Midlife Is Boring; Not!

Unwanted things started happening to my body when I turned forty. For unknown reasons, my joints began creaking each time I woke up in the morning and lumbered out of bed. It was as though they had been dislocated in my sleep and were therefore trying to inch back into their proper grooves. It took some amount of stretching, bending, and grunting to get my circulation running, my muscles warmed up, and my spine realigned. My body has since turned into something of a diesel engine—hard starting.

Gradually, I had to refrain from the strenuous activities I once truly enjoyed: Ashtanga yoga, singles tennis, flag football, Krav Maga (Israeli self defense) and Muay Thai (Thai kickboxing). I ignored it at first—the almost imperceptible time delay between the brain’s command and the body’s reaction. But in martial arts, a fraction of a second’s delay could mean a bloody nose or a cut lip. This slowing down of reflexes, once caused my upper lip to blossom into a cauliflower during boxing practice courtesy of an over zealous sparring partner. The liver lips made me look like a silicon-filled mouth that sprouted a head so pride eventually gave way to vanity. After that, I disengaged from all sport and turned to baking for solace. One night, when all but the kitchen lights were off, I scampered downstairs to the oven, preoccupied by the cake that needed to be retrieved as soon as the timer burst into a ring. I missed a step, tumbled over and down five more rungs, and badly sprained an ankle. There wasn’t any real obstacle that may have caused the fall—only myself; as my brother said, “walang kalaban.”

These days, I limit myself to sparring only with books, while sprawled on my bed, protected by fluffy pillows. Baking has been abandoned for less physically demanding activities such as internet surfing.

On a recent trip to Vancouver, British Columbia, I was quite content to be cloistered indoors, shut off from the four-degree outdoor temperature and the howling winds. I burrowed under the duvet with Orhan Pamuk’s latest novel and was truly looking forward to spending the next several days in the exact same state, horizontal and undisturbed.

An extreme outdoor adventure was therefore farthest from my mind but the relentless cajoling of my brother-in-law and his wife, weekend warriors and adrenalin junkies both was too much to bear. You see, their tandem, quite known in the sporting circles of Manila, is a formidable husband-wife duo of triathletes, dive masters, underwater hockey players, wake boarders and yes, alpine skiers. I, on the other hand, am none of the above. And because they had posed a challenge to my middle-aged, floundering ego, it was too late when I realized that I had compromised myself. All I could do was hope that by osmosis—in the many years that I had spent with them—some of their spunk had rubbed off on me. I’m an adherent of the trickle down effect, I’ll have you know. If their 14 and 12-year-old daughters can do it, I should be able to as well; or so I thought.

I geared up in an over-sized relic of a ski suit—some plus-sized person’s discard—which we had found in a box in the basement. With a good helping of delusion, I went with them to Blackcomb Mountain in Whistler Valley and took my 11-year-old daughter and 9-year-old son along for the ride, “to share in the fun and excitement,” I told everyone. But in truth and fact, I just didn’t want to be the only novice. Don’t tell.

In the punishing cold, we took the ski gondola to mid-mountain, Excalibur, level. The first sight of the snow-blanketed surface—pristine white with a slight tinge of blue from sunlight filtered through migrant clouds—was so inviting. Plus, the practice bunny slope for beginners, no more than a bump on the ground, posed no threat whatsoever. So I unleashed my middle-aged-body-on-skis upon that seemingly benign anthill and instantly, my limbs flew off in opposing directions: one leg taking off here; the other pushing back there; the right arm fighting for balance with the aid of a ski pole planted firmly on the ground; the left frantically signaling the closest warm body for help. The brain, sensing immediate danger, enforced code red upon the motor muscles to regain control but the middle-aged body, having a mind of its own, was irretrievably on free fall.

Thank heavens for middle-age spread; I am now testament that the human buttocks can take crushing blows. However, this same life-saving attribute interferes with getting up unassisted from a bad wipe-out position. The pull of gravity on a heavy rear end has magnetic properties that glue middle-aged people to the ground. I couldn’t get myself up. You laugh? Let’s see you do it!

After two hours worth of bunny slope practice I convinced myself that I had been transformed into Michaela Dorfmeister of Austria, Olympic alpine skiing gold medalist. My relatives declared that they had had enough of a warmup and were now ready to tackle monstrous Black Comb Mountain. I didn’t want to be the only adult left on that pathetic bunny hill with dozens of toddlers so I insisted to coming along. Plus, seeing my son and daughter comfortably tackling the slope boosted my self-confidence. In spite of the ski host’s firm pronouncement: “Beginners must stay on the bunny slope!” I had declared myself good and ready for an easy run down the mountain. Hah!

Armed with an iron will power and not much else, I took the ski lift up to Excelerator base hanging onto my nieces for dear life. Murphy must have had me in mind when he formulated all his theories. “Splattt,” was the sound of my rear end as it hit the flat ground on which I was supposed to alight, upright and effortlessly, like everyone else. Like an omen of things to come, that clumsy fall came to bear on the rest of the afternoon’s events.

Lunch was next on the agenda and the ski chalet where it was to be served was several moguls down an incline, which to me appeared like a white abyss. With the tips of my skis touching the lip of the drop, I peered down and saw not the bottom of the mountain but vignettes of my past in split second flashes. I broke into profuse sweat and was convinced that the layers of clothing under my fat suit were piled on one too many. Could it have been fear, you ask? No, not that; it was more like sheer terror. And so I said to myself, a la Bruce Willis in the movie, The Last Boy Scout, “I will not die today.”

Sure, I was set back several dollars for that Snow limo—a sled manually towed by the ski patrol, which services geriatric sightseers for a tour of the mountain. Geriatric sightseers in Blackcomb mountain—an oxymoron? And shouldn’t they just stay home and knit, watch the TV shopping network, or curl up in bed with a good book perhaps?

The ski limo delivered me to the doorstep of the chalet as though I were an 80-year-old invalid but hey, Brad Pitt wasn’t on the premises so who cares? A bowl of steaming hot chili topped with melted cheddar reignited my courage and since I wasn’t one to back down from the challenge of my children to ski the easiest route back, I did, or at least I attempted to.

The infinite patience of my sister-in-law is the reason I am still breathing, which means I didn’t disappear down some ravine, nor was I swallowed by snow-covered earth. But it was not without incident—I’m talking groin splitting slip-slides; feet-in-the-air butt flops; run-away-train-careening-down-the-slope-screaming-for-divine-intervention tumbles; and just plain snow-eating-bad-ass falls; you know, that sort. No big deal, really.

Many times I asked myself, “Why am I doing this again?” The answer to which was, “Why not?” There might not be a better time to try something new or do something adventurous. I’m definitely not waiting until I’m sixty. A badly bruised butt is not much collateral damage for the spiffy photos I had them take of me in complete ski regalia and in the perfect skier’s stance as proof that I had conquered Black Comb Mountain. They vowed not to tell anyone otherwise. I literally took a peek at life from the edge and it wasn’t half as bad as I had imagined. Midlife doesn’t have to be a surrender to everything safe and predictable. I don’t have to spend it cocooned in a duvet. True, my body ached for a week; I walked crouched and bow-legged like a cowboy with a thoroughbred still in between his thighs. But what was punishing to my body did wonders for my spirit. I now contemplate rappelling down a mountain next but not without the perfect outfit on. So first, to shop!

