Tip for Travellers

In case you're visiting France and for a taste of home refuse to go as far as friends of my parents, they who packed into their suitcase a sack of rice and a little rice cooker, then if you're attacked by homesickness maybe you can go to the nearest Mcdonald's. No, if you're thinking you can order a homesickness-killing Chickenjoy, you can't settle for second best and instead eat a Chicken Mcdo with rice. It's not on the menu. For consolation, get yourself a drink. After you've sipped a little of that Coke, study your paper cup. If you've got the right one, you should be staring at an Asian mother-daughter pair with pleasantly surprised looks on their faces. Floating near their heads is a bubble filled with red letters. The biggest sentence reads "C'est tout ce que j'aime." Somewhere in there, too, are "I'm loving it" and "Ich liebe es." There are some Chinese and Arabic characters. Unless you're very good at languages, leave them alone. Squint your eyes, and search somewhere at the bottom. There, you'll see it. Teeny, tiny, but an echo from home: "LOVE KO 'TO!" You can almost forget that when you entered, no one yelled you're a hermaphrodite with, "Good morning, Ser-Mam!"

P.S. If you've really got homesickness bad, try to find playing near you a homegown talent who's now big in France. Just last week I picked up the program for the international photography festival Les Rencontres d'Arles, and there on the last fold where they listed down all the events happening this summer in Arles, capital of the Camargue, I was informed that on the 17th of July, at the Théâtre Antique, performing would be Billy Crawford, formerly known as That's Entertainment wunderkind Billy Joe. It's the 20th. I missed it. Sigh.

Why I Think I'm Still in the Philippines #4

8. Remember the comedian who was famous both for his ludicrous wig and the mother-in-law jokes? Well, the hours I spent watching Pepe Pimentel on TV is exerting their influence. Not that I've taken to combing my hair into a mini-pompadour, but of dear Jeanette, whose only son I happened to marry, I can tell you a hundred and one stories, many of them amusing, a few not so.

My own mother warned me against living with my in-laws. She herself had been coerced into it when, early into her marriage, although she and my dad lived a city away, my paternal grandmother would find an excuse to hound them almost every day, the most famous incident having her arrive with a broken flat iron that she said my father must fix that very hour. The old woman soon wore them down and they lived a not very happy few years with her.

Jeanette has it better that we are just a hundred meters away. In the beginning of our marriage she would walk over once a day bringing usually groceries and cooked food, but sometimes linen and other house stuff. We were fine with that, and she sensed it, so she started visiting more often, at her peak coming five times a day (yes, we counted). I knew that we had to put our foot down the day she came bringing us a flat iron. My mother's voice telling her own Pepe Pimentel stories was echoing in my ears.

So we sat down down with Jeanette and said, "Imagine that your son and his wife were still living in the Philippines, and you need a special visa to go there. The end of the row of grapes is the border to their country, and we're giving you a visa but it's only good for entering their Philippines once a week." Nowadays she mostly adheres to the immigration laws. The few times we caught the Frenchwoman being an illegal alien, she was promptly deported.

[CLICK HERE! Why I Think I'm Still in the Philippines #1, #2, and #3.]

You Come From Where?

Back home, aside from my regular job, on some weekends I'd go with my sister and brother-in-law to the NBC Tent and Forbes Park bazaars to sell our handmade jewelry. These days, I'm doing the exact same thing, except that I do it alone, the bazaars are called open-air markets, the addresses are Gordes, St. Remy de Provence, and Arles, and my clients are not Manila's fashionista crowd, but tourists from all over. I even sold a necklace to a Filipina named Maritess yesterday. She came to Gordes with an entourage of husband, son, and yaya, also a Filipina. Told you I'm still in the Philippines.

But this blog entry isn't about that. It's about, while doing this business, I've come to realize that the Department of Tourism needs to launch a serious publicity campaign. People see my brown face standing out in a sea of white, and of course they have to ask, "Where are you from?" There were times when this is what happened:

Scenario #1
ME: The Philippines.
EUROPEAN/NORTH AMERICAN: (Blank look)
ME: It's in Asia.
EUROPEAN/NORTH AMERICAN: Ooohhhh....

