The Intrepid Traveler

One of the highlights of our trip was the day we escaped the heat of the city and headed up, up, up to Tagaytay, specifically to Tagaytay Highlands. My uncle was one of the architects for this project, and I think it gave him full access to everything. At least I think that's what happened since we...had full access to everything. There were a dizzying number of options: badminton, anyone? Bowling? Golf, spa, basketball, skating, tennis, squash...go-kart racing?! The kids were in charge, though, so the day's agenda became: fruit shakes, lunch at the Chinese restaurant, horseback riding, a visit to the zoo, and swimming.

I should make a correction: Vida was in charge. For whatever reason, she decided that this would be the day she would take life by the throat, look it in the eye, and say, "Hello. I'm going to LIVE you now." First, to honor her Lolo who was at home in San Mateo, she ate a fish eye. Here is the eye, being prepared by my Uncle Pudjo:


Here is Vida holding the eye on the spoon.


Here she is eating the eye.


Here she is saying, "Hmmm. Not bad."


Next, while her sisters showed a certain amount of trepidation in regards to mounting a horse, Vida basically jumped in the saddle and took off. Good thing she was accompanied by a groom, or who knows where she would have ended up?


At the zoo, she asked to hold some of the birds. Her sisters? Her sisters were all, "Um, no thanks." We could barely convince them to stand near Vida in this picture:


And, finally, in clear violation of stated pool rules, she decided she would cannonball into the water. When the lifeguard took her to task, she just flashed a smile and held up her hands as if to say, "How could I not?"



Vida does not take after me. But I'm thinking maybe I should take after her.

What's In A Name?

There are only so many places to eat on Boracay, and we quickly found a very good one that suited all our palates. For me: crispy tadyang (I was obsessed with this dish throughout our trip; in fact, you should just call me Crispy Tadyang from now on), grilled prawns, etc. For the kids: ribs! For the spousal unit: chicken, calamari, etc. An establishment with a knack for unifying disparate tastes could only be called one thing:


We ended up eating there three times in all, and each time our waiter was this sweet kid named Walter. Risa, Vida, and Lea basically ate him up with a spoon; he was a particular favorite of Lea's. Everything was Walter this, Walter that, thank you Walter, Walter's so nice, let's go eat at Obama Grill so we can say hello to Walter, Walter, Walter!

During our last meal there, Walter happened to catch a glimpse of the SU's driver license. This inspired Walter to show us his official Obama Grill identification card. Much to my horror, it didn't state his name as Walter. The dozens of times we had addressed him as such ran like a slideshow through my head. I squinted at the card, hoping I'd simply read it wrong. No such luck. His name was not Walter; it was Voltaire.

"Voltaire?" I asked. "Voltaire as in the...French writer?"

"No Ma'am," he said. "When my mother was six months pregnant with me, she was—ano—electrocuted. So...volt. Voltaire."

Would you practically have DIED just then? Because I almost just about died.

Oh, Voltaire.

As a culinary aside, I must ask: is there anything finer than being served dishes of vinegar, soy sauce, red chiles, and calamansi alongside your steamed rice? No, I think there is not.

Just in case you missed them on Facebook, here is a public link to our Boracay pictures.

The Thing Is...

...our trip was SO not conducive to blogging. That's not the way I thought it was going to be. I thought we'd go about our business every day, and each night I would dutifully report the goings-on. Instead, we went about our business every day, and each night I'd do some reading and fall dead asleep. The only communication I could muster was the occasional Facebook status update. How did this happen?! How, for example, knowing that this awesome, only-in-the-Philippines picture was sitting on my iPhone BEGGING to be uploaded, did I not upload it?


Life is a mystery, my lovely people. But I vow, here and now, to make up for my grievous lack of blogging! I will inundate you with tales of our adventure, I will blog until you beg me to stop, I will blog until my fingertips catch fire.

Just...not tonight. Because you know what? Jet lag is a bitch.

Nesting Ground: The Manila Edition

I'm lounging in bed, pillows piled high, as Makati goes about its fevered business fifteen stories below me. We did our part earlier today, dragging our overheated children all over Greenbelt for lunch and shopping and ice cream. It could be my imagination, but I feel we draw a disproportionate number of stares from passers-by; I can't tell if they are friendly stares, curious stares, or disapproving stares, so I've decided to ignore them altogether.