Bunny Babies

Maverick needed a bunny costume for an Easter party and I remembered that Mouse wore one for Halloween three years ago. I have this hope chest at home filled with all the children's costumes from 24 years ago, ever since Maverick was born, so I rummaged through it and dug through 24 years of memories. I found my son's Tarzan wig, which I had crafted from scratch. I cut a round piece from plain fabric then sewed strips of hanging yarn in concentric circles to simulate Tarzan's long locks. He wore it with nothing more than a g-string and run away with the grand prize. He was a scrawny four-year-old when this happened. What were the judges thinking?

I unearthed the bunny outfit from the very bottom--ears, bow tie, and cotton tail--all intact and good as new. I handed it over to an ecstatic Maverick. Here are their photos: Maverick and Mouse, sisters born 18 years apart, getting maximum mileage from this Hugh-Hefneresque costume.

I guess the little girl in each of us never really goes away; it is just shoved to the sidelines by this whole growing-up business, raring to resurface at every opportunity.

My Grandson

Meet Fidel Castro, my grandson, a French Bulldog. He is my daughter, Maverick's son. She brought him home from the breeders when he was two months old. He has slept on her bed ever since. He's two years old and spoiled rotten. Everyone in the family dotes on him. This is probably why he doesn't know he's a dog. He acts like a human being; he is so opinionated and has this overwhelming sense of entitlement that makes me want to pinch his bat ears. He can't sleep unless it's on the bed and on top of a down pillow. My friend Mabek gave me a silk duvet from China, which feels like wisps of clouds--light and fluffy and guess who enjoys it most? Fidel of course or Fifi as we have all taken to calling him. I know; it's ironic, the name Fifi. He has the face of an executioner and a name of a French hairdresser from gay Pareeeh. He's so ugly that he becomes cute, you know what I mean?

Once we were in the Shell Station in the South Express way and Fidel stuck his head out the window. One gasoline boy said to another, "Pare, tignan mo yung aso, ubod ng pangit!" I felt bad but hey, he was only being truthful. It's very true, this cliche that goes: he's got a face only a mother could love. That's Fidel for you.

We've been planning to get a companion for him. I've been pushing for an English Bulldog but the odds don't look good. Everybody else wants another Fidel--a Frenchie, which is actually a smaller version of the English Bulldog but with prominent ears (the French bred them with terriers). I'll keep hoping...

Sexiest Being in the Planet

I have been obsessing over my neighbor's English Bulldog named Cholo. I see him most afternoons as he takes his daily walkabout for exercise. I'm so tempted to just snatch him from his handler and run away with him. I am enamored; I am lovesick. I'm dying to have one. But everybody else objects because they are a breed of heavy droolers. My friend insists that all they do is slobber. So I am brokenhearted. I don't have a picture of Cholo but this is how English Bulldogs look. Aren't they the handsomest dogs you've ever seen? So macho! So shprackenamackena cute!

The Wisdom of a Child

Pippi and I lounged on this hammock for an hour before sunset. We talked for a bit but mostly stayed quiet until I let out a long sigh and said to her, "Isn't it great that school's out? It's the best!" She sat up and said, "No, Mom, that's not correct; I love school!"

Much Ado About Easter

Why do we all spend Easter in the beach? This thought flitted in and out of my mind last Wednesday as we packed what seemed like my entire household into plastic crates for a few days at the beach. I was stumped for an answer; I still am. Maybe because it's the hottest time of the year. Is it? Tradition perhaps, but whose and who started it? I'd like to hunt him down and make him do the packing for me next year (canned laughter goes right in here).

Aside from the 40,000 years worth of groceries that we rammed into the van, I had to make sure I brought enough chips to drown Belli in and chocolate fondue for Bidi to swim in come Easter (they gave up chips and sweets respectively for 40 days and 40 nights as their Lenten sacrifice) Bravo, they did it! "Mom, it feels so good to know that I worked this hard for something," 9-year-old Bidi said to me. He got desperate several times during those 40 days and I felt so bad for him that I tried giving him little pieces of cake, but he flat-out refused. He left the table as soon as dessert was brought in. He endured! Bravo! I am oh so proud! Belli had no trouble abstaining at all, in fact, she's still at it! I gave her all the chips as prize but she said, "I've gone this far, might as well find out how much farther I can go." The young truly puzzle me.

I gave up beef and pork for Lent. Yes, I was masungit for 40 days and nights. To intensify the agony somebody ordered lechon to be served on Maundy Thursday. All I could do was stare at it in contempt. I comforted myself by thinking that it looked gross. I managed to convince myself as I inspected it up close. Yuck!!! The tongue was hanging out of its mouth. The cook said that it must have been in distress at the moment of roasting. Double triple gross! This mind-over-matter thing does work from time to time. But guess what I just had to make up for all that anguish? Longganisa from Tuguegarao from the Carags!!! Yum!!!

The kids learned all about self-control this Lenten season. Their abstinence was self-imposed; I had no hand in it at all. I never did anything like that at 9 and 12 years of age. I am in awe of them!

But having said that, I take it back because not having installed a TV at the beach house was a conscious choice to promote "a communing with nature" (to be all dramatic about it). But the children played their PSP, PS2, DS, Gameboy, Guitar Hero, etc. Their noses were buried in electronics when a only few steps from where they lounged was the wide open ocean..kids these days, they really puzzle me. Okay, that was an exaggeration. They did swim for hours on end but as soon as they were on dry land, it was back to the electronics.

Oh, and yes, satanic verses were thrown my way, in quick bursts. Her mood swings are getting worse but then, what to do? I did get the urge to just jump her and claw at her insides but these people have multiple lives; they live on. So I just looked forward to my longganisa.

Happy Easter!

The Great White Shirt

I don't know what it is about the white t-shirt that has gotten me hooked, addicted, dependent. Call it fetish or obsession, I've had it since I was a child. I grew up in Davao and back then I wore whatever it was that my mom threw my way--I was so not into clothes. I kept wearing this one light green Cinderella brand t-shirt that my mom brought home from Manila with my favorite pair of jeans that had appliqued fruits and flowers on them (ode to the Seventies) that a schoolmate, Doris Tagle, said unabashedly, "Don't you have other clothes?" I didn't take offense; not at all. She was just being truthful. But I think my mother did, after I had told her. She probably felt as thought it were an indictment of her parenting so she dumped a pile of new clothes on my bed the next day. The problem was, none were as comfortable as my trusty light green shirt and jeans.

During one of the annual summer breaks spent with grandparents in Manila, Manang Charing, my grandma's mayordoma, got me white Crispa t-shirts from Kamuning; it was love at first wear. I wore them until they were threadbare. I've been addicted to white shirts ever since. I've gone through many brands: three dots, petit bateau, Armani, Ralph, Gunze, but I wear them out like nobody's business and it got too expensive to buy branded ones. Now, I'm happy with the Zaras, the Topshops, and the H and M's. I've tried pure cotton; cotton blends; cotton silks, which feel like you're enveloped in a cloud; cotton lycra for that suck-in-the-gut effect,and cotton elastin, which holds its shape for a few more washes compared to the rest. Once in a while I am still suckered into dishing out serious bucks for a luxurious one but I instantly regret it because I always get the 100 % cottons, which have a definitively short shelf life.

