Thursday, December 21, 2006

A Price Above Rubies

Rubilarian year book

I love red

Red lipstick, red shoes, why not a red dress too

And a red hat, and the attitude to go with it

I have come a long way baby

And I’m pulling all the stops to celebrate

For now I realize I’ve reached the benchmark

And my price is far above rubies.

What did an awkward girl from Pasacao know

Without her mother’s dream?

The UP was where she had a glimpse,

There’s a lot of world to see.

Imagine crossing the great Pacific Ocean

To the other side of the earth

I grew up in America

I grew wings in America

I grew horns in America

That’s what mother would say

When I acted too big for my britches

And forgot for a moment where I came from.

I got my ass kicked in America

But hey, I got to kick some too

And here I am, coloring my hair red-brown

To hide the gray and force the look

To match the heartfelt feeling of being alive and young

Of being twenty-five forever and not changing

Even if life’s triumphs and tragedies have visited

And irrevocable in history.

I had a love that made me understand

What Sonnets to the Portuguese was all about

Or why Holly Golightly and Moon River

Seem meant for me and the 120 of us

Who passed the halls of the UPCM in ’67.

Now 8 are gone

My beloved is gone

We pedal the life cycles, 3 generations after

What does it matter, be it power, riches or fame

Prison, or death, betrayal and divorce or financial ruin

We’re all brothers and sisters

We share our lives always

We Live!

We're after the same rainbow's end,
Waitin' round the bend,
My huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.”

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

100 Years and Counting

Memoir for the UP Centennial
UPCM Class of ’67

I was stunned when my mother said I was going to UP and would enroll in pre-med. I graduated from Colegio de Sta. Isabel in Naga City, Camarines Sur in 1959 and assumed I was going to UST. I wanted to be an architect. My father was an engineer and I grew up reading Popular Mechanics and Photography magazines, as my father was a photo aficionado. I remember he had a makeshift darkroom in a closet off the kitchen. I’d spend hours there fascinated by what he’s doing and eager to be his gofer. I was mesmerized watching images slowly come to life as they traveled through a series of trays he’d instruct me to dip the photographic papers in. I fancied I’d be good in architecture since I can visualize a finished house from floor plans I’d study from my father’s magazines and I was good at sketching. But my mother said I was gonna be a doctor and I would go to the University of the Philippines. Imagine! The idea never occurred to me. But then, when my mother put it in my head with such certainty, I didn’t find it alien at all. In those days to be a doctor is to be next to god and so I never thought I should think that. But since my mother declared it, it seemed to me I could be that, if she thought I could. There were those among my circle who thought it was heretic to go to the University of the Philippines. A good Catholic girl should not do that. But at heart I was rebel enough and with my mother’s endorsement, I really got excited.

Ignorance is bliss. I didn’t have any idea about how competitive it was to enroll in UP. I just did and I started the pre-med curriculum. I did notice some elitism and exclusive congregation among those who came from private catholic schools in Manila, but I was living in the campus dorm Sampaguita, and quickly found camaraderie and friendship from the girls there. Two I met from the start remain my very close lifelong friends. Perhaps the UP milieu was indeed socially and economically egalitarian and only scholarship mattered as status that I spent my years there oblivious of whose parents were powerful or rich or well-known. I settled very quickly feeling confident among the sophisticates there when on the first day of English class no one could spell bourgeoisie but me. From then on I got me respect including the teacher!

Coming from the province, I was amazed by the sheer size of the campus. The Oblation and the administration building behind it with the open columned center, it seemed from another world with the modernity of the architecture. The open circular catholic chapel was something from the next century. I thought, how open, how free, like it was saying come in, welcome everyone. I like to remember the exuberant feeling I’d get whenever I approached the driveway lined with rows of lush and graceful fire trees bursting with color. It saddened me when I learned a typhoon destroyed those magnificent trees. I’ve only been back to Diliman once in 1980. I still have the campus of my pre-med years in my mind’s eye, and I want to keep it that way.

Diliman then seemed idyllic. There were many afternoons reading on the grass and listening to the bells of the Carillon. I am glad to contribute to the restoration of the Carillon. I am outraged and sad that it went silent. I always think of UP Diliman whenever I hear carillon bells chime, wherever I am. Where I live now in Atlanta, Georgia, and since taking up golf, I like to play in Stone Mountain Park, where their carillon plays every hour, Georgia on My mind, Amazing Grace, Broadway tunes, and Christmas Carols during the holiday season. The bells sing and UP Diliman comes to life, as if I’ve never left it at all.

I was so impressed by seeing my first stage Broadway musical Oklahoma! performed by an ensemble from a US University, under the university cultural exchange program. It was so magical, and omigod! They kissed right there on stage, live, in front of everybody! That was so shocking and also such an eye-opener. It was then when I realized there is a lot of world to see. Shortly after Breakfast at Tiffany came out, I was in first year medical school in Herran, and its theme song Moon River struck a chord in me as with our whole class. It became our signature song and our UPCM class of ’67 won the inter-college choir competition in our rookie year.

These first impressions and early experiences in UP to me are seminal, including the ignominious sexist interview for admission in the College of Medicine in 1962. I thought I was the only one treated that way, and as is true with those who experienced humiliation and trauma, I kept it secret for years. Until I grew up. Until I grew wings. Until I grew horns here in America. Then I spoke about how my life flashed before my eyes when my interviewer challenged my bid for admission to medical school. He intimidated me by asking why I was wasting a slot in the college when a young man could possibly have it and not waste it, as I would, since I’ll eventually get married and have children and will decide not to practice medicine. I became cold and my heart stopped for a moment when he said that, I thought he’d deny me admission. I blurted something like “Sir, I will never do that because I’d like to serve humanity!” Whether that did it I’ll never know, because he’s now dead, but I did get in and later when I was able to define what happened to me I became livid. Then I became confused when other women said they were told the same thing but excused their interviewer because they believed he was trying to make them tough. They assured me that that was the practice in those days, that that was the culture, that those men were the products of their time, that one should just accept it. I’m still bewildered. As a product of those times, I guess I should see myself as without expectation about how I’m treated, that I should let others do with me as they please because they have reasons for what they do, that I should stuff that agonizing if brief moment when my entire being froze and my entire life flashed before my eyes, because it was akin to dying, when there is a threat to your dream. I hope that is not happening in admissions interview now. Among my contemporaries of both genders, the view of that kind of behavior is very benign, and sympathetic to the one with power rather than the applicant, and the pressure is for the applicant to forgive.

I’m glad that I’m not god, therefore I don’t have to forgive. Therefore I can ask for apology from the UPCM for the systematic sexist practice that its admission officials perpetrated on women applicants to the UP College of Medicine and condoned by the institution during my time. One hundred years should matter in making progress in this sphere of gender relations.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

I am Woman

November 16, 2006

I am Woman

I was just talking with Evelyn, calling to see how I'm doing since I just had surgery, and recovering at home and i'ts been a week to the day and I'm beginning to have cabin fever. Friends have been dropping by to bring food and keep me entertained, and my sisters Minda and Hazel drove 14 hours from Reston VA to hang out after I came home from the hospital last Friday. My daughter JayJay left her family to accompany me to the hospital and remained until she saw I had plenty of company. My son Stephen, was very sweet. He blocked off his weekend to hang around me and was very charming and solicitous to all the Titas, debating the affairs of the world and discussing philosophy, the war, god,redemption,the US midterm elections, etc., even sitting down with them to complete a quorum for mahjong and stayed up until 2 AM to lose $5. All this attention for a very routine hysterectomy, which half of the women I know have done long before me. Evelyn had hers removed in the 80's, the old way, by opening her belly. I had the benefit of new technology and new philosophy in women's health, preserving the quality of life. I had the supracervical laparoscopic hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy, to remove an ovarian cyst that had doubled in size in the last 6 months. They took out all my unique defining female organs through a small tube inserted through a tiny cut just below my belly button, and left no incision scar after the procedure. Because it left the cervix still anchoring the vagina, I was spared dissection in the pelvic floor which accounted for some prolapsed bladder and low back pain in some women, and the new sensitivity here is that it left the vagina intact, whereas in the old way the vagina had to be shortened to close off the part where the cervix was, and this accounted for loss of sexual responsiveness and painful intercourse in some women. Like this would be a major need, since Johnny had been dead 2 years and the dating game had never been one I enjoyed playing. But hey, it's good to have it preserved, you never know. So here I am, a truly liberated woman, I have gotten rid of the organs that kept me victimized, from feeling bloated and fat and cramping pain, from being smelly and messy during certain periods every month, from being penalized with unwanted pregnancy if I only go for sex for pleasure and throw contraception responsibility to the wind, from having too many sites where something can become diseased and kill me, uterine cancer, ovarian disease, breast cancer, cervical cancer, etc,. So I feel truly free. Now this discourse is for the benefit of those who were inquiring if I am getting depressed because my womanhood had been cut away. Oh my! Don’t they know that womanhood is in the brain, and the sexiest organ is the brain? That it is the seat of orgasm? I bet you I can have an orgasm rivaling Meg Ryan in that movie restaurant scene without anyone or myself touching any body parts! So I’ll keep my brains, thank you.

But I am very grateful for the caring and attention I have received from everyone, I feel very lucky.

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Monday, September 25, 2006

Pista Report

Report of the PACG Heritage Centennial Committee: Pista Ng Pilipinas

Pista Ng Pilipinas, the Philippine Festival celebrating 100 years of Filipino American Migration, held in Atlantic Station Central Park, 17th St. Midtown Atlanta on June 11. 2006, was attended by about 3000 people, and raised $23,000 from 22 corporate and individual sponsors, 12 participating Filipino American organizations, 13 vendors, 9 in-kind donors, and 67 advertisers. After expenses, it netted $ 12,000 towards the PACG building fund. Dr. Josephine K. Tan, the Chair of the governor’s Asian-American Commission for a New Georgia cut the ceremonial ribbon, and Gov. Sonny Perdue proclaimed June 12, 2006, the anniversary of Philippine independence, as Filipino American Heritage Day.

