Bride Cometh Before the Fall

Back from the void

2012-03-28T00:47:00.000+02:00

I have insomnia again; and just like in Paris, it's time to update the blog. Stripeysocks, live from Kathmandu, reporting back after... wow, it's been almost 6 months!

Whenever I got the chance to talk to my mom on Skype, she kept asking me: when are you coming home?

That, followed by: What on earth will you do in India for 5 months?

I asked myself that before leaving everything behind, too. And every time we talk about our plans with fellow backpackers in the coffee shops of Thamel or Pokhara, or even around a fire in the mountains, they marvel at how we survived India for so long. The dirt and poverty was not what shocked me, it was the people. Every day was a roller coaster ride of emotions; sometimes we became so guarded to the point of paranoia. We saw the worst in people, but it also helped us appreciate the kindness of complete strangers. I learned a lot from these people. Some of them, I hope, would be our friends for life.

India truly made us stronger.

We saw and experienced the best that the subcontinent had to offer....

leaving some room for future adventures.

From being afraid of staying too long, I admit: We had a blast!

So now we've just extended our stay in Nepal. It's on our individual lists of dream destinations, but we said we'd only give it a month... now we're staying for almost two.

It pushed us to do things we never thought we could, and got us closer to the The Big Guy In The Sky... physically speaking, at least :)

But the adventure doesn't end there. I guess I'll be more specific and post better pics in the future, when I get hit by insomnia again :)

Bisous dear reader, wherever you are!

Flylaloo

2011-10-06T14:02:00.004+02:00

Just a quick word before leaving! We've cleaned the flat and packed our bags and while typing, I'm chewing on a reheated frozen quiche from Monoprix. Ohmagawsh, this is it. This is really is it. We're flying tonight. I'll be one of the little passing lights I see at night from the window while we watch Breaking Bad marathons. We are leaving Paris fer realsies and when we stop, nobody knows. It rained buckets this morning, it looked like hail. The kids at the school behind the house were screaming like it was murder.

Woke up this morning really nervous. Still nervous. I'll continue the blogging from the other side of the world, alors!

Montmartre, on one of my last promenades.

Gros bisous to everyone who stayed with the blog, and those who have discovered it by chance. I still have a few entries about Paris that I intend to finish (backlog pa rin?! haha) I hope I get the time while we are in India.


Listening to Josephine Baker's J'ai Deux Amours - finally, an accent I can understand. The flat suddenly looks so small now that it's almost empty.

But, oh, Paris... Paris, I'll miss you.

And my mac, too.

Marseille Away With Me to Petit Paris

2011-09-26T02:12:00.012+02:00

Wow. It's sure been a while. I don't know where to start anymore. Actually, I don't remember where to start! So I'm going back to read the sh!t I wrote and imma get back to you, mmmkay?

So where were we?

Ah, Marseille. So, after the long camping trip to Italy and back, we were sleeping under a roof again, taking unhurried showers, having breakfast while seated on chairs, not wondering if dogs are peeing on our tent while we dream and whatnot. In the afternoon we went to H's friend's cousin's stepfather's house (read it again, it will make sense eventually) for grilled fish and a romp in the pool. H's friend, G, showed us the CCTV setup in his uncle's bedroom. It was connected to the gasoline station in the front, so even at night he had an eye on the store.

After lunch, I lazed about on the swing while H and G tossed the nephews around the pool. After realizing I talk mostly in English, one of the little critters asked him, "Pourquoi tu choisi ta femme en anglais?" or "Why did you choose your wife in English?" Yeah, rough him out a bit in the pool, please. No, obviously I'm kidding.

Before rush hour, H and his friend got dressed and we planned to give the city a once-over before we went back to Gigouzac; but once we hit the highway, H started looking panicky. "The gear is stuck on 2nd," he said, so he tried to shift to first, and on first it stayed. We were running on 20 kph and the other cars were honking for us to hurry the hell up because you CANNOT be slow in Marseille... and let me tell you why:

Luckily, G knew Marseille like only Google Maps would, and he navigated us to the nearest Peugeot dealership that was... on the next corner! Massive automobile shitstorm aside, were we lucky or what? So, G ran out of the car, got the other cars to stop so we could turn around and crawl to the other side of the street. Motorists were honking their horns at us, flashing the finger and shouting profanities; the boys lashed back with some obscenities themselves, of course. Good times.

About fifteen minutes later (we were slow, okay?) we got to the Peugeot lot, but the mechanic didn't want to take the car in because it was a Friday and it was 5 pm and Monday was a non-working holiday. He'd be damned if he acted like he cared and processed the car in. They tried to talk to the people in charge in the office, no luck there. So H called the insurance guys and they told us to hire a car to go back to Gigouzac, get a towing company to keep the broken car until Tuesday until which time it can be taken back to Peugeot for diagnostics and H will have to come back by train to get the car when it's fixed at some future juncture (on the insurance's dime, of course).

So, with understandable apprehension and resentment over paying the gasoline and the toll fees twice (because the insurance doesn't cover that) we decided to get a car from Hertz. Problem was, by foot, Hertz was about 20 minutes away. The boys were both over 6 feet tall and speed walking, meantime, my strides were 5 inches shorter and... did I mention I threw away my rubber shoes before leaving Lake Maggiore? I trotted behind them in beach sandals, a cute little number in white with plastic straps and a rose pattern on the sole that costs a pretty penny but does nothing for your feet when you're racing after after giants. At a party two weeks after this, I pulled out the corn that had formed on my left foot.

Driving towards the lavender sunset on our way back, we felt like we had reached the nadir of road trips; but half-glass-full people that we are, we decided it was better that the car broke down while we were still in Marseille and not on the highway. So we got to his parents' place at around 1 am, and the next morning H had to explain how come his mother's car broke down in his care, and his parents had this "yeah, right" expression on their faces the time he told his story. We all know how he likes to drive.

Fast forward to a week later, Friday, H is back in Marseille and I'm in Gigouzac, he calls us to say he is calling from the car on the way back -- but oh! -- hold on! -- the gear is stuck on first again! Eventually he ends up going back to Peugeot to play the waiting game with the mechanics. Since it was late, he decided to go back to Luc and Clemence's for a big dinner.

Because I'd been putting off re-learning how to swim, my father in law had resorted to asking me every afternoon after gardening duties if "today" was the day I would take swimming lessons. Well, since my eyes were tired and it was the warmest I'd felt all week I decided it was time to take him up on his offer. While my mother in law fretted over the state of her car, and how she was supposed to get back to work on Monday with no car, I ran over to the pool for my lessons.

I was a bit scared because my father in law has a reputation for having a short temper, and I know that when it comes to sporty things I have a very slow learning curve. Miraculously, I survived it without being shouted at once and I managed to swim for ten seconds without help before sinking to the bottom. PROGRESS! My mother in law's jaw dropped open when I told her the lessons went well and that her husband was very patient with me; my brother in law was just on his way out, but that stopped him in his tracks.

Although H said he hadn't planned on it (because he thought of staying overnight in Marseille), he took Peugeot's service car and drove all night while they figured out what the heck had happened to my mother in law's car. We were supposed to be back in Paris for some meetings by the 24th, but we wanted to stay around for the next two days for Fête de Gigouzac.

At 5 in the morning, H arrives while I'm snoring, curled around my laptop because I fell asleep waiting for the Glee Project to stream properly. H's dad brought out the heavy drinks during lunch, but in H&M time, it's breakfast, so actually I had cognac for breakfast. A year in France has turned me into an alcoholic!

That night we had a barbecue in the pool house and my in-law, A, and his friend M unpacked their newly-bought Camelbaks and filled it with rum and coke so they could go to la fête without having to pay for the drinks. This is the kind of genius family I've married into.

I have to admit I couldn't sum up the two nights of fete like I could remember the other things that happened that week. I remember coming in, being stamped, watching the shows, and observing the paradox of a stage set up next to the church given the secular type of entertainment we got that evening. California Gurls and church? Pourquoi pas (why not)? Don't get me wrong, it was a fun show, but consider just a few of the images I got to snap while the night was young:

A Claude François medley, complete with Clodettes.

Deeper into the night, the band felt like it was time for
a Dracula musical... with strippers. I kid you not.

Third act of the Dracula musical, the girls return
with faux petticoats to suck some more.

See the white wall to the left of the picture? That's where H and I had the church ceremony last year. The guitarist here is really good, I think this was his Led Zep tribute.

Le local artisan beer

I had a few beers because the mayor introduced us to the owner of Ratz (we got ginormous kegs for the wedding, support your local businesses and all that jazz) and the former mayor treated us to a few brews when he took us to meet the Irish boys because he needed a translator, then there was also the new-guy-in-town who bought us some rounds because he was just so happy to have some friends in that lonely village (I tried to talk to him in Pardon my French French but he didn't mind; he said he could detect I have good soul, which shows he really doesn't know me, mheh), I pogo danced with the town's resident eccentric, was unwittingly pushed into a Paquito line and was almost crushed under the weight of a tall rugby player - and it's only funny because I survived.

The Paquito, a dance from the south west.

A lot of other things happened that I only remember in snippets now and I blame it on my sugar high, but a lot of it I can't really mention anyway, in case the people of Gigou come by and read this, hee hee. To be very vague, the most poignant thing I remember was one girl having a mental breakdown after she realized she had f*cked up relationships with people, or maybe she had a breakthrough, that's why she decided to drown her sorrows in beer and act a fool - because that moment of lucidity was sheer torture.

With all the boys drunk by pack-up time, I was the only one strong enough to hold H up to stop him from falling on his face. My knees almost buckled the wrong way! I took him to the snack shop for some churros to push the alcohol down. The gypsy family who owned the booth were happy that H asked how they were and got them started on their woes as victims of racial stereotyping. The wife had an especially long story for me, which I suppose I was supposed to understand as a woman, but in actuality I understood only 20% of. But I nodded and said "ça c'est vrai" (that's true) and "c'est pas juste" (that's unfair) at the seemingly appropriate moments. And that, children, is how you make people think you speak French.

It's amusing to be the one of the few sober people in a crowd of four hundred people. One of the most popular pastimes in France is people watching, but it's more interesting to watch them when they are drunk. I think it's when they are most happy, judging from how carefree they look when they grin. In the morning I would be asked where certain bruises come from (stereo equipment), where people left their keys (bush), where all their money went (beer for wrong girl), and where missing people or articles of clothing might be found (also bush); it is also one of the very few times when I am the most accurate keeper of time.

The sky was beautiful when we walked back to the house, it was so clear that we distinctly saw the glowing nosedive of a falling star. The following day, a friend from Manila stayed over and witnessed the "true black" nights that the region is known for.

You already know M, she was here last December by chance after the big snow storm that grounded all the planes in Europe. This time she was on a road trip with her boyfriend, a French guy from east of the hexagon. H joked that she was a year late for the wedding.

The good weather continued and H went into the forest with one of his oldest friends from Saint Nom La Bretèche. After picking vegetables from the garden for their dinner, I was left in the house with Patricia and the kid. I had the credit card so we went out for dinner at a lakeside restaurant so she could have a break from cooking.

But my lord, on the way back we saw the biggest moonrise ever. And it was full, and it was red, and it was on fire. Patricia said they call it a Russian moon.

The next morning, H returned and I woke up to the sad news that my aunt had just died. It was a wake-up call for many things in my life, things we don't need to discuss here because I'll need an entire day for that, but most importantly, I missed her enough already and it was heartbreaking to hear I couldn't share the wedding vow renewal in the Philippines with her. She was a surviving link to my father, and I hoped at least she could tell my future children about their pikutin grandfather. In the next couple of weeks, I would also be told that my two other uncles had died. My father and all his siblings are now 6 feet under. Except for the little one who drowned in the Pasig and was never seen again.

After a month away from Paris, I was surprised about the things I missed. I missed going to the boulangerie for bread, stalking people on Facebook while working, going to the supermarket or testing my courage in the bi-weekly street marché, reading in the park, sitting still in a museum, telling the turtle to quit splashing around, talking to my plants who don't really deserve me, the people at the reception area of our building (even the guy who keeps asking if I'm pregnant already, because for a guy who's studying law he sure hasn't heard of boundaries), the metro, and cooking. It's so weird to realize that the things that were so foreign to me last year were suddenly so missed. A lot really can happen in a year, and this sabbatical I took in France had a way of hitting the message home.

