14- Dreams.

                                   

                                      Le Goof. At the Royal Palace, Bangkok, Thailand. 2011.

 

 

 

You. Yes, you. How often to you travel? How often do you make memories?

 

I am not one of those people who travel every week, or every month, and even annually- although lately, I have been quite fortunate.

 

What is on your travel bucket list?

 

I have been to the United States before, but, I have not been to New York, and, particularly, San Francisco. Those are two big cities I would love to bounce around in.

 

How about Europe? I have gushed about how my trips to Holland and Italy were "the best trips ever". Why even think that anything can top that? Because, well, every trip constitutes a new adventure. The "best" along one avenue can remain along that one road, and not apply to other paths. A vacation in Britain, or a trip to Greece, would be amazing.

 

What? No witty reparte on a specific travel story? Or facts about a hotspot for tourists? Well, not all travel blog content is cut and dried in that way. This piece is about dreams. Yes, dreaming.

Typically, "dreaming" is frowned about while swimming "with the current". Don't daydream when you're main purpose for the day is to complete a P and L. There is no room for deterrence of focus when need to finish that Powerpoint Presentation.

 

There is, however, room to imagine dragons, flying elephants, and grandiose palaces when you want to have the BEST VACATION EVER.

 

Think about how absolutely swimming in ennui Rome would be if all you considered when there are EU Regulations, Economic Standing, and the Foreign Policies of Silvio Berlusconi compared with those of Italy's current Head of State? Nothing is wrong with being bookish about something- so long as you remember how good your Gelato is while you're at it. Savor. Do yourself a favor.

Have you been to Kuala Lumpur? Or to Hong Kong? Those a shopping meccas. Why not just drown in the awesomeness of shopping rather than worrying about making a case for why China shouldn't claim ownership of the Spratlys, or, why Malaysia's economy is this, or that?

 

Again, I'm not necessarily saying that we can never be "serious" about the more rational rudiments of a certain city, country, or culture. Never ever forget to be a bit of a romantic, though. People never had began to make babies while listening to a State of the Nation Address.  For stuff like this, lets face it- there is Marvin Gaye, or, if you're a bit on the angry side, there's Nine Inch Nails, or, Led Zeppelin. You get the picture.

 

Make memories, not enemies. Gather more and more stories, not embezzled money (yes corrupt politicians, I'm talking to you).

 

Dream on. And I mean that in a wholly positive way.

 

MC

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13- Captivating Capri

The dork in the picture is me. Yes, me. The jacket I am donning here is a jacket I purchased in Rome for 14 Euros. Quite expensive, considering my sister managed to purchase a similar piece for 9 in San Gimingnano, Italy. No matter. Saying that I "got an Italian souvenir in Rome" carries some weight in as far as coffee table sharing goes. At least I think it does.

There were many, and I mean many, old buildings in Italy. Churches, monuments, palaces, houses. You name it, Italy had it. A friend and tourmate, George, mentioned that after a while, he had "OD-ed" on churches and ancient structures. While I found that to be quite amusing (both because of what it stood for and how he articulated the thought), George did have a point. "Too much stone to the bones", so to speak.

Capri Island, as you might imagine, offered an interesting "respite" from the big cities of Rome, Naples, and Florence. A short boat ride for the pier in Naples takes you to Capri. Upon arrival, the first sight that greets you would be a whole lot of people, a whole lot of people in outdoor cafes, a whole lot of steep roads, and yes, a whole lot of squalls. This island off the Sorrentine Peninsula and on the South end of the Gulf of Naples isn't your typical island for partying, sunbathing, or being "hip" in the purest sense of the world. As with a lot of Italy, Capri manages to retain an "old world" charm despite being a destination for the young, and young at heart. These people don't go to Capri for the usual reasons, mind you. I feel that its because it is impossible not to be drawn to certain places in Italy, places which are so awash in culture, and history, and picturesque scenery that it doesn't really matter where you like things shaken, or stirred, or call an iPad an "iPad" or a "box". You just need to go to Capri and sip on a cup of coffee by the sea, or, take a somewhat harrowing bus ride up to the town of Ana Capri ("above Capri"...not to be confused with a sexy starlet from the Philippines from days gone by). You just need to take the cable car in Ana Capri to get to a point with the best views on island. You JUST NEED to go there to feel absolutely enthralled and glad to be alive.

So there were some Italian lasses in two piece bikinis on a rocky portion of one of the beaches on the island, but that isn't really what I was there for.

What would Capri be without a little bit of history to back it up, right? Italy and History go hand in hand like a good Croissant and Coffee.

And so, here I go...

A Philosopher named Strabo once declared that Capri was part of mainland Italy.

Emperor Augustus ruled and built in Capri.

Capri went back to Naples' jurisdiction towards the end of the Roman Empire. Pope John XV appointed Capri's first bishop, and  Jean Jacques Bouchard one upped me by being Capri's first recorded tourist.

More recently, Lenin, visited Capri. Actually, that was back in 1908.

And oh, Mariah Carey owns a house in Capri. When she's not making albums or strutting around in Beverly Hills, I suppose that she'd be found vocalizing along with Capri's many species of birds and amongst Capri's many flowers. Her secret towards preserving her voice? Well, it must be the Lemonade. Viva Limone!

Thank you to Wikipedia for the facts. And before I get too factual, allow me to revert back to what I saw and I felt while I was in Capri.

So as you can see, Capri and Ana Capri, as I saw it, were quite spectaculare. 

Yes, we love Capri. We love Italy. That's me and my Malaysian buddy, Natalie.

(That kind of rhymes now, doesn't it?) 

A particularly memorable part of the journey, apart from visiting Villa San Michele where Flemish Psychiatrist and Doctor Axel Munthe lived, was having taking the cable car from the side where Villa San Michele was situated, over to a peak on the other side of Ana Capri to, well, marvel at the majesty of mother nature. 

Before that though- who was Axel Munthe? 

So one day, Munthe found himself in Italy. It was 1875. While in Ana Capri, he decided to convert a small house beside to a run down chapel dedicated to San Michele, into a home cum work area. Munthe excelled in Obstetrics and Gynecology, but also became involved in Neurology (at least, until his falling out with his teacher, Jean Martin Charcot). 