Pista fulfilled its aims of increasing the visibility of Filipino Americans in Georgia, of contributing to the rich cultural diversity of Georgia, fostering solidarity and cooperation among various Fil-Am organizations, preserving and showcasing Philippine heritage, and mobilizing Filipino American youth towards embracing its cultural heritage. It was evident from the attendees, who came from Alabama, South Carolina, and all over Georgia, that Pista fostered feelings of pride and kinship and solidarity among all Filipino Americans. In addition Pista was an effective fund-raising vehicle that opened doors to new relationships with the Asian American community and with the general community at large.

Pista created an expectation and a momentum that must be sustained so that these goals can be maintained.

Recommendations:

  1. Pista should be a major annual event supported by all Filipino American organizations in Georgia. This is where everyone must agree that there will be only one Pista. Pista should be built as a major tourist attraction and should develop recognition in the city much like the Greek Festival or the Cinco de Mayo celebrations. This requires big commitment and resources planning that span several years at a time. A 5 year business plan should be developed and updated annually.
  2. PACG through its Heritage Committee can take the leadership role in development and planning. All Filipino American organizations should be invited and not limited to Federation membership. It is proposed that the Presidents of all organizations should be part of the overall Pista steering committee and from its roster, the executive committee can be chosen which will be defined by the project tasks. The Chair of the committee can be rotated among various organizations annually and that particular organization will take the leadership role for the year. This is where positive competition can be expressed, as each organization vie for who can present the greatest Pista every year. Every Pista host must satisfy the mission and vision laid out by the Centennial Pista. A system of fundraising revenue sharing must be developed so that host organizations can be recruited and rewarded for producing the Pista. This may require amendment of the PACG by-laws. The Executive Committee will consist of the leads for the Solicitation Task Group, Program and Entertainment, Vendors Relations, Marketing and Publicity, Venue and Administrative Management, Communication and Website, Youth Coordination, Souvenir Program and Sponsor Relations. It is recommended that projects undertaken by the PACG Heritage Committee comply with the mission and vision articulated in the Centennial Pista. In this way, because of its large scope, it does not compete with projects launched by individual organizations.
  3. Pista was a free public event. Unlike projects undertaken by the Fil-Am community in the past which were private affairs attended by individuals invited by the community held in contained venues, Pista was open to anyone who happen to be around. To fulfill aims of increasing Filipino American visibility and of educating the general public on Philippine heritage, Pista must be a free public event held in public places where it will attract a new and casual audience. Location is critical, access is critical, built-in casual audience traffic is critical. Pista cannot be held in isolated venues where it is the only destination.
  4. As an open to all and free public event there are city ordinances to comply with such as special event permits, vendor licenses, food permits, electrical hook-ups, thrash removal, security, traffic, regulations. Advance planning is necessary as permits may require 3-6 months for the approval process. Event insurance is required. It is recommended that PACG purchase annual event liability insurance to cover all of its activities.
  5. Corporate solicitations require several months for the request and approval process. It is recommended that advance research be done, as much as a year in advance, to identify the corporation’s pattern and amount of giving and when applications are submitted for review. Inside contact resource is very important to walk the application through. Solicitation letters and materials should identify the level of sponsorship being requested, without information initially on other levels of giving. It is noted that when choice is offered there is a trend to choose lower levels of sponsorship. Major sponsor targets require special planning and handling, and may necessitate, presentation to boards and committees, visits to corporate offices, or individual presentations in any way access can be obtained such as with dinner invitations, golf outings, attendance at banquets, etc.
  6. Publicity, marketing, and public relations can be developed further. This is crucial in bringing Pista to the general public’s attention, and important in achieving increased visibility. Important contacts to develop are editors of newspapers and magazines, and radio and TV broadcasts. Celebrities from local media can be invited to enhance exposure. Media have websites and their policies about publicity and celebrity requests and event placement in their calendars and bulletins can be identified. A dedicated task group should be deployed to canvass, plan and create media releases to all outlets and update the information. County, State and City governments also have event calendars that can be accessed. Grass roots publicity through churches, bulletins, announcements at social functions, etc are very effective.
  7. It is suggested that subsequent Pistas do not have to be scheduled in June, which can be very hot as in the Centennial Pista, plus volunteers were spread thin because of other commitments with other organizations traditionally celebrating Philippine independence anniversary in June.
  8. It appears religious service is a desired component, an acknowledgement of cultural characteristic, and an interdenominational offering is preferred to include the major faiths practiced. This has to be scheduled outside of the published festival hours. Public venues do not permit the holding of religious service, so that alternate venues will have to be secured. This program enhanced attendance and interest in the festival.
  9. This project generated valuable networking contacts, for sponsors, partners, participants such as performers and vendors, media, and volunteers which should be collected and updated in a database. It is recommended that PACG initiate this immediately before it launches its next project.
  10. Every project completion can teach valuable lessons and insights about efficiencies in organizing that need not be reinvented for the next projects and can identify mistakes that need not be repeated. A Pista organizing manual should be created and updated after each event, after committee review and critique of the project. Key members might be retained as an Advisor/Consultant to the next Committee.
  11. PACG might consider applying for a credit card to enable donors to charge contributions and for project committees to charge project expenses.
  12. Volunteers need to be acknowledged for their generosity of valuable time and talent and expertise. Tokens of appreciation go a long way in creating camaraderie and cooperation, which enhance creativity and efficiency. The Centennial Pista Committee was pleased to offer free Souvenir T-shirts, copies of the Souvenir program, handcrafted name badges, and the Twelve Hotel hospitality Suite on the day of the festival. For the youth ushers, an additional lunch supplement of $5 each was provided. It is recommended that PACG acknowledge the volunteers further with a party/dinner/reception in their honor.

Enclosures:

