Tag-uwan sa Iceland ( Rainy Days in Iceland )

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 02:27:00 +0000

Kuwang gihapon

Way pulos ang gakos
og dili matimbang ang halok
Pag-abot sa panahong
Imo na lang hinumdomon
ang giangkong kagahapon

Auntie Letty, Mama and me on my first

visit to Maripipi (Daddy's hometown).

It was my 6th birthday and boy was I
a great show-off!

TODAY, I woke up with a soundless scream. Last thing I remember about my dream was of me talking with my Mom and suddenly realized with finality that this was just a dream and will never happen again. At least not in this lifetime.

Working in a country 360 degrees different from where I was born is obviously a challenge. First to come to mind are the cultural differences. How subtle societal signals have to be relearned and assimilated into your arsenal of coping mechanisms. Factor in also that you are as far away from your normal support system. True, technology has made the world smaller and my Mom just always a phone call away. Yet, those fleeting (though frequent) exchanges could never substitute for the times we sat in the garden after work, Mama in her hammock and me on my favorite white garden chair going over family gossip and dreams of success.

On moving to Iceland, I used to call Mama after work. It would be almost midnight here and just before breakfast in the tropics. She would be sitting down to a cup of hot chocolate made from home-roasted cacao beans, maybe making meal plans with my cousine while waiting for whoever was to drive her to work. You see, Mama still saw patients until 2 months before she died. Her days were always full and challenging. She had her garden where she trained her bonsai, her beloved dogs and a mid-afternoon snack where everyone in the house would gather for coffee and bread.

Mama was everything to me and my sisters. She was and always be an ideal that I will always strive to become. Even now, I find that I cannot continue writing because the loss is still heavy in my heart.

I have always heard people say...remember to tell your Mom that you love her everyday. Well, I did and that was not enough. The truth is, however many hugs you give her, however many kisses you share, however you try to make her life as comfortable as it can be. IT CAN NEVER BE ENOUGH.

I love you Mama. See you soon.

Last day of Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 03:25:00 +0000

TODAY is þrettándinn in Iceland. More popularly known as the last day of Christmas, it is also thought to be an acknowledgment of Old Christmas mainly because in the old days this is the date that Christ's birthday was marked before Rome formally moved it to the 25th of December.

I don't really know what happens on þrettándinn, except that the last of the 13 Icelandic Santa Clauses is supposed to be visiting happy kids (incidentally this Santa Claus is also known as the candle thief) and that all right-thinking Icelandic housewives should be taking down all things Christmasy. Since I am not Icelandic (nor a housewife), is enough of an excuse to be lazy and leave the "taking down all things Christmasy" until I feel like it...which means not until February.

Coming from a country like the Philippines where Christmas starts right after Nov. 2 (some even say from September) and ends just before February, taking down Christmas lights and Christmas trees before January is done seems like a very un-Christian thing to do. Add to the package the Scandinavian darkness outside my windows, it just does not compute. So, laziness+darkness=Christmas decor up until the end of January (hopefully).

However, I am told that here in Reykjavik, trolls, elves and locals are expected to party around a bonfire while Santa Claus bids everyone goodbye. Meanwhile, I stay at work communing with the trolls, elves and locals of the psychiatric ward.

Happy New Year everyone and cheers!

Mynd fra: http://gudgeirjons.blogspot.com/

Life in Iceland

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 06:25:00 +0000

Well, 2012 is here and Ihave decided to be a lot more diligent with blogging. This will be a short post...just a heads up that from now on it will be more interactive and current. So, here´s to a more productive blogging year ahead. Cheers!

15 Books

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sun, 26 Sep 2010 14:30:00 +0000

The rules: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes. Tag fifteen friends, including me, because I'm interested in seeing what books my friends choose. (To do this, go to your Notes tab on your profile page, paste rules in a new note, cast your 15 picks, and tag people in the note.)

1. "Dandelion Wine" by Ray Bradbury

2. "The Mist" by Stephen King

3. "Robots of Dawn" series by Isaac Asimov

4. "Murphy´s Boy" by Torey Hayden

5. "New Testament" multiple authors...not because of the religion but because I remember going through the short stories particularly The Good Samaritan.

