The Found Weekend

The Weekend:

Sat day I spent just lazing around with Kent, who was taking a much needed 12 hours unplugged from work. Around 5 I ordered a pizza and after eating, I got ready to go to Internations and he took off to go back to work for the day. The event was held at the Tower Club, a swank private club in Manila proper. The club was rather oddly organized- a bank of elevators lets you out into a hall, which is parceled out on one side into book- lined, couch- dotted alcoves- pleasant, but also quite public. The hall terminates into two rooms on either end of the floor- a function room (where the party was held) and a private dining room (which led to a smoking room, which was lined with cigar boxes and was---and I’m probably showing my roots here—one of the most intimidatingly posh places outside of historic homes I’ve ever been in). The place screamed money. And not just any money. Old White Fart Money.

 The invitation specified that the drinks would be on tap at the “competitive” prices of the club and the food was top notch: this was only true if you were using some kind of sliding scale, akin to when you jokingly laugh off a broken ankle “Eh, it beats being the victim of Ebola!”. The drinks were 290P (almost 8 dollars) each, and the food was just okay (and actually, the cheese and ham on pan de sal that they usually serve was almost better)—chicken skewers, tortilla chips with green and red salsa, some little fried things, and some egg rolls. The main issue was that the party was attended by a huge crush of people, over 200, and the place was criminally understaffed- 2 sweat soaked waiters failed miserably to service the bar, which had to make do for about 30 people at a time.

The crowd was actually rather young—usually the demographics are 70% doddering old gremlins and the “ladies” who “love” them, but this made little difference to the angry Pole that I encountered in line. Paul, who was 25 and extremely dapper, was at his first and last Internations. He witheringly explained how in other, cooler cities the crowd was made up of people more like him (he was wearing a very unusual tuxedo vest that had a pair of suspenders integrated into it—I complemented him and that’s how we started talking. But unlike in the US, where a dapper, hip outfit almost always signals a liberal outlook, Europeans can fool you: the hippest looking dude in the place can actually have the same general outlook and attitude as your grandfather) but this group was the pits.

The main issue (although the men of the club would frantically disagree) is that it’s very discouraging for young, attractive, gainfully employed white women to look around and see as their only counterparts Sarong Party Girls in bandage dresses and Do-Me heels. And where there are no chicks, there are no dudes. Hence the usual makeup of 80% salespeople of some kind and 20% confused first timers who are writing it off mentally as a bust.  My friend Haresh explains, and he has a point, that the group can’t prevent sales people from Alphaland (TWO OF THEM won the raffle prizes at the event. You know what I DON’T want to see at Internations? Some 21 year old blushing ditz in a skin tight dress and spike heels tottering up to claim her raffle prize to the drooling admiration of the over- 50 creeps in the crowd) and the ‘girlfriends’ of the members from attending, so what are we supposed to do? Well, I don’t know. But I do know it’s tiring. I’ll still keep going though, I’ve made a few connections and I enjoy chatting with people there.

One person I spent a very enjoyable hour or so talking to is this guy Kelvin. Kelvin was at the super bizzaro Christmas party, and his personality can only be described as “piquant”. When introduced to me and Kent, he, after getting an eyeful of us, bounced away from Kent so fast it was comical, only to later relent and allow himself to be drawn into a long conversation with him. I can only surmise he didn’t want to “waste” his time talking to another Indian male, and saw, or thought he saw, ‘the look’ in Kent’s eye—the look of “Hey! Let’s chat!”. Later that night I mentioned his name to Kent, only to have Kent growl out “Why you are thinking of him now?”—a reaction so common it made me giggle. I have literally never had an Indian friend who is not wildly jealous of my other Indian friends. As exhibit A, a married Indian friend asked me recently upon finding out I was dating someone “It’s not that Indian chap is it?!”

 Kelvin is from Northern India, which I have come to realize imparts a very specific personality on its residents, much like the American South or Texas—you know it when you hear it. Kelvin has the kind of self confidence that one finds in, say, characters like Criss Angel, stage performer and “Illusionist”—it’s so intense it almost has its own scent, but it’s somehow enjoyable. Kelvin is a doctor who bopped over to China to study and now lives in the Philippines due to his fiancé, a Filipina who he met in China. He’s also writing a book, called “Go Beyond”, which is a philosophical treatise on…. This part is a bit unclear, but it’s basically a “how to” guide from someone who knows how to: him. He confidently and somehow amusingly, held forth on a variety of subjects, including how parents should treat their children (“Respect their wishes”), if one should just make money or do something good with one’s like (Do Something), and so on. This was punctuated with a very endearing high pitched, rapid fire chuckle that, for those of you who are familiar with Brideshead Revisited, made me think of Anthony Blanche.

After about an hour of chichat, the room became hot, crowded, and loud, so Haresh and I moved to the dining room, which had a bar and three waiters, just waiting to serve drinks to the four or five people there. Connected to the bar was the smoking room, which was constructed in such a way to wrap around the outside of the club itself, to look out into the hallway. Inside the smoking room, several Brits were gathered, eager to chat, so we chatted with them for a while, then agreed to go to grab a late night pizza.

Then listening to a cover of the Furs in the car on the way home, then home to go to sleep early- ish.

Next day: brunch with an entirely new group of people!

About a month ago, I was having lunch at Sala Bistro, by myself, and there was a table of about 12 or 15 women, American, Brits, and Ozzies, clearly having a party of some kind. On the way out, one woman stopped and asked me “Are you here by yourself?” After gaining the affirmative, she very nicely asked me to join her and her friends down the street at a club called Spicy Fingers, but I had to move on to work and didn’t want to bust in on a private party. She gave me her card, which I slipped in the book I was reading. Cut to a month later, when I picked the book (non- fiction) back up and the card fell out. I emailed her reminding her of our meeting and encouraging her to include me in any events she had coming up, and she immediately emailed back with a contact name of a woman who ran the local ex pat events group (no name that I’m aware of, just an informal gathering type of thing). Well, this woman, Camilla, emailed me inviting me to a brunch that same Sunday, and of course I RSVP’d. The brunch was at 10.30 and I had to force myself to go, but I am incredibly glad I did!

 The group was all under 40 (ish), three men, and the rest women. I was at the head of the table and therefore had access to quite a few women, taking four cards / numbers in all. The women there were mostly employed, under 40 and with no children. One man there was single (!!)- -the other two were married to the women at the table. The women there were educated, bright, outgoing, funny, sharp, liberal, interesting, and down to earth—so glad I went. They all had the same goal of trying to meet more friends, and what a relief it was to talk to women about their REAL experience of trying to make friends (all agreed it was really hard).

When I am questioned by my local work friends (I have no local friends outside of work—Exhibit A of how hard it is to make friends), I explain that I spent over a year inviting people out and getting either outright turned down or accepted and bailed on later. The reasons may be complex, but it boils down to the fact that if I want friends, they’re going to have to be ex pats. That’s the hard reality here, at least. It may be very different in other countries, and it’s very different for men than women.  (among the reasons for this is the ease of finding local girlfriends, the safety factor, and the business factor—as well as the fact that outside of the US and Europe, it’s a man’s, man’s, man’s world—meaning most social clubs are designed for, around, and by men) it was a huge relief to find I was not deficient in some way, and that these women had experienced the same difficulties and heartbreaks in finding and making friends.

Counting in the friends that have recently “come home to roost” (a few contacts made at the beginning of my time in Manila just now getting in touch/ back in touch with me), I have tripled or even quadrupled my social circle virtually overnight. So nice.