Pista Brochure

Pista Poster

Pista Souvenir Program

Pista Program Flyers

Pista Financial Report

Sunday, September 10, 2006

Music to My Ears

I was thinking I’d share the treats I enjoyed on this trip with my friends, as soon as it’s my turn to host dinner. By the time I completed the tour I have the whole evening planned. The house will glow in candle light and smell of lavender from the hills of San Sebastian. I will await their arrival with Ravel’s Le Tombeau de Couperin, and greet them with his Jeux D’eau. I’d switch to Debussy’s d’ Images during cocktails, and I’ll pour my prunelle and pomme liqueur aperitifs from Navarre, and serve hors d’oeuvres of aged goat cheese, and shaved monk’s head cheese from the Basque region, and of course foie gras with sauterne will be on the cocktail table too. Perhaps duck will be the main entrée and dessert will be the easy confection described by my new gourmand friend from Indiana, puff pastry filled with fresh raspberry marinated in Grand Marnier and a sprinkle of sugar, topped with real whipped cream. Uummm! That would be lovely and will go down well with another Basque liqueur, armagnac with honey and herbs, then finish the meal off with coffee and nibble on chocolates from Foucher’s of Paris.
For the meal I’ll pick some good Bordeaux from my favorite sommelier, the Dekalb Farmer’s Market. Under the influence of these distilled nectars of the grape, my guests will be a captive audience and will indulge me as I recall the pleasures of this last trip.
“ What is more beautiful than a road?” ,
asked George Sand, AKA Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin, baronne Dudevant, 19th century French novelist and feminist who among others was Chopin’s mistress. She and others are some of the exciting personalities I’ve discovered as I embarked on this Spanish-French odyssey to follow the lives and music of Ravel and Debussy.
My concert pianist friend from Baltimore, Linda had been asking me to come with her on this musical tours she’d been participating in for the past 5 years. Most of the participants I’ve learned have been coming for the last 7-9 years and had come to know each other like old friends. Of the 34 participants, 20 are music professionals, either as pianists or teachers, or serious piano students. My own musical background consisted of inventing clever ways of avoiding piano practice or dodging piano lessons from the stick-wielding and stern Sister Cecilia, of the Colegio de Sta. Isabel, where I was a boarding student throughout high school. I remember being in a piano recital, and I‘ve forgotten what piece I played, but I messed up, and felt so embarrassed I wanted to disappear. So I marvel and am so in awe at the skill and artistry that I witnessed from the young concert pianists presented on this tour, Marie-Laure Boulanger, Martin Surot, and Jean Dube.
This trip started to shape like a misadventure with a 2 ½ hour weather delay in Atlanta which caused us to miss our Bilbao connection in Madrid-Barajas, which caused us to miss joining the rest of the group coming in from Charles de Gaulle-Paris, for the hour bus trip to San Sebastian. We had to find our own way in a taxi to the Bilbao bus depot then in a public bus to San Sebastian. We had 5 minutes to spare after purchasing our E8.65 bus ticket, and made it to dinner with the group at our hotel. Voila!
Madrid-Barajas BTW has a spanking new terminal, a marble and steel work of art rising up from the semi-arid Barajas landscape with a roof undulating like a wave and its grid supports fanning out of a center spine like fish bones. Inside was chaos. Long lines at the economy ticketing counters and check-in stations, while the business class counters were empty and manned by several staff just standing around. Service was nowhere to be had. We could have made our flight connection if we were allowed priority check-in, but we were brusquely denied and sent back to the end of the line. The next flight would be 4 hours later.
But why are we in San Sebastian? It’s to appreciate the Basque influence in Ravel’s music for his mother was Basque, and women who helped raise him sang to him Basque lullabyes and folk songs, and these rhythms found expression in his Alborada del Gracioso and the opera "L'Heure Espagnole" , La Valse, Rhapsodie, and the famous Bolero. He was going to write a Basque Concerto Zazpiak Bat, but he never finished it. Truth to tell I was only familiar with Bolero, because of the movie 10 and Bo Derek, but that piece written in his later years was an embarrassment to Ravel. He considered it trivial, and wondered why “a piece for orchestra without music” would be so popular.
We’re also in San Sebastian to understand Ravel, the man. He never married, he lived with his mother, and when she died, it sent him to despair, and he was a meticulous dandy and in his house in Montfort L’Amaury, Le Belvedere, just outside Paris, where he worked until his death of some say Pick’s disease, he decorated it himself and filled it with collections of first editions, Japanese prints, tiny mechanical toys, and many small beautiful, fragile objects like a woman’s house. His sexual orientation is still a mystery, but there is no doubt about his place as a big figure in French music. He was quoted to say that a Basque is full of passion but only reveals it to a few intimates, to counter critics who viewed him as aloof and reticent.
Our hotel in San Sebastian atop Monte Igueldo, offered a spectacular view of the city and the beach and the Cantabrian coast, reached by funicular from our perch. As you descend the view is picturesque with houses built against the hills following the terrain down into the sea, their windows spilling over with flowers, and the hills covered with lavender. The beach is dotted with cabanas and holiday visitors spread out on the sand, many women sunning with their bikini tops off. There’s a mile-long promenade lined by bistros and cafes and benches for watching the world go by. Across the beach is the pedestrian shopping area, festive with lots of people milling about the shops. We wandered into a Picasso exhibit of his bullfight watercolors, which I’ve never seen before. When I visited the Picasso museum in Barcelona 3 years ago, the last trip I took with Johnny, I brought home prints of his erotica drawings. Here I marveled at how this master never failed to emphasize the bull’s erectile parts in every frame!
On the way to Ciboure, the French Basque, Ravel’s birthplace, we listened to his Alborada and Rhapsodie on the bus. I learned the significance of the numbers you see around these parts, 4+3=1. The Basque people is fiercely independent and has a unique language and culture and had been involved in separatist struggles for generations. There are 4 Spanish Basque provinces, Alava, Guipuzcoa,Viscaya,Navarre, and 3 French provinces, Basse-Navarre, Labourd, and Soule. Bilbao and Guernica, are the famous cities. We stopped in Bilbao to visit the Guggenheim Museum. It is a soaring winged piece of art on the banks of the Nervion River, right smack in the center of the city, designed by the American Frank Gehry, magnificent, structurally complex, and its reputation well-deserved. The flower topiary puppy at its entrance gives one a homey, warm welcome. It was showing RUSSIA! an exhibition of art in the USSR during the cold war. There was an art installation there showing through mixed media of pictures, video, sounds, 3-dimensional compositions and participatory viewing, how psychiatry was used to control and repress, through electric shock treatments of dissidents. It was very disturbing for me and destabilized my stance of maintaining an arm’s length with the state hospital policies that I have to apply to the psychiatric patients I work with. I don’t know how I’d ever go back to work but I’ll think about it tomorrow. In Ciboure we stayed in the neighboring plush beach resort of St. Jean-de-Luz, across the river Nivelle, along the coast south of Biarritz and Bayonne. Ciboure is having the Raveliad festival, featuring winners of the Academie Ravel Music Competitions. The 3 nights of concerts we attended were held in the Eglise Saint Vincent, a 16th century church where Ravel was christened. Ciboure has a medieval background and old World charm dating back to the 13th & 14th centuries with a lot of historic monuments around the town. There was plenty of time during the day to explore and shop, lay out on the beach and savor fresh seafood from the Basque coast.
We stayed for a night in Amboise after a 7 hour drive from the coast through the reforested swamps of France and Bordeaux and the Loire Valley, and to stop briefly on the way to visit the chateau and gardens of Villandry. We are in the storied and ancient Loire Valley to visit Chenonceaux, and to discover its significance for Debussy. Marie Laur Barcat, a history professor at the University of Tours, and an expert on Chenonceaux didn’t know how Chenonceaux was important to Debussy, but she is curious and agreed to research the subject and she was taken on a road of exciting discovery and adventure. She was full of life and inspiring when breathlessly she couldn’t wait to share everything that she’s unearthed with us. She has this experience as part of her work. I was thinking how I dislike my work environment and how I long to feel energized and excited about my work and to have people around who are eager and creative and inspiring. I’m beginning to question whether it’s a reasonable trade off being a robot at work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week for 2 more years in exchange for Georgia state retirement benefits.
But Marie Laur had us spell-bound with the intricate connections of six degrees of separation relationships that she discovered about the protagonists at Chenonceaux and Debussy. It goes like, Aha! Enlightenment! Voila! We urged her to publish her lecture.
After visiting Chenonceaux ,built spanning the river Cher,a tributary of the Loire, we stopped briefly for liqueur tasting at the Fraise D’or, then Vochek, our Polish bus driver efficiently took us through the streets of Paris to settle at our hotel near the Opera Garnier. The familiar sights went by, the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Sacre Coeur, Place de la Concorde, Notre Dame and Isle de Cite, Champs Elysees, then we were on the left bank of the Seine, there’s Pont Neuf, Musee D’Orsay, the Tullieres gardens, the Louvre, then the shops along St. Honore, Avenue de Capucines, down Avenue d’opera, then our hotel on Rue D’Antin. Dinner that night was a 5-course wine paired affair at Le Train Bleu, an elaborate belle epoch restaurant in Gare de Lyon. On our 2nd day in Paris, Thursday, August 10 we woke up to the BBC news of foiled terroristic plot to board at Heathrow and blow up 10 planes in the sky on their way to the US. We wondered how it will affect our return trip, but we went on with our program without a hitch. We’ve been from the countryside and the Basque coast, the Loire Valley and these seemed like an unreal world. Picture perfect villages, flower boxes on every cottage window, giant planter baskets exuberant with blooms hanging on town square lampposts and lining the streets, bucolic rural scenery of farms and trees and cows, neat wine trellises planted in perfect grids, brilliant sun and cool weather, homogenous people of one race smiling and friendly. Now we’re back to reality, well, almost.
The big controversy in Paris was over the proposed city ruling to ban topless sunbathing and thong bikinis during Paris Plage. Now on its 3rd year, for a month in July to August the river banks of the Seine in Central Paris is transformed into a tropical beach with 2000 tons of fine sand trucked in and palm trees brought in and then beach chairs and umbrellas are layed out for sweltering Parisians to take in the sun as if they’re in Palm Beach or Mallorca. Only the French can dream up something like this, never mind the 2 million Euro tab. They have just dismantled this when we arrived, but I saw remnants of it as I jogged along the Seine every morning we were in Paris.
From Paris we visited Ravel’s house in Montfort L’Amaury. There on Ravel’s piano, our tour organizer from San Francisco Bill Wellborn and Parisian Marie-Laur Boulanger gave a concert of Ravel music.
The next day we visited Debussy’s house in Saint-Germain-en-Laye where the noted French pianist Dominique Merlet gave a lecture on Debussy and a dissection and demonstration of the chords and scales he used in his compositions, and gave a recital of Ravel, Debussy and Liszt. A concert of four hand piano by Ravel and Debussy followed with Bill Wellborn and Marie Laur and a newly married couple who played Debussy together with such rapport and finesse, it breaks your heart.
On our way to the Channel Island of Jersey, we listened to Walter Gieseking play Claire de Lune, a recording so ephemereal and exquisite, you can caress the moonlight.
I didn’t know Guernsey and Jersey are part of the Channel Islands, I thought one was a cow, and the other was where New Jersey was named for. We crossed the channel from the medieval town of St Malo, where at one point was controlled by pirates, and from whose port Jacques Cartier sailed from to discover Canada. On the ferry during crossing there was a group of happy girls and one of them was wearing a makeshift tiara and a band across her chest saying Bride to Be. They were in St. Malo for a bachelorette party and she was getting married next Saturday in Jersey, where she and her fiancé lived. They were so cute I took their picture, and getting off the ferry later they squealed in glee to see me again and introduced themselves, the bride to be was Emma and her bridesmaid Sophie was her sister. Jersey was part of our tour because Debussy was a ladies man, and he ran off to Jersey to tryst with his mistress Emma Bardac, whom he later married, after she divorced her much older and rich husband, and after her affair with Faure. We’re now in British territory, and English is spoken here, though, they claim an independence from Great Britain, and circulates their own Jersey pound which is not negotiable in England or anywhere else so you have to spend it on the ferry before getting off on the St. Malo side when you return. It is a beautiful if rocky island resort. We had a private concert in the old church concert hall by Jean Dube, a Liszt piano competition winner. He was fantastic, a perfect finale for this musical tour which combined musical pleasures with history, gastronomy, eonology, culture, and a wonderful group of people. After a visit to Giverny to relax in Monet’s garden, we checked into an old Manor in Rolleboise, overlooking the Seine just outside of Paris. There we got dressed up for our gala dinner and said goodbye. My return trip was uneventful, despite the terroristic alert, the only telling sign was their confiscation of my red lipstick, classified as forbidden item on board.
L-R Lani,Baby,Lynda
Volette,Johnny
Noy, Eloi,Hec
Mars,Norma,Alice,Gerry Posted by Picasa

Sweat Shop September 3, 2007

L-R Norma,Mars,Gerry.Lou
Lani,Baby,Lynda
Volette,Johnny
Cecile,Freddie,Demetrio Posted by Picasa

Sweat Shop

L-R Norma,Mars,Gerry, Lou
Lani,Baby,Lynda
Volette,Johnny
Cecile, Freddie, Demetrio Posted by Picasa

 Posted by Picasa

Moon River

Class '67 Labor Day Weekend Sweat Shop. Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Happy Birthday Puring

To Mama, On The Occasion of Her 80th Birthday

We're the Vargas 8, could've been nine if Mama's first seed survived,
I became the first-born, stronger and I was told already had a will when birthed
Four other girls in between and the last, of three boys he's named Mike, he surprised us all when he arrived long after it was thought Mama's years of birthing was past.