6. "The Good Earth" by Pearl Buck

7. "Like Water for Chocolate" by Laura Esquivel

8. "The House of the Spirits" by Isabelle Allende

9. "The Hobbit" by JRR Tolkien

10."Twenty Poems of Love and a Song of Despair" by Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

11. "The Good Omen" by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman

12. "Amina Among the Angels" by Merlie Alunan

13. "Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

14. " A Question of Heroes" by Nick Joaquin...repeatedly checked out this book from the STC main library so many times.

15."The Happy Hustler" by Grant Tracy Saxon

Let´s talk about the elephant in the room

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Mon, 06 Sep 2010 06:20:00 +0000

UP UNTIL the fourth grade, Mama would wrap my head in a towel before going to sleep. Doing this helped me avoid the effects of dawn temperature changes. On days when this ritual was forgotten, I would wake up sneezing, teary-eyed and runny-nosed until about 8am when the sun was high in the sky and the temperature stable. Allergic rhinitis is in fact is how Mama eventually declared me as her living barometer.

It was not surprising then that in moving to Iceland (where you could expect four seasons in one day) I encountered difficulties in adjusting to the weather. This peaked a few months ago when it became so bad that I had to sleep sitting up. It scared me enough to make an appointment with a doctor.

Two weeks later, there I was twiddling my thumbs and trying to compose in my head a litany of symptoms (half of them already gone in the two weeks waiting to see the doctor) in Icelandic. When I walked into the examination room, greeting me was a framed "American Academy of Physicians" certificate so off went the carefully researched Icelandic medical terms and I happily rattled off medicalese in English. So satisfying...but I digress.

My fifty-ish doctor ( age being a good thing otherwise I would´ve walked out) promptly scribbled off a prescription for a nasal corticosteroid spray. Everything all clear and well-diagnosed. Or so, we thought until on my way out I happened to mention if it would be alright if he checked this probable lump on my throat. I was half-embarrassed about it because it could just very well be an advancing second chin. Except that, with sonogram in hand he turns around and says, "Yes, there seems to be a well-defined mass."

Uh, okay.

Since then, I have been to blood tests, ultrasounds and biopsies which in summation arrived at an unsatisfactory conclusion: thyroid carcinoma. It is supposed to be papillary, the curable kind, but the biopsy report also mentioned undefined cellular mutations which can only be classified and identified by an actual specimen (and not through cells sucked out by a thin, abnormally long needle).

The Big C is a family thing and more than a few in every generation gets initiated into the club. I just never thought that I would be the first in my batch.

Well, there it is. The elephant in the room that I have never as yet publicly discussed except with the few who I thought ought to know directly from me. It could be that I cannot call everyone who matters seeing that overseas calls are expensive and everyone´s just spread out all over the world. So, I blog instead.

On September 8 (which happens to be a Holy Day of Obligation for Catholics and Mother Mary´s birthday) I will for the first time go under the knife. After that auspicious date I will go on sick leave. Time on my hands and hopefully enough blogging hours will allow me to add to the meager first-person information on thyroid cancer in the internet. It will also be my self-purging, a therapeutic addition to my post-op recovery. Besides, writing has always been my life and allows me to connect from the old world, cold world.

I hope you keep me company in this new adventure, another fork in the path.

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 09:44:00 +0000

Blowing kisses

The distance
from sunset to sunrise
is forever, except
when your smile´s a kiss
and then it spans, a hand

Palpitations (Hjartsláttarköst)

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 04:58:00 +0000

There is nothing about me
where fires simmer
unseen, unheard
except for heartbeats

Hjartsláttarköst
Ekkert er til um mig
hvar eldarnir malla
ósýnilegur, óheyrður
nema hjartsláttur

*apologies for this rough Icelandic translation. It will come, I promise.

When dancing on tabletops becomes

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sun, 08 Feb 2009 10:35:00 +0000

I owe you this,
an explanation.
The why, what and who
of lost summer days
and winter nights
spent wondering
how what ifs would end,
if pursued.

Once more, I am loved
and in return am loving
this one who is for sitting
in front of dying fires

It is amusing to think
I once dreamed
of dancing on tabletops
and once did prance unclothed.
The price of dinner and conversation

That was for the other. Maybe you.
A before, and long over.
So please accept, an apology.
For growing into the woman
you would have loved to love
after ours was over.