I hear stories from people in the Philippines and I'm surprised at how much had changed at the home front, too. H's friends go out less because of their new babies, or are working on new relationships, or have moved away to other cities and even countries. In a few weeks, we will join their ranks.

For the last month, we had finally put into action the process of THE BIG MOVE.

H renewed his passport and international driving license, I went to my immigration meetings, we did our research, bought a travel guide, got our visas, booked our one-way ticket to India, had a farewell party in the house, started packing away our clothes and books and kitchen utensils, and, just last week, finally sold the apartment.

Paris had become too small suddenly, and we are exchanging her for a continent.

Provençal Lass 3: Les Baux and the Beautiful

2011-09-12T07:54:00.006+02:00

It was a hot and cloudless day when we braved the ruins of Glanum and I thought on the next town we might have a break from the sun. Little did I know that the punishment had only just begun.

The car ride, for starters, was a welcome change. We turned the air conditioning up, had some water from the trunk, still cold from the night before. We avoided the highway for what was, according to the guide book, the bucolic route to Les Baux de Provence, a medieval town between St. Remy and Arles.

The guidebook did us right. From the road we took, we got this incredible view of Les Baux -- camouflaged in the rock, almost invisible if it weren't for its red standard with the Star of Bethlehem at the center.

It was a fitting introduction to one of the most beautiful villages in France.

Les Baux (from Baou, a Provençal word meaning high rock) is strategically perched on top of a hill overlooking the length and breadth of Provence - From Arles, the Camargue, the Alpilles, and up to Marseille and the azure Mediterranean in the south.

The Alpilles forming a basin around the valley.

Olive trees, and beyond, Marseille.

Artisan stores and snack shops line the main avenue going up to the citadel, the site of the old fortress. A shop owner told us to bring water when we go up, because at the top the temperature is five degrees more. (The bottle of water we had with us didn't last 30 minutes once we got there.)

He added that he grew up in the village, and knew the place back when there were no faceless tour conglomerates making money out of its history without giving back to the community. He knew the place before safety rails were put around the risky areas, in fact he even showed us the scar he got from taking his bike to the castle ruins when he was a restless petit garçon.

Well, as a tourist, I couldn't complain. After entering, we were given audio guides so we could walk around on our own pace, with an option to listen to additional history by summoning a disembodied, electronic tour guide with the correct combination of numbers. When we got to the courtyard there was a weaponry demonstration, and it was like watching the Discovery Channel in the flesh.

They asked the women to volunteer to fire the trebuchet, and H was trying to make me go...

But, dear Lord, it was too hot. It was dry and I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust.

How did we end up in the desert?

Displaying the courage and resilience of my sex, I trudged on with H until the southern tip - and was rewarded with God's view of Provence.

Moving to the north, we passed by a soda machine plugged into a cave. Oddest thing to see, but thank heavens someone thought of it. It recharged us enough to make it up the lookout tower, a place so steep that a sign saying "climb at your own risk" was deemed necessary. It was where criminals were thrown off, too.

A pair of American women had a difficult time going up the narrow, timeworn steps. One had heels on while the other kept slipping in her slippers. But we all made it, finally, to the rocky apex of the old fortress.

First level. Hitched my sleeves and leggings up because by then it was a matter of survival.

Here I am at the top level, the hottest spot in Les Baux, with my beloved bottle of soda. And H, of course.

Where there are now crumbling walls, an extravagant castle used to scale the heavens. Still, the ruins stand proud, even in their naked state.

Les Baux was greatly esteemed for its ornate castle, and was the seat of power of the lords of Baux, who descended from King Balthazar - or so the legend goes. This is why the Star of Bethlehem figures prominently in their coat of arms. Indeed, it is very old. We saw an abandoned Roman house on the way in.

But it is much older than that. Perhaps human settlement began in 6000 BC as archaeological evidence suggests, or perhaps further back than one could imagine.

At the ruins, Les Baux's prehistoric origins could clearly be traced. Forming the base of the village built into the rock were troglodyte caves -

Trying to get a break from the sun. It was actually cold in the shade.

That were constantly given a make-over to accommodate more modern standards of living. Where once there were just bare limestone walls, holes were carved to make shelves; then chimneys rose through the ceiling to bake bread, planks were attached to make towers and churches and then later more elaborate structures. One civilization after the next latched on to the rock like wild flowers, then thrived.

However, these medieval marvels have bit the dust. Even with the citadel's excellent defensive position, the mighty Protestant house of Baux was demolished in 1632 under the command of the Catholic king, Louis XIII. Today, the man made walls wage a battle with erosion, while the caves stand unflinching, as they have for thousands of years.

In the 15th century, the last of the Baux died, bringing an end to the line of the Persian King Balthazar (again, if the story is to be believed), which might have been just as well. Enough blood had been spilled in the fields of Provence to expand and defend the territory of the feudal Baux lords -- but in the end the same fate befell them as Shelley's Ozymandias whose empire - though once invincible - eventually succumbed to the elements.

Ancient olive trees still rocking it.

Coming down from the old lookout tower, an intriguing name was written on a plaque: Val d'Enfer. A jagged landscape so named because it is said to conjure visions of inconsolable despair and suffering. Thus, "the Valley of Hell."

Faced with visions of "death and suffering" I do like Pinoys do - I smile!

This ghoulish menagerie of gray rocks reputedly inspired Dante's concept of Hell in the Divine Comedy. It also figured in Jean Cocteau's Testament of Orpheus (produced by Francois Truffaut), which featured the thespian talents of Pablo Picasso, Jean Marais, Charles Aznavour and Yul Brenner... And was, of course, weird as hell (just sayin').

According to legend, it was because the hill looked so dismally grim that one can imagine goblins and ghosts coming at you from behind the limestone that it was so unfortunately named. It did not look so evil when I arrived, but while I stared at it three hours later in the infernal heat of summer, I felt the anguish and utter wretchedness of the Valley of Hell.

Luckily, we found a stall that sold granitas so I got my good spirits back by the time we got back on the road. (Babaw?) This time, we stayed in Marseille with the parents of H's friend who were on the French version of the Amazing Race.

Meet Luc and Clemence, the amazing retirees of Pekin Express. She fed us like we were starving, and he made us drink wine like we were alcoholics. God bless 'em! Clemence wanted to visit the Philippines because her sister went to Coron just when she and Luc were in the process of waiting for the show to start filming, so she missed the chance. She wore her Palawan t-shirt to show me.

The next afternoon I slept for a few hours after lunch while H and his friend hurled kids around the pool (not as dangerous as I thought). A few minutes before five pm, we were ready to go back to Gigouzac after a quick drive around Marseille.

Well, we didn't get that quick drive around Marseille. Remember when I told you in the beginning of this series that H's mom was so nervous about letting H drive her car? Those words echoed in my head as we entered the highway and the gears of the car got stuck on first. Suddenly we were crawling at 20 k/ph as the world around us sped up to a hundred.

The sign posts all said we were in Marseille, but in truth, we had entered the valley of hell.

Up Next: All hell breaks loose at a Peugeot dealership.

Updates

2011-09-09T12:20:00.005+02:00

First off, after a few weeks of nail-biting and self-doubt, I'd like to declare that we finally have our Indian visas! Woo-hoo!

I haven't managed to write that in here because I'm very bad with time management these days. Haven't even finished writing about the trip in Provence. With one month left before we go, there are a couple of property issues we have to settle before flying off to Whoknowswhere.

To explain, we've been a little worried because the process for Indian visas is a bit strange. The embassy doesn't accept applications, a third party British company takes care of that. They have an online system that I heard has made the process a lot faster compared to a few years ago, when people could wait half a day in queue before the visa officers give them the time of day.

So we did this online thing, filled-in the form electronically, printed everything out nice and orderly-like so when we go to the visa office all we have to do is pay. When you get there you also have to get your picture taken, special Indian Visa style that only they can make, so you can't do it on the cheap by taking a picture of yourself and cropping it at home. So we did that, pasted it on the forms as prescribed, everything neat and orderly-like. And in fifteen minutes from coming in, we were called to the counter and we showed my form first and the woman tells me I can't get the number of months I'm asking for and I can't go back and forth from Nepal to India because I'm a journalist, plus that means I have to sign some special forms saying I can't be writing while I'm in India as a tourist. Whutda?

Well, we reason that I'm not a journalist, I'm a writer, that's different. I'm a writer of the mundane. And she said India does not make a distinction, and those are the rules. The company says all writers are journalists and therefore cannot stay longer than 3 months and have to sign a journalist's waiver. What have you got against writers?! But, ok, it's their country and I'm just asking to be let in. So, to get it over with, we decided to say I'm a housewife. H photocopied the form stuck to the wall, we paid for that too, no free forms here. I filled up the new form, H was again his stressed-out self, and I submitted my hand-written form, H surrendered his internet application. The new guy at the counter asked H why his was computer-generated and mine was not, but we paid for the visa applications anyway and then we went home. But on the way home, doubt was gnawing on H because they might trace my application and find out I wrote "writer" and that mightn't help my case and we might have just thrown away our money if my application is not approved for suspected fraud. Oh lord.

But thank heavens they were happier to let me in than to nitpick. I paid a little extra too, because I have a Philippine passport. They were supposed to call us when our passports are ready for pickup, but they didn't. We found out online. Blessings of the internet age. After a week and 3 days, I got my passport back in time to go to the Philippine Embassy to get something processed. That day was action-packed too.

I wanted the be at the embassy in the afternoon so I made some adobo flakes that take a long time to prepare - but maaaaan, it was good. I don't know why I never thought of making it in the first place. I know it has to do with the dry adobo disaster I served to H's friends who came for dinner two Saturdays ago. My failure inspired me, so to speak.

Anyway, so I'd planned to go to the Musee d'Art Moderne after filing the paper I needed processed at the embassy, because they are on the same Metro line. I scurried around the house thinking of the things I needed: camera, map, guidebook, passport, re-printing the papers that need signing because I realized the bottom was cropped wrong when I printed two nights before (we were watching Breaking Bad so, no attention to detail at all)... plus I had to remember to photocopy the last page of my passport for the embassy requirement, and drop off two letters for H at the mailbox.

Of course, knowing me, I would forget something as important as getting the photocopies done before I get on the Metro. Well, when I got to the embassy it was 15 minutes before closing time and I had to rush out and find a photocopier because, of course, our embassy doesn't have a photocopier. So I get to La Poste, a guy with dreads is there, he keeps pushing the button and nothing comes out. Now I'm worried that the machine is broken. So this happens for about five - eight minutes until he decides to ask for help, and he tells me to go ahead and try. I try it, it works. Turns out, he thought the copies were ten cents, but it was plainly written on the machine that it's 20 cents. Go figure. But I still thank him for letting me go ahead. I get back to the embassy on time, I get it done, POW, it's closing time. I always make it by closing time.

After that, I went for a walk along the Seine at Ave. New York, in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was the long way to Palais de Tokyo, home of the Musee d'Art Moderne, where I took a time out from my suddenly hectic life. After we got back from the trip, I thought we could relax in Paris; but I was running all around, seeing friends, partying, cooking, writing, seeing other friends, doing errands, dancing, seeing to the needs of drunk strangers in our house. You know, Saturday night.

When I got home, H hadn't moved from the couch. He was playing the new Assasin's Creed and finishing the adobo flakes. Smh.

I wanted to write about the museum trip too but I only got 4 hours of sleep last night, working on something computer-y that's also annoying me, because I just found out there's something wrong with my Adobe InDesign. Well, to reset it, even online, I have to have the installation CD apparently, the installation CD that's IN THE PHILIPPINES, dammit! That's why I'm trying to repair it online, stupid Adobe-eating numbskulls! Whooo. Breathe in. Breathe out. So I try to download a trial version on H's PC, it takes 5 hours, by the time it finishes, a day of free trial is gone. Yay. So I have to work fast. I can't sleep. Coffee, coffee, coffee. I know what I'm doing is worth all the headache anyway. I hope I could tell you what it is now. But it's awesome. It's gonna be awesome.

I pray for the end of technical glitches NOW NA!

Provençal Lass 2: Abandonment Issues

2011-09-07T01:58:00.007+02:00

If you crossed the olive grove from the asylum of Saint Paul-de-Mausole (as Van Gogh may have done while he lived there) past the scene painted in Olive Trees with the Alpilles in The Background, you might be startled by this sight.