Scenario #2
ME: The Philippines.
NORTH AMERICAN: (Blank look)
ME: It's in Asia.
NORTH AMERICAN: (Enlightened look coming into eyes, voice getting excited) Yes, you were hit by the tsunami!

Scenario #3
ME: The Philippines.
EUROPEAN: Is that near Papua New Guinea?

Scenario #4
ME: The Philippines.
EUROPEAN KID: (Fingering a necklace) Are all of you Chinese good at making stuff with your hands?
ME: Uhm, the Philippines?

Scenario #5
ME: The Philippines.
EUROPEAN: Are you part of a minority or do you all have black hair and dark eyes?

Scenario #6 (When the other person actually has an idea where the country is.)
EUROPEAN: What are the houses like?
ME: Regular, like you see here.
EUROPEAN: (Looking disappointed)
ME: (Never wanting to disappoint) Okay, there are things called nipa huts.
EUROPEAN: (Brightening up) Are they up on trees?
ME: Unless you're going to buy a necklace, I think you better go now.

Cono Comes to France

Half-cono meets half-jologs. (Photo taken by Makis, the unlabelled.)

Forgive the absence. I've been working (more on this later) and the Internet connection has been the past weeks iffy. I did have a full day free the other Thursday and spent it hanging out with Kala and Makis, making like we were back home, eating adobo and then going for a ride with an Eraserheads CD on the player. Fun.

The conversation at some point turned to Filipino class divisions, when Kala informed me that I am half-cono. If I remember right, she herself proudly claims the label jologs. If I hadn't been busy stirring in some more suka't toyo to our lunch, I would have protested.

While I grew up in the insipid, middle-class villages of Las Pinas, until she was past her teens my mother was a proud resident of very colorful Lakas ng Mahirap, Caloocan, where a cousin stayed on, until one day he was coming home from work and got chased by a village drunk wielding handmade bow and arrow. (He moved the following month.) Sending four children to school, my parents were always struggling. I helped man the clothes stand we once had in Divisoria, and took jeepneys and non-airconditioned buses to school.

Kala comes to her conclusion perhaps from the way I speak. Very Taglish, a habit I picked up working in the magazine industry, where many of my colleagues couldn't speak decent Tagalog. So they mixed it up, their speech a mix of English and Filipino. Supposedly, it's a mark of the real cono, although I've heard that some academics say it just shows idiocy, exhibiting that the speaker is really, in any one language, inarticulate.

I started thinking of this again the other day while I was talking to some tourists from the United States. I meant to tell them that a drive through sunflower fields might be pleasant, and that if they wanted to visit the Camargue, then I live right in the heart of it, so they should tell me and we could have coffee together. From the puzzled look on their faces, I gathered that they didn't understand very much.

In the thick of learning a new language, my brain had been misfiring. What I said was something like this, "There are les tournesols maintenant. On the road from Saint Remy to Arles. Ca sera bien if you take your car through there. Oh, and the Camargue is really wonderful. Les oiseaus sauvages, and the bulls. I live in Aigues Mortes. Stop by and see me. We can drink cafés together, si vous voulez."

It's official. Perhaps I'm not half-cono, but definitely I'm inarticulate. Sigh. Let me make myself feel better this evening by making tusok-tusok the fondue.

My Apologies to PAWS...

Dinner? Gallinou after a foot operation.

(And no, I didn't make fried dog feet!)

... but something happened that will make the animal-rights activists howl. Still thank goodness it occured to reassure me that I'm still very Pinoy.

I was worried. You see, sometime during the months since I moved here, along with the many life changes I had to survive I turned into a thing unheard of in our islands, where urban myth has it that half the time, that's cat meat you're eating in your siopao. Now I imagine the luxury of silk in flea-ridden black fur, hear sweet music in late-night meowings, and find a caress in sharp nails scratching against bare skin.