He initially practiced in Paris, but in time, he fell in love with Capri (and Rome, where he split his stint in Italy in). With great weather, warm people, good wine, greenery, and then some, who wouldn't fall in love with Capri, and Ana Capri? 

          

                       Yes, there were times up there when I felt like I was holding on for dear life 

                                                       (heights typically aren't my thing).

The cable car ride cost around 15-20 Euro, if I remember correctly. Actually, riders aren't really placed in "cabins" of any kind. Rather, I was asked to ride on a swing. For those reading this who have been to large theme parks with those spin around high flight rides wherein you're made to feel like you're tied to an umbrella that is turning at a hundred kilometers an hour- the sensation felt similar to me, except that I wasn't really spinning around. I have been to small theme parks wherein they'd put people in those spinner rides via swings much like the one I rode in Capri. Initially, I was nervous, but I settled in nicely once I opened my eyes and was dumbfounded by the amazing sights I bore witness to. I found myself mumbling, "this is like touching fingers with God." It really felt that way. Honest. 

I decided to, then, be a little whimsical. I whipped out my trusty iPhone 4s, and played some Mozart on the way up. This only added to the grandiose feeling behind being "one with the birds". 

From the best "seat" in the house. Great guns!

On the way down from our group's "view deck", I thought that if I played Mozart again, I might fall asleep and fall into the waiting arms of Capri while in transit (in short, I was afraid of falling into a ravine). So, I decided to do a little ACDC on my way back. 

The "ACDC in Capri" experience was A-W-E-S-O-M-E.

It's not everyday that we get to act like kids, or, get to act out our fantasies, like, say, being the lead guitarist for a rock n' roll band staging a concert on top of a mountain. I wanted to bring out a bit of that crazy fantasy while on a rickety seat, a fifty feet in the air, far, far, away from home. What the heck, right? It's not often that you get to go up a mountain and look silly, so, I did what I had to do. 

Link to the madness- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dLq_-qHWh4A&feature=youtu.be

And so the day came- and went. We eventually returned to Naples, and I eventually got lost in Naples Chinatown with Rita, Kellie, my mom, and my sister. Adventure after adventure, things happened, and happened, and happened some more. Have I forgotten Capri? Or Ana Capri? Not a bit. We had a tour guide who sort of resembled Martin Scorcese with a big mustache, we discovered that they had shot scenes from the Sophia Lauren film, "It Started in Naples" on the island, managed to see a new standard for high speed, high risk, driving as we careened through the sides of mountains on the way to Ana Capri, and were all in agreement that yes, lemon anything was normally a positive. 

Oh Capri. Oh Ana Capri. How you have captivated me. 

I have loved others in the past, but I assure you, you are loved quite distinctly. 

I shall write you letters 'til we meet again, and in my heart, I hold you forever dear.  

MC

12- Expect the Unexpected- Some Thoughts on my Malaysia Trip, and Ong Lai Restaurant

Whenever friends, or families, or even us as individuals, plan on where to eat, human nature tends to bring us towards choosing places which look clean, smell good, provide ample space for movement, are easy to access, etc. What is to become of our typical human nature, then, if we end up hearing of something so appetizing, so appealing, and so popular with locals that, despite the initial cosmetic worries we might feel, we would ultimately be led to march forward- with, maybe, eyes closed, but, mouths and noses agape?

Make no mistake about it- I love my Malaysian friends. They are some of the nicest people I have ever met in my life- the genuine article in as as far as hospitality, compassion, and openness to being one with the "richness of experience", go. Last December, I went to Malaysia with my girlfriend and some friends from Singapore, and it was then that we got to visit to Ong Lai (Goh Kee) Restaurant, a joint off of Jalan Raja Laut in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. I am not iffy about my surroundings as much as other people. Hey, if the food is good, and the company, even better, then I have no problem with dining al fresco, save of course for the obvious considerations like rat on plate, or, flying cockroach on shoulder.

Based on what I recall my friends Jan, Sharon, and Steven having told me, Ong Lai's been around for over 20 years, and, as with many family run Chinese restaurants, the owner/s, in this case, the "mother", is extremely hands on with day to day operations, even with nitty-gritty stuff like taking customers orders, and handing out tabs. Typically you might not be able to tell that Ong Lai could churn out grub that's better than what you might find in a lot of fancier looking restaurants. Located in a small alley which Steven had to negotiate with some sweet, sweet, driving moves (you're the man, Steve), the place looked more like the location for a nighttime chase than the entry point to a source of glorious food. I am really glad my pals introduced me to Ong Lai, and I am glad that I chugged down a large bottle of Tiger Beer while I stuffed myself with great Chinese fare.

So, on to what we ate.

As far as I remember, we had steamed grouper, Char Kway Teow, some tofu dish, Hokkien Mee, and clams. It didn't matter in what sequence the plates came. Everything was so hot and delicious that for one brief moment, being there with my friends and my girlfriend seemed like the perfect scene. My December trip to Malaysia was a trip which I took, in part, to fulfill a promise. I told my Malaysian comrades after our tryst to Italy that I would see them again, and see them again I did. The little girl of the bunch, Natalie, seemed to have grown so much taller in 8 months' time. Well, having access to such great food all the time will help you in that department.

I didn't care that it rained on our way back to Steven's car, or that it was a bit humid in Ong Lai. That night, I got to paint a picture of real friendship, what that I think will be lasting. I feel warm and fuzzy inside whenever I recall how motherly Sharon was to me and my girlfriend every time we took a spin around Kuala Lumpur and every time we ate at a new "locals only" joint (more on Raju in a separate entry). Sometimes, like Sharon once told me, "God brings special people into our lives unexpectedly." Such is truly a welcome mystery, especially when, yes, it is shared over good food, good laughs, and in a country where the warmth of its people is a very pronounced, and very tangible, asset.