I am loved now.
There is not enough time
for dancing on tabletops
anymore,

Is there discrimination in Iceland?

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 02:51:00 +0000

I HAVE never experienced any form of discrimination in Iceland, no the Icelanders are too polite for that. They are straightforward folk with the highest birth rate in Northern Europe who are open-minded enough not to refuse same gender unions. Screw the moralists, so they say.

Of course, there is no discrimination in Iceland. My employer and labor union are both scrupulous about following wage laws. In fact, my employer has tried to make me a permanent employee but was refused by the Utlendigastofnun (Bureau of Immigration). Never mind that I try to be a goofy good worker and actually employed before I arrived.

Who says Icelanders are intolerant? In an effort to help me adjust, I have been made to understand that learning the language is vital and because of this, my employer has paid for Icelandic language courses that I truly need to take. I go to work feeling guilty for explaining myself in the language I know best. I say to myself that sounding ignorant is a temporary thing (3 years being the time needed to grasp the language…yes, not learn it in its entirety). It is a sink or swim proposition when it comes to understanding Icelandic.

How can there be discrimination in Iceland? Laws are passed and a minister appointed to oversee immigrant concerns. There is even a cultural center that provides translator services, immigrant activities (heck, there is even a bingo night), a multilingual magazine even an in-house lawyer. At the moment, I am even attending a course called The Settler’s School. It has advanced Icelandic, an introductory computer course, some Icelandic history, geography, a couple of visits to the library, a token hello to the big dogs at the Alþingi (we are supposed to be suitably impressed) and of course, a night at the theatre. The computer course is sooo much fun. They are teaching us how to use Word, how to do an internet search (you just have to use Google Iceland) and other sundry stuff that are IMPORTANT. I am told that I am in the wrong course because I probably know too much about MS Word. I think not. There is no other course that will teach me something about Iceland. I am in the curious netherworld of wanting to improve myself at work but cannot because all the courses are in Icelandic and I know only enough to function. Repeat: It’s a sink or swim thing.

I am getting used to being part of a minority. The brown-skinned group from that part of the world called Asia. I have learned to ignore the pained face of that snot-nosed kid who sees a different face in the checkout counter. No darling, I whisper to myself, you don’t need to speak Filipino.

And yes, there is no discrimination in Iceland. The only time I remember something resembling such was a snide aside strangely enough made by another foreigner trimming hedges. He mockingly called out to me in fake Chinese. It sadly negated the beauty of his blue black skin. Funny boy, so proud of his ignorance. It did not even remotely sound like the literary rhythm I learned to love in China.

No complaints really from my end. People like me are “new” to this part of the world. How I live is different and anything different is a scary thing. You need to learn to harden your heart against the beauty of this land.

Loving an Icelander is also not an option. Otherwise, you will have to stay and know in your soul of souls that your children will also see the pained face of that snot nosed kid in the checkout counter.

Once more, there is no discrimination in Iceland. In fact, it is the happiest country in the world.

Firecracker frenzy on New Year's Eve

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 02:44:00 +0000

It's almost 3 in the morning here in Reykjavik and people have not yet recovered from the fireworks frenzy. I still see occasional flashes of man-made stars lighting up the dark Nordic sky. New Year's Eve has just passed and if you were to follow Chinese belief, then all evil spirits have been chased out of Iceland.

I find it oddly comforting, this Icelandic version of New Year. One more familiar note in an unfamiliar country. I suppose that Icelanders do not light fireworks because they have taken on the Chinese tradition of making sure bad omens and spirits are scared off by all the noise. There is still a lot of banging going on here in Reyjkavik but unlike the Philippines where the value of firecrackers is directly proportional to its loudness, Icelanders cherish more the display of firecracker colors. The flashier, the better. Sadly, the flashier firecracker is more often the more expensive one. Judging by this year's fireworks display, there is no financial crisis here in Iceland and if by happenstance firecrackers drive out evil spirits too, the better for the country.

I just hope it works.