Biggest proof of my new status as cat lover are the veterinarian's bills. I brought my remaining kitty Dolly not just for spaying and regular vaccination, but also to test for cat AIDS and cat leukemia. Despite that "la rage" no longer exists in France, I opted for the anti-rabies vaccine. Just to be sure. It was robbery at 200-plus euros, but I didn't care. Anything for my baby. I actually came back for more. We rushed one day to Doctor Neiman, who smiled when she saw me, remembering the hypernervous Asian who on her last visit asked, "Do you think my cat is suffering from depression?"

I was much more dramatic this time. "Madame, help me," I cried. "Dolly has been coughing like she's choking on something. I'm afraid she's going to die." Doctor Neiman's diagnosis: not death, just hairballs stuck in the digestive system. For that, and a yummy paste to help ease our troubles, she charged 57 euros.

Dolly has a clean bill of health, so in the afternoons her friend can come to play. Gallinou, my mother-in-law's puppy, is a very frisky six-month-old. He bites Dolly's tail, eats the food in her bowl, licks to leave slobber all over her face. The cat generally takes it well, only sometimes protesting with a little meow.

I turned out to be more volatile. One day when I had just replanted my chrysanthemums, I found Dolly lying on the grass, Gallinou beside her, loaded with guilt along with the leaves and stems stuffed in his mouth. When I checked, I found that he had uprooted half of my plants. No mild meowing then. "Putangina naman, Gallinou e! Halika nga dito." I roared, "Lulutuin kita!!!"

Why I Don't Want a Child #1

Guess who the little one is.

1. "So when are you going to have a baby?" If Pierre and I charged for each and every time we were asked that question, we could have already bought plane tickets for our next holiday to the Philippines. And bought first-class.

Having built up a nice collection of answers, we choose one depending on the mood.

"Apol's too young." It's a lie, but my relatively unlined face fools the wrinkle-prone Europeans.

"Pierre's sterile." I invented that one, but only got to say it once before my husband censored the attack on his virility.

"When we're rich enough to afford a yaya." This is closest to the truth, because we're so lazy that if we could, Pierre and I would hire three nannies, one each for him, myself, and the kid.

After some soul-searching, I have decided that my unwillingness to have a child comes from trauma, experienced at the time I was editing a magazine for moms and homemakers, when I came upon this harrowing piece of information: Dentists recommend that we brush our children's teeth for them until they develop the motor skills to master the task themselves. That means wielding the Disney toothbrush until they're six or seven years old.

I did the math: three minutes, three times a day may not seem much, but add it up and you come up with a straight 16 days, with neither sleep nor coffee breaks, more than two weeks of your life that you could have been spending working on the next revolutionary invention after thong panties, that instead you devote to staring at mini tonsils.

"Don't worry, maybe our kid will take after me," grinned my dear darling, who lives up to the stereotype of the not-very-hygienic Frenchman and thinks he's doing me a favor if he brushes his teeth once in 24 hours. Still. That's more than five days spent cleaning out somebody else's tinga.

Why I Think I'm Still in the Philippines #3

View outside my window. Apt setting for weird stuff, no?

6. One of my father's stories about his Batangas childhood was of an uncle much-whispered about in their little town. It was rumored that the man possessed supernatural powers. He was a shape shifter, an aswang. On his deathbed he summoned nephews and nieces, told them that it was time to pass on the gift, said that whoever wanted it should step forward now. Scared, everybody just stayed where they were. On the old man's last breath, those present swore that they saw a living thing exhaled out of his mouth, a creature they agreed most resembled a scrawny chick, except that this one had feathers all black.

Remember Pierre's aunt, la hilot? We were having lunch with her and her husband one day when talk turned to how the gift of healing had been passed on to her by an old woman friend. Un secret, it was. So this gift can be given outside the family? another aunt piped up. Bien sur, la hilot answered, although it is always better to share it with a relative. Her husband's turn to talk. Maybe Apol is interested? he asked. Shrewd grey eyes studying me, la hilot began to nod.

