Apropos of Nothing

Davao is a well-planned city, progressive, self-sufficient and fun, fun place. The night life is not hectic and glam-crazy like Manila but it has all the right places — charming cafes, superb restaurants and quaint watering holes. I like all the places we visited — Matina Square (selection of cafes and bars), Autoshop (bars and restos by night, a stretch of real autoshops by day), the neighborhood coffeeshop which has an upscale yet homey feel to it, Jack’s Ridge (like a 15-minute drive Antipolo) and Ah Fat Restaurant (great seafood). There are also KTVs and disco/bars but I was not able to go around THAT much.  John was trying to get us to Aquarium but we were just too comfortable in Matina for our nightly night caps.

Yes there is an 11PM liquour ban (tho I heard you can still get some in nearby beach resorts) and yes, you have to watch where you smoke or cross the street.There is a curfew for unaccompanied minors too - -11PM too I think.

Yes, the seafood is great — price, freshness and taste (simple grilling or soup is best). On the third night, we have accumulated a respectable stash of leftover seafood.

It’s been 12 years since John and I parted ways after UP Diliman life. Him to pursue another course (capped with a law degree) from Ateneo de Davao — while raising the ante of Davao night life. Me to start my HR career early, go on a long-winded engagement, get married and all that jazz.

12 years — yet it seemed like only yesterday when we hang around Molave dorm’s lobby after dinner — waiting for everyone else to converge and decide where to go or just to hang around some more watching everyone else watch everyone else. Or score some old test questionnaires for review. Or get someone to just tell you what they have studied/read so far so you don’t have to do it yourself.

12 years and John is exactly as I remember him — the Peter Pan outlook, the hilarious anecdotes, the kindness, the warmth of a real friend and always, always getting ready for the next happening. He is of course more successful now (ATTY!) but his being remains true to what we have known more than a decade ago. Now it can be gauged — John is authentic then and now.

John and Davao — they both go very well together. (Thanks, John, for showing me your playground!)

For 95USD, I bought 4 Samsonite backpacks (for laptop), 3 North Face backpacks (2 big, 1 small) and a Roxy carry-on luggage (with wheels). The cost of the bags ranges from USD10 to USD15.

There is a bag shop nearby Palace Hotel but the prices in Ben Thanh cannot be beat. I walked from Palace to the Tourist shop along Le Loi (perpendicular to Opera House), had some money changed (with service charge!) and looked at the map. I am terrible at estimating distances but I was enthusiastic enough to try walking to Ben Thanh.

There are amazing shops along Le Loi — particularly the embroidery paintings and lacquer paintings. It’s a good thing I took the walk because I got to see the really good stuff before making it to Ben Thanh. Of course, there are also embroidery paintings in Ben Thanh BUT they look like some kid’s project. Terrible. So considering the quality — I’ll still buy from the shops.

When I got to Ben Thanh — around 4-5 blocks away, I just went around taking pictures and asking for prizes and initial haggling. In the clothes section, two women grabbed (as in two women pulling my arm) to go into their shop. I keep saying no and they were eloquently jibbering (am sure) about how I must buy from them (I think). I was partly amused but a bit scared too (they were  strong!). I went through the clothes section without glancing at any of the stalls.

Found myself in the fresh produce market and clicked away at all the amazing produce. Had a sprite and a cold coconut milk-based concoction — with pretty pink pearls on it. My feet were complaining already so I took my time and exchanged smiles with the proprietor of the next stall as she prepares Pho.

I figured out by then that Ben Thanh is not very large in area so I knew that I am almost completing my rounds.

And there, on the final corner I found a couple of stalls selling lacquerware (bought bowls with the holes for chopsticks and Mama’s doll) and around 3 stalls selling bags. Haggled for northface bags first and when she gave me good price — I went bag crazy. At the end, we were both happy. She gave me a kipling monkey for free!

Burdened with the bags, I did not go back anymore to the Pho lady and took the taxi back to the hotel. All of these in less than 2 hours.

A couple of months after I had braces installed to close my widening teeth gaps, I noticed my teeth taking on a two-tone look. The part nearest to the gums turned to an embarrassing shade of yellow. The discrepancy from the other whiter half is really noticeable. (The neon-palette of elastics further aggravates the situation.)

My pretty dentist gave me a sage word of advice.  Swish your teeth with hydrogen peroxide.