And this.

For two millenia, these were the only visible remnants of an ancient Roman city that was still buried in Van Gogh's time, and so escaped the wild representation of his brush. But, had he known what lay underneath, The Starry Night would have looked very different.

The Mausoleum of the Julii (40 BC) and the Victory Arch (10-20 AD)

The Mausoleum of the Julii (the best preserved mausoleum of the ancient world) and the Victory Arch hinted at the existence of a lost city. In 1921, two men fancied a dig and unearthed an insightful look at the life and times of the ancient city of Glanum.

All roads lead to Rome.
The main throughfare in Glanum was linked to Via Domitia and Via Augusta,
connecting Spain and France to Italy.

I underestimated the size of the city. It stretched so far that the end was hardly visible from the entrance, and yet the excavation is still ongoing. I don't think we have really seen all there is to see.

But from what we know, the path we took is also a trip back in time. From the road that you can see on the left, the Roman city began with a few houses,

a forum for noblemen,

a bath house with cold, lukewarm and hot water,

The remaining roof tiles of the baths (75 BC. Rebuilt in marble in 161 AD.)

The mask that spits water into the pool. Classy.

a marketplace,

some temples and chapels,

A temple to Hercules, with podiums for offerings.

The Corinthian Temple

mansions,

H spots a doorway and goes straight to work. Old habits.

a public hall for conducting business,

Karate Kid business.

an underground water source,

and most importantly - a sacred well dedicated to the god Glanis or Glan. It was the reason why Glanum was erected in the first place.

H stares down into the sacred pool. I saw something stirring within.

And past certain points, the architecture changes. The layers get older as you go higher and further into the city.

The Temple of Valetudo, a Greek shrine (39 BC)

The buildings change from Roman to Hellenistic, with an area that overlaps the Gallo-Roman and the Gallo-Greek; after which there appears a gateway, a definite attempt to divide the Romanesque from an older Greek section of Glanum. And then, there is another division - an older section further up which turned out to be the most ancient part of the city.

The end of the road. This is the Gaulish part of Glanum and the tour ends here.
Ironically, it used to be the entrance to the city, and fortifications
were built here to protect from invasion.

The Roman walls were bult over Greek walls which were
in turn built over Gaulish walls.

After the defeat of the Roman Empire, the city fell on hard times. The residents were sacked by German tribes, so they moved to what is now Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Abandoned, the remains of the formerly well-to-do city was ransacked for stones to build the foundations of the new settlement in 260 AD.

But as I stared at the chalky rocks that loomed over the oldest part of Glanum, I wondered whether the city was much older than 150 BC. It is nestled under a cliff spotted with half-concealed caves that may have been the homes of earlier settlers, who later learned to build much more comfortable dwelling places, who learned to worship and build temples, and learned that certain things - like faith and sacred wells and elixirs of life - could forestall death. And so, they stayed.

There was recent article on National Geographic that puts forward the theory that religion (not agriculture) gave birth to civilization. It was the urge to worship that made man abandon his nomadic ways, and not the discovery that he can cultivate his own food.

But these are just conjectures, so don't take me seriously. One day, the people of Glanum decided the sacred well was hardly worth the effort anymore. And so the city passed on to myth, and then lost.

Plane trees along the "romantic" road to Les Baux (le baw).

Time seemed to stand still while we were there. There were no clouds, the wind did not blow, the sun didn't seem to move. We only realized we stayed for about two hours in the site when we came out, thirsty and weakened by the relentless heat. It was way past noon when we reached another ancient settlement between Saint-Rémy and Arles, this one considerably younger compared to Glanum.

Up Next: The Great Les Baux-sky

Provençal Lass 1: In the Steps of a Madman

2011-09-06T11:34:00.003+02:00

We camped for the night at a whistlestop near Portofino. As day turned to night, the lights of the little enclave in the opposite hill flickered to life, and street lamps formed a dotted line going to the cluster of houses on the next hill. There were three young women walking around in their underwear at the campsite for some reason, and the trivial chatter of young Pinoys at the grilling area filled the air, mingling with the smell of roasting sausage.

The next morning, I said goodbye to the Pinoys. In the Philippines, I would have been peeved by their heedless blather, but here in Nowhereland, Italy, it allayed more than annoyed. I miss my peeps. I wished them bonne route back to Turin, and to escape a tedious explanation of our road trip I told them we were going back to Paris. But home was really one more week away.

The road back to France was a long one, I slept part of the way and when I woke up we were in Provence.

H and the unibrow house

EXHIBIT A. Pont d'Avignon.

I've been to a few towns in PACA (Provence-Alpes-Côte d'Azur) a couple of times before, but stayed solo in Avignon the longest in 2009. My visit was virtually stress-free because I didn't have to rush or wait for anyone. I woke up, had my complimentary breakfast, went to the museums and strode to the different landmarks at my own pace. I could stay at the kitschy Provençal souvenir shops as long as I liked, and "I liked" beaucoup (very much) because I have the design aesthetic of a grandmother and I love the smell of lavender. (Gawd, I'm crazy for lavender!) The only hitch about being unhitched was the high level of difficulty in the picture taking department. See Camwhoring Exhibit A, to your right.

EXHIBIT B.
Inside a Van Gogh painting, Arles.

Having a man around while traveling has its pros and cons, but mostly pros. I have to hurry along when we pass by points of interest because he likes sticking to his schedule, but at least now I could be in the picture. However, H's cropping abilities leave much to be desired. Please direct your attention to Exhibit B.

The land of lavender and ceramic cicadas got its name because it was the first Roman province beyond the Alps, but it is much older than the Roman Empire. Primitive Gaulish and Celtic tribes planted themselves here, early civilizations were also established by the Persians and Greeks. But these were nothing compared to the western expansion of the Roman juggernaut.


Coliseum in Arles Where a Johnny Halliday concert was to be held the same night.


The Arenee in Nimes Where men still fight bulls.

It's amazing enough to see Roman ruins here, especially considering how accessible they are in modern France. You could be in a totally chic urban center and suddenly be face to face with something older than Christianity. Some are still standing - like the arenas in Nimes or Arles, or the world's best preserved antique theater in Orange (where we saw the Spring opera). Even nearly-lost ruins, like the Arenes de Lutece in Paris where kiddie soccer has replaced circus acts and bloody spectacles, can still astound for their sheer resilience. But, it is something else entirely to see a whole abandoned city. Later on this trip, H and I would stumble into one of the best archaeological sites of the ancient world --

But, I'm getting ahead of myself here. First, allow me to tell you about Saint-Rémy.

There are many reasons to visit this town on the Alpilles (little Alps). If you are a fan of astrology and the occult, the man who used to live here would be familiar.

This was the birthplace of Michel de Nostredame, the Jewish physician more popularly known as Nostradamus.

When I was in my early teens, a movie about Nostradamus' indisputable predictions was very popular on Betamax and VHS. It was narrated by no less than the great Orson Welles, and it scared the pants out of me. This was during the Iraq War, and there was an End-of-Days pandemic. The prophecies of Nostradamus were allegedly coming true; according to the movie's dramatic portrayal, some guy in a blue turban was supposed to sow terror in the New World. I think he meant the Smurfs.

The Saint-Rémy of Nostradamus in the Renaissance didn't look so different from the Saint-Rémy of today, with the exception of a few details.

Another popular name is etched on this extensive mansion a few streets away from Nostradamus' house.

It is the Hôtel de Sade, an archaeological museum for important finds from the ruins of the ancient city of Glanum. And although the name might be infamous, they were only distant relatives of the notorious agent provocateur, Marquis de Sade.

But for sightseers, one name stands apart from all others. For some, walking in his footsteps is the sole reason for coming here at all. And I suppose for some people that can be so annoying, enough to put up a sign like below --

In French, the sign reads: "Van Gogh wasn't born in this house. He didn't die here either."

Saint-Rémy has an extreme case of the hots for Vincent Van Gogh, and the feelings were mutual. The tortured painter stayed just a year here but made 150 paintings inspired by the town before he moved to Auvers-sur-Oise, where he shot himself two months later.

The lavender field in the back. See the painting here.

Sunflowers. I wonder if they made him as happy as they make me.

Saint Paul-de-Mausole is a former monastery that was turned into an asylum. Except for the two rooms that Van Gogh occupied and the cloister of the wing where he stayed, the rest of the hospital is still accepting patients up to this day.

The artist's spartan room

Actually, I think this was his bedroom in Arles, when he cohabited with Gaugin.
I'm no art major, I only know this from the movie so correct me if I'm wrong.

The peaceful cloister. See painting here.

H catches me resting my tired old feet.

The actual olive trees from the painting.

The asylum where he stayed and its surroundings were the subjects of many of his paintings. This was his swirly period, when in his pain he produced the most exquisite works of his short artistic life. His most famous subject, his most famous painting of all, was the town of Saint-Rémy. It is the haunting star-lit burg in La Nuit étoilée, The Starry Night.

From Codart.nl

On our first night in Saint-Rémy, we dined under the stars. The clear black sky was perfect for stargazing. I lay on our quilt and clutched my glass of wine as if it were an anchor, in case I got swept away by the celestial stream. I brought out my watercolors just in case the muse would visit me here, but of course my sophomoric attempts at painting cypress trees did not produce anything as haunting as Van Gogh's Cypresses. Maybe the great car debacle of 2011 didn't torture me enough; or maybe I should consider shifting to oil painting. Haha, as if.

The following day gave me the torture I was looking for. From Saint Paul de Mausole we walked to the nearby ruins of Glanum and unconsciously spent two hours inspecting every inch of the abandoned city of the western Roman empire. From the top, we saw this - Saint-Rémy, as it looked in The Starry Night.

Up Next: Glanum to Meet Ya

C'est Chaud

2011-09-03T04:06:00.007+02:00

Somewhere behind La Louvre, there's a bar, a quiet place, so inconspicuous that very few people know about it and there's not a long line of people trying to get in. Well, under this bar there is a cave, and in this cave there was a DJ playing ragga vinyls and a handful of people dancing in what is probably the last hot day of summer. And depending on how the unexpected events of the evening were put to an end (because we left at half past 1 am), they would either be back dancing in the basement, or throwing fisticuffs above ground.

The handful of people who were invited to the underground bash mostly knew each other, except for me. I only met this group of people tonight; while H met F, the guy who organized the party, a few years ago at a charity event. It was a night of good vibes and songs of freedom. I tried to speak a little bit of French, but most of them were too drunk to understand my accent. I talked mostly with the Chinese guy who's into heavy metal and moved to Paris solely because he followed the French heavy metal band he loved from youth, sans contacts, speaking 6 months worth of French lessons. Well, now he's their official photographer and he's been living in Paris for 8 years. Respect, mon pote (my friend).

But MAN, was it hot! "Il fait chaud!" (Literally, "it makes hot," because "c'est chaud" means "that's tough.") It was so hot that we went back up a couple of times for fresh air or a glass of beer. Sometimes H and I would be left downstairs with the DJ and it would feel like a private party for two.

My aging knees gave out at around 1am, and I told H I was having a bit of a tummy ache because of, oh I don't know, maybe the falafel from the Latin Quarter? So even though he wanted to dance some more he said he would go and get our stuff and we'll say goodbye to everyone. I waited outside, watching an unintentional parade of fashion-forward 1st Arrondissement types. But when time came to say au revoir, we noticed our peeps had retreated to the far end of the street. And the partygoers were acting weird, talking in clusters and avoiding H's questions about where we could find F. (Except for the Chinese guy, he was still in the mood to talk about heavy metal.)

Eventually we found out F allegedly did something that made him a pariah all of a sudden. And no one was in the mood to go back to the basement, in fact one of the party-goers wanted to beat F's head in. So, H said we were actually leaving at the right time... except, as we were about to go on the scooter, H finally spotted F at the fountain, staring at the horizon. I asked H if he wanted to talk to F, he said, "Yeah, but what about your tummy? It's hurting, diba?" And I told him if his friend needed him, he better spend a few minutes at least to see if he is ok.

So we went to console F at the fountain, and, you know the word "crestfallen"? I'd only realized what it looked like then. He said his friendship with the others was over now, and it was too bad because he organized the party for the birthday of his accuser.