If the day ever comes that finds me running all over the French countryside trying to escape a black chick, rest assured that I'll tell you all about it here.

7. Every first of November or sometimes during the Holy Week, turn on the television back home and you're bound to come across a show being done on faith healers, men and women with the power to banish illnesses, everything from a fever to cancer, sometimes with nothing more than their hands placed over the ailing body part. Year after year, we watch the same thing, so somebody tell ABS-CBN reporters that for a fresh angle they should hop on to an Air France flight and visit our part of Europe quick!

If you've suffered too much sun exposure, la hilot will touch you while muttering prayers to ease the feverish heat. With a slightly different technique, her sister-in-law can do the exact same thing, plus rid you of a fish bone, if one happens to be stuck in your throat. Another family member, Pierre's uncle, is a magnetiseur who uses energy to cure. Over here we're certainly not lacking for healers, les guérisseurs.

One time I was beginning to wonder if, really, I didn't just move to Siquijor, and felt the beginnings of a headache. I have a cure, my husband reassured. Ready to faint if he started laying hands or invoking ancient powers, I heaved a sigh of relief when all he did was hand over a plastic bottle containing prosaic white tablets of codeine.

[CLICK HERE! Why I Think I'm Still in the Philippines #1 and #2.]

Dear Girls,

Attempting to look thoughtful and pensive :)

Last week I met one of the village's famous citizens. He came to the house, I served him coffee, and while I was studying him I couldn't shake off the notion that he looked a lot like Stephen King, with a wild bush of hair and a squarish face that was, well, strange. One of the fingers of his left hand was cut just above the middle joint. Since it was our first meeting I didn't think it was the right time to ask him why.

Anyway. The man is an educator, one of the country's prized intellectuals; and a writer. What does he write about? He told me, "A mix of psychology, literature, philosophy, all to talk about the reality of otherness." He had given my husband one of his works, but my French is not yet good enough for that level of smart. Our visitor, I was told, had published some ten books, and is a much-sought after speaker in lectures and conferences.

Then he asked me what I did. "You were an educator, too, back home?" Nowhere near as noble as that, I replied. I wrote and edited for newspapers and magazines. "And now what do you write?" he continued the interrogation. I fidgeted. I looked at his cup, still two-thirds full, so there was no escape in a refill. No psychology and philosophy in what I do, I thought. Aloud, I said, "Just... uhm... fiction... uhm... short stories. Weirdness, individual quirks, some magical element, if I can manage it... that kind of thing."

He nodded, leaned back on his chair, and for a minute was silent. Then, "Me, too, I wish I had more time. I want to write poetry and short stories too."

We looked at each other, him through his square-framed plastic eyeglasses, me squinting because I hadn't put on my contact lenses. Smiling weakly, I went ahead and refilled his cup.

All my girls, but especially Maya and Tara, it hit me then. Not a respected intellectual, and definitely not us. No one is ever really satistified with what they have, are they.

Yun lang. My not-so-original thought for the day.

Love,
Your Ati

Why I Think I'm Still in the Philippines #2

[If you missed it, Why I Think I'm Still in the Philippines #1 is here.]

5. In the Philippines, complex archipelago of 7,000-plus islands, we have 13 major languages. One of them is Kapampangan, whose most famous characteristic, at least to non-speakers, is its lack of the phoneme "h." When my parents Gerry and Priscilla met my then-boyfriend Pierre, and for the first time for real were exposed to a Franchophone accent, they began to wonder if maybe people go "Me keni" beyond Central Luzon.

One of their conversations was about a trip to Europe my parents planned to take. "You can go to Olland, and stay in a otel." Pierre offered. Priscilla looked at him, raised an eyebrow, puffed on her eternal cigarette, then looked at me and mouthed, "Saan daw?" ("Where, did he say?").

Soon enough they were discussing France, where my parents of course had to visit Pierre's village. My urbanite mom worried. "You live in the country, maybe there will be many snakes?" Pierre assured her, "Don't worry, they are armless." Priscilla again raised an eyebrow.