I grimaced (as you may be doing now) while images of wounds bubbling with peroxide flashed through my mind.

Well, as vanity dictates it, I must at least give it a try.

Off to Watsons I went and bought the smallest bottle available (less than P20 for 120ml).

I was encouraged that the back of the bottle contains this part in its Indications and Directions – “May be used as mouth wash when diluted with 2 parts of water”. At least I was assured that it can be used orally (and on other surprising areas as well)

At home, I devised my formulation. I used 1:1 proportion with water.  Five bottle caps of the peroxide plus water was enough for two swishes. Expecting an aftertaste, I had my toothbrush with toothpaste ready on hand. I also chose not to swish (did not want bubbles all over my mouth) and I kept the solution only on the front part of my mouth. I let my teeth soak on the solution for about a minute, spit it out and then do it again. I end the ritual with a thorough brushing with regular toothpaste and then flossing. Finally a swipe of lip gloss (for non-flaking lips – not required for whiter teeth.) I did this twice a day for a week.

Whiter teeth is evident as early as third day! Even the super-secret nicotine stains (circa 90’s) at the back of my upper teeth is lightening!

Nowadays, you will see me smiling more often. Partly, it’s because of the whiter teeth. Mostly though it’s because soon I and my whiter teeth are off to a new adventure!

Thanks for the tip, Doc Sybil! (meet her soon in my Friends List).

My friend S calls these guys “Chick-ers”. Between me and her, we have formed a Chick-er’s Observation Forum.

Chick-ers are men who likes women. A lot of women. Men whose prime obsession and inevitable downfall are women. They are on to women – always in plural form.

These Chick-ers come in a variety of ages, form, educational attainment, nationality and religious affiliation.  The only thing common with them all is their hound’s instinct for any female within vicinity.

Our favorite, of course, is the Alpha Chick-er.  He’s got the looks of a comic’s hero, the suave of a movie star, the bottomless wallet of a political machinery, the education of a Harvard man and the hotness of a nuclear blast. He smiles and we girls go a-flutter around him. His wit entraps our mind. His manners makes us feel like princesses. His generosity bowls us over. Finally, he is so hot that a pinch of attention from him makes us feel like we’re Angelina Jolie. He makes a hit and the female hardly survives. Thankfully, the Alpha Chick-er is currently listed as an endangered species and can largely be observed only on silver screen. (Interestingly though, we have often made the mistake of tagging a gay guy as a Chick-er. There are a lot of similarities between the two. Either that – or we have really faulty gay-dars.)

More common though is your garden variety Chick-er.  He does not induce as much fantasies as the Alpha Chick-er but he is an endless source of amusement and amazement. They fail the Alpha Chick-er class because they are usually lacking in at least two of the criteria – looks, personality, wallet-size or intellect. But don’t be misled. We have heard stories (legends more likely) of Chick-ers with none of the above qualifications but with a conquest list as long as EDSA. The garden variety Chick-er is the kind of guy whom your bestfriend cried over for a month (third party factor as usual).  You did not get to meet him (he is always rushing off) until one fateful day when you realized that it’s the same gnome-looking male that your other bestfriend is currently sighing over. No looks, no personality, no money and slow in the brain waves department. You know him – he walks around with a string of broken hearts wrapped around like a sash in his shrunken chest.

So what do you do when you encounter a Chick-er? If it’s an Alpha one, and you have an Alpha self-esteem that can withstand a nuclear blast, then go for it and we want every juicy detail. If it’s the other Chick-er kind, well, you don’t. Usually, this kind of Chick-er does not go around publicly declaring the notches on his belt (oh yes, he loves ‘em and scalps ‘em too). More often than not, they capitalize on their underdog qualities and are seemingly harmless and totally loveable. They woo (or let you do the wooing) in the subtlest of ways. The eventual outcome, of course, is the love-sick and abandoned female.

Admittedly, the Forum is under a lot of criticism. By focusing on this kind of men, are we not endorsing the continued grief of women? Well, you see, we fancy ourselves to be oncologists of the male/female relationship. Also, in these times of metrosexual ek-ek, spotting a man whose primal interest is still the female (preferably in singular form) is actually a relief. And heck, they’re as amusing as dogs (as long as you are not in their hit list).

I confess – I am a serial hobbyist. 