When we left him, F was making his way back into the bar. The others were just outside, huddled together in front of a perfume shop. Meanwhile underground, still spinning records, was the DJ -- playing music for a nonexistent crowd, unaware of what had transpired, and clueless about what to do with the surprise birthday cake that was brought in at the most inopportune moment.

We rode into the night, the sweat making our shirts stick to our backs. It was a hot evening, but that's not why c'est chaud.

Bella Italia 5: Florence and Portofino

2011-09-01T15:11:00.009+02:00

H and I were back on the Fi.Pi.Li highway by ten am on Tuesday, sneaking past the army forest camp in Pisa and moving back eastward - to Florence. Firenze, in Italian.

We had not planned on going to Florence, but a friend in Marseille moved our rendezvous from Tuesday to Thursday so we had one day to kill. Since we were already there, I could not, in good conscience, let H go to Tuscany without seeing Firenze.

I must admit, I had an agenda. I was here five years ago, for a day and a half, and it coincided with the day that the museums were closed. I wanted my second chance to see Boticelli's The Birth of Venus at the Uffizi, and Michaelangelo's David at the Galleria dell'Accademia. Here plainly was Hermes, god of travel, finally smiling down on me.

But the god of travel is also prankster, a cruel, sadistic bastard, because that day the lines for both museums stretched for two blocks. It was impossible to go inside both, and if we fell in line for at least one, we'd be stuck in Florence until beddy-bye time instead of Portofino, where we had planned to spend the night.

I died a little inside that day. Two unsuccessful attempts in five years! I should have known it would be next to impossible to get into the museums in the height of summer. I couldn't get why H was in good spirits.

A pogi (handsome) Manila boy

I suppose it was enough for him to have seen Florence and to confirm that it is indeed a city of unparalleled beauty. Seeing the artworks hauled by the great galleries were just the cherry on the top.

It was, after all, the birthplace of the Renaissance.

From its womb flourished great scholars, musicians, painters and sculptors.

For centuries, it was the most important city in Europe, largely due to the Medicis and their strong ties to the pope.

Not to mention their deep pockets.

Still rich and still feuding, descendants of the Medicis still hold royal titles up to this day. Their family chapel boasts of commissioned works from Michelangelo, and looks as it did centuries ago. The city itself seems no different than in the 14th century (with the exception of a few shops, which is something you would expect anyway). It seems that in Florence, they found out how to make time stand still. The world could go to rot and it will stay standing. Florence ain't going nowhere.

Which is why I am confident that in five more years, I could come back (zombie apocalypse notwithstanding) -- and see the Boticelli at last. In Firenze time, five years are but minutes.

Tragically, when we got to Piazza della Signoria, our still camera died. So I am forced to show you pictures I took with my old handy-dandy camera, the one stolen in Laos :'(

Our trip to Portofino was short, but the road going there was long. We thought we could save on gasoline by taking a little road and refueling there, but we got off the highway at the worst time, because the road branched off into the mountains. The road was longer, and so remote that there were no gasoline stations, and we feared that we would run out of gasoline before we found our way out.

Eventually, we made it to Portofino in one piece.

Portofino is a small, former fishing village in Genoa. Its one tiny street going to the port is just one designer boutique after another. And the shops don't even hold much stock (the Pucci outlet had 20 dresses at the most), they're mostly just there for show.

Instead of smelling of brine, it smells like money.

But there was a time when men hiding under white hoods would give food to the needy on that same narrow street, masking their faces so that their good deeds would remain anonymous.

Rich merchants and poor fishermen, all equal in the eyes of God.

In the 50s, expensive villas replaced the modest fishing houses -- and a new playground of the rich and famous was born. Now it's a pricey stopover for yachts in the Italian Riviera.

We camped in Genoa that evening, and met a group of Pinoys who were working and studying in Turin. It was our last night in Italy and I'd been missing our bed in Paris; but something would happen in Marseille that would keep us from home a little longer than planned.

Up Next: Marseille Away With Me

Food Break

2011-08-31T19:43:00.000+02:00

I've been really busy around the kitchen recently.

Rice to the occasion.

My cousin gave me a bag of bibingka (rice cake) mix that I poured into my muffin pan. H is now a fan.

Shining, simmering, splendid.

Then I made my first ratatouille ever, with a set of instructions from a French cookbook. I didn't really know what I was doing, and I fretted the whole time if I was doing it right, but apparently I did. I put in 2 sprigs of thyme from the in-laws' yard. The Frenchman is amazed at my first attempt, putting it at the level of a great cook we both know.

So fond of fondant.

For dessert, a fondant with hot, slushy chocolate inside and a spoon of pistachio and nougat ice cream that the neighbor gave us about a month ago (*gasp*).

Margherita 1. Good for 2.

Then I got bread flour and made my very first pizza dough. Chopped some tomatoes, onions and garlic and let it boil for 2 hours to make homemade passata, then picked basil from the balcony and put them on top.

Because I had a lot of passata and mozzarella left, I made a ginormous pizza to finish everything off.

Margherita 2. Good for 2 also!
Our Snow White tray is the only thing that can carry it.

Bella Italia 4: Pisa My Heart

2011-08-31T02:14:00.008+02:00

When we were planning our trip to Italy, I wasn't shy about pushing a side-trip to Pisa specifically to see the leaning tower. "At least one tiny peek of the tower," I begged. H wanted to see the leaning tower too, but he wasn't sure if he could find the motivation to drive so far just to see a sloping belfry. In the end, curiosity got the better of him and Pisa was back in the itinerary. Yiha!

From Verona we took the Fi.Pi.Li highway and broke off a little later to drive by the small roads that wound through little Tuscan villages with their own little secret treasures.

Because we were tired and had very little time to make Pisa by daylight, we decided to skip the renaissance town, Lucca. But our detour had rewarded us with this red-bricked curio in its stead.

Sunflower fields and vineyards, hillside olive groves and overgrown cypress trees that framed modest farmhouses all glowed in the golden fire of the Tuscan sun.

And was it also the fierce sun that caused these people to become petrified, with their arms suspended in the air?

You know why.

It's the spot where Galileo purportedly experimented on free-fall acceleration. Of course it's famous! Incidentally, it leans too!

After years of wishing, I'd finally seen and made dutdot the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

It was one of the places I'd hoped to visit when I first came to Europe in '07, but I only saw the red tiled roofs and the marigold-yellow houses of the Tuscany region from the air as I jetted from Rome to Florence. All I could think when I was finally face to face with it was, "At last, at last, at last."

At last I have someone to hold the camera for me while I pose like a twit.

Hurray for marriage!

We had coffee in front of the cathedral while watching the worst ventriloquist performance on earth - and I wish we had a choice. An aging woman took a video of the ventriloquist for some reason, and the man pointed at her and called her a thief for not dropping a coin in his hat first. Sheesh.

H checking if the food is edible. This is how we decide where to eat.
Not too discreet, I know :)

It was a relief to walk around when we'd finished our drinks, so we could see some of the splendor of this old city.

Pisa is a maritime canton, providentially blessed with two intersecting rivers that empty into the Mediterranean Sea. In its prime, it was a force to be reckoned with. Its fleets controlled the Mediterranean and their bounty was used to build the impressive Piazza Del Duomo.

We were having a lovers' tiff so no one was in the mood for taking pictures when we got to the Arno. But the gothic churches were delightful, and the mostly romanesque buildings were striking to behold.

The typical Tuscan apartments were charming, too.

Before dark, we found a camping site at the Pisa marina, just behind the woods. To go to the beach, we had to pass through a posh Bali-style bar with cushions and candles in the sand.

The waves crashed violently against the breakwater. While we were changing into our swimsuits, the waiter came by and told us not to swim past the man-made cove because the sea could suck us in and spit us into the rocks.

Point well taken. It's a good thing he came over because H was in a sporty mood.

After the swim we pitched the tent and started on dinner.

I took out the stuff we bought in the supermarket that morning, after we dropped my cousin off at the office. Surprisingly, there was still some Boy Bawang left.

It was a tiring day for H; he drove from Milan to Verona to Pisa. I took a peek at the milage and we'd traveled almost 2,000 kilometers since Tuesday. I could feel the toll it was taking on him. We had been on the road for a week; and when he's not driving, he's walking with me the rest of the way. I didn't even ask him to do all of this (aside from groveling about passing by Pisa of course), he just thought it would make me happy. And if by staying happy I make him happy, then logically, wedded bliss should not be so hard to come by... but it is. It really is. Because after a year of living with him, I've realized that logic has no place in a marriage.

Thankfully, the petty argument in Pisa didn't last as long as some of our previous squabbles. After a year, we've begun to learn how to give way. I noticed that H was trying hard to work on his temper, and I was trying to be patient and understanding. I think our fights last longer than they need to because we are both too proud to relent when we get emotional. Older couples told us someday we'll be too tired to care who's right, who's wrong, and who said what in the first place.

The trees in the campsite mournfully hunched away from the sea, after a lifetime of being pushed away by cold mistrals and violent squalls. They lean just like the famous tower in Pisa, bending from its heavy load, sinking lower to the ground with each passing day... While I do think sometimes you have to give in to someone when the fight is just not worth having, I hope we'll never be too old or too tired to argue -- because when you bend, you just don't care anymore.

Up Next: Florence + The Machine

Bella Italia 3: Dante, Verona, atbp.

2011-08-29T20:47:00.015+02:00

Unlike other people, to me the name Verona doesn't conjure up the harrowing story of young love ending in death. It reminds me more of that 80s superstar, the king of death-defying stunts: Dante Varona. And when I say his name I don't just say Dante Varona as if it were just a name, I have to go Danteeeeeeee VARONA! Because dude, he's the bomb. And maybe there's still a little residue of his old movie jingle latching on hard in the dusty cobwebs littering my brain that holds a Pavlovian kind of power over me... Probably that.

But fair Verona was home to another Dante, the man whose visions of The Inferno inspired artists (my favorite is this Bouguereau from Musee d'Orsay), and led many a Christian to fear sin - or pay the church handsomely to avoid hell. He was a native of beautiful Florence; and banished for his political leanings, he ended up in Verona. During exile, he was inspired to write The Divine Comedy.

Today he still stands over Signori Square, pensively surveying the souls that mill around Palazio Cangrande, his sanctuary in Verona. His patron, Cangrande della Scala (Latin for ladder) was immortalized in Paradiso, thus:

Thine earliest refuge and thine earliest inn
Shall be the mighty Lombard's courtesy,
Who on the Ladder bears the holy bird
(Paradiso, XVII, v. 70)

The church of Santa Maria Antica

The equestrian statue of Cangrande, ruler of Verona in the 14th century, still graces many monuments here. He was a leader of such authority (some say too much, actually) and wisdom that the Veronese still look upon him for protection.

In front of the della Scala palace Castelvecchio, at the peak of tourist season, tourists look more for souvenirs instead.

Also mentioned in Dante's Divine Comedy were two prominent families, from whose fatal loins sprung forth two star-cross'd lovers who would later figure in numerous Italian plays - only to reach true immortality in the hands of an English bard.

Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti,
Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man!
Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!
(Purgatorio VI, vv.106-108)

The legend of Giulietta e Romeo was already famous before Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet turned their cautionary tale into the most famous love story on earth. The houses of the Montecchi and Cappelletti (anglicized to Montague and Capulet) still stand seven centuries after Mercutio cursed their families to ruin.

The Capulet home is a lovers' mecca. Pilgrims write their names on the walls of the entrance in hopes that their love would be as enduring; though perhaps not necessarily as fatal.

Luckily, I had a pen with me so H scribbled our names in, too. If you ever go to Verona, you might want to look for us under all the graffiti.

This pastiche of colors is a collaborative artwork...

Made of chewing gum.

Wriggling our way through the crowd that was permanently fixed along the entryway, we finally made it to the courtyard to behold Juliet's famed balcony.

It was hardly as Franco Zeffirelli had envisaged, but I'm sure it served its purpose well.

Under it, a crowd had also gathered around the statue of Juliet, whose breasts were noticeably shinier from the constant rubbing of visitors. There were a lot of people waiting their turn for a picture with her, and we waited along with the rest of the good-natured crowd. But there was a Pinay who popped in front of me, pulling her three children together and instructing them to jump on the statue as soon as the Japanese teens stepped off. I just hate when Pinoys lose their manners - I hold us to a higher standard! So I told her in Tagalog that she could go ahead of me because I'm cool with that - just to maybe make her realize she was rude to someone whom she didn't think understood what she was saying. But just as she opened her mouth to either gape or reply, I heard H calling me over. He was already holding on to Juliet's bronze breast.