Today, I go through the motions of shopping--this exclusively female sport that we all excel at--only to end up wearing what is known around my family circle as my "uniform"--white shirt and jeans. I try to spice it up with a vest or hide it under a blazer, but no one is ever fooled. They're on to me! Even my five year old has taken notice. She asked me recently, "Do you not have enough money to buy other clothes?" Just to end the heckling, I've taken to wearing colored tees but only when I've sort of worn my favorite whites for consecutive days and always, always with a heavy heart.

I really can't explain this preoccupation with white t-shirts, maybe because dressing up becomes a no-brainer? How can you go wrong with jeans and a white t-shirt? And with too many kids and too many other things to worry about, they simplify this whole fashion business.

Oh, and here's my attempt at diversification: colored t-shirts. My current favorites are these Theory ones.

Jock or Nerd?

“What do you mean he doesn’t play ball?” Father was aghast at my answer when he asked whether the boy, who had asked me to prom, in some forgotten era, was a “baller.”
“Just that Dad; he doesn’t play ball!”
“Why, what’s wrong with him?”
“Nothing, he doesn’t play ball—that’s all. He swims.”
“What?” He was scandalized. “That’s not a sport! Fish swim. Swimming is not a sport. A sport is when you train your body to handle a foreign object, like a ball, be one with it and then make miracles. No; you can’t go to prom with him.” And that was that.

My father grew up with five brothers, all balers, all competitive. He carried this ball-playing tradition over to our family so I grew up in a home were men played all sorts of ballgames: basketball, football, baseball, tennis, golf—anything that involved various sizes of round, bouncy objects, a lot of running, and some hitting with the aid of elongated implements. Jerseys littered the house; they were everywhere, along with jock straps, sneakers, and soiled socks—phew! Balls rolled about the floor, under the furniture, teetered on the stairs, sat like land mines on the sofa, bulged under the blankets, and dangled from the mouths of our dogs.

During my teenage years the only boys who ever made it inside our house to call on my sister and me were—you guessed it—ball players. Why? Because that was the password into the cave of wonders; it meant that they had something in common with the men of the house whom they were certain to bump into: Dad and brothers, and that they would at least have something to talk about. Dates were never dinner and a movie; they were always box seats to basketball games and football matches, with our date playing on court or afield. That meant my sister and me were mostly left alone to watch them play, quarantined from all contact—bodily and otherwise. My dad was beyond thrilled; we were always allowed. And all was well.

So then I grew up believing that men who don’t play ball, don’t, because they don’t have any (pun definitely intended). But no longer; I married a man who doesn’t play ball—big surprise! God does have a sense of humor.

Inevitably, the universal debate on “jock or nerd; brain or brawn” descended upon my own family and ever since the Bill Gates and Steve Jobs phenomena hit our consciousness, the issue has become moot and academic. My son plays ball and loves it but ask him, “Jock or nerd?” and his reply, without a moment’s hesitation is always, “Nerd!” Ask him, “Why?” “Because I want to be as rich as Bill Gates,” is what you get back.

Sorry, Dad, but nerds do rule! They sit on the board of Fortune 500 companies; they have the superpowers’ economies on puppet strings; they have the world’s stock exchange indexes a centimeter away from the tip of their fingers—in flashing red call buttons; they deploy fleets and armies with a single command; they pound their keyboards relentlessly until they perfect another revolutionary computer program; they hunch over drafting tables sketching the next wonder of the world; they sequester themselves in cabins in some remote wilderness penning the world’s next epic. These leaders, artists, scientists, captains of industry, statesmen of the highest order, professionals all at the pinnacle of their fields, possess a different kind of brawn, that which settles the difference between life and death, progress and obliteration, art and trash, success and failure. And they endure because they are driven by passion; what has been called by developmental psychologists as “the rage to master.”

In high school when unpopularity is a death sentence, everyone worships at the altar of the jocks—the well-built, testosterone-filled, fearless athletes on whose success an entire institution’s glory is cradled. But their celebrity status and all the trappings it comes with don’t translate to the outside world.

Nerds, on the other hand, bother little with social acceptance; life, for them, is doing what they love. They invest all their time and effort in overcoming hurdles that stand between them and what they are passionate about. They evolve into problem solvers, never walking away from pressure, frustration, or failure. They make wonderful fathers and patient partners, which make up half the recipe for lasting relationships.

In a society that puts a premium on entertainment value, they command big bucks. What nerds make in a fiscal year, jocks pocket in a few days but given their short shelf life, their net worth evens out with the nerds’ at final tally. Some of the greatest: Muhammad Ali, Michael Jordan, Joe DiMaggio, Pele, Bjorn Borg, Joe Montana, Jack Nicklaus, and Wayne Gretzky were invincible during their time and in that window of several years they etched their names in history. Sure they made excellent money with winners’ purses and mega-buck endorsement deals but the most that they can look forward to after retiring—sooner or later when the body gives out, a tragic eventuality in any jock’s career—is a job in the entertainment industry, whether in sports casting or show business with the corresponding, drastic, pay cut. Nerds, on the other hand, endure in their office swivel chairs, silver-haired and arthritic, still crafting out masterpieces, churning out numbers and policies and cash—lots of it!

But there are certain under-the-counter pleasures in sports which afford far greater happiness than then those we can quantify. In my case, as in my father’s, and millions of other sports fans I know, it is the full-contact ballgame. Yes—that male supremacist pastime, that gross, gladiatorial, at turns violent and brilliant bastion of athletic prowess. Like such disreputable entities as poker nights, stag parties, prize fighting and fraternity beer bashes, ballgames are a token of maleness at its most retrograde and obtuse.

There is something gripping, something poetic in any ballgame between two capable teams. In soccer, this beauty is immediately apparent, with its simple rules and elegant, sweeping movements; or baseball, with its dramatic duel between pitcher and batter, the hand-eye coordination of the players, and the Zen of hitting; and finally, the catlike grace and liquid moves of basketball players coupled with incredible speed.

Jocks are beautiful! But even with all that, great athleticism is not enough. What sets off all these skills is the way they are confined to tiny, discreet segments of time: that clock-beating three-pointer; the cross header from a corner kick; or the homer at the bottom of the ninth with all bases full. Each play in any intense ball game, where the odds are tied and skill levels between opposing teams are closely matched, is a mini-opera in which a drama of precision, savagery, and grace is enacted in just four or five seconds. At the pass of a ball, a menagerie of animals is released from its cage. Agility, speed, quick reflexes, coordination, courage and a little bit of luck all come into play.

In some obscure but undeniable way, all sports offer miniature and clear-cut imitations of reality, little universes in which someone actually wins and actually loses. That’s why they are pleasurable. All athletic performance is unpredictable; this is what makes it exciting. Most often, it is the team with a slightly maniacal edge, whose players possess the impulse to die for the ball, to sacrifice the body play after play, that bests the rest.

