to the travel agency yesterday (yes, they still have them, more on that later) to try to book a flight to somewhere with white sands, hollowed out coconuts with floating umbrellas in them, and endless sunsets. Two hours and wall to wall booked flights, “well, we still have our Swarovski crystal champagne heart velvet room left, for 200$ a night…”, and a rapid shuffle through Plans A-D and I was looking at a serious retreat for retrenchment.

Operation Tropic Thunder was out. Plan Z had to come in. On my “Philippines” bucket list is visiting a World Heritage UNESCO site called Vigan; a perfectly preserved 15^th century cobblestone adorable-zone WAY up north (about 10 hours by bus. And by 10 hours I mean 14- 16). It’s also accessible by plane (albeit there’s a plane ride and then a bus trip, but a much, much shorter bus trip). I booked a hotel, then scooted back to the travel agency earlier today (Thursday) after my let down yesterday (Wed) when I discovered that anyone with half a brain had already taken all the available seats on the Fiesta CharterMobile Prop Plane to El Nido. (My first choice destination).

Success was mine! A few minutes later I was the proud owner of a round trip ticket to Laoag airstrip and back! Whee!

Things you need to know to make this story come more alive:

1)The quaint little bustling travel agency of your dreams, circa 1962, complete with perky secretaries, walls of travel posters, overflowing file cabinets, ringing phones, multiple clocks showing the hour ‘round the world, and so on, is alive and well here in the Philippines. It’s not even a “cottage” industry. With an archipelago of 7000 islands, and with so many people opting to jump over to another island for a vacation, the travel industry is booming. Throw in a majority of people who use cash only and can’t book tickets via the internet or over the phone and who don’t know how to do it in any case, and you’ve got yourself an industry that’s not going ANYWHERE anytime soon.

I booked my entire trip to Cebu last year through an agency, and I actually really recommend it, especially if you’re in a foreign country.

Number one, save yourself the headache of screaming your name and email one agonizing letter at a time to someone who can’t really get it the first 50 times by letting a local do the talking for you. Number two, you get your tickets right then and there, no worries about “did this transaction really push through?” on the ‘net.

2) Air Fare to other islands is pretty cheap. I mean, it’s not taking the Greyhound (or in this case the “Victory Liner”) which is like, 10 dollars for as far as you can imagine, but if you don’t need to hole up at the Ritz at your destination, you can afford to drop everything and jet off to another island for a few days for less than 300 dollars, all said and done.  And the best part? With little island hopper planes you bring your luggage on the plane with you (usually overnight bags, since there’s a weight limit of 40lbs) and you get to use a STAIRCASE to get on the plane after crossing the tarmac-- no “umbilical cord” causeway thingie connecting the gate to the side of the plane. So glam! Just what you mentally picture when you think “I’m just going over to _____ for the weekend”. Packing up a bag and hopping on a flight, movie star style, hair whipping photogenic-ly in the wind created by the engine as you alight on the stairs to the plane.

G-L-A-M-OUR-OUS. The fast lane, that’s where I’ll be!

Fortress of Solitude

Part of this is my fault, but the rest is...nobody's fault, I guess.
Once again, I have to completely break a "friendship" because everything that person does is making me speechless with rage.

Exhibit A: JoelMari. JoelMari is actually back in my life now, but about a year ago, I had to end the friendship because of an escalating series of inexplicable choices he kept making that were making me crazy. As a result, whenever a clueless dude makes me nutz, me and my friends call it "another f---king JoelMari!".

But this story's not about him, it's about someone else. And in order to tell that story, we have to go back a bit, explain a certain phenomenon called "super fans".

 Those of you in the helping professions, such as nursing, teaching, child care, etc, are probably nodding along already, but for those of you who work in more white collar-esque jobs, allow me to shed some light on this: out of every group of people you deal with, there will be an oddball who you take pity on and this person's lack of social skills, the thing you felt sorry for, will lead him or her to make your life slowly more and more MISERABLE, a la "The Cable Guy."

 These people are what I call "superfans". Most just follow my every move on FB, send me game requests on same, and when I had them in class would be the ones following me with huge Bambi eyes and a slightly open mouth. There is no gender, class, or sexual persuasion that most superfans come from- straight, gay, ?, men, women, you name it, I've had a _____ superfan. Most are harmless, cute, and nerdy, but sometimes you get a corker, and then all bets are off. That corker is Omar.