So, it turns out that the amazing food wasn't the only unexpected thing about my trip to Ong Lai in the heart of Kuala Lumpur. The other thing that came out of left field was the fact that a bond that had further been strengthened. It's not that I expected everyone to be as cold and awkward after not having seen one another for almost a year. It's just that, in a world where so many things are fleeting, and everyone is often so wrapped up in his and her own work, responsibilities as a father, mother, son, daughter, you name it- it is rare that one gets to escape the daily grind and just focus on just how glorious, just beautiful, just how vital "the ties that bind", are.

I am back in the Philippines now, and so is my girlfriend. I recently found myself scanning my calendar for the next available long respite from work. My first impulse was to fly to Penang and its environs. Why you ask?

For the exact same reasons I went to Malaysia weeks ago.

For the food.

For the culture.

For the people.

I need not look any further than that.

MC

11B- The Joys of Julian Apple Pie.

My recently purchased Julian Apple Pie has made me a happy happy kid!

Tasting Video in the Link Below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPL7dzY_nN0&feature=youtu.be

11-Awesome, Julian

Almost two years ago, I had the privilege of visiting San Diego, California, a place where many a Filipino reside. I have cousins, aunts, and uncles there. I managed to do a quick stop over off of a business trip from Las Vegas in September 2012. I couldn’t have been happier to have made the trip.

While there, I went to grocery called Albertson’s with my dearest aunt. It was then that I chanced upon a pretty white box with big blue letters emblazoned on its top.

It read “Julian Apple Pie”.

From there, everything changed.

Or maybe I’m just being overly dramatic, but hey, what lay in that box was a very, very special piece of pastry.

Who, or, what, is Julian, anyway?

According to research I’ve done (thank you, www.answers.com), Julian was in fact named by a fellow named Drue Bailey after his cousin, Mike Julian, a former San Diego County Assessor. As with any story behind a place’s name, a “big event” is tied in very closely to why the place is named like it is. Fred Coleman, a one-time slave, discovered gold near what is now known as Coleman Creek (westbound). On February 22^nd, 1870, a large gold mining site was unearthed in Julian. From there, many a man began to troop to Julian to try to strike it rich.

Most people currently associate Julian with R & R, in the form of being a quiet mountain retreat. According to the 2010 US Census, Julian only had a population of 1,502 and growing- without a single Asian being tagged as a permanent resident. We may not be represented in Julian, but that has not stopped many a person- me included- from partaking of the town’s most famous export, Julian Apple Pie.

I’ve had Apple Pie from many parts of the world- Chicago, the Philippines, Amsterdam, Rome, Singapore, etc. What could possibly be so different about this one? What amount of savoir faire could this “Julian Pie” have that I should expect to be totally blown away by its saccharine goodness?

The answer to that question lies in the pie’s simplicity, and sauce.

Some might say that great pie crust makes a pie, but, dare I say, great pie sauce, great filling, makes a pie. Honestly, I’ve only tried one variant of Julian’s Apple Pie (the “traditional apple pie”…other variants may be seen via www.julianpie.com), but heck, tasting this variant is enough to make anyone’s tastebuds fly.

Applesauce that isn’t too sweet, and one that retains a tinge of sourness, is the best kind. The apple chunks swimming in the applesauce, ideally, should have a bit of “crunch” to them, but should not come off as “raw”. Applesauce with “balance” means applesauce that, when absorbed by the pie’s crust, should not make the pie taste like candy, or, should not make the pie taste all too citrus-y either. Some enter the pie game with the intention of going uber sweet, hence the rationale behind apple pie ala mode. For this man with a sweet tooth, though, its “balanced” pie all the way.

There is so much sentimentality tied into the food we eat. Julian Apple Pie does not remind me of Julian, as I have never been to Julian. It does remind me of the big, bold, US, though, and my loved ones from California in particular. Finite, our time is, in this crazy world. While we’re here, we might as well indulge in what we need to indulge in, and cut back on things that just cause us disdain, or, sear holes into whatever blocks of sanity we have left after a day spent number crunching, doing business, and wondering what goof made this material thing better than the other goof’s branded stone.

Maybe my liking for “balanced” Julian Pie can be sewn into the notion that my idealism has been curbed as 

I’ve aged. It’s either that I’ve learned to compromise, or, that my penchant for “color” has gone stale. I guess the challenge for me would be to, sometimes, want the “sweeter” rather than just the “sweet”, or, the option without sugar altogether. This has gotten me thinking. Would I survive being so deeply immersed in the romance of life again? Or does my survival depend on me being able to swing from side to side, with perfect form, without lulling myself into a state of complacency? It’s “Live” beyond just “live”. That would be the way to go. Right?

In the meantime, here’s a thought.

I really hope that Julian delivers to destinations outside the United States. I’d like to have some Julian Pie more often than only “every few years”.

I say this because, I’d bet, what remains of the pie brought for me by my dear auntie, is gone, a thing of the past, is a mish mash of processed glucose and complex carbohydrates, by now. It’s probably been devoured for the very same reasons that I love Julian Pie.

People eat Julian Pie, and whatever other foods they hold dear, to feel one thing- satisfaction, a sense that, no matter where you’ve been, what you’ve seen, what you’ve done, or what you strive to achieve in a life that tends to be more unfair than pleasant, that for 5 seconds, from plate to spoon, all can be right in this realm. Perfection. Guaranteed.

So who’s the man? The one? The ubermensch? I guess it’s the guy who can, and does, what he wants, what HE thinks is cool, every so often, once in a blue moon, in moderation.

Yum.

MC

10- Bigger, Brighter

Why does it seem like pictures taken in the United States always seem to have great lighting, and feature a whole lot of sky?

Maybe its where I come from. The photo featured in this post (from www.city-guide.com), is of the Clocktower in the Iowa River Landing in Coralville, Iowa. In my brief trip to Iowa some years ago, I could not help but marvel at just how much greenery, and yes, how much sky, I saw. I had the privilege of having a kind host during my journey, so, I had a car to get around. I got to visit the University of Iowa, Davenport, Iowa's Blackbird Hotel, and the Iowa State Fair. I don't think I will ever be able bring myself to eat food as rich as fried Oreos, or fried butter on a stick, but hey, I sure can appreciate an integral slice of any country's culture.