Maybe I should have reminded him Juliet was 13 going on 14 when she married Romeo.

The Capulet courtyard can be booked for weddings too, now that the blood feuds have ended. (It would be messy if guys with swords started showing up at the ceremony, no?) And I heard you could write to Juliet too, though I'm not sure how she could write back since she's busy being groped all day.

Verona is indeed romantic. In contrast with Milan, which is just as old, Verona did not turn in its past for the affectations of modernity. It reminded of Venice, in some respects. In fact our old friend from the water-logged city - St. Mark's lion - spreads its wings here too, just like in Venice.

And just like some quarters of Venice might come off as a bit kitschy, the streets of Verona that are overrun by tourists can seem a little tawdry - but the parts that are not have a spirit of authenticity.

And even though there were a lot of people, I didn't mind so much because I just had to look up, and they would conveniently disappear.

A fresco al fresco.

If I remember my history right - Romulus and Remus, I reckon?
For years, those names meant to me a sleazy massage place along EDSA.

Owl be watching you.

The Roman ampitheater

While examining the facade of the Sta. Anastasia and crossing under the suspended sarcophagus of Guglielmo da Castelbarco (another powerful figure in Dante's time) to the left of the church, we heard an angelic voice hovering from above.

But the deceptively otherworldly voice was human after all. It was a woman singing Verdi, her voice floating from one of the rooms overlooking the square.

After a while, our wandering brought us to more peaceful segments of the city. Here, along the banks of the Adige river, was the Teatro Romano. Built in 1AD, it was the site of more refined entertainment -- while the larger amphitheater staged the more popular and accessible gladiatorial combats.

All that walking fed our imaginations, but when the time came to feed our tummies we had wandered too far from the center. By luck, we found this old osteria off the beaten track.

Their handwritten menu boasted of very few things, just a handful of traditional Italian fare, which is actually a good sign if you've seen at least one episode of Kitchen Nightmares.

It was here that we had the best lasagna of our lives.

I later found out that we dined in the best of the osterias in the medieval Sottoriva arcade -- which turned out to be among the most popular places to eat in Verona. (So much for off the beaten track!)

We were bursting from lunch, but we had one more mission to fulfill. While doing some pre-travel research on Verona, we found out this city had the best gelato in Italy. We were not about to leave without deciding for ourselves.

I guess the pictures speak for themselves.

Even while trying to sneak a pose with the gladiatrix and Xena, H couldn't put his cone down. That's commitment, y'all.

It was with a heavy heart that I left Verona, because I felt there was more for me to discover and more for me to love. The Bard was waiting at the gates with a sad reminder, that there is no world outside Verona's walls save for hell and torture... Although the whole schtick about death is a tad overreaching.

Hopefully, Verona's walls would open for me once again someday.

Up Next: O, Eto Pisa

A Year In The Life

2011-08-28T12:42:00.004+02:00

One of the things I remember from waking up this morning is the mole on my husband's back slowly coming into focus. I have been sleeping and waking up next to this person for a year, and sometimes I feel like I don't know him - take that mole for example, it's the first time I've noticed that.

There are also his mood swings that I need to get used to.

And his strange foreign ways.

Last night we had dinner at 16 Haussman. The maître d' took us to the champagne room while they readied our table. I was already a little drunk because we had pink champagne at home while exchanging anniversary gifts - cotton shirts for the first year. So I started the dinner heureuse or "happy," as the French would say, and through the course of the meal I had more wine so I only got happier and happier.

The place was almost empty by dessert time, and the oddly quiet retired Japanese couples were beginning to file out, the drunk woman realized her date wasn't coming, the man behind us proposed to his girlfriend, and H and I clapped.

As we wound down after desserts, the maître d' gave us each a plate of financiers and chocolate truffles with two tiny candles to congratulate us on our anniversary.

So we made it through the first year. The candles said it. It was hard, but we made it.

By some standards we were hilaw, we did not spend more than 3 weeks every 3 months together for almost 2 years before we decided to get married, so how were we to know this was going to work out? Well, we didn't. It's the bravest thing we've ever done in our lives. We are both still mysteries to be unraveled, and who doesn't love a good mystery? It's like being married to the Rosetta.

People wait their entire lives to find someone to love, much less someone to love forever, and we found each other by luck. And some people fall in and out of love so capriciously, or turn and run at the first sign of turbulence, which is also smart, so I respect that. There were many times when we were on the brink of calling it quits because our personalities and our cultures clashed - but our vows turned out to be much stronger than our stubborn pride. And we learned the power of the words "sorry" and "respect" and finally truly understood "love."

Some people love themselves more or have yet to grow more to fully commit; but what I've learned here, if I learned anything at all, is that there is no state of being "ready" or "able" to love. No matter your stage of emotional or intellectual enlightenment, when you love, you love; that's it pansit. We chose to grow more together, and hopefully grow old together. Paris or Pinas, these are just addresses. Whether it's in the mountains of Kilimanjaro or the deeps of the Sulawesi - where he is, I want to be; where I want to be, he'll be with me.

The first year was for discovering each other.

The second is for discovering the world.

The third year is for creating a home.

The next hundred years is going to be interesting.

Bella Italia 2: Lago na U, Lapit na Me

2011-08-26T23:36:00.010+02:00

The real highlight of going to Milan was being close to the famed northern lake district. Lago di Como, Lago Maggiore and Lago di Lugano are considered some of the most beautiful places on earth and were therefore a must-visit.

With us this time was my cousin Alden, who gamely said yes to camping with us at Lake Maggiore (the big lake) without really realizing what he was getting into. But more on that later.

The day started pretty well, it wasn't sunny but it wasn't raining either, so we were optimistic when we left the apartment. But when we got to Stresa, H realized he dropped something on the way to the lake (nothing vital like a cellphone or a license) so he got stressed and went back and forth from the car and the dock - where Alden and I were waiting, taking pictures, making light of H's own "Stresa Festival."

H having a slow breakdown.

It took 30 minutes to calm him down; that was also the amount of time it took to wait for the ferry that was going to take us island hopping in the lake. Between the towns of Stresa and Verbania are the Borromean Islands, and the most beautiful of these little islands is Isola Bella.

Isola Bella as seen from Isola dei Pescatori

We had an hour to spend on each island, and a window of 5 minutes to catch the ferry going to the next island or back to Stresa.

Photo by H

Isola dei Pescatori as seen from Isola Bella

The Palazo Borromeo in Isola Bella reminded me of the Von Trapp house in The Sound of Music. I was singing "Favorite Things" under my breath, half hoping to hear Fraulein Maria join my weak soprano.

Photo by H

Photo by Alden

When the sun came out, we became more hopeful that the rain forecast was inaccurate.

Celebrating prematurely

By midday my right shoe had given up and I needed a rubber band to keep it together. Dang.

Happy feet (as in smile ang mga suelas)

We found a camping spot next to Lake Maggiore and went swimming. Actually, I preferred to wade near the shore until the two joined forces and splashed cold water all over me. Fuh. Nee.

The swimming session was cut short because it was almost 7pm and we hadn't bought dinner yet. So after a quick shower, we went back in the car, got slices of different Italian hams and cheeses, some bread and pasta, and some bottles of beer, coke and wine.

Then we continued on our tour, and visited the other minor lakes around camp. We passed a swamp under a canopy of trees that was half covered in fog, very eerie, very Apocalypse Now. But there were cars behind us so we couldn't stop and take pictures. Just take my word for it: it was beautiful. Spectacularly and ethereally beautiful.

We were able to stop a few kilometers away, at the next town that was also slowly being covered by a mantle of fog.

And then the rain fell, and I felt like I was in the tropics again. Alden said the rain in Italy usually lasts just a few minutes, but this felt like a typhoon. On our way back the rain started to pour heavier and heavier, until we got stuck in traffic and we remembered the tents, and the towels we'd hung to dry.

At the campsite, Alden's tent was still hunky-dory but a rain-soaked towel had pushed mine and H's tent down. H ran out to save our tent from punishment, and rescue the swimsuits that had fallen from the clothesline. When he got back, we had beer, Boy Bawang, cheese and slices of ham inside the car. We also opened a bottle of pinakurat - a kind of vinegar, stinky beyond belief - to go with the vegetarian chicharon (deep fried pork skin... yes, vegetarian deep fried pork skin). If H's mom only knew what smells had been unleashed inside her car!

When the rain stopped, we cleaned our swimsuits and towels and put out a picnic spread in front of the tent for dinner.

Coaching H through laundry

Cultural exchange

That other effect of wine: bad poses.

More rain was to be had in the night, though. H said he felt like we were floating in the lake because a puddle had formed overnight under our tent, making our air mattress buoyant. And while it was not necessarily warm inside our tent, I had no idea Alden had been freezing because he didn't have a proper mattress. I though he was doing great because I could hear him singing to Bruno Mars all night and then again when I woke up in the morning. Erm... at least it was waterproof?

Raindrops falling on my tent nonetheless, I had a great sleep. I went out early in the morning when the rain stopped and saw the town across the river slowly waking up, the fog lifting and the street lights softly twinkling. The only thing that bothered me that morning was that I had to throw my old rubber shoes away. All I had left were my sandals, and we hadn't finished with the Alps yet.

We dismantled camp and went back on the road - this time crossing the border to Switzerland.

Lugano is in the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland, whose early inhabitants included Stone Age men.

After getting our fill of the lakeside town, we coasted on along and finally saw Lake Como.

A place so pretty, George Clooney bought a villa here - according to Alden.

When we started getting hungry, H was adamant that we find a nice place to stop and cook - this time, I was happy that I waited because we got the loveliest lake view ever. And it wasn't even a major lake.

The chef, caught with his hand in the Boy Bawang

Washing the dishes (with an eco-friendly product!)

For cooking and doing the dishes.

We explored the little towns next to the Como after lunch.

And found pleasant surprises.

With tired feet and weak limbs, we went back to Milan that early evening thinking, "We have to eat good this evening!" H was the most motivated to go out, but he was also the most exhausted. My excuse was I was too worn out, so Alden and I decided to do something about the leftover cheese and ham from our soggy sojourn at the lakes.

With a flourish he learned from watching "The Baker King"

We didn't have tomato sauce or pizza bread, but by some miracle, we were able to make this -

And although I know H would have rather had an authentic Italian dinner, he did wolf down the slices he got.

Up Next: Dante - Verona

Related Posts: A Year in France Celebration (The Aftermath)
  Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!
                                      Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes to St. Paul
Sizzling Beach 3: Nice and Monaco
                                      Bella Italia 1: Everybody Loves Lombardy

Bella Italia 1: Everybody Loves Lombardy

2011-08-26T01:07:00.008+02:00

I can't resist. I have to post this retread of Mambo Italiano.

I had Dean Martin and Rosemary Clooney songs dancing in my head the whole time I was in Italy... aside from "We No Speak Americano," of course. And it started the moment we thundered across the highways drilled through the Alps.

One last look at Monte Carlo

The landscape had undoubtedly changed between Monaco and Ventimiglia, a Ligurian factory town just behind the mountains. There were olive trees everywhere; and the tall, thin pines that I've seen so many times in guidebooks and coffee table books rose rebelliously from the ground, like unruly weeds.

And suddenly, we were speaking a different language.

As the road signs changed from French blue to Italian green, the drivers suddenly became reckless, traffic rules were abruptly thrown out the car window and run over. Road safety, that vehicular bastion of French politesse, has no room in the Italian highway. So naloka si H. But our most authentic welcome waited in Milan, the capital of the Lombardy region and one of the richest cities in all of Europe.

It was a Thursday, and we told my cousin Alden we could meet him at his apartment after work. The GPS told us clearly where to find him: take a left on the second corner of X then make another left, and go around to get back to the first corner you passed. But H, mistrusting the GPS again, turned left on the first corner. Of course, if he asked me I could have told him it's probably a one-way street, but he's a man so he didn't.

So we slowly tried to back up out of this blind corner we found ourselves in, when all of a sudden a car arrives behind us. The driver didn't seem to be in the mood for lost foreigners so he launched into hysteric horn-blaring and shouting in Italian. Now, I've always adored this fiery tongue, so to me it was just like being in the Godfather. Far from being mad when the man decided to get out of the car so he could curse our whorish mothers more audibly, I was actually amused.