As always, the customer service here is superlative and sometimes even sweet. Our lunch waiter today—named, quite memorably, "Edz"—has been the best so far. After the initial setting-down of our meals, Edz took his leave, but reassured with the following: "I'd like to inform you, Ma'am," he said, "that you can simply call my name, and I will be here." Lea thought that was the most hilarious thing ever. She kept saying, "Call him, Mom. Call him." Later, he addressed the spousal unit as "Sir Andrew," which is something I think I may do from now on.

The kids are not having the easiest time adjusting to the clock, that's for sure. Each night, at least one person's eyelids begin to flutter and she flat-out falls asleep at the dinner table. No combination of strategic napping or swimming pool time has provided much in the way of relief; in fact, an afternoon nap seems to make things worse. We'll see what happens tonight. "We'll be fine, Mom," Vida has just said. But I think we'll stick close to the apartment tonight, as we have an outing to Tagaytay tomorrow.

***

The first time I visited the Philippines was with my dear childhood friend Jodi, when we were both fourteen years old. Back then we stayed in Greenhills at the beautiful, stately home of her grandparents, where many of her relatives also lived. Many of the family live in Alabang now, and they kindly invited us to Easter lunch yesterday. I was grateful for the opportunity to show the girls...what? How a Filipino family lives, I guess? How a Filipino family lives in the Philippines? It sounds so stupid, but I really did want them to see this one simple thing. There were plenty of kids on hand (about a dozen, I think), and while I sat and ate lunch I kept an ear bent towards their table so I might catch scraps of their conversation. Vida, as usual, was talking non-stop, and later one of Jodi's aunts told me she heard Vida pause mid-sentence to say, "Wait. I don't even know your names." Hahahahaha!

later...

Sure enough, the kids were asleep at 7:30, and Sir Andrew and I were forced to order room service. Such an absurd thing to do in Manila, but there you go.

One Tuesday Morning

Vida was home from school yesterday with quite the scorching fever. I wasn't too surprised, then, to be awakened at five o'clock this morning by a wail of distress from Lea's room. Known as "Queen of the Fever Spike," she who had been perfectly healthy the day before—even attending last night's softball game (go Panthers!) and playing robustly with her friends—was now a quivering little ball of heat. I dosed her with some medicine, and then tried to leave. Of course, this was not permitted. So there we were, one of us too hot and insisting on no blankets or sheets whatsoever, and one of us too cold. We finally fell asleep again around six, but were soon awakened by a kerfluffle in the hallway bathroom. The spousal unit seemed to have it in hand, so I took the opportunity to crawl back into my own—warm—bed. Soon, it became evident that the kerfluffle was becoming a kerboomboom.

I opened the bathroom door to find Risa, Vida, and the SU. "What's going on? Lea's sick, and she's sleeping. You have to be QUIET."

"We're having an emergency," said the SU.

The emergency was Risa, who had inadvertently fell asleep while squooshing a giant wad of neon orange silly putty. It was now deeply embedded in her very long hair. Not at the tips, mind you, but at her nape. She was weeping silently and trying to hide her head.

"Let me see," I said. More with the weeping, lots of refusal. "Um, hiding it isn't going to make it go away."

I had to keep from gasping when I saw it because, really, it was terrible. She must have rolled around on it every which way; the tangle was the size of one of those mini basketballs that people use for office hoopster-ing. It was its own entity. I tried to engage it, but it wasn't interested. Finally, I said, "Get me some olive oil."

I don't know how I knew it would work, but for the most part it did. After a few minutes of massaging oil onto the wad, it started to give way. Once she showered, I had to snip little bits here and there, but at least she was spared a Tuesday morning surprise bowlcut.

About twenty minutes after I sent the big girls off to school with the neighbor, my little Queen of the Fever Spike emerged from her room, fully clothed for a day on campus. "Hi," she said. "Where's Risa and Vida?"

"They're at school. I sent them with L. so I wouldn't have to wake you up."