My last class of trainees before I left Clark included a young man named Omar (a Filipino). Omar is a nice, relatively harmless dude, who is about 5'2" and has a body like a fire hydrant-- his main leisure activity is working out. He has a kind of miniature Muscles from Brussels humorlessness about him, as if the larger his arms got, the smaller his sense of play got. He spent his free time hanging out behind the concession stand at the cafeteria and ringing people out (he doesn't work there and is not friends with the vendors there either). He's not a jerk by any stretch of the imagination, but to put it mildly, I have NOTHING in common with this person. Nothing. Naturally he's become my latest "superfan".

 Let me set the stage with a little story about Omar. It's a Friday and the class is scheduled to have a grammar lesson. Since it's a Friday, I decided to mix it up and use George Bushisms as examples. I found 25 golden examples and the class spent the first 15 minutes or so rolling in the aisles over such gems as "Childrens do learn" and "I think it's a shame that more ob-gyns can't practice their love with the women of America" and so on. Even those of the class who's grasp of the subtleties of English wasn't quite so clear were laughing along, buoyed by the general high spirits and giggle fest. Omar is, on the other hand, squinting at the projection screen as if he's trying to read the Rosetta Stone, and all but has one hand shielding his eyes. He's concentrating real, real hard on something, and most tellingly, he's not even "going along" laughing. He's dead serious. As Amanda, my Canadian friend who was also his trainer from another, previous account, puts it "Yeah, that's Omar. Untrainable Blockhead."

Well, by dint of having similar schedules, I would run into Omar once in awhile, and since he seemed nice, I would chat with him. The danger in this situation is that I have so few friends over here that someone who seems the least bit sympathetic winds up getting an earful, and looking back, I can see how my cozy little chats about personal stuff like the dating scene could have created the "wrong" impression. At the time, however, I didn't think much of it, since I had zero attraction to this guy, and I thought it seemed obvious I was treating him like my new Best Gay Friend.

Things went along like this until I left Clark for Manila, and I didn't give it a second thought, to the point where I literally forgot all about him. (This is an unfortunate side effect of living here. I literally meet dozens of new Filipinos a month  at work and around, and to those that I meet, I'm as unusual as a meteor shower they'll never forget, to me, they're one of the hundreds of Asians I've met since I've been here. As a result, quite a few people are "Champ" and "Honey" to me. Yes, I'm "THAT girl.") Imagine my surprise when I got a text message about 6 weeks into living here that said "Hi Naomi how's Manila?" After a few attempts to draw out who this was (the fact that he didn't put his name on the initial message should have been my first clue, buttt itttt wasn'tttt), I broke down and was like "uh, who IS THIS?"

"Omar."

 I spent the next day wracking my brain and asking my coworkers "Do we know an Omar?" No, no one knew him, except for an expert who worked on a different account who had glancing contact with our department.

In the call center industry, one meets, no exaggeration, hundreds of people a month. You've got your agents, your managers, trainers, big bosses, experts, consultants, clients...and that's in one center alone. Outside of work there's staff, the staff of your friends, fellow ex pats, people who wait on you regularly, etc etc. It's a real shame that I've never felt so alone in my life, in one of the most overpopulated places on Earth, but that's another entry too. Back to Omar. I didn't remember him, and then it  came to me: "Ooo, the dingbat who worked behind the concession stand for shits and giggles. Okay."

I later found out, from him, he had memorized my phone number from the "goodbye" email I sent to the whole department. This should have been another clue buttt ittt wasn'tttt.

This is where I should have nipped it in the bud. I don't know him. I don't WANT to really get to know him. He's just one of the hundreds of people I'll be fake nice to so as not to be perceived as bitch and then forget about 3 days later. (Ugh, that's so awful. But I'll tell you what, I really feel for celebrities now. It's a fucking hard knock life if you're at all sensitive. You have to be fake 24/7, or as my dear friend Chris Long would put it: "48/7") But I was lonely and feeling rejected by my at- the- time crush so I allowed it to blossom into what they call over here "textmates"--- people who have a quasi friendship over the phone only. This was a mistake, in hindsight. (And me reading Stephen King, I couldn't recognize a Christine when I saw one? Damn.)