H, tired from the long drive and from sleeping on an inflatable mattress for 2 nights, wasn't in the mood so much for bitching. So he shouted right back in French, and the Italian said, roughly, "Ah you're French, huh? You don't speak Italian? You speak French? Alright, then you understand THIS!" Then he cupped his balls and went back into the car. Being the loving wife that I am, I surely didn't want any harm to come to my husband - but as I sat there, thinking about what happened, I was kind of disappointed at the anticlimactic turn of events. Where was the spitting and the cursing of each others' forebears? Soli ang bayad! After the ruckus, H said he would have gotten out of the car if he didn't need to pee so bad.

In five minutes we found my cousin's flat and H got to pee and we had spaghetti and everything was peachy. Alden said Italians are all talk and no bite anyway, because there's a law says that whoever punches first goes to prison. In my head, Dean Martin went back to singing.

The next day, Alden bought bus tickets with us and he introduced us the street market on the way before he took a bus for the office and left us on our own to find the subway and explore Milan. There were a lot of Pinays, and I enjoyed eavesdropping on their scandalous conversations. H wanted to know the chismis too, so we walked slowly behind the Pinays as I translated each shocking revelation.

Milan (and some nearby cities in the region) is home to the most number of Filipinos in Italy, the statistics giving a wide ballpark figure between 30 thousand and 60 thousand to account for undocumented immigrants. I guess Pinoys just really love it in Lombardy.

Coming out of the subway, I was greeted by the magnificent gothic Duomo of Milan. I've seen pictures before, but I was never as impressed as I was when I finally stood in front of it. Pictures cannot quite capture how sculpted pink marble can so resemble fine lace.

Photo by H

Unfortunately, for the first time since I was hit with wanderlust, I made an unforgiveable traveling booboo in Europe: I forgot to cover my legs.

Photo by H

I never went touring without covering my shoulders or legs before, but it was just so fuh-reaking hot that day that I put on the shorts. DUH! So no interior shots of the Duomo, sorry.

The Duomo as seen from inside Galleria Vittorio etc. etc.

But the Michelin guide *did* say that its spires and buttresses were the most marvelous thing about it, so we felt quite justified to sour grape.

Just a few steps away from the Duomo is the swanky Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele II, an ornate covered passage that leads to Piazza dela Scala. It was about here where we started feeling that Milan really wasn't for us.

The crush of tourism can throttle the excitement out of any trip, after all, and there is no better proof of this than our inauspicious attempt to try our luck at the Santa Maria delle Grazie.

A week before our trip to Milan, we had already tried to get tickets to see its famous mural. It's been rumored that people book this months in advance (but cannot stay more than 15 minutes once inside) before their trip to Milan, so of course we made some attempt at snatching the golden tickets - to no avail. So we said we'll see if we can get lucky once we get there. Maybe someone would decide not to show up after all and we could get in?

Well, the farthest we could get was inside the church itself. The masterpiece that waited within is a long-standing part of Pinoy suppers; and is therefore on the to-do list of any self-respecting Filipino. In fact, it is as Pinoy as green mangoes and shrimp paste.

I am talking, of course, about Il Cenaculo - The Last Supper by Leonardo.

From Wikipedia

It was a pity that I was so close... but not close enough. So we came back out and looked for Last Supper postcards for our families instead. And this was how we met Gepetto.

Gepetto and the Dragon Katowl cowboy.

We found him in a nondescript store on the street in front of the Santa Maria delle Grazie, almost invisible if it were not for the black sign on top of the door that said "Cartoleria." When I told him he looked like Pinocchio's father, we found out there were TV crews that filmed here before that shot him tinkering in the workshop at the back of the store (which he let us take a peek of, too). And he proudly showed us a drawing a Korean made and gave him, with "Gepetto" written on top. I guess that's proof enough.

At noon, overpowered by the intense heat of the Italian sun and burning with disappointment, we decided it was time to sit down and eat. The problem was, we had always decided depending on the impression of popularity (if many of the locals are eating there) and the look of the plates (we're not the most discreet about it too, heheh) - and we couldn't find a busy restaurant ANYWHERE. They were all empty save for a few tourists. It was as if the Milanese knew the best places to eat but were keeping it a secret. Finally we were tired and we were beginning to snap at each other so I pointed to a place in front of the Castello Sforezco and said "no more talking, just go."

And it was a good decision, because my pizza was perfectly thiiin, and criiiispy, and cheeeeesy, and I was too busy to notice what H had but he said it was pas mal either. At around 1pm locals started flooding in, and so did the realization that Italians eat an hour later than the rest of mankind. Mamma mia!

With our energies and good humor restored, we went back to exploring Milan.

Milan is small enough to be conquered in a day but it has a lot of museums, each with their own crowning jewel, so it was hard to see everything within opening hours.

At the end of the day we wound up at the Duomo again, so we sat our tired asses down at a restaurant along Corso Vittorio Emmanuele II with a view of the church and the chichi shops. The waiter had a familiar lilt when he spoke so I took the chance and spoke Taglish (Tagalog and English) and he said he couldn't understand because he's Korean. Minutes later, owned up and said he's really Batangueño. He came back with a bowl of olives and chips to go along with our tea and coffee. Aperitif time! But no one told us there was going to be entertainment, too.

A middle-aged man with some teeth missing danced flamenco with his eyes closed for 15 minutes and some people thought he was loco. But his moves were very precise, so in spite of how he looked, he seemed like a professional dancer to me. Then when he opened his eyes he asked in Italian, with a discernible Spanish accent, for our generosity.

Meanwhile, at the metro station, a Japanese carver was fashioning animals and roses out of vegetables! They may not hold a radish to Michaelangelo, but they were still pretty well made. It was a reminder that I was making pancit for Alden when we got home. H was relieved that I'd had my fill of Milan, because all day he had been dying to get back to the apartment, away from the heat.

As luck would have it, on the train going back to the apartment, I was seated next to a pie-eyed man stinking of cheap but strong boxed wine. He kept nudging me and H wasn't helping for some reason (I think he thought it funny). The lush tried to start a conversation with me - about the stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, for all I know - but as I can't understand Italian - moreso, drunk Italian - I talked nonsense in Tagalog instead. When he left, that other notable martini-soaked Italian started singing Mambo Italiano in my head again.

I realize now why some Europeans come here just to shop. As a day destination, Milan wasn't so bad. There was a lot to see, but not all of them take-my-breath-away phenomenal. If you plan to come here, make sure you got tickets to the Last Supper first.

Up next, Bella Italia 2: Lago na u, lapit na me.

Related Posts: A Year in France Celebration (The Aftermath)
  Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!
                                      Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes to St. Paul
   Sizzling Beach 3: Nice and Monaco

Sizzling Beach 3: Nice and Monaco

2011-08-20T02:37:00.004+02:00

From Cannes to Antibes, we were stuck in traffic for about an hour on Wednesday afternoon because the GPS made us do the scenic route. At St. Paul we were so close to Nice, but since it was already 8pm and the sun was setting, H and I decided to leave that trip for the next day and go back to camp in Cannes.

At the shower area I saw some young barflies primping for the clubs, or maybe for a yacht party... meanwhile, I was getting in my jammies and brushing my teeth. My feet were aching and I felt too old to party. While H was getting water to boil the rice for dinner, he caught a glimpse of a sleek but low-key black sports car parked next to the faucet, the kind preferred by loaded but distinguished gentlemen who like the speed but not the showing off. Fanning his fingers up and down as if they were on fire, I could see H was lusting all over it. It took him fifteen minutes to get water, and he was just ten steps away from me.

Through dinner he sat in his hammock, trying to figure out what that car was doing outdoors and I gave him the most inventive scenarios (this time, leaving out the zombies). At breakfast, he was still going on about it. And so it was with great relief that we finished breakfast, dismantled our camp, and finally made our way to Nice.

I made the mistake of judging Nice by the looks of the Promenade des Anglais, the long boulevard next to the sea lined with palm trees. I felt like I landed on Will Smith's Miami music video... wait, did somebody say MIAMI ---?

Hells, yeah.

But to be quite honest, it was a nice beach. I'd been here and in St. Raphael in 2009, except it was February, so there was nothing to see. Now there's a host of things to see, but cannot be posted.

Azure blue.

During winter, H made me watch my first subs-free French movie on TV. It was about a gambling addict and a girl who had a strange attraction to him and it was set in Nice; so it was funny to see this place as it is in summer, like, fer realsies.

But it's not just about the beach and the expensive hotels.

Nice has been nice since antiquity.

A fresco inside the oldest palace in Nice, the Palais Lascaris

She borrowed her name from the Greek goddess Nike, and her city dates back into antiquity as one of the oldest colonies in Europe.

The old city is compact. The restaurants spill not just to the sidewalk, but take over entire streets. The pretty facades of some unlucky buildings can only be appreciated by looking 90 degrees up.

And without even going to the ruins at Cemenelum, one need only look up to see (with a bit of imagination) slight traces of the Roman roots of the locals.


Road signs in French and Nissart, which is closer to Italian. Just like Occitan is actually more Catalan.

Laundry hung out to dry, something I saw more of in Italy than anywhere else in France.
(Disclaimer: I haven't seen too much of the Alps, so there should be a margin of error here.)

The kind of windows one would see more of in Tuscany than in Provence.

Domes, very Italian. Mosaics, I would grant, are a bit Spanish-Moroccan.

Just like artists go to Tuscany to study the Tuscan light, the soft glow of Nice has inspired the likes of Chagall and Matisse.

We were inspired by something Niçoise too.

Socca restaurants take over the entire street. Sorry, cars.

In fact, H lined up for about an hour just so we can get this authentic piece of Nice. But c'est la guerre! That's war!

We were entertained by the waitress announcing the orders to the cook as if she were singing. Eventually, after finishing the rest of my meal, we finally got our socca.

I know, it doesn't look like much but, c'est bon ça -- like a very thin and slightly crispy hotcake made with chickpea flour. It's a specialty in Nice that's so popular, sometimes you cannot find it after one in the afternoon because it sells like... well, like hotcakes.

The other gastronomic specialty is the pissaladiere, an onion-only pizza with some olives, allegedly introduced to the south of France by the Italians during the reign of the Avignon popes. (More about Avignon later, maybe if I feel like it.) This was a little hard for me to get, because it looks like a pizza but then you bite into it and you get this salty-sweet and very onion-y flavor. Hey, I can't like everything.

The last thing to do was to get some olive oil soap from Marseille. And then WE ZOOMED OFF!

Au revoir, Nice!

Substituting France for another playground of the rich and famous in the riviera.

A place so small but so glamorous that even its tunnels are interesting to Japanese tour groups...

(Actually, if you're a racing fan, this tunnel would be familiar to you too.)

And made H want to speed again. I knew he was thinking of the black car in the camp site all day!

H's "Grand Prix" face. He actually asked for this picture to exist!
BTW - the lane on the left is for sports cars. Notice the Jag in front.

So here we are, safe and sound.

Monaco.

To be continued in "Lombardy Cares For Me"

Related Posts: A Year in France Celebration (The Aftermath)
Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!
Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes to St. Paul

Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes and St. Paul

2011-08-18T21:06:00.010+02:00

After Cannes, we made a beeline for another coastal community.

Antibes is the anti-Cannes, an ancient graeco-roman town on the Mediterranean coast of France that
trickles with history and reminders of past grandeur. The Cape of Antibes naturally protected the old ports until necessity resulted in later fortification, making it the only town on this coast surrounded by ramparts.

Fort Carre

Between Cannes and the historic center of Antibes is Juan-les-Pins, which is famous for its Jazz festival and its trendy clubs.

The Cap d'Antibes as seen from Juan-les-Pins.
Behind are Nice and Monaco, while the mountains are the last of the Alps before it surrenders to the sea.

H said there was a "secret beach" there where he used to go with his father because no one else would dare to swim on the rocky beach.

Death to the argonaut.

But actually, there is very little sand in Antibes. When H met up with a friend from Australia who now lives here, I begged off swimming and they told me to meet them at the other side of the "beach." So they jumped in the water and I made my way through four beach spots in ten minutes.

H and his friend in the water (center).

Not enough beach? No problem.

Equal opportunity top optional.

In one beach, the space was so small that as I tried to climb up some slippery rocks to reach the next beach, a kid taking a shower splashed water all over me. Might as well have taken that dip.