There are places you visit wherein you find yourself wide-eyed and ever ready to sop up every inch of sensory real estate, and at blinding speed no less, like a Ford SUV burns fuel. Maybe the romantic in me has not completely died after all. Perhaps one can still really enjoy a good steak, with good company, and with good wine, and not just look at it as another business meeting, or, as another routine "refill" moment.

Honestly, this entry is partly meant to say that I do miss visiting the US. My visits to the States have tended to bring out a sense of wonderment from me. Maybe its the fact that behind the corporate suit, and the private school education, any accolades attached to my name, and my love for sophisticated comedies, music, and locations, lies a simple man, someone who CAN still jump at the sight of fire, so to speak. I figure that I always need to maintain the mindset that the world is still my oyster, that it still represents a body of temptation that I would not feel guilty about giving in to. I need to see, and not necessarily be seen.

Iowa amazed me because of how big- and yet still austere and down to Earth, things seemed to be. Yes, there were malls where you could get an iPad, and a City Center, etc., but for whatever reason, the wind, the pace of life, the sight of genuinely kind people, and independent breweries, made me feel surprisingly laid back. In an almost shockingly sentimental way, I felt at home. Shocking because I was in Iowa for a visit, to do work, absent of me necessarily entering the State with a mindset that says, "sit back, relax, and move without a care in the universe". This is not to say that I did not think I would enjoy myself. Maybe I was more surprised to have observed HOW I cemented my smiles into memory.

I don't know when my next trip to the US, or Iowa, will be. Without being complicated, or extra analytical about things, the best way to summarize my feelings about the potential for further use of my US Visa, what little US Dollars I have saved, and my gigantic black luggage which has seen many airports and hotels, might be to proudly exclaim:

"I can't wait."

MC

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9- Our Lady of the Atonement Cathedral

(Photo From www.cityofpines.com)

The church above is the Our Lady of Atonement Cathedral in what has been dubbed countless times as the "Summer Capital of the Philippines", Baguio City. Baguio is a place that I hold dear. Countless Christmases, New Years Celebrations, and Summer Outings comprise a large part of my Baguio story. There is, however, an even more personal side to my relationship with the "City of Pines". This is the City where I did my penance, and found a side of myself which I never thought existed.

The year was 2007. I knew much about the world, but not hardly enough. The family had decided to stay in Camp John Hay for the New Year, as it had done many times before. This trip, though, had an extra tinge of sentimentality to it because of certain events that had transpired in my life just days before our trek through long and winding roads and up steep, steep, mountains.

With all due respect to those whom my heart had loved before, this girl, yes, this girl, felt like "the one" in so many ways, at least, back in 2007-2008. I am happily attached as of this entry's writing, but this story, yes, this story, holds a lot of water in my basin of emotions (the person I am with now knows this, before any of your get any ideas). This girl, yes, this girl, one of long hair, glasses, and a creative quill so prolific and a mind keen both to science and art, was one that enamored me so.

Two songs come to mind. Bush's "The People That We Love", and David Gates' "Everything I Own". Rock Salt, and Cheese. We all tend to hurt the people whom we love deeply. We do so while still being willing to give them every ounce of our emotion and physical capability to make sure that for them, life always looks that much more radiant, the flowers smell that much more fragrant, and that for them, there is always an extra helping of fried noodles to be had.

Needless to say, this person was, for the lack of a better term, seemed like my "soulmate". Hey, you can have a soulmate but not necessarily have a happily ever after, right?

I am quite particular about being a gentleman. Yes, some haters out there may disagree, but, I think I am better than most. Still, I messed up. I mopped the floor with my own heart. In the process, I broke hers. There was no two timing, physical violence, or forced listening to the vocal stylistics of Kylie Minogue, or Ru Paul. I just said some things I never should have. That was that.

And so, I took refuge in Baguio. I had been to Session Road, John Hay, Burnham Park, and yes, Our Lady of the Atonement Parish, countless times in previous years- during much happier times. This was no trip to Tom Sawyer for Pizza and Chicken, or a foray into Good Shepherd Convent for the usual Yam (Ube) Jam and Peanut Brittle Candy (to my non-Filipino friends, you should look Good Shepherd up...you won't regret it). This was a trip to Baguio taken so I could make sense of my sorrows and save my soul.

So there I was, in this temple of the spirit, built in 1936, and once an evacuation Center during World War II. My battle was one against myself and not some rampaging invader. I had lost what, to that point, I had held most dear. I was devastated, and, amidst the impending revelry brought about by the coming of a new year, I sat silent, contemplative, an unlit candle, a slowly wilting bit of foliage, or, one that had already run its course.

On the way up to the church, I had gone through a mini mall connecting Baguio's iconic session road to the small viaduct road General Luna Street. Back then, Playstation 2 was still all the rage. Resident Evil, Obscure, Kingdom Hearts, NBA 2k7. Those were the games that were on deck, games which, I hoped, would take my mind off of the complexity of my situation. I wondered what it might feel like to just stand in the mountain cold and not move, stay perfectly motionless for a long, long, time. I thought that maybe, if I closed my eyes, waited, then opened them up again, I would find myself in another place and time at the end of the whole process. Life doesn't normally operate that way, but I hoped that maybe, it could make one little exception for me.

It was not to be. After literally plastering myself to a pew, hearing mass, and remembering the various "whys", "whats", and "hows", I thought that it was time to head back to John Hay, where my family was. By the time I decided to head back, night had fallen. It was 6pm, but oddly enough, the sun was still on its feet.
I didn't feel like making this tryst to the Cathedral, my lunch alone at SM Baguio's Vegetarian Foodcourt Staple Bodhi, and my trip to the mini mall adjacent to General Luna Street to buy video games to try and erase the heaviness in my heart for the briefest of moments, anything close to ordinary. Because of this, I decided to walk all the way from the Cathedral to our cottage inside John Hay. That walk took around 1.5 hours, with a few tears and quite a bit of cold sweat along the way.