I have been in and out of hobbies since I realized that I couldn’t sing. I am the only one in the family who cannot carry a tune.  This is a disaster if you grow up among people who love to sing-along to whatever is playing on the radio-cassette player (which was turned on for 20 hours a day). Having been shushed quite often for singing off-key, I found a way to stump my siblings and parents by being the expert in song lyrics. I wait for that precise moment when they are just making-up the lyrics (or just humming to the tune) and then I belt out the exact lyrics with the right diction albeit the wrong note. This vindictive streak fueled me enough to fill at least two notebooks of the lyrics to most of my father’s favorite country music, 60’s, 70’s and the 80’s hits.

Then I moved on to collecting poems, oratory and declamation pieces. By this time, I had access to my father’s typewriter. I typed-up “I am a Filipino” of Carlos P. Romulo from memory in triplicates (I don’t know why).

One lazy summer, I finished a cross-stitch project.  It was a throw-pillow cover with a big sunflower on it.  Seeing that my interest won’t last, my aunt allowed me to make bigger stitches and I omitted the leaves.

Together with my two sisters and our father’s indulgence, we hoarded an impressive collection of hair ornaments (clips, ribbons and ties of various kinds).  The only price we paid was that we were not allowed to have short hair until the age of consent.

I also had a decent collection of key chains. Almost everyone in my extended family and close friends had contributed to the collection. I never made use of even one key chain – I never had to keep a key until I went to college.

As soon as I could compose a letter, I subscribed to this pen pal service that is advertised in Liwayway magazine. It was both for international and local pen pals. The international stamps proved to be too expensive and the local pen pals are too lazy to write back.  I ended up corresponding with a former neighbor who relocated to Cebu. Her mom visits us often and hand-carries the letters to her. I also got to know my only godfather through letters. He lives in far-away Manila and writes long letters in fine script. His daughter also wrote to me in her kindergarten script. I finally met him and his family when I came over for university studies.   

Later in high school, I got into crochet and made a huge shawl for my grandmother.  It was the hippest thing she ever owned.  The color is neon green. (I wonder where it is now.)

There were only two other hobbies I remembered in high school.  One was writing really bad poetry and editorials for our school paper. Another one was collecting insults to be used indiscriminately against anyone who dares to cross me. The insults were in English because students get fined 25 cents every time we speak the dialect.

In college, I watched TONS of movies. Molave Dorm is just a stone’s throw away from the Film Center (now Cine Adarna).   I subscribed to a monthly pass and posted in my room is the monthly schedule of movies. I watched (sometimes dozed through) most of Shakespeare’s plays in film.  I went through a library of black and white movies (so romantic!). I got introduced to indie films from all over the world (lahat papatulan). I fell in love with Akira Kurosawa. I watched “The Lord of Rings” in animation (wherein Sam and Frodo looks like the same cast for Snow White’s dwarves). I watched uncensored (it’s a free university) art/porn films (your debate) until my stomach heaved. I consumed too many obra maestra that in my head the stories are all scrambled and lost.

Some people have lifelong hobbies.  I am yet to find mine. I should have just learned to sing.

(Coming soon – probably in 2007 – More hobbies)

This is actually more of a testimonial rather than a blog entry.  The reason is that our foodie-in-training (my brother Karlo — aka Poy) wants me to testify in virtual court that he indeed cooked the food in question. He seems to be encountering some disbelief from his friends that he has kitchen skills.

Well, yes, Poy did cook the Thai-style paella. And he worked at it for FOUR HOURS. Despite the simplicity of the recipe, both he and I are complete ignoramuses when it comes to cooking paella. The recipe looked simple enough but what threw us both on a spin is this instruction — "Add rice and mix thoroughly with oil in the pan." Rice in oil? in pan? Our main question was would it cook properly? Both of us grew up with rice cookers and that cooking rice involves a lot of water. The paellera is also quite thin compared to a rice cooker and we fear that the rice will burn. So, the two disbelievers decided to keep the rice moving (endless mixing for a total of 1.5 hours). We figured that it will cook longer because there’s less water involved and it’s uncovered.  I was ok with it — I was not the one doing the mixing anyway.

By the time Poy’s arm started to strain and his voice crack, I have figured out a safe alternative — go back to basics.  Use the rice cooker and just assemble the lot in the paellera. Of course we had to prepare a fresh batch of stock and other ingredients but we are at a point of no return.