She looked around, confused. "Oh," she finally said. "I'm hungry."

So I fed her and she laid down on the couch, not fully recovered after all. And of course, the phone rang at eleven o'clock and....

Let The Salt Wars Commence

My blog needs a new tagline. It should be, "Nesting Ground: Where Never The Day Is Dull." Or something like that. Some of you know that my crazy father recently experienced yet another one of his dramatic health episodes. A few people have asked me to blog about it, but I shan't do it full-out. For although he is crazy, I need to preserve the man's privacy. A little.

Last week, when I brought my mom home from having an MRI that lasted something like 79 hours, my dad was in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. "I have a cold," he said. "Call 911." And we all laughed and I went home and the next day was a normal day.

Two days later, though, my crazy father collapsed and my calm mother DID call 911, and the next thing I knew we were living an episode of that insipid show, Grey's Anatomy. Flash forward six days, and everyone is home where they are supposed to be, and doing what they are supposed to be doing which is basically eating no salt and making sure their blood sugar never again takes a deep-sea dive to...hello?...THIRTY-SEVEN. And we will be partaking on new adventures: physical therapy for my mom (as I believe I mentioned earlier) and dialysis for dad.

All the same, we are counting several lucky stars. One of said lucky stars is my dad's generally perky little take on life. For a couple of days, he had the world's most miserable roommate at the hospital. We'd draw the curtains completely and just listen with saucer-eyes as the guy went on and on about how he was just going to "end it" and nobody could stop him and how he was a "World War II vet and can use a gun; you figure it out," and how everything was shot to hell because he couldn't eat apple pie anymore. After listening to that poor man, I realized that maybe my crazy father is not so crazy; maybe he's a peach.

But I have to tell you, I'm not looking forward to the salt arguments that are about to ensue. In fact, I'm just going to refer to 2009 as the year of The Salt Wars.

Lions Roar, Church Bells Ring, and a Car Drives Off Into the Distance

I was determined to post today. Unfortunately, I was also determined to get to Ryder Park for my patented (why is it patented when it appears to make no difference whatsoever to my physical being? I don't know) Ryder Park workout, hit up Target and Trader Joe's, register the girls for two camps, pay my bills, prep for teaching art to the first graders on Friday, and write up a lesson plan for tomorrow's baby writer's workshop. Speaking of third grade baby writers, our first session was more fun than a fish fry on a friday night (is a fish fry fun? Is it more fun if it's on a friday night?). It was easy to get them thinking in metaphors/similes. Here are a few of their poems:

Maeve
Maeve is beautiful as a field of daffodils
She is green as ten forests
Maeve is a cherry red popsicle
She is a very large church bell ringing
- J.M.

Brother
My brother is strong as a weed
He is fun as yellow
My brother is sweet as a red cherry
He is a lion roaring
- by K.I.

Me
I am a daisy in spring
I am bright purple
I taste like a ripe orange
I sound like a car driving off into the distance
- R.W.

I don't know; I just think those are super groovy. We'll see what happens tomorrow.

Benign Neglect

Your Nesting Ground Mistress is guilty of neglecting her blog; she has been a terrible mistress. But her reasons for doing so are legitimate. You may judge:

1) I finished a story. Let me repeat: I FINISHED A STORY. Since this occurs about as often as leap year, I'm pretty much dancing in my seat, here. I'm not sure what accounted for this sudden and mad desire to reach the end of the thing, but I am not one to argue with literary urges of any kind.

2) My brothers and teenage nephews were here! Very strange to have the delicate balance of my household tipped into The Land of Testosterone. Even stranger to see giant pairs of shoes hovering near the closet. Now they're gone, and I'm melancholy. My youngest nephew, Malakai, is a fan of my green beans (that sounds nonsensical, but not when you stop to consider that I toss them with fried garlic and sprinkle them with Maggi). I made some last night, and I was sad he wasn't here to eat them all up.

3) I was busy making like a steamroller—a STEAM. FREAKING. ROLLER, people!—and was successful in snagging my adored mother an appointment at Stanford Medical Center's esteemed Neurology Clinic. I'm happy to report that our first visit was like something out of a dream, and she is now a patient of a fine, fine, super-fine neurologist who specializes in the diagnosis, treatment, and clinical research of multiple sclerosis.