And so, my family went on with it's usual New Year's Eve Celebration. There was cheese, wine, and fireworks (outside of our cottage). I couldn't help but think of where I was, though, and how my whereabouts related with hers. I learned that things could change in the blink of an eye, in a New York Minute, and in whatever other time-defining cliches there are in the English language. It was quite the defining moment for me.

It was a staunch reminder to me. Think before you take action. There is just no going around that one.

The backdrop for all this? Baguio City.

My memories of Baguio City relate mostly with bliss. For one moment in time, though, Baguio represented a site for piano music to be heard, for deep reflection to happen, and yes, for penance to be rendered.

Penance was rendered. I had begun my process of "atonement" in Baguio. I have fought through the difficulties associated with picking one's self up from the bowels of despair, and guilt, and like the long journey up through Kennon road to the summit known as the City of Pines, I've managed to better myself. No one's perfect, but hey, there's no hard and fast rule that says we can't "get better".

I haven't been to Baguio in 5 years. I miss the Lechon Kawali dish in Inn Rocio. That's an odd reference, I know. The Chopsuey at the restaurant in Europa Hotel, I miss too. You know what else I long for to this day?

Nope, not her. That's all in the past. She has served her purpose in my life, and I in hers. I long for a long road trip up North so that all the memories, all the emotions, all the pictures of mom, dad, sister 1, sister 2, cousins, friends, mini golf, Session Road, etc. etc., can bust through the glass doors and invade the inner recesses of my mind- and heart- all over again.

I miss angels. I miss Baguio. Clearly, I need to return- soon.

I've "done my time". I'm a new man. I can let Baguio just be beautiful again.

MC

8- The Long Journey Home

Mom. Sister. Me. Rome's Leonardo Da Vinci airport. 3am. 

It was on the 29th of April 2013 that we begun the LONG journey home. 

4 hour flight from Rome to Amsterdam. 9 hour layover in Schiphol airport. 13 hour flight to Incheon Airport, in Korea. 9 hour layover in Korea. 4 hour flight to Manila. 

Yes, it was a test in fortitude- and, lucky for us, a crash test in sleeping in comfort chairs and comfort couches in Korea while being only a few steps away from a fully functional bar. 

Actually, I enjoy long journeys. Because of the way my life is structured, and because of the frenetic pace of daily lives, sometimes, its only during long bus rides, plane rides, and layovers that we have the chance to pause and reflect on life as we know it, and ponder on life as it is supposed to- or want it- to be. 

Unfortunately, it was during the 30 minute taxi ride from Hotel Buenos Aires in Rome to Leonardo Da Vinci that my mother lost her iPhone 5- an iPhone 5 full of pictures and videos, no less. My mom never did get that phone unit back. My mom, as do my sister and I, have in our minds and hearts, many great memories of Italy. Those will remain untouched forever. Losing a camera or an iPhone full of content isn't really like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, but, hey, a bummer is a bummer. The loss of the "tangible" hurts just the same. 

I remember Da Vinci Airport being small, and somewhat dimly lit. The "dimly lit" part might be because I was hazy because of a lack of sleep, but then again, the place as I remember it was dimly lit. The joint needed a fresh coat of paint. Generally, the airport was rather organized, and served its purpose. No major problems here. 

Ah, Schiphol. A nice airport. A transport hub. Clean to the point of "hospital clean". Everything was laid out pretty well, and while the Duty Free wasn't all too spectacular, it did do the gods of "buyer's temptation" proud. The problem lay in where to stay for long layovers, particularly if you're an Economy Class passenger. There were gate chairs, yes, but they seemed small, and wobbly. It did help that the airport was constantly illuminated and organized. It was quite fun dodging airport carts from different directions in a large hallway in the airport leading up to the departure gates. Fun because it felt like being on Mario Kart. Not fun if you're late for your boarding call or have tons of luggage of your own in tow. 

Incheon Airport. Where had you been all my life? This place was a winner. 

From quick hit city tours, to free Lazy Boy Chair access, to free premium shower rooms, to mobile bars, etc., Incheon Airport seemed to have been built for passengers on long layovers. The large windows and spacious hallways helped in furthering an image of an edgy, hip, comfortable, transport hub. Plus, there was a Hello Kitty Cafe. I am not a fan of this quintessentially Japanese, mouth-less, feline, but hey, it was a nice touch for an airport which strove to offer diversity and "cool" to options to its patrons. Save for some trouble with my plane ticket (promptly acted upon by the Korean Air ground staff), my Incheon stopover was pretty swell. 

And oh, they have periodic cultural shows in the main concourse area of the airport near the Korea Cultural Center and a bevy of specialty shops. 

At the end of the whole tryst, came Manila. The tropics. The Philippines. Home. Oddly enough, and nothing against the Philippines, folks, I didn't want to be home. No one coming off of a fantastic holiday ever looks forward to going home. Home equals the daily grind. Home is equivalent to being part of "the horde" again. Home may be where the heart is, but what if what you saw during your trip seemed like home with a number of added touches that made what you typically wouldn't like about home, one with forgetfulness, would you still want to rush over to the country and address emblazoned on your passport? Maybe not. Or not too soon. 

And with that not-too-soon thought, comes one thing that is as sure as the taxes we pay. 

Once we rinse, we repeat. 

You tell yourself: 

"I've got to travel again." 

Ironic that all the effort put into getting home tends to make one want to leave home just as quickly. 

It does pay it keep a partially packed suitcase. You'll never know when you may pull the trigger and bid farewell to mom, dad, and Spot all over again. 

Rinse. 

Repeat. 

Be inspired continuously. 

MC

7- Italy and...David Guetta?

David Guetta. He's a cool DJ who's become more mainstream than Coca Cola during a Filipino family's Sunday lunch. 

David Guetta has a song called "Just One Last Time". It's funny how songs sometimes stay in our minds because we associate such with certain memories that are similar either because of how the song's timbre or cadence matches the pace of a particular day, or a particular emotion you associate with seeing a particular person or place. I have no idea how long "One Last Time" had been on the charts in Europe, the US, or The Philippines, nor do I know what David Guetta does for fun when he's not mixing like a maestro. All in all, I don't know much about pretty boy DJ's. I do know a wee bit more about slack rockers in torn blue jeans. That seems to be closer to my chosen cup of tea than a can of Brylcream and a band of posers. 