I've become a teetotaler and it horrifies

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sun, 28 Dec 2008 01:11:00 +0000

It seems that winter celebrations have skipped me. There is no Christmasy feeling, no forgotten gifts for godchildren to be guilty about, no family arguments (just an antsy ex-significant other who rues the day he was born), no slaving over a hot stove, no styling a Noche Buena table for unappreciative siblings and HORRORS...nary a drop of alcohol passed these lips!

(picture shows me with my last glass eons ago)

I never noticed it though. Sorta came on me like an unseen visitor, this teetotaling thing. Why forsake the sensuous delights of that slight buzz and the frenzy of flirting that usually followed? I cannot for the love of _____ (insert preferred name) fathom how this situation came to be!

Back in the motherland, after knocking off from work and just before heading home it was truly easy to convince another weak soul to stop by for a beer or two and maybe start another pointless conversation. Fridays were de rigueur "gather ye all with pretensions to intelligence" assemblies and if you have a mind for it, sashay your way to the VIP lounges of so-called hot bars just right after midnight. Not to forget paydays (every 15th and 30th), where everyone forgets that tomorrow is the first of a long month and crispy pata becomes the pulutan of choice (food that you eat with alcohol because yes, we Filipinos have a whole range of drinking cuisine). So, how is it different today?

Sadly, I can count the ways but it all boils down to this: In this amazing country I live and work in, I ain't got any drinking friends honey and yes, I no longer socialize. It's just as well, I am embarassed to confess that yes, I am feeling the aches and pains of growing mature (of course it's not called aging...oh no, not yet). One beer is too many and just that little extra sip of white wine is bound to make me sleepy. You could also say that I may lack practice given that alcohol is terribly expensive in Iceland (one bottle of San Miguel beer which costs maybe 30 pesos back home is around 300 pesos) here. I did try to prowl the shelves for great buys under 1000kr, an exercise done when I was just fresh-off-boat and which proved sadly futile.

You would think that all these would change this Christmas, what with the slew of parties left and right and alcohol overflowing Christmas tables. Wrong! At this point of my language skills (and yes, it all hinges on your language skills), I have not become part of any social circle. It's hard to discover similar interests and skills, amazingly trying to laugh at half-understood jokes and downright uncomfortable to be with a crowd who chatters on non-stop in a tongue whose nuances and soul you have yet to understand. I do know that alcohol does loosen the tongue, but not when guilt at not speaking the right one ties it down. As for the foreigners who skirt the confines of Icelandic existence? They all left...at least those who started out as my friends. They did the chicken run, right after the Icelandic economy found it prudent to admit itself to the halls of Landspitala (the national university hospital). In this roundabout, self-indulgent way did I discover that woe and behold, I cannot drink alone. Red wine has to come with red meat and conversation. They call it social drinking and because I am not being "social" this means I have become a teetotaler.

Horrors!

Lusting after someone

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sun, 30 Nov 2008 05:59:00 +0000

(and dreaming of sukkulaði)

I give up. I must admit that in the short space between sleeping and waking I dreamt that I lusted after someone. My subconscious speaks, so here it is:

sukkulaði (icelandic for chocolate)

i’d like to taste chocolate
on mornings deliciously warm
with newly baked thoughts
of me wanting to know
how chocolate tastes on you.

Translation

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 02:33:00 +0000

I will learn to say love
in the language you speak.
Hoping against hope
that there won't come a time,
when loving turns to loathing
and teach me to say so
in the languages you know.

autumn trail

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Fri, 31 Oct 2008 19:33:00 +0000

It is not only you
the world moves around for.
Its urgency is not meant
for you alone.
The silences that float
move on to another.
Sometimes fast,
almost always, as slow
as the waiting
for summer days
to come again.

So, who is really getting married?

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sat, 27 Sep 2008 20:21:00 +0000

I take it that it has been spreading around the world, this me getting married bit. Kinda, sorta started in Canada, a quick question from Ogi, an old, dear friend. Then came another tentative comment from Channie another old, dear friend living in South Africa. Mariliz in New York was a strong third and the circle turned when Emma back home in the islands screamed in wanton abandon.

So, who is really getting married?