H's friend is a fashion photographer now, so he gave H a quick lesson.

Aside from its 48 beaches (thank you, Wikipedia!), Antibes has a very interesting town center.

So close to Italy, the architecture ceases to be as "French" as I know it (like Notre Dame), but more "Latin."

The Church of the Immaculate Conception, with a grand baroque-style altar.

The largest Picasso collection can be found in the Picasso Museum of Antibes.

The hotel held to be the most beautiful in the world (and therefore out of my price range), Hotel Cap-Eden Roc, is on the tip of the cape. It was where Liz Taylor and Richard Burton honeymooned! But even little inconspicuous streets can lead to surprising discoveries.

I wanted to take it down and take it home :)

But the best surprise is reserved for those willing to see the view from the church on top of the cape.

From here you can see the entire French Riviera, from Cannes to Monaco and even Italy. It was easy to see why his parents loved this place and brought the kids here for vacations: It's the classier sister of Cannes.

But it was with St. Paul de Vence that I truly fell in love with this part of Provence-Cote d'Azur.

St. Paul as seen from the parking lot.

It's a tiny village on top of a green hill that reminded me so much of Gordes.

Gordes in winter, from my Feb 2009 soloista tour.

St. Paul is the artists' commune in the Alpes Maritimes department. All the streets (save for a few houses) are dedicated to art. There were galleries, wineries, a little vineyard on one side, handicraft shops and about three expensive restaurants (we were getting hungry, so we noticed).

But it's also a nicely preserved medieval village. In fact, it's one of the oldest in the French Riviera.

Medieval communal laundry area... and Ferrari

The light was so beautiful, we couldn't stop taking pictures.

While behind, waiting to be discovered, was someplace... Nice.

Next, "Sizzling Beach 3: I'm Going to a Nice Place"

Related Posts: A Year in France Celebration
Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!

Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!

2011-08-17T14:54:00.007+02:00

I'm surrounded by postcard scenes of women without tops (young *and* old), men with movie star good looks in crisp white shirts strolling along La Croisette, ritzy shops and hotels that intimidate by name alone... What the postcards don't tell you about is the heat in summer. It is dry and the sun feels like pinpricks on your skin, but your covered parts feel like they're burning; but in the shade, especially when there is even just this tiny breeze from the Alps or the Mediterranean Sea, the trail of sweat on your back turns into tiny icicles so that whatever you're wearing -- it's wrong.

We slept at a camping lodge, trying to zone out the nattering of two German girls (one of whom looked like Michelle Williams) who attracted the attention of two Dutch boys and en ensemble their flirting made the night almost impossible to sleep through. H and I struggled to get up at 9am, made coffee and had store-bought croissants (sacrilege!), Speculoos (redemption!) and Petit Lu Thé. Breakfast picnic dream in the Riviera, check!

At around ten thirty we arrived at the port and left the car in the underground parking which felt like Doha all over again (I'm guessing it was 42°C in there, while outside it was a relatively more forgiving 34°). A stage was being set up at the exit of the parking lot fronting the beach for a nighttime electronic dance party in the sand, but just around the corner of the building was the reason why Cannes is so important to movie buffs like me:

The red carpet of the Palais des Festivals in Cannes is one of the most photographed spots in all of France. Filmmakers and actors (and the occasional celebrity with dubious credentials) pose for the paparazzi on these steps each spring for the Cannes Film Festival. I was in college when a youngish Quentin Tarantino became an overnight sensation here with his Palme d'Or win, becoming a default hero to my generation of Comm-Arts students.

The city itself is not the most charming that France has to offer. The chunky buildings that look like 70s or 80s expansion projects look so outdated now. In a place where appearances count, their most famous landmark (the Palais des Festivals) ain't so pretty either.

Even with the yachts, the trendy restaurants (La Palme D'Or, Palm Square) and beachfront hotels (the Carlton, Hotel Martinez), this town would have been any other town on the Riviera if not for the film festival.

There seems to be no soul to discover here, just Prada bags. No culture, just cocaine. In fact it is the profanity of excess that makes this the city version of a pretty starlet getting too much plastic surgery. It just feels a little artificial. The glamor feels forced.

And it seems like such a sad affair if the only thing a place has to offer by way of culture are its designer boutiques, casinos and beaches.

Or maybe it's exactly because the word "Cannes" is so synonymous with celluloid dreams that everything comes across as unreal, like styrofoam props and painted landscapes.

A little after twelve, H and I got back in the car for the former Greek port, Antibes.

Related Posts: A Year in France Celebration
Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes and St. Paul de Vence

A Year In France Celebration (the aftermath)

2011-08-15T20:02:00.009+02:00

It's been two weeks since we took off for the slightly nearby, somewhat on the beaten path, but still infinitely great UNKNOWN. On the anniversary of the very day I set foot in France for the wedding we took off again, borrowing my mother in law's car (lent with grave anxiety, which would later prove to be quite justified), and burning rubber through the Cote D'Azur to reach the north of Italy. But let me take you back first to why we had to do this in the first place...

H and I did not intend to do a road trip initially; we were just going to Milan to get the clothes my mom asked my cousin to bring me, him being able to go back and forth from Manila to Milan every few months because his job is just full of perks like that. Anyway, last January my cousin was supposed to come to Paris but couldn't because of a passport snafu that did not turn out to be a snafu but in the end was fucked up badly by the Philippine Embassy there. But no one's pointing any fingers here. This opened up the possibility of us going to Italy... but H didn't want to go to Milan, he would rather go to Rome or some other Italian city, but if we went to Rome we would need a week to get the most out of it... which is impossible since we are both jobless and we can't just throw money away.

We were at an impasse for months. Until one day, while watching a TV investigation on camping, he brought up the idea of driving to Italy and staying at camping lodges which are half the price of cheap hotels, allowing us to see more of France and Italy, and leaves us free from the hassles of air travel in a post-9/11 world. I gamely said yes, not having camped in my life, but having always been attracted to the idea ever since I saw Ninja Kids.

Destiny had smiled on us when we thought up this little plan. It was the birthday of my father in law and he needed his sons to repair the roof tiles in their ancient home (it was the house of the town abbot in the 15th century or something) so we had a free ride to the south with my brother in law. It was unfortunate though, that we couldn't leave a little earlier because I had a friend who was getting married in Nimes the day of our early morning arrival.

The day before the big road trip, H's mom and I sat on the lounge chairs next to the pool. Watching her sons acting like buffoons in the water, she asked me to remind H every so often: "Ce n'est pas ta voiture, c'est la voiture de ta mere," or something to that effect. She knows how he can be a fool on the highway.

The following day, we made it to Cannes a half hour short of the normal travel time because my pleas for rational driving were left unheeded. The only thing that can make a speed freak slow down is a well-placed speed flash... which sadly we didn't see a lot of. What we did see was the colorful spread of summer blooms, fields of sunflowers and corn, apple orchards and orange groves, vineyards and castles.

Even with the GPS we got a bit lost because H was trying to look for a particular road that he had known when the mountainside was dry and black, the victim of a headline-grabbing forest fire in the mid-80's. Today, a younger forest has reclaimed the patches unmarred by human habitation. To him, this high point overlooking Cannes was the street of childhood summers and winters, where he and his pre-pubescent friends (still rocking the peach fuzz) would try to seduce young tourist girls who came to France possibly looking for romance. Sadly, they were too young and neurotic to wield the powers of seduction.

He showed me his family's former vacation home with allegedly the best view of the beach, but trashed so many times by German and English tenants that H's parents vowed never to rent out property ever again (the other reason why we can't keep the Paris flat). Then, like a tourist, he made me pose in front of the garage door... THE GARAGE DOOR! (H, to me: "It's for the parents!!!")

After taking enough photos, we went shopping for food supplies, rushed to find a camping spot and had a little swim before dinner. Dinner was fresh pesto tagliatelle and sausages, accompanied by a bottle of wine to toast to our decision to do this crazy thing, to fall in love, to drop the jobs that had consumed us (can you imagine, I hardly took vacations and worked even when I was sick? I was mad!), and say yes to a life that at the time was still undefined... to be quite honest, it is still in the process of being defined. We know we are together, we know we are staying together... but the rest is still unknown.

When we went to bed, H showed me the note he scribbled on his old sleeping bag in a feverish frenzy almost a lifetime ago. It was a promise to retire the old thing after that cold night he spent alone in the woods in Switzerland, when the insulation had failed to protect him and he realized it was time to let go. It was written in 2003, the 2nd of August -- Exactly eight years ago to the day.

I'm not going to make like it was a profound message from the universe, that would be too easy (or corny), but still it makes me think of the things that we think we don't need anymore, the tacky mementos of youth, the friends we've outgrown, the skins we inhabit at certain junctures in life and cast off when our philosophies change -- These things, they have a way of popping up. Their revelations could be embarrassing, regretful, funny, profound or ambrosial, but mainly they remind us that the things we thought were behind us are with us all along. Countries, cities, family, friends, the occasional sworn enemy - these things never leave us. They're just waiting for a chance to pop back into our lives. And in eight years, who knows what souvenir would remind me of oaths broken or kept?

About the car, that story's going to pop up later; and maybe tell you a bit about the trip too.

Related Posts: Sizzling Beach 1: Yes, We Cannes!
Sizzling Beach 2: Antibes and St. Paul

A Year In France

2011-08-02T10:10:00.002+02:00

Exactly a year ago today, at the crack of dawn, my brother drove me and my overweight luggage to the airport. I kissed my mom goodbye and my brother gave me a bone-cracking hug; I would meet them in Paris two weeks after, but the way they carried on it was like I wouldn't see them again.

H welcomed me at Charles de Gaulle with a bunch of flowers and a video camera trained on my face. After a day to recuperate from my long flight with a stopover in hellishly hot Doha, we were off to the southern coast of France for a week of sailing. Just a few days before I had been lazing about at the office, staring at the whitewashed ceiling, relishing thoughts of freedom. Then BOOM there I was, on a Tuesday, staring up at a cloudless night sky, counting shooting stars and being rocked to sleep by the soothing ebb of the tides.

A lot has happened year after. I left my family, my friends and my career for a gamble at love. It was a romantic dream, not fully mine (I was a big proponent of staying in Manila), but I have embraced the logic of moving to Paris just the same. Far from being the idyllic life many imagine, it has been challenging and often frustrating, humbling but humorous, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

I had a big learning curve to overcome and nothing in my life had prepared me for France. What could be more exasperating than a dinner table full of laughing people and not having a clue as to what was so funny? And by the time you figure it out and formulated what to say, the conversation has flitted to something more entertaining. There were no classes for miming at college, but after a year here, I think I've mastered the art.

It was hard to transition from my Manileña mindset to a Parisienne's. For a few months I kept forgetting that I can't go to shops on a Sunday, I can't pick up a bite at midnight, I can't go to museums on a Monday, I can cross the street without fearing for my life, not all dogs are out to get me, and breakfast is not complete without pain (bread)... little details that I still forget sometimes.

Well now, in calendar time at least, I have come full circle. Today, to mark my anniversary in France, we are taking a road trip. My mother in law has generously (without coercion of any manner --- that I know of) lent us her car for a week so we can roll along Provence on our way to see my cousin in Milan (who tried to bring me my winter clothes from Manila last year but failed miserably), a long-protracted and overdue plan in the making. I've only seen Provence in winter and I'd love to see lavender fields in bloom. Ooooh! I can't wait!

Adventure! Adventure! Adventure!

Keep the Fête

2011-08-01T15:31:00.005+02:00

Saturday.

It was midnight and the road to the Lot was still long. I leaned back on the passenger seat and looked up at the pinpricks of white light in the inky firmament - the only thing that kept still as we dashed from one city limit to another.

As we hurtled past Azerables, H wondered what JM was doing. Probably taking his socks off and wondering where we were at the the same moment, or putting away the food his wife made, after rashly expecting we would be around for dinner. He had become so used to us stopping over on our way to the south; but it would be hours before we could rest, and dinner would later come in the form of convenience store sandwiches at a gasoline station (surprisingly) full of Filipinos, who turned out to be (not surprisingly) on their way to Lourdes.