For some odd reason, "Just One Last Time" is a song I associate with me leaving Italy. Yes, it happened to be on my iPhone's playlist during the long journey home, I did happen to do a lot of daydreaming during a trip home which lasted a total of roughly 38 hours- lengthy layovers included. 

I knew that my three weeks in Europe represented my soul being at one with something truly magical. Despite the presence of Twitter, Facebook, and email, who knew if I would ever see the people I had met during the trip ever again, and who knew if our time spent together would simply be immortalized in pictures, select conversations, and collective marveling at St. Peter's basilica, Pompeii, and the picturesque views from Ana Capri and Sorrento. I knew that before I had gone to Italy, I had a life which I was well acquainted with, not necessarily satisfied with, and not necessarily disappointing, either, Before I had gone on this long journey to this magical place, I knew I was set to bear witness to beauty. I was not fully aware of the extent that the journey would eternally change me.

It's been  9 long months since that trip. 9 long months since beers with Sarah and Carl, conversations with 2 mums Trish and Mary, light moments with Sharon, Natalie, Chak, Steven, Jan, Josephine, Joo Seet Tan, Jowell Tan, and Lili Ong, misadventures with Rita and Kellie, jokes with George, Sam and Ed, and many other tidbits of thought which will always make me wonder whether we are all put in particular situations be a Higher power in order to enrich and be enriched. Who knew, that in the last two months I would get to see Josephine in Singapore, and Natalie, Jan, Steven, Sharon, and Chak again in Malaysia? Who knew that the problems of this one boy, could be so freely and honestly discussed by this lad, over a few pints and with a group of then strangers? It was sensory overload. The trip in its entirety took me in its arms and threatened not to give me back. 

I had to go back to the reality of my day to day life at some point. But not without having been so utterly moved. 

Maybe "Just One Last Time" had gotten lodged in my noggin for so long because it almost felt as if I would never feel the thrill of a trip to a place like Italy ever again, or, at least not for a very long time. I was sad about this thought for a while after I had gotten home. It didn't help that I was thrown into the fire soon after I had gotten my Filipino bearings back. New set up at work. New apartment. New setting. New people. Potential for girlfriend leaving the country. It was all quite overwhelming. I even was all emotional during a conversation with a superior at work about all this at a particular juncture. I was that affected by the maelstrom of change that came raging at me at a blinding speed. I never expected my return home to be as tumultuous as it was. Have I even mentioned the fact that a loved one had been diagnosed with a mild form of cancer and had gotten admitted in hospital sometime after my return home too? So, you see, things had gotten pretty confounding by the time my 30th birthday rolled around in June. 

And then, past all the rough waters and spiteful looks and noise, there lay silence. 

Just like that, all had become calm again. 

I had received the impetus to find myself again during the last quarter of the past year. I took the plunge. 3 countries, 2 months, a wellspring of memories that can never be replaced. And so, I move on, on to the next great thing life has to offer me. 

Knowing how life can surprise, I don't think the "last time" has come just yet. Maybe not. Perhaps I could experience the magic similar to that which I found during my Eurotrip yet again. Heck, maybe I will get 2 days to explore the Uffizi Gallery this time. And maybe, I will actually buy myself some more souvenirs this time. The Euro is expensive for even a hardworking Filipino, but still. It's not like it was a decision tantamount to buying a Porsche. More souvenirs to sop up memories. That's a good thing. 

Folks, always hike up your sensory perception during a trip, and most of all, don't forget to open your heart to "feeling", "experiencing", and ultimately, "changing" for the greater good. Strip away everything, and memories are, seemingly, all we really have. Strip away memories, what you may get are traces of emotion that spell out being in full unity with the very core of "being", and the sweetest fundamentals behind being human. Shed a few tears, offer up a few smiles, walk a few miles in these shoes. Don't be afraid to "dive in". Never regret having "hopped in". 

I know I never have.

(So evidently, David Guetta is both wrong and right.)

***Yearn for one more go at a beauteous experience, and savor what you have been through as if you are about to breathe your last. It's that sort of investment in experience that makes reds and yellows shine just a bit brighter.***

MC

***This is dedicated to all the people I have met during my travels. Thank you for adding such vibrance to the tapestry that is this old clown's life. Cheers!***

6- Flying High

The flight attendants have begun calling passengers up for boarding. You have two handcarry bags and have your 8 month old baby with you. That baby, as it turns out, does not like airports, large crowds, and the sound of wheezing engines and so, begins to cry incessantly. You're about to lose your mind. You're close to flipping out, but then you realize that...

You've got a First Class Ticket.

All becomes right in the universe again.

I've never flown First Class in my entire life. The closest to sniffing that that I've gotten is flying Business Class. It really is a life saver (specifically on Delta; insert shameless plug here), especially for long haul flights. I had my first taste of Business Class on a trip from Manila to Japan then to Detroit and finally Iowa. The entire journey lasted nearly one whole day (layovers included). My feet were screaming like Axl Rose in 1990, and my concept of what time it was and who I was with was slightly hazy. Thank goodness for the cheese sticks and biscuits in the Delta lounge. I coupled that with some good ale and boom, I was good to go.

When on a long haul flight, take in a lot of fluids. Try to avoid alcohol as wine or beer can tend to dehydrate you. If you're with fun people, though, dehydrate yourself with alcohol. If you can take it, make it. Seriously though, at least have a glass of water with your beer. No use being the "life of the party" of "the man" if it means that you'll be a shriveled up prune by the end of the session.

You'll never be able to avoid fatigue, thirst, or hunger when in the air, but at least, you can mitigate the ill effects of such with a some buy-ins.

A comfortable flight is one of the joys one can enjoy when traveling. Come to think of it, having a comfortable flight is a right, not a privilege. Being on Business Class, or First Class, provides added perks, so if you have the extra cash to burn, invest in in-flight premiums. You won't regret doing so- that is unless, you can contort yourself into a pretzel in Economy and have the annoying guy beside you literally snore into your soul.