Not all players have this. In fact, they are increasingly harder to find. In a team of ball players there are always varied characters arrestingly different from each other. There are those who trot, preen and grandstand for the spectators—the level of their game becoming only as good as the encouragement they get of which Cristiano Ronaldo of Portugal, the youngest player at 19 during the last Football World Cup, is the perfect example. He was more of a cheerleader than a striker then, playing to the crowd’s capriciousness rather than for his team’s objective. There are those charmingly self-effacing super jocks, highly-skilled and with a steeled determination, in a league by themselves, much like tennis great, Roger Federer, who plays each game as though his life depended on it. There are those who perform like robots with magnetic hands, which have the ability to catch and return anything thrown their way. Here, Jason Kidd of the New Jersey Nets, one of the greatest players of his generation and one of the greatest play makers and point guards in NBA history, readily comes to mind. And still those clueless, errant rookies who look to their coach and teammates for every single move and Yao Ming, during his NBA debut game in 2002 as a rookie for the Houston Rockets, was exactly that. There are those with flawless physiques and the face to match, so darn easy on the eyes and ready to melt any woman’s heart—David Beckham of L.A. Galaxy and Alex Rodriguez, third baseman of the New York Yankees, are fixtures in every woman’s fantasy. There are the sympathy addicts who manage to fall at crucial moments and hold the crowd in suspense at whether they can get up scot-free. They normally do, but lie still to relish those extra couple-of-seconds when they have the entire arena’s bated breath riding on their next move.

And then there will always be that golden moment when a lone figure suddenly emerges from a swarming mass of bodies in the sports arena and breaks into the open dodging obstacles, cheating his foes as if he were cheating death, running for his life to make that glorious point. Fine; it’s a small pleasure, but that’s all it takes.

Sure, there are a few remarkably gifted renaissance men who possess brilliant, scholarly minds along with incredibly coordinated, athletic bodies, but they are the exception to us, mortals, who have to settle for one or the other.

So what shall it be, staying power or those few intoxicating minutes of pure magic?

The Mighty Adobo

Every Filipino, by blood or birth, knows his adobo. Local culinary experts claim that adobo comes from our Spanish forebears who landed on Philippine
shores in the 1500s. It has since evolved into its present-day Fililpinized version, which is the heart and soul of traditional Filipino cuisine.

Lily Gamboa O’Boyle writes in Pacific Crossings (Acacia Corporation, 1994): “Adobo is considered the National Dish of the Philippines. This dish consists of chunks of chicken or pork or both cooked in soy sauce, vinegar, bay leaf, lots of garlic and whole peppercorns. The stew is allowed to cook until meats are tender and the remaining sauce is slightly thickened. Some people prefer their adobo dry, which may entail frying them afterwards, while others prefer them moist and served in their original sauce. As a style of cooking, it can be applied to fowl, shellfish and vegetables.”

Adobo is esteemed by all Filipinos, some more than others. The pinoy gourmand elevates his by substituting duck for chicken, while the minimum wager, whose adobo is de facto daily fare due to economic constraints, regards his with indifference. The health-conscious may insist on using free-range, organic chicken, while the poverty-stricken, apathetic eater, grateful to have something at all to fill his stomach with, enjoys his helping of chicken scraps and bones atop a mountain of steamed rice, smothered in adobo sauce just as well.

The socialite matron trains her maid to ladle her adobo using only Christofle silverware onto flawless Rosenthal china; while her trusty gardener quietly feasts on adobo, tomatoes and rice on a banged-up enamel plate, squatting in the dirty kitchen, ingesting mouthfuls with the graceful precision of his bare hands.

Malacanang occasionally includes adobo in its state breakfast repertoire, to the delight of visiting foreign dignitaries, while Aling Loleng’s carinderia around the corner dishes it out with a cup of rice and a finger of banana for twenty pesos a pop to the barangay tanods and the pinoy everyman.

Variations of the dish are about as diverse as the idiosyncrasies of every Filipino family, depending on its provenance, social class, and culinary persuasions. Most households remain steadfast in their adherence to the original chicken and pork, soy and vinegar recipe. The less queasy includes chicken heart, liver and gizzard. The sweet tooth adds sugar, which makes the stew an entirely different culinary experience. The Makati dona, who maintains a full kitchen staff, demands her adobo meats to be fried to a crisp, enhancing this already complex gustatory symphony with yet another dimension: texture. The Batangueno cooks his with vinegar alone and simmers the dish to veritable dryness, whence the meats have all but absorbed only the very essence of the vinegar. The innovative, fresh-out-of-culinary-school kitchen neophyte substitutes the sophisticated aceito balsamico for the de rigeur suka, only to eventually concede to the superior culinary merits of the native suka on Filipino cuisine. The copra farmer from Mindanao who lives for his mid-day cocktail, spikes his adobo with tuba (fermented coconut juice) to lessen his guilt over his alcohol intake with the it-doesn’t-count-as-liquor-if-not-ingested-as-a-drink mentality.

The Filipino never parts with his adobo. He lugs it with him to the ends of the earth. At any pinoy gathering abroad, be it on a beach, a picnic, a dinner party, or a civic function, the adobo is the center piece of the buffet, majestic in its stove-to-tabletop kaldero (cauldron). Chances are, right beside it, standing proud, would be its first cousin, the rice cooker.

One of the main reasons why this savory dish is widely cooked is because it does not require refrigeration; it is good to go anywhere at anytime. Its ingredients of vinegar, soy sauce, salt, and spices, act as natural preservatives so that it stays unspoiled for days at room temperature. In fact, the longer one keeps adobo, when all the flavours have completely blended together and have permeated deep into the meat fibers, the better it tastes.

In this country of 7,107 islands and 91 million people, who are regionalistic in sentiment and sensibility, who consider themselves Ilocano, Capampangan, Batangueno, or Cebuano first before being Filipino, and who speak 175 different native languages, the dish and the word—adobo—is the one consistent thing in the entire race. Be it the version of the northern mountains, the central plains, or the coastal south, the dish is still called adobo and whether it is kangkong (swamp cabbage), sitaw (string beans), pork belly, bangus (milk fish), tilapia, hito (catfish), bamboo shoots, prawns, squid, game meats, or crickets, it keeps its name. For a heterogeneous people separated by geography, language and subculture, adobo is the one unifying factor. It defines us; it burrows deep in our soul from the very first taste and we carry it in and with us for life.

But cooking adobo is not without its perils. The wafts of fermented vinegar from the pot as it hits boiling point, are unforgiving to the nostrils. The fumes from the vinegar and soy sauce emitted at length because of the required simmer period permeate the thickest of furniture upholsteries, drapes, carpets, clothing and hair, positioned within a fifty yard radius of the casserole. This aroma stays and is the dead giveaway of the homeowner’s nationality.

When preparing garlic for adobo, the peace-loving and laid-back, inner Juan Tamad in
the pinoy is transformed into a violent kitchen commando. He can never be content with
daintily peeling the garlic cloves with a paring knife and mincing it into neat little squares
of equal size as seen on the food network. Armed with mortar and pestle, he pounds the
garlic unto death, until the peel voluntarily separates from the pulp. He then pulverizes it
to smithereens and plunges it into a sizzling hot pot. Cursed is the sucker who is
burdened with this task for on his fingers will linger the offensive odor of macerated
garlic indefinitely. But the amount of effort one expends in the preparation of adobo, and the consequences involved are a pauper’s ransom compared to the bounty of pleasures one derives from the burst of flavours and play of textures in its every bite.