Then came Nancy, who had been first a nurse, then flew the world wearing Eastern's badge now Eastern's no more, she went to the University of Maryland, She aced calculus and got herself a CPA, 2 girls named Lara and Maya, and a witty hubby, good ol’e boy Barry

Hazel, fancified, we renamed Anneteele
Has Sara by her side
While Minda, a souvenir from Mindanao
Has Zak carrying the hopes of our youth now past
Bonnie bones, no longer as shy the youngest and last of the dames, can't get a word in edgewise among us, now thrives among her flowers in her garden of dreams

Juan, Jr., Ivanhoe, Banong, or Ban
Carried on his shoulders the expectations of a clan, the first-born male, after 5 tries
Why do you think we grew to eight?
But as these things go, two more came after, So there were three to carry the name in the generation after. Juan, Lemuel, Miguel, the charmed brothers, all have wives but none have sons, it remains for Mike to bear one with Pilar for as of now Zak stands alone to carry the hopes of the clan

We’re the Vargas 8
We sprung from Pasacao, then Mindanao
We were children and adolescents in Panganiban, Naga and Manila are where we saw the possibilities of how big the world can be but not without Mama’s imagination, for it was her dreams and hopes that we carried
When we crossed the big Pacific Ocean, To the other side of the earth, Ahh, the USA
We became grown-ups in America
We grew wings in America
We grew horns in America
That’s what Mama would say
When we begin to act too big for our britches And forget briefly where we came from

So here we are, all graying, what you see now is what you get, we hope we make our Mama proud, we hope we helped fulfill her dreams, it is such a small thing she asks, to be here on her 80th birthday, and remember the times when we Were children at her feet, with Papa at her side, smiling and believing that life will be beautiful and fulfilling for us all

To Mama on her 80th birthday
We can never count the ways we love you
And thank you for all you do for us
Happy Birthday!

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

A Mad Hatter's Triumph

XYZ

After the stirring and emotional Closing Ceremonies of the Avon 3-day at Piedmont Park, Rahrah, (my 2 ½ year old granddaughter) rushed into my arms and right away noticed the smiley stickers on my walker ID tag and cheerily informed me that she gets those stickers too for going to the potty like a big girl. I said I got those for the same reasons, for stopping at every pit stop and using the porta-potties! I drank gallons of Gatorade and water as we were told over and over to hydrate and I swear I've never emptied my bladder as much as these 3 days!

The porta-johns lining the route on every pit stop every 2 miles or so is memorable in this event as much as the sea of blue tents, 3000 plus, lined up in alphabetical grids every night in our movable campsite. My tent address was H-81 and that was my gear and duffel number too and we bring these to the gear truck marked H every morning when we dismantle our camp and the crew transport them to the next site. Every campsite is a veritable city. Again there were hundreds of porta-johns everywhere. There was a huge dining tent where spicy chicken gumbo was served up the first night and pasta marinara the next. After dinner the mess tent was transformed into an entertainment center where local bands and acts were brought in for us to relax and groove. There was a concierge tent where every night a selection of complimentary Avon products were offered. There were the podiatry, chiropractic, medical, and massage tents. There were hot shower trucks and you can sign up for towel service for $4 so you don't have to pack wet towels the next day. It rained the first night at camp and some tents were in 2 inches of water so some had to move their tents in the night or slept in the dining tent. My tent was spared the flooding and I only had to put up with a slight surface dampness. I was profoundly exhausted the first night. We walked the longest the first day, 21.9 miles. I did not think to plan my pace and pit stops so I got into camp late and couldn't get into the massage list anymore. So I took 800 mg Ibuprofen and a long hot shower and zipped into my sleeping bag and I didn't even know that the camp was flooding until morning. The next day I was wiser. I was one of the first 300 to arrive at the campsite and I went to the massage tent right away and got the full treatment within the hour. Aahh! Sheer bliss! I had a blister, a pea-sized no account beginner but I took it to the podiatry tent anyway and they drained it with a syringe, put a band-aid and it was gone the next day. That night the temperature dipped to 40 degrees and when you have to go because you filtered gallons of Gatorade that's when you wish you were a man so you can urinate in a bottle right there in the warmth of your sleeping bag.

The final day was a glorious day and excitement has built up. There was this Harley riding volunteer crew of flamboyant characters in their sleeveless vests with names like WASSUP showing off biceps and wearing ponytails or the belly types showing off bald heads but shod in cowboy snakeskin boots nevertheless. They came roaring vroom vroom in their cycles first thing in the day. They opened the route and we couldn't start walking until they checked the road ahead and said go! They parked at intersections and held the cars, their radios blasting motivational songs like Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" or YMCA. Everybody loved them and of course they relished their role as support and protector. I heard they have been volunteering for the past 3 years and this group had a monopoly going, no one else can sign up unless one of them quits.

I did it! I walked 60 miles for 3 days on October 5-7 and raised $8413 for breast cancer from all of you dear friends who supported my effort. The Atlanta Avon 3-day, 2300 walkers all and at least another thousand crew and volunteers brought in $4.4 M to the Breast Cancer Fund. Sixty-three cents for every dollar is returned to the fund which supports medical research, education, and programs for early detection and treatment among medically underserved women. Last year The Winship Breast Cancer Institute of Emory University and Grady Memorial Hospital received $15.3M from the fund. THANKS to all of you DANKE, GRAZIE, MERCI, GRACIAS, ARIGATO, MAHALO, MARAMING SALAMAT PO!

It was great fun for me all the way. From dreaming up the Mad Hatter's
auction-fundraiser, to writing those corny (but effective!) poems and sending out my ABC, to camping out for 3 days and now I've come to XYZ. The whole effort was a super adventure and a grand party for me. But all good things must come to an end. So I'll start another one. On July 4th next year I'll run the 10K Peachtree Road Race. There will not be any fund-raising for this so no need to take out your checkbook, it's just the biggest road race in the world and I've got to do it!

Embracing Life

We came home from the Filipino-American New Year’s Ball at 1:30 AM, January 1, 2004, exhilarated by the excitement of welcoming the new year in the company of dear friends we have known for 24 years. I was still revved up and wanted to watch the re-run of the Times Square celebration. He said he was going to bed. He felt very fatigued at the party, could hardly walk back to the car, but gallant as ever, he insisted on getting the car and picking me up at the curb. I climbed into bed half an hour later, and as I dozed I heard him gasp. I can’t believe what was happening. I dialed 911 and started CPR. I couldn’t do it properly on the yielding bed, so I rushed downstairs to wake up my live-in houseman so he can help me bring him down to the floor. But as I pumped his chest I was computing in my mind the elapsed time that he didn’t have a pulse. My trained persona as a doctor knew. But I was saying to myself, he couldn’t be dead. I knelt by his side, unbelieving, numb, I felt detached, like I was watching someone else. I screamed to rouse myself. I asked him is he dead, what the devil did he do that for? I scolded him and then I could cry. The EMS crew arrived and I was like a robot. I just followed what they told me to do. I called my daughter, and in an hour friends started coming, friends we just parted with 2 hours ago. When they took the body we sat around in silence, stunned, and then I remembered we were keeping a bottle of Dom Perignon chilled for special occasions. We popped the cork and drank to Johnny. It was the special occasion.

I was overwhelmed with the outpouring of grief, support and love from friends, family and colleagues. It was not enough to stop after the eulogies and then go deal with this loss privately. His golf buddies held a golf tournament in his memory in the dead of winter. Community organizations dedicated dinners and conferred honors. Many wanted to know if they can give money to a cause he supported, in his memory. People just sent money to me outright and I didn’t know what to do with it. My sister suggested funding a scholarship. His career was related to medical informatics. He was well known in my alumni circle as he was sought for his opinions when our class was evaluating our alumni project for our alma mater, which was computerization. It was an AHA! moment when the idea struck, and it proved to be a perfect fit. I knew exactly how I would do it. In the year when lupus reared its ugly head, in 2001 I walked 60 miles in the Avon 3-day Walk for Breast Cancer and raised $857I by throwing a party on my birthday. Instead of bringing gifts, friends brought treasures for auction, in a Mad Hatter’s party where everyone came in original hats to vie for fun prizes. I would recall my Mad Hatter’s team and throw a big auction fund-raiser party. And we did, and raised $20K to endow the Johnny B. Pellicer Professorial Chair in Medical Informatics in the University of the Philippines College of Medicine and we had a blast of a party!

I love life and always had fun as far back as I can remember. Growing up in the Philippines, I spent an idyllic childhood of romps on the beach digging for clams with friends and getting into mischief and receiving punishment as the ringleader. I was adventurous and curious, and even if I got into trouble, the experience always seemed worth it. I loved life before I met Johnny and I loved life when I was with him for 35 years, and I haven’t changed after I lost him. If anything his death taught me to even love every second of life as long as I live. When I saw him across the room for the first time, fireworks burst in air. He gave me an experience I will never forget. He had bad genes. I had a preview of what was going to happen through his identical twin brother’s life who died 3 years earlier, being older in the order of birth. Both had gout, diabetes, hypertension, and then late onset lupus that accelerated the worsening of all conditions leading to complications, in their case, coronary artery disease, kidney damage, and painful neuropathy. During the 3 years of Johnny’s illness I endured with him open- heart coronary bypass graft surgery, lithotripsy, gallbladder laparoscopy, and IV chemotherapy. He wanted to live, and he lived until he died. He succumbed to a second massive coronary when he went on that final sleep. My son wrote in his blog, “ My mother taught me how to live life, but my father showed me that life is worth living. ”

I have many lives. I have my work life practicing medicine, my family life, life with friends, community life, life of personal pursuits and solitude, and I had my life with Johnny. I’m surrounded by loving people with whom I enjoy indulging varied interests, such as golf, mahjong, the theater, dancing, dining, wine, tennis, travel, skiing, karaoke singing, solving world problems, and exchanging scatological and titillating jokes. I laugh loud, and sometimes find myself rolling on the floor.