MC

5- Rice, Please.

In the Philippines, rice is king, and in a lot of ways, people judge whether to go to a restaurant or not, for practical reasons, on whether the joint offers "Rice to Sawa, or, "UnliRice", or, "Unlimited Steamed Rice".

Unlimited rice tends to sacred. Local fare tends to be "best eaten" with a heaping pile of rice. Be in fried catfish, tamarind soup, or roast suckling pig (lechon de leche), rice is the recognized appetizer, on the road stuffer, and coup de grace.

I am not going to go technical on different kinds of rice and how the Rice Terraces Plantation in Banaue, Philippines is a agricultural wonder. I will echo a much simpler message which is the sentiment of many-man, woman, child, diabetic, health buff, diet freak. Rice rules. Rice is like a jumpshot that smoothly swishes through a basketball hoop. It's perfect. The smell of it. The texture of perfectly cooked grains in your mouth with even subpar entrees makes for a happy day.
If all this is representative of "parts unknown" for you, begin respecting your rice. Pay no mind to its color. Rice is rice. Rice makes you feel good. Rice is one of those things that, in a life full of uncertainty and avarice and corruption, and, to a lesser extent, crummy food and pop songs crafted to make ears bleed rather than to give ears the Spa Treatment, we can always count on to be an integral part of a collective "affair to remember" (hi Mr Beatty...do allow me quote the title of one of your most acclaimed movies...thank you).

All rise- for rice! Waiter's here with our grub.

MC

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4- "Touristy"

This photo was taken by the Kuala Lumpur City Gallery some weeks back. Forgive the "Gwiyomi-ish" pose. I thought I would try to be "touristy" for five seconds. 

Five seconds is a long time. Would I survive five long seconds of this? I suppose so. I think that a steady supply of Char Kway Teow and Fried Rice should make me tough enough to go through any kind of storm. My friend, Sharon, who was nice enough to have shown me around KL, helped cushion the blow of being in a new city a little bit. 

Having just been the proverbial stranger in a strange land, what is the difference between being "touristy" and being a "tourist"? 

Well being a tourist can mean being an explorer, an adventurer, a full on expeditionist. It can made going all Andrew Zimmern on the food on your menu, or, going high end yet being tasteful and artistic about doing it. Being a tourist can speak of being a romantic, being true to your innermost desires for seeing and being seen, for staring at a painting for 2 hours and then saying, "Okay, I can die now." Being a tourist can mean making friends, and being one with 10 different cultures, motiffs, and modes of understanding all at once. Being a tourist, ultimately, means being yourself, and sticking to your perceived notion of your spirit set against a backdrop that screams, "far, far, away". 

Being "touristy" can mean being unbelievably tacky. This is when you tend to equate the true meeting of your trip with the number of keychains you buy, or the amount of M and M's you manage to stuff into your fake Louis Vitton suitcase without being stopped by the Feds. Being "touristy" is walking in Vatican City, or in Tsim Tsa Tsui, or Rio De Janeiro with blinders on. It can mean being all too focused on the small stuff- who you are with, what you are wearing, what you shriveled up map says, etc., to notice just how beautiful your surroundings are. Imagine putting so much effort into doing a silly "jump shot", or spending so much time trying on a blouse at an outlet store, or going the "uber practicalis" route for what to eat, what route to take, etc. to the point that you forget the fact that you are ACTUALLY in Las Vegas, in Florence, or in the Amalfi Coast. Why travel at all if you refuse to observe? Why travel at all if you only consume and refuse to "give back" to the places you visit by being competent enough to speak highly of the places you go to post-trip? 

You might as well stay in a box and watch re-runs of Gossip Girl and wallow in sorrow. 

Well, no need to really stress the sorrow part because being hooked on to Gossip Girl is pretty sad in itself. 

So yes, I Love KL, but, I do so much more than the sign could ever convey. I love KL because of the food, the temples, the mish mash of cultures, and yes, my dear friends and loved ones who live there and in places near it. 

I'd rather sink deep and drown than simply "exist" on the shallow end of the pool and be eternally dressed in a monotone ensemble. It just wouldn't-feel-right.

MC

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3- The Spanish Steps, and the Scent of Adventure

This is a photograph from the Spanish Steps in Rome, Italy. According to my research, the 135 step staircase (widest in all of Europe) had been designed by Francesco de Sanctis and Alessandro Specchi, and was built on a 20,000 Scudi budget. I don't know whether 20,000 Scudi will get me an IPAD Air, but hey, I guess 20,000 Scudi was a substantial amount of money way back when. I was with my sister, and my friends, Rita and Kellie (Chinese Americans) on the fateful Saturday when this photo was snapped. We had taken a bus from the Montecasino, had decent fare at an Autogrill, and had crashed at the Hotel Buenos Aires around 2 hours walk from Vatican City (I think). We were out for some "walking in Rome" action, and Kellie and Rita were eager to do some bag hunting (for a relative back home). During my time in Rome, it amazed me how populated some areas could be, and how some others could be so empty, and quiet. It also struck my how many tourists were around on a regular basis. Was the constant stream of tourists a byproduct of effective marketing of Italy as a prime tourist destination? Was it part of a natural charm borne out of being a country so rich in history, so rich in antiquity, and so rich in antiquity set against the rising tides of modernity? Everyone likes a good heavyweight prize fight. Winner take all. New or old- who wins? Who falls? It's a battle that's ironically been going on for generations. We've been happy to watch and marvel at how the big boys box. Even if I spent 3 weeks in Europe last April 2013, and while I was part of a tour which wasn't half bad, I feel like I haven't sniffed the smell of the real Italy, the real Belgium, the real Holland.

In a weird way, it's that very desire to "keep sniffing" that makes things exciting. So long as I find my myself wanting to continue the search for the essence of a culture, the essence of a people, and the soul behind all things material, I know, I know I should keep travelling, and I knowing I should keep "walking". If I could lose a few pounds after all of my traveling, that too would be really great. I think that I'd have better luck making it back to Rome than getting that much thinner in the short term.