I thought I was. Well, at least he wants to and if I said that it was time to drive to the registry and make official our half-cohabitation, he would do so with all engines running and pulling me by my hair harass the judge into submission. But, I have kept quiet really. It’s such a BIG step and my life has not been structured to survive this thing called marriage. Never thought it would be such a question. Never thought I would reach take on this roller coaster ride of indecision.

They say, you just know that he is the one for you. Well, what is that really? At what point in your life did you “just know?” Was it just after high school when the memory of your first kiss lingered in the air redolent with romance? Or, maybe after college when all things in the world seemed rosy and full of promise? Was he the one because he was someone you could bring home to mama? Or was it because he was the embodiment of your pagkabuhayan showcase (lifetime showcase).

It is a tad different now. I had my first kiss and he turned into another kind of frog. College never taught me anything useful except for giving me truly entertaining friends. As for the pangkabuhayan showcase bit, well I have learned to make my life the way I want it to be.

All I know is this. He is so much loved, by me. Fingers crossed, it maybe all that matters.

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 05:18:00 +0000

Akong gisukod.
Unsa kadugay
asa kalayo
kapila og kinsa.
Apan namatikdan nako
imong dakong kasubo.
Ngano bitaw ihapon og sukdon
ang hait nga pangandoyng
naglawig sa imong mga damgo.

Wash day

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 08:12:00 +0000

Stripped the sheets.
Time to roll into a ball
all the things that have been.
Remade the bed.
Hung mountains of curtains
concealing melancholy within.
Today is wash day.

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 02:15:00 +0000

alimungaw:
in a relationship diay ka
sa friendster

Cleaning Lady

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Tue, 20 May 2008 12:21:00 +0000

Almost every other Pinay (slang for Filipino woman, Pinoy for men) I meet in Iceland is a cleaning lady. Not because they are poorly educated but mainly because it can be magnificently hard for non-EEA people to have their credentials accredited.

Many of them have university degrees, come from good families and generally lead an exemplary invisible life as migrants। Of course, they could have survived on what they earned back home. However, like most migrants, these cleaning ladies did not want to just survive. They wanted and still want a better life for themselves and their families.

How is that possible by working in Iceland? Simple। Only 60,000 Icelandic krónur (something between 27,000 to 30,000 pesos—USD 805, EUR 516) provides monthly sustenance for a family of five in the Philippines with two kids going through university.

Generally, the first migrants are women initially establishing a life for themselves, sending money home in the interim and because she wants better opportunities for her kids, sends for them and eventually sets up a home in the new country। Husband optional. Mainly because by the time she is ready for her family to come to Iceland, communication and intimacy with her significant other would have most likely broken down. It is also likely that she has met and been wooed by a lonely Icelandic widower or divorcee who in turn filled in her need for companionship and financial security in a strange country.

Many cleaning ladies have permanent jobs and cleaning homes is a moonlighting, tax-free opportunity। It does not pay much of course (between ISK 2,500 and 5,000; USD 33 and 67; EUR 22 and 43) an hour for back back-breaking work) but whatever little they get is additional moolah to send home or maybe even for this week's groceries.

On her spare time, she finds solace in the two Catholic churches in Reykjavík, bingo sessions or a spot of mahjong (that Chinese game played with tiles)। Every weekend there is a celebration, every birthday a riotous event with karaoke and variations of Filipino food (a few substitutions for key ingredients).

She does not go to museums, art being a non-entity in normal Filipino existence। Concerts are boring. Who wants to listen to instrumental renditions anyway? Well, unless you want to sleep. Coffee shops and bars are expensive, besides the cool ones never let in cleaning ladies on their days off anyway. It's a doorman thing. She does not ski, river raft or ice skate. Fun, outdoorsy stuff is not in her vocabulary.

Iceland as a new home can be trying. First, there is the language barrier. While Filipinos speak some form of English and many Icelanders do, it is still a challenge to find your way in the city. Traffic signs, notices and announcements are made in Icelandic. Our ears and tongues are not used to hearing Nordic languages. Every sound is new, every sentence unintelligible. Also, again because we come from a non-EEA nation, regardless of skill or expertise, Filipinos are required to learn Icelandic for a permanent work permit to be granted. This is a long and painful process.
Second, food is strange and new। Our palates are used to pork, tropical fruits, freshly picked veggies and the wide variety of seafood available in warm tropical shores. The taste of lamb takes a while to get used to (although once we do, it becomes a favorite), what Icelanders call lobster is actually langosteen and shrimp is unshelled. Many flavors are dulled by freezing.