I’m continuing my life as I lived it before Johnny died. On the year of his death I had the auction fund-raiser and was attending all the community functions held in honor of his memory. I went to Venice during Thanksgiving as that was planned with him before he died, and I discovered I needed respite. It provided me with solitude to find my bearings. On December 24 of that year my mother died. In the first year after his death I went to Antarctica , then I was a principal organizer of our Annual Medical Alumni Conference in South Beach, and after that I went for a retreat in a Zen monastery in Tassajara. This second year of his death, I had a New Years Day open house to gather friends to pray in his memory, then I went to East Africa for a safari, and now I’m chairing the committee to celebrate the centennial of Filipino-American migration with a cultural festival at Atlantic Station in Midtown Atlanta. My life is busy and fulfilling. I’m the Miman of 2 beautiful grandchildren. But there is that part that was my life with Johnny and it’s irreplaceable. I may have another relationship. That will be a new adventure. Life is exciting, it is worth living indeed.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

China

Misadventures in China: The Golden Girls' Grand Tour
August 2002
ON THE SECOND WEEK OF OUR GRAND CHINA TOUR we decided to take a break at McDonald's, in Chengdu. We had just come down from Lhasa, Tibet, where at an altitude of 13,000 feet we had all gotten sick from the thin air, with palpitations, shortness of breath, nausea, light-headedness, and terrible, pulsating squeezing headaches unresponsive to any analgesic. The only relief was to suck oxygen from aerosol canisters you could buy for Y 30. That's how I survived climbing the steep steps and breathing the thick incense of the Potala Palace. Tess was having palpitations and didn't want to test the limits of her cardiac pacemaker so she stayed in her room. Didi tried to get out but couldn't make the palace steps so she decided to go back and take refuge in the bus, because it was also raining and the wind was whipping. Myrna was coming down with the flu when we left Xian, so she also had fever and chills on top of altitude sickness. She only saw her bed and the bowl of the toilet during the 2 days we spent in Tibet. She didn't eat for 2 days and was glad to lose weight, her only consolation. She said she would return to see the sights she missed only if she got crazy enough. She got worried so she agreed to see the hotel doctor who made a room call, gave her a physical, confirmed she had the flu and altitude sickness, then gave her a shot and a supply of medicine, all for Y 100, the equivalent of $12.31. Managed health care in the United States is ripping us off. When we left Tibet we were hungry. Yak cuisine I believe is only cherished by yaks, and we had had enough Chinese food for a week, for breakfast, lunch and dinner, so we definitely needed a break. McDonald's was restorative.
We had started in style. In Vancouver, our gateway to Beijing, we hired a white chauffeured limousine to pick us up from the airport and take us to the historic 5-star Fairmont Hotel, across from Robson Street and the fashionable downtown scene. The weekend stay in Vancouver was the warm-up act, as our trans-Pacific crossing was not until until Monday.
We couldn't wait to get to Beijing. But our excitement was quickly contained when Tess's luggage didn't show up. We saved the day by having a good excuse to shop. However, Air China found the bag in Vancouver and brought it over the next day. Didi wasn't as lucky with her new camera. She had narrowly escaped disaster in Vancouver during security inspection. She was held up a long time when she couldn't operate the brand new camera because she had forgotten about batteries. She therefore had to step out of the security area and arrange for it to be put in checked baggage. It arrived with us only to get lost later in her hotel room.
Beijing was venerable, ancient and impressive. It is hosting the 2008 Summer Olympics and you won't miss to note that with street hawkers pushing Olympic-logoed hats and stuff. It is over 2000 years old, like most of the other places we visited. It's good to visit these ancient places. After all we were taking this trip on our golden 60th birthdays, so in comparison, we are juveniles. You think everything in Texas is big? Well, you obviously haven't been to Beijing. Tiananmen Square holds 1million people. I can't even imagine that. It requires aerobic fitness and good running shoes to traverse. The Forbidden City is forbiddingly huge as well, with one courtyard after another and another. Just to get from room to room is like walking to the next block. Its floors are layered under with 6 meters of stone, to prevent enemies from tunneling in. It was barren. It had no trees, for similar enemy-deterrent reasons. Forbidding indeed! I lost the group in the Temple of Heaven and managed to find myself in the surrounding gardens amidst 600- year-old cypress trees. I thought it was there where the intention of the Temple was felt most and was meant for me to experience. It was like the uplifting one feels in the right moments and solemn state of the spirit in cathedrals. I was thinking that if I never find the group I'd just take a taxi to the hotel. But Peter, our tour manager found me. You'd think it would be smooth sailing from here on, but no!
We checked in for a very early flight to Xian still groggy from lack of sleep because we had played mahjongg until 2 AM and barely had enough time to repack and make it to the airport. Well, our flight was delayed for 4 hours, we were told to our chagrin. But China Southern was nice. They booked all the passengers at a nearby hotel, gave us full breakfast, and told us to rest and take a nap and they'll ring us when our flight was ready. Wow, do you think Delta would do that? Playing mahjongg in hotels is easy in China. Everybody does it in their rooms and every hotel is set up with rental tables and mahjongg sets to hire by the hour. I bought an exquisite hand-carved black agate mahjongg set and we used it to play that 2nd night in Beijing, only to discover that the set was the mainland version, not the familiar Hong Kong set we are used to. Mainland mahjongg has 8 fewer flowers. I had to return the set, regrettably.
Xian was lovely. Our hotel faced the city square and every morning at first light, we saw everyone come out to do Tai Chi. There are no health clubs, so the citizens use public spaces for these activities and for social gatherings. There was a group of women who did their exercises with colorful fans and another group with a leader who called the graceful sustained movements to hypnotic music. With the morning light coming in at an angle against the ancient city walls and reflecting over the Drum and Bell Towers, the whole scene was mesmerizing, surreal. In neighborhood alleys, people played chess and mahjongg, did each other's hair, cleaned the baby or brushed their teeth, socializing simultaneously. And of course the terra cotta warriors were just mind-boggling. The imagination of this particular Qin Dynasty emperor was truly beyond ordinary. The Big Wild Goose Pagoda paled in comparison. The disaster in Xian was that we didn't have enough time to do shopping. Our local guide, Margaret was very proud of her city and was determined to give us and show us the experience she thought we required to appreciate her city. She was a hard taskmaster and exhorted us against shopping for bargains and fakes, and warned us not to fall for ruses and manipulations by these new entrepreneurs. In the end Margaret was right and we enjoyed her city the most, thanks to her.
As soon as we descended from Lhasa to Chengdu, we felt much better. The headaches just disappeared. After McDonald's we're off to Chongqin where would board the boat that would take us on a 3-day Yangtze River cruise. The highlight would be passing through the Three Gorges, which next year will disappear in the biggest dam project in the world. When the dam is operational, the water will rise to 145 meters and flood the ancient towns and cultural relics along the river. When May, our local guide announced that we were going on a 4-hour bus ride to Chongqin and that we should all head for the bus station, we all cracked up. Right away I yelled to Myrna, "Hey, use devastation in a sentence". And on cue Myrna replied, " To go to Chongqin, pirst we must go to de- bas- tey-shon". We doubled over laughing and I'm sure the other folks on the tour group thought we had all gone mad. We went on and on with " Hey, use tenacious in a sentence", and so forth, until we exhausted our repertoire.
A cruise on the Yangtze is not anything like going on a Disney Big Red Boat. There is absolutely nothing to do but sit and watch the scenery. We went on off-shore excursions to ancient temples built on the sides of the mountain plunging into the river. We took a ski lift to the Ghost City (torture chambers and ugly creatures where sinners would go and attempt to be purified for reincarnation). We paddled upstream in tributaries to be in the midst of pristine blue-green crystal waters and feel enveloped by soaring mountain walls on each side. But it didn't take long to discover the art of doing nothing. It was actually peaceful. In the evenings it was mahjongg time, until Didi and Myrna got on each other's nerves and began wagging fingers in each other's faces and got all worked up over nothing. We quit mahjongg right then and there and didn't touch it again. But we love each other, so the next day all was forgiven and we prepared for the eagerly- awaited sojourn to Shanghai. Shucks, I wasn't able to recover my mahjongg losses totaling close to 60 US dollars.
Shanghai is Chicago along the "Bund," New York along the East Bank, and China in the Old Town. It has the pulse of the West, with frenetic shopping on Nanjing Road and gleaming breathtaking skyscrapers in the new city that rose from the East Bank marshes only in the last 10 years. Its sweeping highway exchanges puts Atlanta’s Spaghetti Junction to shame, and the tallest communication tower in the world gives its skyline a futuristic ambience. We found a bottle of French Bordeaux and drank to my 60th birthday. It was Sunday, the 25th of August. Shanghai. Just the name conjures mystery, intrigue and excitement.
The next day we were back to reality. We were going home and suddenly we couldn't wait to get going. The Pacific crossing was sooo long and we needed to stay overnight in Vancouver to get a flight home to Atlanta very early the next day. But that was OK for as soon as we got into Vancouver's spanking new international concourse we were grateful for the clean and deodorized restroom facilities with soap and paper supplies and flushing seat toilets. We never got used to the crouching position and the heavy stink of open floor urinals without flushing water and toilet paper in China. Flushing seat toilets are the hallmark of advanced civilization, don't anybody dispute that! We couldn't stomach another Chinese meal, so we looked for Goldilocks and ordered kare-kare, binagoongan, dinuguan, and sago drink. All was well, we would be home soon. Or so we thought. But we couldn't believe what happened next. Our connecting flight from Minneapolis had been canceled. Northwest was going to put us on their last flight out of there 3 hours later. Unacceptable. Our graciousness and equanimity had been spent in China. We demanded to be booked on another airline at their expense, and we were serious. We landed at Hartsfield on Delta only 40 minutes later than our original scheduled arrival with all our luggage and pasalubong. At last we were home!