No matter his position in society, no matter his persuasions, and no matter his taste, there is no parting the Filipino from his adobo—every taste and every whiff of which is so uniquely Filipino and so utterly sublime.

Fighting Fair

Is there really such a thing as a fair fight? Isn’t the objective of fighting gaining ascendancy over someone else? I think there is; in relationships at least, where the motive isn’t to annihilate the other but to settle issues and differences. Unless, of course, that, is precisely the point—to destroy and ravage the other and eventually break up, in which case, go ahead and unleash your weapons of mass destruction.

I’m talking more of non-violent domestic disputes between two parties in a relationship, which is an everyday thing for most of us. I’ve heard many couples brag about how ideal their relationships are because they never, ever, fight to which Relationship Expert, Lawrence Mitchell, says, “Give me a break. You never, ever fight? Well, do you ever have sex? Because other than sex, no act is more natural.”

Fighting may be unpleasant. The alternative, however—to suppress personal expression until one is blue in the face—could actually be unhealthy. When done right, a fight can be productive and even helpful in a relationship. I think the true measure of a relationship is how you fight. Not whether you fight, but how you fight.

Mitchell adds, “It is with shame that I make a most painful admission: men are inferior when it comes to conflict resolution. We are. Admit it. Whether in an argument, a mild disagreement, or a fight, we need a lesson on how to make it work with our significant other.” Mitchell says that the problem with men is that they see life in terms of competition because of their logical nature. He says, “We process in such a rational, logical fashion that we tend to alienate our partner. Sure, we make our point and may even ‘win’ the argument. But what do we gain in the long run?” He explains further that men feel the compulsion to triumph over their partner with every possible argument. He cautions men with, “Relationship conflict is not a contact sport. There is no real victor in the end. As soon as that is clear, you can begin to fight the right way.”

I partly disagree with Mitchell because I believe that women can be more cunning than men in the face-off arena. True, men can be more methodical, more logical in argumentation, which is precisely the problem because women fight from a different perspective—that of emotions. Whenever a specific issue is brought out on the bargaining table, men tend to attack it as they would a logistical problem; women address it in terms of how it affects them emotionally. Women use tears, engage the services of allies to spy on the beloved—what he has to stay, what he’s up to; snoop inside their drawers, check on their emails and cell phones; and go through their wallets, which often earn them a deadlock, at the very least.

So we’re basically talking apples and oranges here, which means that no matter how long couples take in threshing out their dirty laundry , they probably won’t arrive at a resolution without some collateral damage. Often times, it is sheer frustration over the spin cycle-like movement of arguments that provoke couples to draw out their weapons: blame; character assassination; swear words; dramatic walk-outs; or the most desperate of all battle strategies—violence.

My nephew, Michael Plotteck, a German Korean raised in London, tells of how puzzling it is that Filipinas always raise their voices when they argue. “They can’t really discuss things in a normal tone of voice; they feel the need to shout at all times. I wonder why that is?” What a keen observation that was, I thought. We are, indeed, a bunch of shouting, angry females. So I said to him that it is most likely cultural, that if you tell a Filipina to keep her voice down when she is angry and then proceed to fight fairly, she will keel over and die. Without that raised voice she is incapable of putting up a good fight; normal decibel levels is her kryptonite. Just look at our local movies, TV drama shows, and telenovelas. Every angry woman has got to shout.

We can never be minimalist in this culture. We are truly Baroque; favoring the excessive and the dramatic in every aspect of our culture: in our fiestas and festivals; costumes; dances; décor; crafts such as wood carvings, weavings, embroidery, paper art; food and food presentation; etc—everything is flamboyant, colorful and over-the-top. Not that they are not exquisite or beautiful; they are, on the contrary, just not in that Japanese Zen, minimalist, elegance-in-simplicity kind of way. So even when we fight, we need all the attendant drama—the shouting, the tears, and the grand arm gestures.

Tara Parker Pope in an article at the New York Times Science Section writes, “How often couples fight or what they fight about doesn’t matter. Instead it’s…how they react to and resolve conflict.” She writes about a study done in Framingham, Massachusets. 4000 men and women were asked a series of questions about how they fight with their partner. The study covered ten years. One fascinating finding was that women who didn’t fight, who tried to avoid conflict, who preferred “fight free” relationships, were four times more likely to die during the study than women who were comfortable with conflict. This effect, interestingly enough, was not present for men.

Further studies, done at Western Washington University in Bellingham, Washington, have found that this tendency to avoid conflict and quarrels can lead to “numerous psychological and physical health risks, including depression, eating disorders and heart disease.” hese studies also looked at why men and women fight with each other. The top reasons listed by women were children and housework, with money a close third. For men, however, the most commonly listed reason was sex, with money and leisure tied for a distant second.

But no matter what the reason for the conflict, the crucial thing in terms of a healthy life and a healthy relationship was not whether fights happened, but how they were handled. It seems that working on fighting well, rather than working on not fighting, is the key to a healthy relationship.

Here, according to Lawrence Mitchell, are some pointers for men on how to fight fairly with their partners:

Address only the issue at hand. Never bring up issues that have nothing to do with the argument at hand, lest you bring up more issues that can possibly be settled in one battle. Never rehash past offenses, never deliver personal jabs against your partner for lack of any substantial counter-argument. Do not fight dirty by throwing soiled laundry—those which may have been divulged to you by your partner during her vulnerable moments—into the bargaining table. Keep on track at all times.

Avoid the blame game. As a man, it may feel good to win the battle and come out on top. But what appears as a victory may be a bad loss in the long run when you factor in your partner’s resentment and lack of goodwill toward you. The objective is not to break her spirit and make her admit she is wrong. It is to iron out differences and come up with a compromise. So take your wagging finger out of her face. Remember, this is someone you love. She is not the enemy.

Discuss and fight like an adult. This should not be a verbal brawl. It should fall into the domain of impassioned debate while maintaining as much courtesy as possible. Keep that temper in check at all times. Avoid exaggerated body language. No shouting. No banging of fists on the table. No slamming of doors. No name calling. No swear words. The more civilized you are, the more open she will be to whatever you have to say. Calm down and take deep breaths.

Take a break. Once the fight degenerates into personal attacks, maybe even physical confrontation, you can never go back to erase the harm. Before the argument explodes walk away and cool off.

Go to bed on common ground. I don’t believe in the axiom, “Never go to bed angry.” It is not realistic advice. The most you can do is stop for the moment and get together the next day to discuss the problem in a civil manner.

The bottom line is to realize that men fight in a totally different manner than women. Their logical, competitive nature must not be allowed to dominate relationship conflicts. Neither must they cower nor repress their rage. They must, instead, muster enough restraint to remain open, respectful, compassionate, and communicative. It helps to remember that indifference and not anger or even wrath is the real enemy in a relationship. The day one partner stops caring about the outcome of a fight, is the day the relationship is over.

Must Read

Incredible Reads! Please get a copy soon; you won't regret it. Out Stealing Horses by Per Petterson (Norwegian) and The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz (Dominican American), both fiction, both masterfully written. I need not say more.

The Best of Filipino Home Cooking

LZM restaurant, a Filipino lutong bahay specialty restaurant, recently opened its doors in Magallanes Square, Tagaytay City. LZM started as a backyard operation in the owner, Mrs. Zenaida Anciro's, home in Silang, Cavite eight years ago. Her scrumptious, authentic pinoy dishes have gained a loyal following through the years and the fruits of her labor have now given rise to a new branch right along Tagaytay’s Aguinaldo highway, right off the rotunda.