* strikes the Rocky Balboa at the top of the steps pose *

4) Softball. Someone save me, already. The girls have moved up an age bracket, and the games are NINETY MINUTES long. They practice 2x a week, also for ninety minutes each time. I know there are families who are used to this type of thing. Families where the kids have to swim every day or get to the gym every day or whatnot, but we are not one of those very impressive families. And so this is not so fun. Adding to the bad news: the fact that I almost single-handedly burned down the snack shack last year has not saved me from the odious task of having to work there for 2 shifts this season.

There are other tiny reasons, reasons which when bundled together add up to a whole bunch of time, but when taken individually sound quite ridiculous. Having to teach a lesson in Chinese landscape painting—of which I know nothing, mind you—to forty third graders, for example. Or sorting through wardrobe choices for next month's trip. Oh, but here's a good one:

5) Little baby writers! Most of my school volunteer time is spent tutoring struggling readers or writers, but beginning this Thursday I have the sweet pleasure of running a little workshop for...glorious! glorious!...a group of six strong writers. I've been finding some fun stuff in the 826 Quarterly's Don't Forget to Write, as well as at the Teachers & Writers Collaborative website. Fun, fun!

Will the Shame NEVER DIE?

A few years ago I wrote a post about how a friend and I set up a Filipino table for International Day at my kids' school. We thought we were fairly bombastic until. Until. Until the Tongan families arrived sporting traditional dress and carrying a ROAST PIG THE SIZE OF MY HOUSE. Do you remember how I cursed the gods that day? Do you also remember how the event happened to coincide with an Achiote Press reading and that Oscar had no sympathy for my plight, but rather laughed at my comeuppance?

Fast forward to 2009. This was to be my Year Of Redemption. This was to be the year I could hold my head up high and pass by the Tongans while tossing out a casual, "Hey, nice table you got there."

But it is not meant to be.

Why? Because apparently there are a bunch of upstart Filipino parents in the Kindergarten class who are building a bahay kubo (it sounds like I'm joking, doesn't it? I assure you I am not) and who do not require the help—in any way, shape, or form—of your Nesting Ground Mistress.

Sure. Fine. That's fine. I'll just go ahead and create a table representing the Land of Nesting Ground. I will serve chunks of bitter melon, clusters of sour grapes, and glasses of fine whine. My national flag will bear the words, "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave." I'll see you there!

Spam Folder Sex Poem

My Spam folder held six messages this morning. When I took a peek prior to emptying it, the subject lines revealed the following poem:

Have sex longer
better sex
please her like never before
be amazing in bed
be a god in bed
please her like never before

I thought the repeating middle and end lines of "please her like never before" were especially effective, as were the "be a..." that begin lines 4 and 5. I was going to wait a little longer to see if any more messages appeared, but it looks like this will be it for the day. Has this phenomenon ever occurred in YOUR mailbox? If so, you are required to share. Go! Go check your Spam!

Suddenly I See-ee

Though I knew it was in excess of ten years, I wasn't sure exactly how long I'd been wearing the same pair of contact lenses. Last week I visited the eye doctor for the first time in six years, and he told me: twelve years.

There is no good reason for this. I think the issue was...me. Just last week the spousal unit—in regards to some random half-zip fleece thing I'd worn to the gym—said, "I gotta say, Vernie. No one holds on to a sweatshirt like you." And I guess that's true. Despite excessive spending in some areas like books, shoes (occasionally), self-preservation (this would include haircuts and, I don't know, private pilates sessions?), babysitting ($20/hr. = ouch!), restaurants (occasionally) and more books, I am by nature someone who doesn't think she needs more than one random half-zip fleece thing. Call me crazy.