Island Fantasies

Island Fantasies, No Man Is An Island
November 3, 2002
What is it about Islands that beckon? I suppose each of us can come up easily with our own vision of island living. I grew up in the Philippine Islands. I know exactly what it's like to live in an island. So what possessed me to pay $450 a day to stay at Greyfield Inn in Cumberland Island where there's absolutely nothing else in the place but it's maritime wilderness? The only lodging in town is Greyfield Inn with 12 rooms; otherwise you backpack and rough it in the wilderness camps to sleep over in the island. Greyfield is a 5-star historic inn operation where dinners are a dressed-up affair preceded by cocktails and civilized conversation in the antique-furnished living room. You are given a tour of the Island by a resident naturalist in an open truck with blankets provided to warm your lap. At the end of the tour, he switches the wheels to the 4-wheel mode and drives on the beach for miles and you see nothing but wide dunescapes and wild horses and shore birds and blue sky and foaming waves. The air meeting your face is crisp and fresh you can just feel the exchange of gases taking place in your lungs, clean air in, polluted city air out. After the tour, you can pick up your gourmet picnic basket and you can take it anywhere to have lunch. You can eat in the wide front porch or on picnic tables on the front lawn, or in the back overlooking the marsh, or you can take it under the canopies of spreading live oaks decorated with hanging Spanish moss, or you can take it to the beach on a bike available everywhere in the inn property. On the beach you can walk for miles without meeting anyone except a wild horse or a flock of migrating swallows, or sea gulls. The inn provides special bikes you can ride on the beach, and I learned to ride the bicycle this way, an exhilarating experience I'll always treasure for years to come. Camping out means, well you know what camping is. It would be not as primitive if you can get reservations in the Sea Camp area, the only developed section of the Island for the public. For $4 a day users fee, plus the ferry ride to get to the Island ($12) you can have camping amenities such as power connection, flushing toilets, cold showers, and fire pits for cooking. But you have to bring everything else of course and carry them on your back for at least 5 ½ miles and then you pack all your garbage after breaking camp and take it on your back again because you're supposed to leave the place undisturbed, without any sign that you've been there. Cars are not allowed on the Island unless you're a descendant of one of the 10% landowners in the island. The rest of the island is owned and administered by the Park Service as a National Seashore. That was designated in 1972 after wrangling by conservationists, developers, politicians, and the heirs of industrial tycoons, the Carnegies primarily. Now the Island is available to the public albeit in limited ways. Because it is operated as a wilderness area there are restrictions in its use. The 4 camp sites 3 of which are in wilderness areas, only accept 20 reservations each at a time for a maximum of seven days each stay, so the island only sees about 50,000 visitors a year. The waiting list is about 6 months. It is the same for Greyfield Inn, the only private enterprise on the Island, by virtue of heir succession. If the owners decide to sell the National Park Service has first option on the property, which it will exercise for sure so that the whole Island will be all public eventually. I made reservations a year ago only to cancel it because Johnny was stricken with virulent systemic lupus. When he got slightly better to allow travel, I made another reservation 6 months ago to visit the Island to celebrate our 34th wedding anniversary. I mentioned this to friends during dinner at home one night and in a single response everyone wanted to come too. Right then and there we logged on the Inn website and as fate would have it there were 3 rooms available and the Abelleras, Mallaris, and Apanays booked them that very instant.
Why did we want to go? Why all this excitement about an Island? The first time I returned to visit home, after being away for 20 years, we went to a resort island off Cebu. It was a different experience than what I had when I was growing up in Pasacao. Though those childhood years in Pasacao I remember as priceless, the island experience this time as an adult has other yearnings and fantasies tacked on to it. Perhaps I have been influenced heavily already by western ideas, or have I drifted slightly from my roots? I said then, “ Oh, let’s buy a little Island here to retire to!” And what was I envisioning then? I had an image of an idyllic paradise. Sunshine and balmy weather all year round, fragrant breeze blowing your hair, walking barefoot on the beach under moonlit skies, I, the queen of this piece of earth, separate from the rest of the world, in my own domain, self-sufficient and beholden to no one. I will surround myself with beauty and with the joyous company of family and friends, who will come and visit and I will shower them with hospitality and generosity and I in return will be enriched by their presence and affection. That was the scenario. I thought it was original then until I learned about the settlers of Cumberland Island, especially the last tycoons who built their mansions there and tried to live in the Island albeit on a grand scale, but the broad stroke is exactly as I saw it in my whimsical musing.
The Island belonged to the Timucuan Indians in pre-Columbian times. They are now extinct, killed by the diseases brought by the European colonists, to which these tribes didn’t have any immunity. They were tall, reaching seven feet to the Spaniard’s average 5 ½ feet. They were formidable and brave warriors to be sure, but the white man’s germs wiped them out and a succession of these white settlers tried to live in the island. When the English drove out the Spaniards they named the Island after the Duke of Cumberland. Later the Crown parceled the Island to loyal subjects and the Island evolved into Plantations until they were broken up after the Civil War. The new industrial tycoons, the Carnegies primarily bought most of the acreage and lived their fantasies on the Island in much the same way I envisioned it. The ill-fated John Kennedy, Jr. and Carolyn Bissett had very romantic and exclusive notions of the Island and had their supposedly secret wedding there. The Dungeness Mansion, which is now in ruins, was the center of that lifestyle. It was surrounded by gardens, it hosted glittering socials for family and VIPS and the beautiful people of the era, it cultivated crops and raised farm animals, it fished in the surrounding waters, it was a self-sustaining entity. But obviously it didn’t last, the dream cannot be sustained. Today the Island is close to how it existed when the Timucuans boiled the sap from the indigenous holly bushes that grow on the North Shore and in their ceremonial rituals they formed a circle and drank this brew until they were intoxicated to the point of throwing up. So our company of dear friends drank Cabernet that we smuggled in our luggage, we toast our friendship, our affection for one another, and cherish our fortune of being together as couples for over 30 years and for $450 a day we got to live our Island fantasies and we only have to pay the price in expendable dollars. That was a good deal, if we forget about the swarm of ticks and gnats and mosquitoes that would eat one alive whenever the air gets warm. We were glad to flee the Island in a fast boat to escape this attack.

Grouper Omelet

February 2004

Bring 7 friends for a beach weekend and cook in and have a seafood night
Start with Dom Perignon 1993 and Brillat Cheese from Star Provisions
Follow with a fine 1993 Barolo and a voluptuous 1994 Brunello and a silky Cabernet
Serve colossal steamed fresh red shrimps from the gulf, seared glazed scallops, assorted seafood & spinach stew, grilled vegetables, and a huge grilled grouper
Finish with rum cake and Grand Marnier and Remy Martin Champagne Cognac XO
Go to bed and wake up groggy and watch the sunrise with your morning java cuppa
Flake a fistful of the left-over grilled grouper
Combine with chopped left-over sliced tomato from the meal before last
Scrounge for left-over mango and onions and chop
Heat a non-stick pan with 1 tbsp oil
Beat 4 eggs and set aside
Sauté the flaked grouper with the chopped thingies
Spread solids evenly on the pan when wilted
Pour the egg over and let the underside set over medium heat
Take a plate and balance it over the pan
With a flick of the wrist and with confidence, turn the pan over the plate
Then slide the inverted omelet back to the pan and finish cooking until the opposite side is set.
Go back to your coffee and let the others cook the rest of breakfast.
Bon Appetit!

There's Wine in Them Thar Hills

There’s Wine in Them Thar Hills

In fancy company, we like to think of ourselves as eonophiles. But among kin and friends, we are viewed as a bunch who just like to get drunk and get silly on a scheduled basis, more or less. So every month we have dinner in each other’s homes and introduce personal wine discoveries to accompany the food. For the most part, our search would take us to Dekalb Farmer’s Market or Costco, or World Markets, to browse their wine ratings and check the bargains. But some of us who are retired and can take off anytime to travel have gone for wine pilgrimages to the hallowed and ancient lands of vinification themselves, Italy and France and to the noveau lands of Sonoma and Napa Valleys. In all of these the delight is in outdoing one another in displaying one’s wine tasting vocabulary, never mind that we have no idea on how to judge the wine. But then, just like beauty is in the eye of the beholder, good wine is in the palate of the imbiber, a matter of personal taste. This is the only way to view this exercise if we are to keep our affection for one another. Otherwise it would be an enologist’s war, for each one of us is passionate when we describe how a particular vintage affects us. We can wax poetic with our tongues, describing a particular vino’s bouquet, or legs, or sweetness, or dryness, or it’s finish or nose. Sometimes the descriptions can become X-rated, particularly when you’re searching for the subtlest nuance to convey a wine’s body. Do you notice how consistent wine’s imagery is with seduction? If you close your eyes and listen to a wine’s description, you’d think one is describing a full-bodied voluptuous woman with a fresh grass smell and great legs and ruby or cranberry red lips with an apple or musky aftertaste! You would notice in this particular group too, with an aggregate of 145 married years among them, how the talk easily descends into the gutter after the first few bottles are uncorked. The descriptions become wild, then crude, as boys who’ve had a few are wont to do. But since their tongues are now nimble and loose, and the grape’s nectar is in the head, we learn of secrets that help them to stay the virile boys that they are. So we look at them with indulgence and generosity and refrain from washing their mouths with soap.

The year before we decided to mark our anniversaries of marital togetherness in Cumberland Island and the fond memories still linger and are reviewed every time we meet. We note that I learned how to ride the bicycle there, on the pristine white beach, witnessed by shore birds and wild horses, fear of falling easily whisked away by the gentle reassurance of friends and the exquisite peace bestowed by the tranquil island that still exists as god intended it to be. This year we decided to go to the mountains and witness fall in its splendor. A friend offered the use of his mountain retreat nestled on a hill along the banks of the Chestatee River. But what can one do in Dahlonega, Lumpkin County? Is there any restaurant one can dine in? What can we do to fill the time? Once you’ve viewed the scenery, what is there to do? We look down on the Chestatee as we swing on the wide back porch. We supposed we can go fishing. But it’s past the fishing season and the fish are gone. From March to September the Chestatee obliges anglers with rainbow and brown trout, spotted, white and redeye bass, stripers, bluegill, and redbreast. But it’s now November. Our cook ( who we brought along fearing that there’s no place to dine in the mountains), the only one to get out in the water and cast a fishing pole, caught thumb-sized specimens not fit for the grill, so they had to be set free. In the summer one can also float down the Chestatee, on rafts or ride the white rapids on certain stretches of the river, or view the falls that drops about 60 feet along the river’s way. This river’s headwaters springs from Lumpkin County and meanders along valleys and hills and empty into Lake Lanier. It is the little brother to the mighty Hooch. In some sections, the river bottom had been defaced by dynamite blasting, river rocks and boulders disturbed from their natural state by man prospecting for gold in the Dahlonega quarries, the site of the first US gold rush in the 1800’s. Did you know that there was once a mint in Dahlonega to strike those gold US coins? You can learn all about the first gold rush in the USA in the Gold Museum in Dahlonega and visit a gold mine and pan for gold, and be entertained, if that’s your thing. But our thing is to shop, so we set out to the historic town square where there are several antique centers filled with treasures as good as gold. My shopping coup is a wine cork bulletin board with pewter wine-themed push pins, a marvelous souvenir of our expedition!