LZM stands for Luzviminda, Zenaida and Manolita, three sisters who opened a tiny eatery in the veranda of their home along the highway in Silang. Luzviminda Anciro, 68, the oldest and most skilled among the sisters in all matters culinary, is the heart and soul of this operation. Stories have it that she hardly left the kitchen in the eight years that LZM has been open in Silang, so she saw no need to change out of her duster, her everyday uniform. Until one day, when a table of appreciative customers clamored for her presence, she was forced to grace them tableside in her duster. The duster has since gained as much popularity as her cooking. Along with this, customers christened her with the moniker “Mommy” because of her maternal inclinations and her doting personality. Thus, the restaurant exudes a casual family atmosphere, where customers repeatedly come back as much for the good food as for the familiar, warm and welcoming ambience that comes with the dining experience reminiscent of one’s childhood.

Some say that her “magic” duster is the secret to her delicious dishes but she says it is the sangkap and the timpla—her trade secrets that make her concoctions stand out.

LZM is famous for its outsized bangus Dagupan, and by this I mean serving-platter sized, really huge and thick. The length of one open-faced bangus is over 12 inches and the thickness is never less than one inch, a good portion of it being the belly. “Talagang mataba,” as Mommy says. One fish is enough for a family of six and comes only at P220 per order. They serve their bangus in various ways: daing style, sinigang style, even sisig style. LZM is also well-known for its unadulterated bulalo at P280 with the broth simmered with beef bones for days in gargantuan cast iron vats. The chunks of meat are so tender that they crumble off the bone when pierced with a fork. The bulalo soup tureen is refillable so one can have one’s fill of this comforting broth. There is their chicharon bulaklak priced at P160 per huge platter and which everybody claims has a clean taste (no unappetizing aftertaste of innards). The secret, Mommy confides, is in the meticulous, multi-stage cleaning process.

The success of LZM has prompted a structural extension that ate into the back lot of the sisters’ property. The continued surge of clientele inspired Mommy to open up another branch, and this she has entrusted to her daughter Merle, who like mother, is a genius in the kitchen. LZM’s second branch now sits on the second floor of the Magallanes Square Building along Tagaytay’s Aguinaldo Highway. Merle Anciro Caliskisan, LZM’s charming second generation proprietor says in jest that although the restaurant is not along the ridge where one gets prime view of the volcano and the lake; she is unfazed. “Pag view ang hinahanap ng customer, doon sila sa kabila kakain pero pag ulam na masarap and hanap, dito sila sa amin kahit na walang view.”

Mommy visits both restaurants everyday but Merle is quick to add that she changes from her legendary duster when she visits the Tagaytay branch. Mommy still cooks and overseas all operations and goes to market with Merle day in, day out.

If you are only driving through Tagaytay and do not have the luxury of time to dine in the restaurant you can just their ready-to-cook bangus Dagupan and enjoy it at home at your leisure. If you are staying within the area, LZM will deliver to your door step.

Other must-try dishes at LZM are the bulalo steak at P220; the sisig, a personal favorite at P150. The kare-kare at P270, peanutty, thick and just heavenly and the boullabaise soup at P190 are house specialties. Their sweet and sour lapu-lapu, P270 and crispy pata P270 are totally irresistible. Forget your diets when you find yourselves at LZM. Be prepared to be thrown back to your childhood of comfort food and of familiar lingering kitchen aromas with LZM’s excellent home cooking and the doting presence of Mommy, Merle and their staff.

LZM is on the 2nd floor of Magallanes Square, Aguinaldo Highway corner Magallanes Drive, Tagaytay City. Tel. no. (46) 413-4593. Cell phone no. (0918) 368-7947

The Best Hotel Beds in the Philippines

What else haven’t you heard about The Shangri-la Mactan Island Resort and Spa? That it is a paradise resort on a paradise island? That it looks out into the vast, aquamarine, Visayan sea? That it had recently completed a three-year major renovation program on its 547 rooms and suites? That the resort now features cutting-edge design and sleek modern furniture? That its Chi Spa village offers the ultimate in spa experiences? That their newest landmark, the Marquee, a multi-function tent has raised special occasions to a higher bar and an even grander scale? That is has been repeatedly recognized as the top three of Asia’s leisure and resort destinations and is a three-time winner of Time Magazines’s Readers’ Choice Awards? We know all that. Just by looking at photos of the Shangri-la Mactan Resort we clearly see how breathtaking it is. But there are some things that one might never find out unless one lives the experience. Here’s letting you in on a few secrets about it.

I have not had as restful a night’s sleep prior to flying down South. But there was something about their bed, the pillows, the linen, which just had me feeling like I was swathed in layers of clouds. I couldn’t get up in the morning; didn’t want to. I wasn’t willing to shed off the cocoon of comfort that the sheets and the bed provided. But then like all good things…

And so I bounded out and kicked off the sheets because I just had to see for myself what was underneath all that. I stripped the mattress of its linen and investigated the brand to figure out the source of all that comfort. It was not a regular run-of-the-mill bed. It was a Simmons orthopedic bed and they have this same top-of-the-line set-up for each of their 547 rooms and suites. And it doesn’t end there. On top of the mattress are three, yes, three, layers of mattress pads that are down-filled. It is these that give that extra-luxurious feel to the supine body at rest. It also must be noted that their all-white cotton sheets have 800 thread-count, which means that there are 800 all-cotton threads per square inch of fabric. When these sheets are rinsed in their laundry system, the staff uses a special rinsing process which neutralizes the fabric texture to match the PH balance of the human skin, which is 6.5. This process is tested every week to make sure that the 6.5 balance is consistent and maintained.

The feel of the bed, the mattress pads and the linen is comparable, truly amazing to the ones in Raffles hotel in Singapore and at the Ritz Carlton in Boston. It is with much pride then, that in our very own Philippines we have this as well.

Now the pillows are quite tricky to describe because words won’t do them justice. They are both firm and supple. They are filled with 50% goose down and 50% feather so they conform to the natural contours of the body. They cradle the curves of the head and the neck and remain firm when a certain position is held over a period of time. They have hypoallergenic fiber-fill or buckwheat ones for those with allergies.

And the bath and hand towels are just as posh with a decadent feel to it. The 100% terry cotton looped threads are thick and soft and as you wrap yourself in a towel you feel as though you were enveloped in a bear hug.

One other remarkable item in Shangri-la Mactan’s arsenal of luxurious linens is the Chi Spa’s Kashwere robe, which is exclusive to them—I’m sure it is available at the EDSA Shang branch as well. The robe feels like panels of marshmallows but is surprisingly very absorbent. It is made of 100% polysynthetic Kashwere microfibre that has been patented by its manufacturers because of its exact same feel as natural cashmere. The advantage of Kashwere is that it is machine washable. It doesn’t shrink nor wrinkle, in fact it is best tumble dried because the fabric reacts to heat in a way that makes it revert to its original softness. The Chi robe feels exactly like the famed Loro Piana 100% cashmere robe but which costs ten times as much. So for the ultimate in luxury linen, there is Chi’s Kashwere robe—only you will know it’s not cashmere. It was too good I had to get one for myself. Try it.

