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!



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!

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.

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.

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.