We discovered there is wine in them thar hills! Because of its elevation, about 1600-1800 feet above sea level and the cooler temperatures, the north Georgia mountains is hospitable to growing certain varieties of grapes, notably cabernet francs and merlots. There are dedicated eonophiles and vintners, who for the sheer love of vinification, staked out their fortunes in these mountains, and just like the early prospectors for gold, they dug into the ground to find their treasure. Today, they are pouring their initial vintages from the barrels and producing wines that are gaining attention from the big boys and attracting audience like us from established wine-tasting touring centers. We visited Three Sisters Vineyards. The name was inspired by the spectacular view of the three mountain ranges straddling the tri-state border of Tennessee, North Carolina, and Georgia in the north, just a hop and a skip away from our cottage on the Chestatee. They are uncorking their 2001 Meritage wines, so named because of their merit and heritage. Accompanying it are fine handcrafted cheeses from Sweet Grass Dairy Farms in Thomasville, Georgia. On this day we sampled Botana, an aged goat cheese which won 2nd place in the American Cheese Society Competition, and a cheddar, Clayburne, which won first place in the cow cheese category. Our hosts during the wine tasting were the owners, Doug and Sharon Paul, who craft their wines with love and pride and also collect fine handcrafted jug pottery indigenous to the region. They have a Howard Finster work behind the bar. Their Meritage Merlot won first place in the Wine Spectator’s ratings of Georgia wines in 2003. The wine trail lists several wineries; Frogtown Cellars, Wolf Mountain Vineyards, Habersham Vineyards, Crane Creek, Chestnut Mountain Winery, Chateu Elan, Fox Vineyards, Split Rail, Tiger Mountain, Puckett Family Vineyards, Georgia Wines, and Persimmon Creek. Napa Valley, watch out! I came home with a bottle of Three Sisters 2001 Cabernet Franc.
We brought a cook with us fearing that we can’t find any place to eat, but we were mistaken. There are many fine dining establishments in the area. We dined in, but decided to not skip the Southern family style dining at the historic and must-eat Smith House, and had lunch there on our way home. An endless stream of juicy fried chicken, roast beef, ham, vegetables and side dishes are served throughout, with a peach cobbler a la mode to finish the meal. Yummy!
We went to the mountains to be away and to be together and to enjoy food and wine. Our first night we had Italian sausage spaghetti marinara, accompanied by Italian wines, a fine Barolo and Riserva Chianti among the 4 bottles we consumed. The second night, we had grilled pork loins accompanied by various Cabernets from California, Chile and France. In between, during snacks and mahjong, we finished off a Beaujoulais, Merlot, Spanish and Argentinian reds, and a German Riesling. Evening entertainment was Mahjong, and to have a quorum we needed Eudy to play. But she didn’t know the game and she was reluctant to be taught, and she whined and complained, and protested. But she was given a proposal she can’t refuse and so she learned the game and played to complete the women’s quorum, albeit with the coaching of our cook who was at her side throughout. Our cook is a skilled player, so it must be Eudy’s luck that determined her position of being the only loser after 2 nights of play. Our conscience prevailed on us in the end and we didn’t accept her money. But on our next outing, she will not be spared, we will take no prisoners!
We were wishing our stay was longer but it was time to go home. We parted at Smith house after the belly-busting all-you-can-eat lunch. For half of the group it was to drive down GA 400 directly to go home or stop by the premium outlet mall in Dawsonville. For the other half that are golfers, the day will just begin with a tee time at Gold Creek, the Robert Trent Jones complex on Hwy 136. I shot a 97, a perfect conclusion to a wonderful weekend among dear friends who cherish family and each other who with their partners share 145 marriage years together. The bacchanalia of food and wine, gambling and laughter, rising above the rumble and swishing waters of the Chestatee will prompt fond memories for many months until next year’s get-away.

Venice

Venice
Thanksgiving 2004

Venice is a Renaissance theme park, like a Michelangelo Disneyland. It was just like in the pictures, everywhere you go it's a Kodak opportunity. I had a great time and didn't even mind much that I was alone. Johnny and I planned to do Venice before he died on January 1 and I decided I'd go anyway. I just went wherever my feet took me or just jumped into any waterbus that comes by and went wherever it went and got off and explored if something seems appealing in that stop. It wasn't crowded at all and the weather was partly sunny, low 50's, no flooding. Most tourists were Europeans, gets there by bus, about 6-8 hours from anywhere in the mainland, lots of honeymooners, there was a large group of Korean and Japanese tourists. I went to non-tourists spots like the island cemetery St Michele, one of a kind. I saw a gondola carrying a coffin covered with flowers on its solitary way to join the funeral party (missed to take pictures of this, I was fumbling for my camera and my waterbus sped by). I hung out at the fresh market, where they sold sparkling fish under tall arches and baroque buildings, and the cheeses and smoked meats spilling over just looked like they're to die for, not to mention the patisserie and you'd love the gelatos, hand made fresh everyday! Checked out Lido just to see what's it's all about. The beach is littered with cabanas that looked like Porta-johns. I can't imagine how they find space to stretch and sun themselves. I stumbled on the Jewish section, the oldest ghetto in the world where the word ghetto was used to designate their segregated community. Shakespeare's famous Jew was from Venice right? The theme park concept continues with evening entertainment. I went to a Chamber concert of Mozart, Bach, and Vivaldi with musicians in period costumes at the Doge's Prisons, crossed the Bridge of Sighs to get there, which was a non-descript footbridge. Also went to an Opera concert of Rossini, Mozart and Donizetti Arias again in period costumes, at the Scoula of S Teodoro. All their buildings are works of art so I didn't bother to join any city tour, just went on my own. Ate at their osterias, had spaghetti with squid and black ink sauce, and grilled seafood, and of course I have to have tiramisu, which originated there. Shopping should have been fabulous and actually cheap since the stores are boutiques and sell one of a kind items made by the owner artisan designer. Knits, leather and Murano glass jewelry and serious gold and precious stone jewelry, are mouth-watering but my shopping budget was already all spent on one item, a 10-piece Murano glass nativity set with 24-K gold highlights, which I had to hand carry all the way. The wines were expensive, still can't afford the Barolos, Brunelos, and Amarones . A half bottle Valpolicella is what I had with dinners, about Eu16. I had dinner conversations with diners at the next table. People are very friendly, and European tourists want to practice their English so they are very chatty. My hotel was very charming, a refurbished palace just steps away from a vaporetto stop, very convenient and a 10 minute walk to San Marco square and to the Rialto bridge, with old world service. What a treat, after all the rudeness of the airline people on my way over. My plane was late from Atlanta missing my connection at Kennedy but they were late too and were still boarding late-comers, so I pressed to be boarded, and this airline agent bitch threatened me and told me she can choose not to board me if I didn't keep my mouth shut. So I kept my mouth shut. It worked for me, this Pilgrim's holiday solo trip, next year I think I'll do Amsterdam.