Nor did I need new contact lenses if the ones I had were perfectly fine. This didn't stop the Eye Guy from reaming me out for thirty minutes, though. See (ha! get it?!) here, Eye Guy, I wanted to say, if I felt like listening to someone berate me for my human failings, I'd go to church, thank you. But I didn't. I agreed that I was an awful, ridiculous person and that there is no one in the world except me who would do such a brainless, lame, potentially dangerous thing. Then he checked out my eyes and I almost laughed out loud when he announced that by some miracle of the Eye Gods, I had no cornea damage.

Then I waltzed out of there with a new pair of disposable lenses and 20/20 vision. This is good. But it is also not-so-good because there are all sorts of things I was fortunate not to notice before. In other words, I've been vacuuming. A lot.

Daly City Semi-Love Song

I have Daly City on the brain.

REASON NUMBER 1. Every third grader has been assigned a city within San Mateo County and is required to turn in a written report, deliver an oral presentation, and develop some sort of visual enhancements. Vida was jumping out of her Converse when she was given Daly City. There are few things more amusing than a 9-year-old pumping her fist and saying, "Yes! Yes!" Risa, on the other hand, stood perplexed when assigned the venture capitalist capital of the world: Woodside. "Where is this place?" she said, staring at her paper.

REASON NUMBER 2. It so happened that my dad had a craving for Sinugba the other day, thus giving Vida the opportunity for field research. The restaurant turned out to be closed, so ignoring all other input, I made a beeline for Westlake Shopping Center (making quick stops first at my high school and then our old house), home of Daly City's one branch of Nation's. As we drove down endless Southgate Ave., Dad gave Vida a little impromptu suburban architecture talk and pointed out that every third or fourth house was exactly the same. Meanwhile, I was shocked to realize that a lovely view of San Francisco Bay was spread across my sightline. Was that always there? I asked myself. Of course, you idiot, I answered. You just weren't looking.

REASON NUMBER 3. During this same time, I was (and still am) reading Sunny's Pinoy Capital: The Filipino Nation in Daly City. A third of the way through I had to e-mail him to scream about how frighteningly spot-on he is with his observations about the cultural landscape of Serramonte Mall, the breach of understanding between newly arrived Filipinos and the more established, and the fact that there is nowhere (such as parks) that encourages community gathering. The closest thing to a park has always been the Serramonte food court and, for a little while, Westlake Bowl. When I was eight or nine, I used to walk to the library, but I stopped going after I'd been flashed too many times by some perv in a grey trenchcoat. Oh Sunny, wailed your Nesting Ground Mistress in her e-mail, I was so psychologically boxed in by the omnipresent fog and the orderly lines of houses! Is it any wonder I never noticed the Bay?

*pause for dramatic effect*

Thank God Sunny didn't take the easy opportunity to make fun of me (at least not TO me). I also want to note that his take on the story behind first Filipino Mayor Mike Guingona's rise to the pinnacle of Daly City politics is a must-read.

REASON NUMBER 4. While all this was happening my eldest brother, who has lived on the North Shore of Oahu for twenty years and whose online presence has been hitherto slim, made his splashy debut on Facebook. This simple act contributed significantly to the Daly City pile-on because it inspired a flurry of Fairlawn Ct. remembrances from our cousins. Most of these memories revolved around skateboards, a truly horrible game called "Butts Up," and a guy named Fish who once held my little life in his hands as we careened down a large hill on his skateboard with no thought given to cross-traffic or other pertinent dangers.

REASON NUMBER 5. Add to this two questions, one posed by Barbara Jane and one by a white neighbor who grew up in San Bruno, and you have all the ingredients necessary for a lengthy trip down memory lane. Guess who asked which question:

1) "You're D.C., right?"
2) "What is your relationship to your city?"

If you didn't guess correctly, you're funny.

I left Daly City for good when I was seventeen years old, and I have had many homes since then: San Francisco, Vancouver (Canada), Washington, D.C., Virginia, Santa Barbara, and now San Mateo. But none have the visceral pull of the long empty streets of my foggy, Filipino-filled hometown. I'd post a picture for you, but would you believe it? I don't have one.