It got up to 10 texts a day or more from him, all really mundane stuff, like "I just ate a banana for breakfast". Homeboy was tweeting his life to an unwilling audience of one-- me. I attempted to sort this out into something workable, by inviting him to visit me (he's from the area originally) and went so far as to set a tentative date. In the meantime, the texting was getting worse, a fungal infection that was giving me palpitations every time the phone would light up, and one of those little pink timebombs would appear "Hi, just got to work!" I would feel my throat start to close. I was raised to believe it's the HEIGHT of rudeness to ignore people ("How you treat the least among you is how you treat me"--- Jesus), so I was torn. How should I treat this? Do I have to answer, thus prompting another dinky doo text, thus strengthening the already choking ties of this doom loop? What the fuck is going on and how can I make it stop?

Finally I sent him an email that I kept as businesslike as possible, detailing that this was inappropriate and making me uncomfortable. I used an example of a particularly ennervating text exchange (below) and how it's so frustrating to try to have a full fledged conversation over text, or try to get to know one another:

Me: "So just let me know [when and if you're coming here] and I'll make some plans"

Him: "May I know what those plans will be?" (This is what we're dealing with here, people)

Me: "Well, I was thinking Tagatay (leisure spa area about an hour away)

Him: "Wow, that's so far away!"

Me: "Omar, I'm done discussing this over text. Either you're coming or you're not. Let's make plans when you get here, okay?"

The bottom line here is that I let a "relationship" go to a place I didn't want for my own selfish reasons, I underestimated cultural, personality, and educational differences and how they would affect our interactions, and I went "girly" and let things go, hoping they would somehow, someway, someday, work themselves out.

They didn't.

This weekend I got a text from him, saying "Hey, my off is Friday to Sunday". Well, fine, maybe we can salvage this. So I texted him "Great, hop on a bus and I'll meet you at Araneta, I want to go to Cubao anyway."

Response? Nothing for almost 24 hours. Then THIS:

"Hey, sorry for the late reply. I had an emergency. My mom was confined but she's okay." ("Confined" is what it's called when you're checked in overnight or longer in the hospital).

I immediately went apeshit.

I knew, I just knew, that he was lying. (I still believe it's probably only about 70% true.) I've been through this many, many times with Filipinos. It's not considered "wrong" to outright lie to achieve your ends: to get money, to get out of obligations, to avoid hurting feelings, to avoid consequences, to make your situation more palatable, etc. One example would be my ex "I 'always' go to Flying V bar." He had been there once. Lying, distorting the truth, exaggerating, lying by omission, fudging the facts, and telling little white lies....all acceptable. But not to me, they aren't. It's disrespect. It's not only one lie, it makes a lie of the whole friendship.

And this "emergency" that convienantly came at a time when he was being asked to do something that cost money, time, and effort, and might take him out of his comfort zone? Time to lie. Or at the very least, time to exagerate the truth to gain some time, sympathy, and breathing space.

I sent him several acidly mean (in retrospect), heartless texts to "cut the bullshit" and "grow up" and how tired I was of "lying, games, and bullshit."

He sent me back breathlessly outraged innocent texts "My mom really is in the hospital, she had a mild stroke!" I must say, if all the accidents and medical emergencies that I've heard of here are really true, the Filipino people are the weakest, frailest, illest, most accident prone people ON EARTH. By which I mean to say BULLSHIT. HORSEAPPLES. BOWLPUCKY.

He later texted me "I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you. Just imagine me there having fun with you." I can't adequately explain how angry, lonely, sad, desperate, and ill this text made me. Why was I even entertaining a visit from this half wit? Why was I even trying to teach this person how to act socially? Why am I, at age 33, still running Naomi's Finishing School for Idiot Boys?

This was the last straw. I mean, in what universe is this an appropriate response? What kind of lunatic planet is this guy hailing from? Another culture, one that I'll never understand, and don't want to be part of, that's where. God bless you child, but please leave me out of it.

It had a sad ending, with me backing off a bit, saying "Look, Omar, you seem like a nice person, and I'm sorry for blowing up at you, but the things you're doing, like 10 texts a day, and a no call no show on our plans, are just not okay with me. They're rude, weird and offensive. It's just not going to work. Please don't text me anymore."

This type of thing, more than any other problem here, has made me miss the US. The US is chock a block full of jerks, losers, and socially backwards people. But at least I can see them coming and give them a wide berth. Here? I keep falling for the "give him a chance, those things that he's doing that are upsetting you--- it's all in your head, it's just cultural differences, be more open minded!" thing. Not anymore.

I hope.