Antarctica

January 2005

It’s the Last Continent, the Great White Continent, the last frontier, and I’ve got to visit it, because it’s there. And since everyone is now going to Alaska, going to Antarctica is the last exotic thing to do. The world is getting smaller and smaller, and soon, space will be the next frontier. But for now, it’s got to be Antarctica.
It is very white. Glaciers and ice mountains and sea ice and floating icebergs as far as the eye can see. But if you look closer on a clear day and snippets of sunrays can come through the perpetual clouds blanketing the continent, there are subtleties of color that you can discern. Blue ice shimmering in the landscape, cascading and disappearing into turquoise waters with a faint suggestion of emeralds as the waves lap against white monuments that seem to float out of the sea. And the landscape is vast, overwhelming, and for the early heroic explorers, inhospitable and tragic. The pristine mountains forbid trespassing, the certain outcome is death. But we are adventurers in the tourist age, and we arrived in Antarctica in a sturdy Finnish built expedition cruise ship, the first of its kind, our “little red ship” the Explorer. It’s small enough to navigate around the ice and get us close to shore so we can land in our jaunty 10-man rubber Zodiak boats. Compared to large cruise ships who now also troll the area, we can explore the land indeed and get our feet on terra firma in the continent, as compared to merely sightseeing and watching the scenery through binoculars. In our zodiacs following the whales we came so close to feel the shower spray from their breathing holes and then smell their really bad breath.
To get to Antarctica we had to fly from all over the planet in commercial jets to get to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world in the province of Tierra del Fuego in Argentina. These names are all too familiar to us with our history of conquest by Spain, as the Magellan Strait is in these parts, and not far away is Cape Horn. Without the discovery of these waterways that connect the Atlantic to the Pacific Oceans, our destiny as a country may have been very different.
To get to Ushuaia from Atlanta, you fly to Miami (1 ½ hours), then to Buenos Aires (8 ½ hours), then to Ushuaia (3 ½ hours). Can you imagine the flying hours and routes of those coming from Australia, Korea and India and Norway? The Southern hemisphere is 2 hours later than EST, and the seasons are reversed as you know. So it’s summertime in Antarctica and its 29-35 degrees F and it’s sizzling!
We were told that we had been very fortunate to have fantastic weather during our sailing. It takes 2 days and 3 nights to get out of the Beagle Channel and get onto the Drake Passage then cross the Antarctic Convergence and then finally be in Antarctic waters. In fantastic weather with hardly any wind our little red ship was rocking and see-sawing in
billowing waves as big as our ship itself. Everyone had drug loaded little round band-aids stuck behind their ears or swallowing Dramamine by the fistful. I prided myself as an old salt, having grown up in Pasacao, with a fisherman for a grandfather, so I refused drugs, but yielded to an afternoon in bed to prevent me from shaming myself. The Drake Passage is open sea and notorious for turbulence. There is no scenery, there’s nothing to focus on except the lapping of waves against the hull of the ship. But behold an albatross! It came from nowhere. It followed the ship and carried the wind to take us to Antarctica. Pumped up with tales about the albatross and Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s The Ancient Mariner, the tour staff, at the conclusion of our voyage, had no problem raising $2700 from the passengers in an auction to save the albatross. The Scot, who owns a sailboat, bid $1000 on the ship captain’s map of our journey.
And finally, land! Er, Ice! We are in Antarctica.
We are told nobody owns Antarctica, that there’s a treaty between the countries to ensure that is so, but Argentinian and Chilean children are shown from the first day of school onwards, their country’s map with Antarctica as part of it. Go figure what will happen a generation from now. There are no living things in Antarctica except cellular organisms. The living is in the waters around it, the penguins that inhabit the shores and the seals and whales and seabirds. I saw Chinstrap penguins, Gentoo penguins, Adelie penguins, Macaroni Penguins, leopard seals, weddell seal, elephant seals, minke whales, and orcas. On the continent we made landings on Paradise Harbor, Neko Harbor,Wilhelmina Bay, Aicho, and the Lemaire Channel. The flora and fauna had more variety in the subantarctic islands, such as the South Shetland Islands with moss vegetation, and seabirds such as kelp gull and skuas. They were very interesting to learn about, but after you’ve seen one you’ve seen them all, and though the penguins were very amusing and a joy to watch, you can only watch their limited behavior repertoire so much. Besides the rookery stinks to high heaven, a fishy, decomposing odor not unlike bad bagoong. You can’t tell that from the neat, elegant photos taken of these birds.
I began to watch the clock for the next meal. The gourmet meals on board are prepared by a young German cook who had been to Cebu and other parts of the Philippines to recruit kitchen workers. He likes their work ethics and attitude. The ship crew consists of 30-some Pinoys out of a crew of 50’ish. There are few 2nd level officers, and ship engineers. I got to know most of them, with 2 from Naga City, and several from Bicol. I spent a night playing mahjong with them and got beat, but they refused to accept my money, so I didn’t join them when they invited me back for tong-it. But they had calderetta one night and to me that was a welcome culinary break from the gourmet fare in the dining room.
I began to entertain myself getting to know the passengers. We are a broad sample of tourists, mainly Caucasians from Canada, Australia, United Kingdom, Scotland, Belgium, USA, a large tour group from Portugal, an Indian couple from Bombay, a Korean couple from Pasadena, and myself the lone Filipino passenger. One of the Pinoy crew said to me, “Ikinararangal po namin na pasahero rin kayo”. It makes me wonder how they feel about themselves being forced by economic realities in the Philippines to work in a service occupation and be separated from their families for years. There are 5 young women in the crew. They feel that they are treated fairly, but they work long hours. It seems the Pinoys are well liked in the industry because they are efficient, hard workers, and docile.
But to go back to the passengers. There are a lot of 20-somethings in this group, who are taking a break from life to find themselves by traveling all over South America for months with their backpacks and shoestring budgets. It was a splurge for them to be in this Antarctic cruise, as it is for me too, for this itinerary is still limited and the cost remains a premium. Some have quit school, others are in between jobs because they quit the job they didn’t like, or have been laid off, and others just can’t find jobs and don’t know what they want to do. Then there’s a group of young couples who have jobs and mortgages but are traveling before the children arrive. There’s hardly any in the middle ages, a few in the 50’s, and a large group of fit and able seniors in their 70’s with the oldest at 81. I felt out of place, neither considering myself as a young one or a senior but that didn’t stop me from amusing myself. I jumped in the icy waters with the young ones, sang with Michael, the tour staff pianist, in the lounge, told dirty jokes with the solo traveling guys, talked about the children with the women, and sat at the bar stool to shoot the breeze with anyone until the bar closed. Deischa, the Pinay bartender got a big tip from me at the end of the cruise, because she took good care of me at the bar. The tour staff hung out at the bar and I got to know intimately their motives and rationale for working in the business. It’s amazing how a little wine or distilled spirit can loosen the tongue, but I wasn’t working so I steered the topic away when they got serious. They’re not about to get an analysis from me, after all they’re not in my health insurance reimbursement plan. The Scot runs away with the most flamboyant designation in the group. He walks around indoors in his shorts, and in our Zodiak landings, he’d come down to the ice in his knickers and plaid kilt. I asked him if he’s wearing any special garment under his skirt. He said , “It shrinks”. What did he mean by that? The Odd Couple are lovely people, but they stand out like Mutt and Jeff. The guy must be 300 lbs and 7 feet tall and the woman has the stigmata of an achondroplastic dwarf and barely passes the 4 feet mark. He is all arms and legs flailing while getting in and out of the Zodiak, he doesn’t have any idea how to do it. I thought he was going to crash down into the rocks. He was all contorted trying to find a footing on the boulders while taking pictures of the penguins. And he tried to be gallant by letting everybody climb into the zodiac first while he holds it steady, but mama mia, he was trying to put his legs first into the boat and standing rather than do the proper technique of sitting on the side and easing into the boat, with a low fulcrum of gravity. So the Zodiak is unbalanced and he’s there teetering on one leg and was about to fall so he catches himself and puts his foot on wherever. And it was in a hole on the bow where the rubber connects to the rigid stepping platform, and his leg is caught and he couldn’t extricate it and he’s there all 300 lbs sprawled and flailing. It was so hilarious and I was shaking so bad from controlling myself from bursting into laughter. No one was laughing. I can’t believe no one was reacting. This group of 108 very different people is like that, very polite, very proper, very rule-abiding, very constipated! And his wife so sweetly helps him and suggests he take off his leg from the boots so he can extricate himself, then she asks if he got the shot of the penguin and acts like he’s not making a big spectacle. Then there’s the GP from Chicago who also runs an addiction inpatient program, who takes notes at all the lectures and reviews them and underlines them later, and asks clarifying questions, then endlessly talks about the subject long after the session. Whew! And what about The Vamp from hell, which at first I didn’t recognize as such. I didn’t have accommodations in Ushuaia, all the hotels were booked by the time I tried to reserve one. So I was gonna wing it and this young woman was inquiring before me at the airport about accommodations, and she’s part of the cruise. So we agreed to team up and share a room. The tourist desk found us an expensive hotel room but she requested a hostel because she’s trying to save money. It was fine with me. I’ve never stayed in a hostel so I was curious. What we got was very nice with 2 beds and a private bath. After dinner I had no objections to bar hopping for a while. I had no idea she was hunting for prey when I went to the Irish Pub with her for a drink. When I realized she was hunting I left her to return to the hostel and told her I’ll leave the door unlocked for her. Shuffling sounds and a strong odor woke me up as daylight was breaking and I opened my eyes to see her having sexual intercourse in the next bed. It was a small room and enclosed and the odor of undeodorized and unbathed male body is making me nauseated. I yelled at her to ask the obvious, what she’s doing and how dare she bring this man into our room and she should leave right now and do it elsewhere. The 2 left quickly and without protest but the reeking smell hung in the air permanently. So much for her. I avoided her like the plague in the ship. The Hostess, is this kind lady who is so nice, she takes care of everyone in her table wherever she happens to sit for dinner, inquires about everyone, and includes everyone in the conversation, and is very accomplished with this task. She’d be a bore saying all the right things but she’s genuine and very sincere, she remembers all the names, and next day she’d greet you with your name. At the end she sought me out to say goodbye, to reassure me that things will get better. She lost her husband 9 years ago and now she has remarried 4 years ago and happy again. She pried it out of me that I just had a similar loss, when in fact I had planned not to talk about this in this cruise. She made me cry, but it reminded me that what I’m doing is trying to bear the loss. I’m nowhere near things getting better.
So like the little red ship that has to reposition in the ice and set our course around the Great White Continent, I have to do the same. I have a lot in common after all with the young ones in this tour. They too are trying to find their position and mapping the course of their journey.
The return trip seemed endless. The Drake Passage crossing was real bumpy, and this time for a change, we rounded Cape Horn, and that was being like in a martini shaker. Everyone took to bed early, even the party-going contingent of Portuguese tourists. This group is 30-some strong. They took over the lounge every night and partied, but they didn’t mingle much. They spoke Portuguese among themselves and it seems only a few speak English. They came from all over Portugal, put together by this travel agent who brought a TV crew to film their entire experience for travel marketing. They had a popular talk show host with them. She interviewed the tour staff and ship crew, made commentaries on what she’s observing, and her cameraman was all over the place, even practically stepping over the penguins. Some of the passengers were not fond of them. I got to chat with a woman in the group who is a diplomat and who is serving as president of the UN Committee on Women’s Rights. Her husband painstakingly harpooned each pea on his plate and set them aside, because he does not eat peas. His mama never taught him, I guess. Quite a few from this group took the dare to jump in the ice. The talk show host’s assistant interviewed me after I emerged from the freezing Antarctic and I told her that the experience was exhilarating and that everyone should do it before they die. So who knows, I may still be shown on Portuguese TV. On our way back to the ship after the icy dip, and we’re all shivering in the Zodiak, a fantastic thing happened. The ice mountain in front of us was sliding in very slow motion, and right before our eyes the wall of ice fell into the sea gracefully like a penguin entering the water. It was calving. It was silent. We were mesmerized and stunned. Then a huge wave swelled and was coming before us, like a tsunami! And in a flash the ocean between us and the ship was littered with huge ice floats. Our Zodiak can’t maneuver through the ice litter. We had to wait for over half an hour until the ship can reposition and make a path for us to get through. It was the wrong moment for us to take that icy dip. But the ship had a sauna, and the brandy later felt warm and soothing.
When we disembarked in Ushuaia very early in the morning I have until 2:30 pm until my flight back to Buenos Aires, then to the States. I was determined to play this golf course there, and had a 9 AM tee time. I played the Juno golf course when I made my Alaskan cruise. That was the northernmost golf course I played, so I just had to play this golf course at the end of the world, 54 degrees, 29’ 52” South Latitude. The Ushuaia golf Club is a 9-hole course at the foot of the glacial mountain of Tierra del Fuego, along the river Pipo. The day was gorgeous. I was so excited to play after having been at sea for 9 days. My first hole was a triple bogey but I finished with a par on 9th, and in between was of no concern.