Third, whatever people may say, Iceland is still a trying place for sociable people. Back home in the motherland, walls are thin, backyards are shared and babysitting duties are not considered favors but neighborly responsibilities. What Icelanders regard as privacy, most Asians see as social isolation.

Still, we persist। You see as little as 60,000 krónur is enough for a family of five to survive in a country where people demonstrate in streets over rising rice prices and schoolchildren stop attending classes because they have nothing to eat for lunch.

Iceland is a land of opportunitय. Yet, we are keenly aware that once the need for extra workers dwindles to nothingness in Iceland, it may be time to go home and leave this invisible existence.

http://www.icelandreview.com/icelandreview/daily_life/?cat_id=16539&ew_0_a_id=306270

No place for lonely people

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 11:57:00 +0000

I ONCE promised myself that I won´t have kids anymore after 30. Then that year passed and I compromised rationalizing that the World Health Organization has raised the primipara child-bearing age to 40 (what with new scientific discoveries and all that jazz). Yet, after just a few months of living in the old world cold world, I have found myself contemplating the prospect of "hey, there might not be a gene bag to pass on the smarts to."

Baby lust? I blame it on Iceland.

This country may be one of the more sparsely populated in the world. Fair warning though, when it comes to procreation, the Icelanders may very well be unsurpassed. Birth rate is approximately at 13.5 for every 1000 births. Not so much for someone coming from chaotic Asia but in Europe it can be way up there stats-wise. However, this is nothing about statistics, instead it's a short rant on how Iceland can be to foreigners who choose to live in its devastatingly beautiful landscape.

Iceland is a lonely place for single people. Well...at least for those who don't want to talk to drooling drunk men who have expediently cut costs by drinking at home before heading for downtown bars after the witching hour. So, why is the party capital of Northern Europe so hard on those who go solo?

First, there are no coin-operated laundromats. A fixture in American subculture, it is almost always in every chick flick that has moseyed its way out of Hollywood. How else are we women supposed to chat up responsible men who do their laundry? Every person in Iceland has a washing machine....duh! Makes me wonder how fresh-off-boat foreigners do theirs. I know how we Asians do it. By hand! Comes from washing dirty clothes with a paddle by a swift flowing river (well, okay...not really).

Second, there is no pub culture. You know, that social exercise where you meet friends for drinks after work before heading home? Icelanders do it this way: dinner at home six-ish, start drinking, keep drinking, go on until oh, maybe midnight and when you know you are just one drink shy of getting hammered...go downtown to dance and find someone to go to bed with.

Third, segue from number two. So, you go to a bar after midnight, dance with abandon and drink that last shot of sanity. After convincing someone that you are the hottest ticket to Bed-opia, you go home with him, her or it. The morning after is when you decide to pursue a relationship. Ladies and gentlemen, there is no dating culture in Iceland. This also means that if that hot guy working in the same building asked you out, he would most likely be thinking of you already as girlfriend material or worse, someone he can bring home to Mama the weekend after your date. There is no such thing as a getting to know you period. If you say yes to one dinner, it is inevitable. I've seen this happen to other foreigners. They don't know what hit them and frankly, having someone to squire you around town can be convenient. Especially when you need to fill out forms at government offices and all you understand of Icelandic are the words you see in ads.

Why are you coming to Iceland again? Uh, to party? Sure, there's tons of partying going on. Planning to stay? Well, okay. Just brace yourself for quiet days at the library, quiet afternoons at the swimming pool, quiet runs by the harbor, maybe an occasional dinner party with Icelandic friends (at the start it can be intimidating since they all speak Icelandic and you don't but this is the same all over the world) and yes, un-partnered salsa nights. Iceland is not yet ready for single people who are truly alone (it's not New York people). It is a country that values family connections, traditions and all things warm and familiar. Just don+t be surprised that one long winter day, with only a cat for company, you might be seized by a strange compulsion to procreate.

Drink your beer. That too shall pass.