With us was my brother in law, L, who owns the car but couldn't drive because he worked until ten in the evening. An hour's worth of doo-wop medleys kept me awake, challenging me to sing each and every song. At 3 am, H pointed to the deep blue sky outside that terminated in a dull glow of street lights watching over the rest of creation while it slept. It was so different from the orange-blue sky we'd been accustomed to in Paris, which is mainly condensed water vapor, pollution, sweat, lies, disappointment and regrets all rising up from an old and very tired city.

The next couple of hours were a blur. By luck, I was able to reach our bed and sleep for a few hours until lunchtime surreptitiously crept and we had to go say bonjour and salut to the rest of the family. After the repast, the brothers disappeared to get their father his birthday gift (I got the card to go with it, so my part was done) and I went to the clearing behind the woods next to the stream to read, and failing that, fell asleep on the grass.

It was the sound of my father in law's lawnmower that roused me back. I waved to him and went back into the house to wash the flowers from my hair and came downstairs to the clinking of champagne glasses. We sang happy birthday to him and had Swiss-style raclette from the wheel of cheese they got from Switzerland just the day before (which I realized was a far better technique than French raclette, and truer to the real sense of the word, which means "scraping"). Dinner was a blur, thanks to the copious amounts of alcohol I put away, with a wee gulp of digestif at the end to soothe my gluttonous belly.

I had yet to recover from dinner when the brothers and some kids from the village drove to the next town for its yearly fête. These little hamlets each have their own summer festival, perhaps a tradition passed down from medieval times, when troubadours hopped from town to town spreading melodious gossip and troupes of actors were the superstars of the day. In fact, I could imagine how the scene before me would have appeared in an earlier time, with simpler music and with people garbed in vintage guises. These modern trappings couldn't hide that they are essentially the same souls, concerned about life, love, money, family... we have not evolved much, you see. And the teenagers who did most of the showing off were no different from the teens who showed up at these festivals centuries ago, whose main goal for the night was to get someone in the sack.

A be-mulleted band played renditions of French and English tunes onstage while the rest of us drowned ourselves in beer, iced tea, sodas and Perrier. It was at 2 am, when the DJ got the party started, that we also drowned ourselves in soap suds care of the foam machine.

Meanwhile, in a river in Washington, the cremated remains of Kurt Cobain coagulated into a semblance of the human form just so it could turn over after sensing a rhythmic pounding in the ground reverberating from across the Atlantic where, in a small French village, his "Smells like teen spirit" was publicly being slaughtered by the nimble fingers of a local DJ named Felix.

It was almost morning when we got back home. The clear outline of the Milky way was close to disappearing. H's brothers croaked on the sofa at the pool house, and my legs were dead from my vain attempt to dance.

And then, just like that, it was Sunday.

Autumn in July

2011-07-27T20:53:00.008+02:00

We went to Assurance Maladie this afternoon to take care of my securite sociale... after which, H declared me free to be sick again. Well, fortunately for us, I am hardly sick... Although I should I warn him that after we leave France he has no right to be a hypochondriac anymore. Anyway, I'm supposed to get my very own carte vitale in a few months, so that's one worry out of the way.

After that we picked up his new passport at the police station. I stayed on the bench outside to read "Le Petit Prince," and that was when I noticed some leaves had begun to turn brown. The cold spell must have convinced the trees that it's time to shed their leaves once again. After getting a bit of sun just in time for the last laps of the Tour de France, days of uninterrupted rain doused us back into the realization that autumn has come early. Too bad for Paris Plages.

When H came out he sheepishly showed me his passport which, try as I might, I couldn't help but snicker at. Backstory: The scanner at the passport office was broken on the day of his appointment so they didn't want to take H's 2x2 picture, they wanted to take a picture of him and use that instead. The problem was, he was supposed to go to the gym after so he didn't take a shower, he didn't even bother checking what his hair looked like; plus he hadn't shaved for days and he stayed up til 4 am finishing a new video game the night before. In other words, mukha siyang pusakal... Which is going to go great with the border agents in China.

I came home to the smell of pancit canton, and at first I wondered where it was coming from - it's been almost a week since I made noodles. As it turns out, it was the limp stalk of celery desolately dangling from a jar in the kitchen. How predictably pavlovian am I? And why am I always hungry?

To stop myself from cooking noodles, noodles that I might end up eating, I drew them instead. Enjoyment factor was not the same, though.

By the way, maybe I haven't told you about pancit canton... allow me to rectify that mistake.

Pancit canton is a traditional noodle dish we Filipinos equate with special occasions.

When I was younger and Sampaguita and LVN movies were an afternoon staple on channel 9, the poor lead characters would often celebrate a good day of selling flowers/pickpocketing by bringing home pancit to their starving siblings and sickly mothers or ungrateful drunkard dads. You eat it on your birthday for long life. You eat it with a glass of dalandan juice. You eat it sandwiched between slices of "tasty bread." Sometimes having pancit alone is an occasion in itself.

So here's how you make pancit canton:

you need shredded morcels of pork, shrimp, chicken or sausage - one or in combination; "the more the many-er," like we love to say on the islands
fry this with garlic and onion and the rest of the "sahog" listed, some people add cabbage leaves but I don't like the smell of cabbage
set all this aside and then boil chicken broth with a few teaspoons of soy sauce, oyster sauce, and some salt and pepper; some people add cornstarch to make the sauce thicker... I'm not opposed to that if your sauce turns out watery
set the sauce aside then boil blanched egg noodles for a few minutes until slightly soft
take the water out and replace with the sauce
then put back all of the "sahog"
add sesame seed oil and/or sesame seeds and serve

Stressy Ng Tahanan

2011-07-26T13:41:00.004+02:00

Long list of things to do, but we have to clean the flat first because prospective buyers are coming by in an hour and a half.

My computer is making strange sounds and I can't finish my layout because it's starting to slow down.

I want to go to the shops because it's the last day of soldes!

Have to apply for securite social before we leave this weekend.

We absolutely have to go to Smartbox to have ours changed so we can enjoy it before we go.

Have to fix myself up in time for a friend's band performance tonight.

My cousin turned out to be in Boracay, taking the vacation he said he wasn't taking; no wonder he wasn't replying when I said we were going to see him in Milan next week.

I'm having a Chunky Monkey to destress.

Gonna worry later about my chunky ass.

Simply De Vine

2011-07-24T07:01:00.004+02:00

Image from topsir.com

I don't want to jinx it, but I'm shouting it out so the universe can hear. I've been strongly hinting at H to go grape picking before we leave since we'll still be here until September. He nods his head sideways like he's willing to be convinced. There's not a lot of money in it but, I don't mind being paid in food and wine.

Postscript!

Today's the last day of the Tour de France, culminating in a 40km (or so) spell going back and forth from Rivoli to Champs Elysees. The helicopters following the cyclists were hovering near the apartment so we decided to run out and see the tour as it passes by our neighborhood. I was busy washing my unmentionables but I dropped everything and rushed outside. It's not every day you get to see this!

Suddenly, everyone's a journalist.

After weeks of awful weather (it SNOWED last week, and it's supposed to be summer!), the clouds were finally in the mood to cooperate and gave us some sun. A crowd had already formed around the barricade and some people were standing over construction blocks for a better view, but we came just in time. After ten minutes, it was over.

When we got back home the helicopter was beaming lovely aerial shots of Paris. Gawd, this town is beautiful.

Post-postscript!

We had dinner at the house of some friends with a nice view of the street. While parking the scooter, we noticed an old couple leaving stuff on the sidewalk. We decided to investigate and realized they were old video games. We swept up some of them - the Star Wars X-Wing/Tie Fighter game, Tomb Raider and a couple of others. Then our friend O went downstairs to rescue some of the other games.

Minutes later, a woman left some Friends and Ally McBeal VHS tapes, an English tutorial kit in cassette, and some comic books. I lay claim to an English copy of Heavy Metal from 1998. We also learned that these were her ex's old junk. An hour later she threw out (among other things) a big leather overnight bag. A teenage boy beat us to it, and whatever was inside the bag. Another hour passed and an old man took all the VHS tapes. We don't usually trash dive (in fact I feel like we missed out one time because I saw some nice antique chairs in the street; too bad we're moving out soon) but you never know what these things would be worth on E-bay one day.

Still, it would have been extra nice if we got to Hotel de Ville in time for the FNAC concert, because Selah Sue was playing :-\ Dommage!

Entitled

2011-07-23T12:25:00.006+02:00

Two weeks short of the anniversary of my arrival in France last year, I finally have my "titre de sejour". Celebrate good times, c'mown!

It took such a long time because we went against the grain. Usually, Fil-French couples marry in the Philippines to get a French long stay visa (1 year) fuss-free. Because of some strange double standard, the Filipina fiancee cannot get a marriage visa (for a wedding in France) for more than 3 months while visa applicants from other countries get a full year even though they present the same required documents expressing their desire to marry. And apparently, not even all of the case workers at the prefecture know this because they were shocked the French embassy in Manila does not provide it. So as you can guess, not a lot of mixed marriages going on in here, they usually happen at the foreigner's home country because of the restrictions. What Manila prescribes for couples who want to marry in France is to get married, go back to the Philippines, then apply again for a long stay visa from the Philippines... because, I dunno, maybe they think airfare is cheap. Otherwise, get married in the Philippines, wait for the livret de famille (a brown book that takes months to arrive), then apply for a long stay visa, come to France then get married again here should you want to.

But we're the road less traveled kind of couple.

So after all the fuss, the papers we gathered, the scores of meetings we took, the French lessons, not to mention the little scare we got when the law was revised last winter and we had two months to secure some revised requirements (grrr), after the long lines in the cold (ok, we did that just twice, and once I was almost run over by a street-sweeping truck), excuses to buy stuff from Amazon and FNAC by delivery to prove my address (hee hee), after some nervous hand wringing, here we are.

Finally, I could get a real job, not the content farm thing I was doing, I mean a real one. I could bus tables like I dreamed of doing in this, "my bohemian year in Paris." Then I could take up smoking and be an alcoholic, sing torch songs in the street and get psychiatric help then write a novel about it. I could be a vendor in a souvenir shop and chat up the clientele. I could open a bank account. I could ride a plane again. Such possibilities!

I picked it up at the OFII, where my fellow immigrants and I sat in a room and watched a short movie about the values of the republic, then one by one we were called for an interview. While waiting, I got to talking with an Algerian man, completely in French, and then the Japanese boy and the African refugee chimed in ("yeah, vous avez raison madame, yeah"), and then suddenly I was called in for my interview. I charmed the case worker into believing I am a competent French speaker and she gave me the language certificate without question so I won't have to go to 200 hours of classes; H helped me to move the two requisite "Vie en France" meetings back from October to August and September so that we could finally, FINALLY, go on our big trip in September. Then it was time for my medical and I got out of it without needing to get my blood drawn! I saw the Algerian coming out of X-ray with his finger bandaged up from the blood test. Whew! I got a doctor who volunteered to talk in English and didn't mind that I didn't have a vaccination card and that all I had was the word of my mother that, yeah, I got all my shots. Whew encore! Then I found out from the scales that I am now 5 kilos less than I was 2 months ago. Blimey!

The first thing I did after was go to Saint Severin. Then, failing to find The Abbey Bookshop where I thought it was (I wondered if it poofed away like some buildings in the Harry Potter world), I went to Shakespeare and Co to look at books (because I'm working on one with some friends) and ended up getting this -

which was pretty nifty (part fairy tale and part encyclopedia and written a la Susanna Clarke). I held myself back because all I had was my credit card, which charges enormous add-ons when I spend in euros. And then I went to BHV and got this -

which was something I decided to do after a friend persuaded me into picking up this old hobby again.

And it felt just like the old days, having the brush in my hand.

My father gave me money to buy my first set of watercolors a couple of decades ago; he wanted me to be the artist in the family, like he always wanted to be had he not fallen out of orbit and landed on mechanical engineering... No pressure on me, of course. He wanted me to follow my heart because he was such a cool guy. But I didn't have the talent that he had, so I tricked myself into thinking I had my mother's talent, which was writing. Wells, I gots neither. But I try. I'm the Jack of All Trades, Master of None kind of person.

Around this time in 2009, my father was in a coma. I made an Elvis mix on my mp3 player and left the earphones on him so he could bop to the King of Rock n' Roll in his stupor. He left us a few days after that; maybe he wanted to hear the real Elvis in the big casino in the sky, or maybe he was just plain tired. But it's in really happy times like this that I want to speak to him, to make him know that I'm following my heart, and I'm doing okay.