The Post in Which I Whine

I'm sick and do not want to go anywhere. But I am going here:

1) the shower
2) jiffy lube
3) sport mart
4) michael's
5) trader joe's

It's such a short list, but it overwhelms. The only place I should be going is:

1) bed
2) school to pick up kids
3) bed

Due to the combination of climbing hills (tues), pilates (wed), and illness, the following body parts hurt:

1) head
2) nose
3) throat
4) thighs
5) ass
6) anterior tibs
7) eyes
8) triceps

The sounds I currently hear are:

1) screaming birds
2) twittering birds
3) fridge buzz
4) fingers typing
5) pounding in head
6) sniffling

Place I am going tomorrow is:

1) the snow

Current temperature at destination is:

1) 20 degrees

The reasons I am writing in lists are:

1) inability to think in complete sentences at the moment
2) laziness
3) vague amusement factor

Things I will not do today:

1) cook
2) dance
3) jump
4) smile (apparently)

One-Story Writer, Plus A Side of Lemongrass Fries

I forgot to tell you about my lovely day. It happened two weeks ago, but never mind: it was still lovely, and it happened to coincide with some balmy weather. I was to have lunch with my cousin, whose work is situated on a Richmond District avenue that, in turn, is tucked conveniently between las avenidas Clement y Geary.

Clement St., as you know, means only one thing to me: Green Apple Books. Because lunch was scheduled for noon, I arrived promptly on the bookstore doorstep at 10:00 am. I have already rhapsodized several times about the store itself, so I will just tell you that I found many new books to consume, yes, but I also found a magnficent used copy of a super fat—like 900 pages FAT!—story collection published 20 years ago in the UK, edited by Alberto Manguel (whose A History of Reading I enjoyed so much), and titled White Fire: Further Fantastic Literature.

I read the first story, "The Child Who Believed," which was written by Grace Amundson, first published in 1950, and (no surprise) wonderful. Broadly speaking, it's about parents, children, and the power of imagination. Specifically, it's about an old and unglamorous magician who dies in the arms of a morose little girl, but not before he succeeds in transferring to her the ability to perform the "bubble trick." It turns out the little girl is the "first woman in the royal line of custodians." Oh, and the trick? It involves reproducing live miniature enactments of history inside...bubbles. BUBBLES!

But not only that. When I went back to read Manguel's introduction to the story, he says that it's the only work he's been able to find by the "mysterious" Amundson. Sure enough, I googled her name, and the only mention I found of it was in reference to this anthology.

Maybe it's the only story she ever wrote. Maybe she wrote and wrote and wrote, but no one ever wanted to publish another word. Maybe she died and her coffin is lined with rejection letters. Or maybe there's an undiscovered box filled with manuscripts. There was a fire, a flood, a trip to the town dump. But it's sort of okay. Because if all Grace Admundson left behind was this one story, then she's way ahead of most of us.

Now, about lunch: we ate at Pho Tudo, where we shared a plate of lemongrass french fries served with some sort of aioli-ish thing made with Sriracha. Do I even have to tell you? You need to go there. Then I had garlic noodles with four plump, buttery, grilled prawns lolling about on top. Go there.

The Post In Which I List Foreseeable Difficulties

I know that visiting the Philippines isn't a big deal in general, but it will be the first time for my kids and spousal unit, and I haven't been in about ten years. So in the SPECIFIC, it's a very big deal. To me. To us. Foreseeable difficulties:

1) We are traveling in April, by all accounts the hottest, most miserable, most horrific month of the year. Yay!

2) Interminable flight time, made more so by our 3 junior-size traveling companions.

3) I have very few relatives still living in Manila, and if I remember correctly, I have never met the ones who remain. The exception is my dad's cousin, Uncle P., who has kindly made sure that he will be back from his trip to Japan in time to squire us about a little.

4) The 2-hour Carlos Celdran walking tour. We're doing this for sure, but will my children wither? Like literally WITHER?

5) The possibility that it will be too hot to walk on the sand when we get to Boracay. I'm kidding. No, I'm not kidding.

6) Boracay itself. Is it too much the tourist trap? Should I have chosen Palawan instead? I just didn't want to venture too far out of the kids' comfort zone this first time around.

With these and other thoughts floating around in my head, I will now proceed to Firestone because if my powers of observation are as astute as I believe...I have a flat tire. Frickin' frackin' frickledy doo.