(For this essay I borrowed the first paragraph from a previous blog. It just seems the right thing to say at this particular time. This article also appears in http://www.icelandreview.com/icelandreview/daily_life/?cat_id=16571&ew_0_a_id=303881)

Classical Conditioning

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Fri, 14 Mar 2008 01:02:00 +0000

I SAW a bag at one of the bus stops. Like any other normal person, as I would imagine any normal Icelandic person would be, I thought about picking it up and handing it over to the only bus running the route. Maybe, the person who left that bag behind will see it on the dashboard and rejoice at not having lost it at all.

There is one problem.

I saw that bag. I wanted to do what was right. My brain had all the logic laid out. Yet, my body just did not follow through. Pavlov's classical conditioning kicked in with a vengeance. Like his dogs who salivated at the sound of a ringing bell, my body froze and prepared for flight. To me, an unattended bag was a ringing bell equated with a ticking bomb. Like a trained dog, I scrunched my body in to minimize surface area [potential damage from an explosion] and fearfully snuck looks at the bag while waiting for the bus. "This is Iceland," my brain kept saying. "You are being an idiot for thinking terrorists will want to bomb a lava field. There is absolutely no political reason to inject fear into an already resilient population." My body refused to do what my mind was willing it to.

You see, I was born and lived in a place where three million people shared space in what we call a small city. Our capital had 8 million living in an even smaller space and 7107 islands [on high tide] home to more than oh..maybe 20 million souls. Tack on a history redolent with brutal colonial experiences [350 years in the Spanish convent and 50 years of Hollywood] PLUS the recent "war" on global terrorism of which my country was an unwilling sideshow since many of these suicide bombers supposedly trained in the predominantly Islamic southern Philippines, makes for a volatile formula that teaches residents survival skills. Not picking up an unattended bag in a bus stop is one of them.

In the same way that when I got lost at the Reykjavik harbor at around 10 in the evening [took the wrong bus and tried to walk around looking for another bus stop], I frantically called a friend. although my friend is Lebanese, he had lived in the area a few months back and tried his best to reassure and calm me down with talk about how safe Reykjavik's harbor is at night. I wasn't born yesterday you know. All over the world, harbors are NEVER safe places to be in at night! My friend would not let up, so I rang another friend instead. She is Chinese, a woman and understood perfectly what I meant. In less than 5 minutes, she had driven to where I was.

I also marvel at how easy it is to shake the safety equilibrium of Icelanders. Where else in the world can an ordinary citizen's murder make it to the front page? In the Philippines, if you are not rich or in possession of a distinguished family name a murder never gets to the front page...maybe page six.

It will take me awhile I know, to get used to this "being safe more than anywhere else" thing. In a country where everyone practically know each other or at least finds some connection with what is momentarily a complete stranger, it is easy to feel safe. This is something I envy in Icelanders. I just hope that this continues on for the duration of my stay. Still, I am not Pollyanna. My doors stay locked and always, I walk with eyes straight ahead and one hand on mace.

Alimungaw

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 13:45:00 +0000

Matod pa sa buwan
nakit-an ka niyang mituwad
atubangan sa banggiitang mangingilad
gibag-id, giduot
ang imong pulang pulong
sa mga naningkamot sabton
ang pama-agi sa kalipay

dakong kausaban sa atong sabot

hinaot pa unta
dili madugay og mapukaw na ko
niining alimungaw

Temporary

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sun, 24 Feb 2008 02:29:00 +0000

I am his holiday
a touch of tongue
with fiery conversations

Every meeting
is a discovery
my newness overwhelms
every time

It is good he is forgetful
I can do only so much
scrubbing away
every trace of his passing
is tiresome work

there is only enough time
before he comes again

Inglesera ka ba?

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 14:39:00 +0000

Inglesera daw ko. Siguro sakto sila apan kini nga pagmatikod pirmi nato makit-an sa mga dili Bisdak.

Huna-hunaa ug lawom.

Ako lumad nga taga-Sugbo apan ang akong lingwahe saksak sinagol kay ang akong inahan gikan sa Masbate ug ang amahan kay gikan sa Biliran. Sa balay dili na mi makamatikod kung Waray, Sugbuanon o Masbateño ang gigamit. Mao kini nga nanginahanglan ming magsu-on nga mosulti ug pinaka-simple nga Bisaya sa among mga higala. Para lang gud dili kataw-an.