In the Company of Old Men

Do you ever wonder about the stereotypes of “sweet old ladies” and “grumpy old men?” We see enough of it in Hollywood movies but I’m not quite taken in by this adage. I’ve watched elderly women in my life: in-laws, grandmothers, great aunts, and family friends, slowly morph humorless, sarcastic, and asinine personalities—those that children and adults alike run away from. I’ve observed these once reasonable, competent, no-nonsense women suddenly be reduced to barking at waiters, picking fights with retail sales people and launching world war III three upon their gardeners and I can’t shake off the image of that “little old lady” in attack mode with her trusty old handbag as the weapon of choice.

If aging is, in part, about declining powers, then shouldn’t men be taking it harder and than women, given our patriarchal social set-up? Yes, this is a generalization, but it remains a fact that more men than women work outside the home and hold higher positions of power in the work place. It follows logically therefore, that they should take ageing harder. Coming to terms with diminished capacities and accepting change are painful processes after all.

But the few and isolated encounters, which I have had with old men were nothing short of pleasurable. I should be so lucky!

I was at a dinner over at a dear friend’s home recently. It was an intimate coming together of his family: his three other siblings—all well within the age of forty; their spouses and significant others; their septuagenarian parents; eleven people in all. The setting—al fresco in their well-manicured garden—was perfect; the drinks, constantly flowing; the food—raclette and sausages—divine! But the evening’s piece de resistance was the company of his 77-year-old father, a charmer who has become even more gracious with age. He entertained us with down-home ease and warmth that had me truly disappointed when he took his leave.

He had about him that old world chivalry that we don’t find among postmodern men anymore. Being fussed over once in a while by a sweet man is heartwarming, and this he did to each of us with a genuine, uncontrived concern and a robust sense of humor. His conversations ranged from the ingenuity of African music; the merits of authentic tocino del cielo (a Spanish dessert); post-war Binondo; the pleasures of ice cold beer and pork asado for merienda just before taking in a double feature at the cinema in the old days; gardening and landscaping; to anecdotes about his children’s growing-up years.

I remember my affable professor and thesis adviser, Dr. Witold Krasowski, 20 years ago at Santa Clara University. He was chair of the Sociology Department at that time and I spent several hours a week during my final winter term in his office in consultation about my thesis. He was in his Sixties with a wild crop of silver hair, thick spectacles, and a penchant for hand-knitted sweaters with op-art designs—his wife’s handiwork, I’m quite certain. He had the patience of a preschool teacher, the wit and humor of an ace comedian and the compassion of a Carmelite nun.

Once, I was an hour late but had the legitimate excuse of figuring in a rear-ender because the car behind mine had lost its brakes. I didn’t expect to find him still waiting in his office. But there he was! He said he was certain something important had come up since I had never been late before. I pointed out my car’s crunched-up rear bumper, which was parked on the street right outside his office window in the O’Connor building. When he saw it he said, “Well, now I’m going to have my wife feed you dinner at home to make you feel a little better.”

I had called the University recently to inquire about him and was completely broken up to hear of his passing just months ago. I regret not once having told him what a wonderful man I thought he was. One thing I had learned from him and remember to this day is that “learning is its own reward”—something he repeated over and over every time I whined about the overwhelming amount of work.

Another incident that remains salient in my mind took place on a Baltic Sea cruise aboard the Radisson Silver Seas Mariner in 2002. I had met a most adorable Canadian couple, Don and Annette Latchman, who were retirees out to see the rest of the world. They were a handsome pair, mild of manner and deliberate of speech. I had several opportunities to sit with them at dinner and had come away from those encounters a little bit wiser.

Don is one-third of the world’s oldest surviving natural triplets, for which he says he received a certificate signed by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth of Britain (Canada being once a British a colony). I had not previously known that they were Jewish, not that it mattered. But this information had a bearing on the succeeding events upon our arrival at St. Petersburg in Russia. We went ashore for some sightseeing and I had purchased a well-preserved KGB cap, complete with World War II pins and emblems, from a street hawker. I proudly presented the item to Don and Annette, unaware that members of Don’s immediate family were casualties of the Russian/German concentration camps. This was the reason for his family’s migration into Canada. I apologized to no end and later asked Annette why they even thought of coming to Russia. Annette replied, “Don wants his forgiveness of the Russian and German World War II atrocities to be complete.”

These old men are personalities I will tell my grandchildren about. They had a gentleness about them that may have come from their finally making peace with life. Gone is the brashness of youth, in its stead was an endearing, mellow countenance that exuded a relaxed aura. Old age in men seems to bring with it clarity of perspective and a sense of humor that tempers what may seem tragic to the inexperienced.
None of these men had temper tantrums and spontaneous combustions often exhibited by e agitated female senior citizens I know, when provoked by anything from a slight delay in restaurant service, minor appliance malfunctions to traffic injustices. Neither did they display any of that signature wry humor that old people are wont to dish out to anyone within ten feet of them. Nor did they spew sarcasm typical of the aged that says “I’ve paid my dues; now I can lose it anytime I feel like.”

My father is 67 and is never in a bad mood. My favorite Uncle, Daniel, now in his Eighties, is never without a smile on his face and never has anything unpleasant to say about anyone.

I think men are grumpy when they hit middle-age; right about the time they go through their mid-life crisis or what is medically known as andropause. After that, I sincerely believe that they come full circle and revert back to being made of “snips and snails and puppy dog’s tails.”

Clueless

After two years, I am finally finished with grad school course work...what now???

Putting your life in the hands of a man

I had just gotten back a few hours ago from the now world-famous and much-talked about adventure vacation package in Tuguegarao, Cagayan. It involved two days of kayaking and white water rafting in the Pinacanauan and Chico Rivers. I went with a group of friends—all middle-aged city folk—to celebrate the birthday of our dear friend, the godfather of white-water rafting vacation packages in the country, Anton Carag.

The weather was far from ideal. The rains were relentless. But we proceeded as planned because our guides, Anton with Argel Gerale and Herbert Perez--seasoned river denizens, who have been doing this for decades and have shepherded hundreds of clients to safety--are the best there is. They were trained by American and Australian experts not only in kayaking, river rafting, and caving, but also in rescue operations and first aid.

The river had swollen to hostile heights (five meters higher than usual); the current, raging and unforgiving with class 3+ rapids. But we all came out of it in one piece—yes, drenched, spent, and yet triumphant and exhilarated, all because we surrendered ourselves to these men. Yes, Argel and Herbert were total strangers but when you choose to put your life in the hands of another man, nothing else matters except your complete trust in him and your unconditional cooperation.

There were many moments as we hit gargantuan rapids when I felt that I was definitely going to be thrown off the raft and that the river would swallow me alive. But Argel, the river guide, was at all times in supreme control, barking precise orders. And so again, because I kept my mouth firmly shut during the pre-rafting clinic, paid full attention during the run, and most importantly obeyed every word without question despite the gnawing urge to interrupt and drop in my two-cents worth of womanly nonsense to do otherwise as my instincts dictated, I lived to tell, yet again. As I trudged to base camp after the three-hour feat I asked myself, “Why the hell did I go into the river?” The answer that immediately popped into my brain was, to borrow from British mountaineer George Mallory when he was asked why he wanted to climb Mt. Everest in 1924, “Because it’s there.”