Some forms of jouissance are too hard to shake off. Eating, travelling, and in a deeper sense, wandering, wondering, dreaming, living.

 MC

2- Tour Bus Horrors

Ah, yes, the tour bus. This can be the nexus of all things touristy and tacky on a holiday, or, a welcome, guiding, light for tourists who would otherwise be lost, or unsafe, in a foreign land. I have been to Hong Kong four times in my life. I have much nostalgia attached to the place, not only because of having been there with family, and friends, but also because of the culture per se. There's so much great dimsum to be had its crazy. If you're into Western Food, they've got that too. Go to the New Territories and small neighborhoods and you get a slice of Chinese/Hong Kong culture which is clawed, scratched, and kicked its way towards survival despite the onslaught of modernity. And oh yes, I am in love with the music of the late Teresa Teng. Some may find that odd, but, hey, I've got a lot of Taiwanese, Chinese, and downright hardcore fans on my side. Beat that. 

*Sidenote- "Comrades: Almost a Love Story" is one of the best romantic dramas ever made. Peter Chan, I salute you. 

I am one with the travel philosophy which encourages tourists to "do as the locals do", and "go off the beaten path", or, at least, be willing to look beyond the usual tourist hoo-has. I admit that even after four trips to the land of the fragrant harbor, I still find myself wanting to explore more of the back alleys of HK. Which brings me back to the idea of the tour bus... Hong Kong city tours tend to lie on the cheesy side, and tend to involve guides who are all about making a buck off of you. I advise solo travelers, families in town to go to Disneyland, go shopping, or eat themselves into oblivion to AVOID going on your run-of-the-mill Hong Kong city tours. These tour operators will never take you to Hawker Centers to have Chili (or Hairy) Crab, nor will they go to places like Tai Po Market or some back alley eatery in Yau Ma Tei. Those, you have to find on your own, and yes, the adventure, the journey towards doing so, makes everything that much more of a thrill. Just like a good bag of chips, to that I say- try it, you'll love it! 

Do Hong Kong on your own before another tour bus guide sells you another pack of Hong Kong keychains at a "bargain", or, threatens to put your goofy picture on a plastic plate for posterity's sake. For the keychains and other knick knacks, there's the Mongkok Night Market. For the pictures, you have your camera. For personalized photobooks, and picture frames, there's your local mall. For more on very "personal" anecdotes on fried stuff they've had in Kowloon, crazy MTR stories, and how some have found the Sha Tin Snoopyworld statues absolutely adorable, there is Tripadvisor.Com. 

Get my drift? 

MC

1- The Opener

I am not sure why it has taken me this long to start a blog on travel, food, and the very concept of discovery. I don't really know why the creative quill has tended to go stale in the last few years. Perhaps it's something that comes with age, or, more specifically, exposure to the life's many realities that tend to bore the mind into playing a game of logic with the various elements that make up a day, or, a session of ring around the rosy with the powers that be that seek to subvert rather than inspire, conquer, rather than allowing for "benevolent assimilation". Maybe I had just become lazy, or complacent. Maybe for a time, I had lost confidence in my ability to write, in my ability to transform the "imagined" into something concrete, or, at least, something which to another may also transition into something imagined, which would then spur the person to want to make it concrete.

 For my inaugural entry, I give to you a photo of some Gelato I had in the Italian city of Sorrento back in April 2013. After many years of pining for a trip to Europe, it all finally came together last summer. My mother, my youngest sister, and I packed our bags, and flew halfway around the world, yes, to have ice cream, meet great people, take in some of the most breathtaking sights the eyes could possibly have a cup of tea with, and to, on the whole, refresh our respective spirits. I came out of that trip with more than I had ever bargained for. What is Gelato? According to Wikipedia.Org, Gelato is basically what Italians call their ice cream. The word had been derived from the Latin term "gelatus", which means "Frozen". Gelatus is also the name of the latest animated feature that's probably made you shed tears over the last 2 months, but I digress. Italians mandate that their Gelato should have at least 3.5% butterfat. That's a nice rule. It's somewhat artery clogging, but hey, coronary problems never looked so beautiful, and tasted so good. Located at Via Padre Giuliani 41 in Sorrento, Italy, Davide Gelato has been hailed as the "Best Gelato in Town" by traveller Rick Stevens. Not that I have that much experience with the tasty Italian treat, but, at least based on what I experienced, Stevens was right on the money. If I remember correctly, the Gelato pictured in this entry was some sort of chocolate and nut concoction. What it was rather chilly in Sorrento, I just couldn't help but pump more and more dairy and glucose into my system. When the food is good, you don't really consider temperature, do you? The entire trip to Italy was a bit like Gelato. The locations I was fortunate enough to have visited encouraged my loved ones and I to "soak up the sun" so to speak- to indulge, to displace our souls "as we knew them and where we knew them to be" and lodge ourselves in a happy place in between illusion and reality- the perception tending to pendulum from our extreme to the other at opportune moments. Gelato can come in a thousand different flavors, and Italy did offer me a seemingly boundless amount of things to experience and use as springboards for personal growth. Good Gelato is hard to find, and good food is something you don't mind waiting for. As a Roman Catholic, my specific "Gelato" site was the Vatican. I had waited so long to get there, to marvel at the splendor that is the seat of the Roman Catholic church. Last April 2013, with a banged up camera and over spartan effects in tow, I finally got it. I did hear angelic hymns in my head when I did step into St. Peter's and the Sistine Chapel. It was overwhelming to be in the midst of so much history- and majesty. It was an "exegesis" of sorts. It was a study of the life and times of the church- hallway by hallway, painting by painting, chapel by chapel.

 This, dear friends, is only the beginning. I made a promise to myself sometime in 2012-2013 that I would go see the world before my mental and physical faculties fall off the proverbial cliff. Watch out, mountains, icebergs, churches, hiking trails, shopping malls, train stations, food stalls, back alleys, and skyscrapers. I'm out to get you.

 MC