All’s well that ends well. The rice cooker trick worked. The rice was fragrant with the bagoong, coconut milk and chicken stock. It was a sight to behold after assembly in the paellera — topped with ripe mangoes, strips of scrambled egg, mussels, chicken strips and fresh basil. We were quite hungry at this time but we are not about to chow down without the pictures taken. This dish — more than anything else we have attempted so far — deserves to be remembered.

So, yes, Poy did cook this dish — with a little help from the rice cooker

(I got the recipe from FOOD magazine, June 2005)

Nothing beats steaming Arroz Caldo on a rainy day. It’s like a warm blanket on a chilly morning.

Pinoy Cook’s recipe asked for chicken liver, gizzard and premature eggs but I forgot to buy it from the Saturday Market. Premature eggs are not penoy.  These are unlaid eggs which have not yet developed a shell.  It’s the best surprise when you cut open a chicken. It’s still mostly egg yolk — thus the yellow color. It’s very creamy and more flavorful than the usual egg.

Since I did not have the exotic chicken parts, we ended up with a rather tame arroz caldo made of shredded chicken breasts (boneless). Still, it was VERY GOOD ARROZ CALDO — according to Poy and me. (Michael’s dissenting opinion — he’d rather have Goto than Arroz Caldo. I suspect he was turned-off by my heavy hand with the ginger. He also says he wants a yellow Arroz Caldo like in KFC.)

Have you ever had a day like this?

The car’s clutch system got "kabag". The stick won’t move and the pedal’s way too loose. We can’t reverse and we can’t go forward.  Michael had to dial 911-TATAY and spend 4 hours fixing whatever it is.

I thought we were just consuming a lot of cold water yesterday. All the water in the fridge is lukewarm. Then I noticed that our Atlantic Express has not yet developed an igloo two days after Poy defrosted it. We turned-off the unit and heard an insistent hissing sound — the sound of escaping freon. Had to march-off the meats into our neighbor’s freezer.

The screw on top of the newly installed faucet got loose and almost made it to the drainage. The "pivot part" (horizontal part for turning) came off and I just stared at it wonderingly. Michael hurriedly screwed it back on.

Keyboard won’t power ON. Did it finally get tired of my endless attempts at  "Dahil Sa Iyo"? The power regulator’s ON.  I tried it direct to the socket — nothing happens. I checked the light switch — yes, there is electricity. Poy fiddled with it. Michael just glanced at it and said that if I can find the receipt — it’s still on warranty. He’s right — the handyman’s overburdened already.

I remember that this is the second time that I had several mechanical/electrical things going undone all within one day. Good thing that the car was the first to go. We had to stay inside for the rest of the day. This day reminds me too much of Final Destination (ngeeeh).

   Heaven is a place where huggabas are given and received freely.  Where smiles are true and everything is amusing. Where laughter has no time to echo because it is followed too near by the next laugh. Where cheez whiz is gourmet food and you can while away an hour watching Tom & Jerry. Yes, there were disagreements and clashes of will but everything’s right at the end of the day.

I spent the last four days with my nephew Sean and niece Camille.  Now, I have an inkling why Sheryl chose to leave behind a good career and how Ferlie can actually go on a one-year sabbatical playing nanny to her nephews.

I just had the best vacation ever.

It’s prohibited but we tell ourselves and others that it’s not dangerous. We risk taking a trip in broad daylight but we must seek out the dank, dark corners in search for the best stash. I leave behind all valuables and take only cash. The money is never enough because I find myself wanting more everytime. At first, it was just 50 bucks a pop. Just for kicks, we tell ourselves. Many good trips followed and too easily the 500 bill melts in less than 20 minutes of foraging.

The shirtless man smiles his toothless grin as he recognizes our plates. He waves us to a "safe" area to park. It’s right beside the barangay patrol office — I really cannot say if that made the area safer or even more dangerous for us. Forewarned, I removed the car stereo (just the face plate) and hid it in the deep part of my bag. We walked briskly and in single file. In our earlier visits, we have made the rounds but now we know the best dealers. We did not pay attention to the heaps of cheaper merchandise along the streets but went quickly and deeply into the maze of stalls. Hurriedly, I check out the burn quality — the start, the middle and the end should go down smooth and easy. Go for gold. The blue ones will send you to a violent mood. There’s rarely any haggling — only when you wish to buy in bulk. Money and plastic bags change hands — deal is done.

There’s always guilt involved and I have made easy promises. But continued exposure leads to repeated use and resolutions do not stand a chance.