Yeah, yeah, sure. How unlike me, you say, to relinquish control with absolutely no resistance to them pseudo-Nazi supremacists; these members of THE opposite sex that we always gossip about, but it was the most fun I’ve had in my life, along with skydiving, of course. The excitement of facing the unknown, the adrenalin rush during the run, the self-satisfaction of completing a daunting task, and the memories that are yours to keep and take to your grave is the priceless, inalienable, irreplaceable bounty your reap from all these.

So friends, when you put your life in the hands of another man, shut up, listen hard, and do everything he tells you!

Lake Louise, Alberta, Canada

Lake Louise in Alberta, Canada was named after Princess Louise Caroline Alberta, fourth daughter of Queen Victoria. The lake and its backdrop, the Victoria Glacier at the foot of snowcapped Mount Victoria, is the most photographed scene in the Canadian Rockies. It freezes completely in the winter months and thaws during the summer, revealing a deeply enchanting emerald color. It is surrounded by mountains, glaciers, trees and the stately Chateau Lake Louise, an imposing luxury hotel, which first opened its doors in 1890. It sits on the banks of the breathtaking lake with the majestic Rocky Mountains providing an astounding backdrop.
On our drive to the hotel, we happened by several parked cars by the roadside. A cluster of people gathered around a patch of prairie clearly keeping vigil over something we couldn’t see from the car. Ever the usiseros that we are, we stopped and jumped out. And to our surprise it was a pack of bears they were gawking at: one mama bear and two cubs some hundred yards away. To be standing still and in complete silence, being privy to bears in the wild as they go about their business, is an incredibly moving experience. There is this primal feeling that is stirred up inside of you as you marvel at these fierce creatures of nature roaming freely in their habitat.
We stayed in Lake Louise for two days, the highlight of which was our four-kilometer-trek on the fringes of the frozen lake. The solitude, the quiet—hearing only bird calls and occasional gusts of wind—was a radical departure for us, city folk. We, of the Manila mall culture, were astounded by this intimate encounter with nature--the outdoors under the open skies.

Columbia Ice Fields

The Columbia Icefields on the boundary of Banff and Jasper National Parks in the Canadian Rockies really is a spectacle to behold. This 130-square mile complex of mint-green headwalls and moraines, up to nine football fields thick, contains the largest glaciers in all of the Canadian Rockies.
We were ferried directly on top of the Athabasca Glacier for a walk-about by a specially adapted, high-torque, “snow bus” and drove from the terminal to its edge. At a speed of 10 mph it took us 20 minutes to get there.
The temperature on the glacier was close to zero degrees—freezing! The valley between the bus terminal and the glacier’s edge was so stark and treeless because it used to be part of the glacier. Jamie Bosom, our 22-year-old driver and guide who grew up near the icefield said “but you can see for yourself what has happened. This glacier, one of the world’s largest, is melting fast.”
Very fast. Thirty years ago it took only several steps to walk to the glacier’s edge. Now we had to take a bus ride. Our guide went to say that “this is not just about the loss of a beautiful work of nature.” He explained that the glacier complex is part of a “triple continental divide,” with its melted waters flowing into three oceans—the Pacific, Atlantic and Arctic—providing a source of pure, natural water to hundreds of thousands along the way. Our road trip through the Canadian Rockies had taken a more sobering turn. Suddenly all other concerns seemed worldly and trite.
Our guide put the meltdown into proper context, saying that the glacier had been in a receding phase for centuries. But he made us draw our own conclusion about the connection between the 2 degrees Farenheit increase in temperature since 1907, the 40 percent increase in carbon dioxide emissions courtesy of the human population, and this majestic wonder disappearing before our eyes and on our watch.

Skydiving in Sydney

We will all find ourselves, at some point or other, powerless and feeble during life-threatening situations. The lucky ones, who, as many say, have yet to settle a score with their maker—bad grass, being yet another term for it—have accidental brushes with death and live to tell. They do so because at that particular time and place some random person, whether kin or complete stranger, in an act of kindness and empathy, performs some Herculean task to spare them of an untimely exit.

But I speak here of voluntary self-exposure to high-risk, death-defying stunts that the world has now come to know as extreme sports.

Several months ago in Sydney, Australia, I chanced upon an advertisement collateral—a poster—at Franklin’s supermarket in Newtown between the frozen section and the house cleaning implements aisle, advertising tandem skydiving. It read: “See all of Sydney from the sky.” What arrested my eye was neither the campaign slogan nor the blurbs from famous celebrities who had tried it but the colorful red and gold jumpsuit of the male model and what remained visible of fine facial features under his protective goggles. Even more compelling was the fact that he was airborne and stuck to a skydiving instructor two times better looking than he was. Shucks, I thought, what a totally legit way for a middle-aged, married woman to be in full body contact with a drop-dead gorgeous man.

Okay, why the hell not, I reasoned with myself. I wouldn’t mind an aerial photo wearing the same groovy get-up with wind-blown hair pinned to a handsome, live prop. As the check-out cashier started ringing up my purchases, I remembered Leonardo da Vinci’s saying, which I had come across as a teen-ager: “When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you will always long to return.”

And so I did it. I called the number on the poster and faster than you can say “The quick brown fox…” I found myself in that very same spiffy, curve-enhancing, tummy-flattening, butt-augmenting jumpsuit at Woologong s Skydive Center an hour outside Sydney in 13 degrees below zero weather. My teeth were chattering both from the cold and the terror. For once, I stood motionless and speechless as I listened to a man briefing us on how to skydive off of a moving aircraft from 14,000 feet above ground, free-falling for 60 seconds, and then landing with knees firmly locked onto chest for an incident-free landing.

Guess what? The instructor was ten times better looking than the model on the poster—shoulder-length, layered hair, green eyes, an exotic European accent, and a physique to rival Daniel Craig’s as James Bond. This was the only thing that stopped me from making a mad dash out of there; there was no way I was backing out. Well alright, I had already prepaid a premium for the entire exercise, which was non-refundable so even if I were hyperventilating and on the verge of a panic attack, I persevered.

Midway into his spiel on safety procedures, several doubts and concerns barraged my typically female mind. No excuses here; such things are simply hard-wired into our psyche. Don’t we question everything just for the sake of it? But I bit my tongue and held my peace because I realized that if I pissed this man off he could easily unharness me in midair and claim equipment malfunction and that would be that.

I lived to tell because I made like a tree the whole time and followed everything he said with nary a peep. And what do you know; it turned out to be the best experience of my life.

Home at Last

Three continents in two years...after Cornell in Ithaca and LMS in London, she is finally HOME at McQuarie University in Sydney with her music and her friends, having the time of her life. Here she is: Kitty in her coming out party during the Christmas break.

Long Boarding

This is the view from my balcony. Well, I had to come down to take a close shot but nonetheless, it gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling to see my twenty-something girls: Maverick and Kitty with friend, Ciabel, literally going out to play on the street. It has been ages since they last did this.

Kitty was home from Sydney for a couple of days
for her grandma's 75th in Davao and had an eight hour lay over in Manila, spent just like so--on the streets and having tons of fun.

Maverick leaves in April for graduate school in the US. I dread the day...