Dugangan pa nato ug Filipino (Kay dili man jud ko mosugot nga Tagalog ang atong opisyal nga lingwahe. Gikan ba diay ang "hinay-hinay" sa Tagalog"?) nga gitudlo gikan grade one hangtod grade 6. Usa ra sab ni ka subject. Ang uban kay gitudlo gamit ang Iningles.

Mao na ni karon.

Ang mga Bisdak maghuna-huna gamit ang Bisaya. Ang ikaduha nato nga lingwahe kay Iningles. Ang Filipino kay ikatulo ra jud. Kunga kita molangyaw sa laing nasod, pirmi nato gamiton ang Iningles. Kung makakita ta ug Pinoy, mag-Filipino ta apan sa pagsinulti-ay ug dugay masipyat jud ug Iningles.

Inglesera jud ang mga Bisdak noh?

Kung sa mga Bisdak lang, wa jud na problema kung mag-Iningles ang imong ka-storya. Bahala na ug barok nga Iningles, go jud dayon. KAY MAS BAROK man ang atong Filipino. WAAAAAh!!! Apan sa mga dili Bisdak kini nga tungod ug tinguha :-) usa ka dakong sagpa!

Ngano kaha?

Paminaw nako, didto sa ilaha ang mga mag-Iningles kay kadto ra jud mga trying hard nga pa-sosyal. Maski ang Iningles nimo tarong ug sakto, wa gihapon na nada kay sa ilahang huna-huna nagpa-sosyal ka.

Ang akong amigo nga usa sab ka Bisdak (sa Ateneo mi-skwela ug naa na sa Canada nag-masteral) mas ngilngig ug huna-huna. Matod pa niya, dako ni nga-issue sa mga dili Bisdak tungod kay didto sa ilaha ang maayo ug Iningles kadto ra jud ang naka-adto ug mga nindot nga eskuwelehan. Ergo, sosyalin og adunahan kuno by nature.

Way pugsanay oy. Lisod mag-translate.

Kay bungoton na akong egg cells (because my egg cells have grown beards)

noreply@blogger.com (My name is Marvi) — Sun, 11 Nov 2007 18:35:00 +0000

I once promised myself that I won´t have kids anymore after 30. Then that year passed and I compromised with 35 (rationalizing) that the World Health Organization has raised the primipara child-bearing age to 40). Well, that is also about to pass and now I am faced with the prospect of "hey, there might not be a gene bag to pass on the smarts to." You see, before considering raising a tiny version of me (horrors!) one needs a willing sperm donor. Willing in the sense that he must be participatory in the kid´s moulding into a productive member of the community. There lies the crux of the matter.

All this thinking and muttering came about after I viewed the friendster profiles of my friends Mariliz, Ogi and Joyce Lureñana. Always, they had pictures of them holding up their greatest achievements. Hmmm...I have no great achievement really, other than being the source of amusement of friends who marvel at the lengths I would go to run away from the ordinary. Well, not having kids is certainly not ordinary...far from humdrum really...I mean, I get to borrow and return the kids to their parents??!!!!???

Maybe I am just bored now. A little antsy from waddling around my new empty flat trying to figure out how to lift a heavy table without breaking its legs and my back. It was not so bad back home but now I am missing a few things with a vengeance!

I miss Larsian barbecue (tami-is ug makasakit sa tiyan)
I miss Talisay seafoods (kanang sinugba nga kitong)
I miss the smell of the sea (the sea here does not smell of salt)
I miss San Mig strong ice (naa diri miabot pale pilsen og light ra)
I miss drinking wine with Mama in her garden (naa siya Thailand karon)
I miss fighting with my sisters ( kay layo sila duha: Bangkok ug Zambia)
I miss going to the movies in the afternoon (kay gabi-i ra ang sine diri)
I am missing a man (one in particular)
I miss talking to Philwide staff (and maybe also scolding them).
I miss my Dad (maski gahi og ulo og sige mangasaba)

I am in short, missing all the things I am supposed to have but cannot because there are some things I must do. Responsibilities have caught up with me. I just wish the World Health Organization is right about the 40 thing.