She replied, "Of course, snakes crawl, diba?" The Frenchman tried again. "Armless... armless... you know..." Not at all being the supportive girlfriend, I clipped my arms to my sides and began to wiggle my trunk left and right. "Armless like this, honey?" I asked. Flustered, Pierre managed to blurt out, "Armless! The snakes are armless. They have no poison!" And of course, despite his guffaws, my dad just had to ask, "Are you sure you're not Filipino? You're speaking Kapampangan eh."

Epilogue: Sufficiently traumatized, Pierre now adds an "h" to any and all English words he has to speak that begins with the letter "a," so that, for example, the crevice under the arm he calls "harmpit." (Not so off the mark, when he hasn't showered for a couple of days.) Meanwhile, my parents still have doubts, wondering if their youngest daughter really isn't just married to a local guy and living somewhere in Pampanga or Nueva Ecija.

Vitrioling (The Last Time, I Promise)

Look what came by post!

A question my husband was often asked--is actually still asked, but now much less frequently--was, "Tu l'as ramené ici?" Did you bring her over here, they'd demand of him, about me, as if I were some souvenir from the tropics, a kitschy pair of mega-sized wooden fork and spoon for hanging in the dining room perhaps, or maybe something vulgar, like a barrel man.

Pierre's usual response would begin with a joke. "No, I'm so hot she came chasing after me." Then he'd start it, sometimes subtly, sometimes more upfront, depending on his mood, different ways of saying, she got her own visa, bought all her own plane tickets, before the wedding spent her summers vacationing here on her own money. This is not a marriage of convenience. I'm not my wife's financial savior, you see.

I appreciated his efforts, really, but one time I'd had enough of feeling like my entire curriculum vitae had to be dug out of the filing cabinet and presented as proof of my acceptability. So I snapped.

"Yep, brought me over, he did," said I to one lady. "At the supermarket, he purchased an extra-large cardboard box and a roll of sticky tape. He packed me in there really tight with some bubble wrap. It could have been a rough ride in the plane's cargo hold, but Pierre was really considerate. He remembered to punch air holes. Also to mark my brown box 'Fragile' and 'This Side Up.'"

Monster Alert

A fine break from all the bitching I've been indulging in following that bizaare hair-pulling incident: Vin Simbulan is publishing an anthology in the Philippines called A Time for Dragons, and a story I wrote called "A Fishy Tale" is going to be in it. The book will be a collection of short stories dealing with--yep, you guessed it--dragons, and my story will feature--uh-huh, you got it again--creatures that swim in the sea. You can read the complete table of contents over at his blog. Woohoo!

Let me go public now: Apart from all the Wakasan komiks, Danielle Steele sizzlers, and Harold Ludlum mysteries I gobbled up as a child, I was also a big fan of Gabriel Garcia-Marquez, Isaac Asimov, Frank Herbert, and, yes, let me just bare it all here, Stephen King. My brain thus wired, now that I'm trying to write fiction, there's almost always an element of the fantastic in my work (an exception being the pap in my last entry below). Now I'm taking a deep breath and trying to get my stuff published.

Given that I am so bad at rejection and criticism, I don't think this is going to be easy...

The Rules (for a brown woman finding herself in an interracial relationship)

1. If you're going out with a white guy, don't ever go to Café Havana, said Myrza.

2. When I was dating this Canadian, I gave up my strappy high heels and went around wearing flipflops, this one from Tara.

3. Oh, and cargo pants, para mukha akong student, again from Tara.

4. Wear pearls, and the hair pulled back, dearie, was an acquaintance's advise.

5. Speak English with an American twang, an officemate was overheard.

6. Do not wear shorts too short, an older friend warned.

7. Don't be long-haired and skinny, or otherwise look hungry, from a European backpacker.

8. If you must smoke, don't make it a Phillip Morris, from I don't remember who.

Why all this effort? It's preparation, to make ourselves ready for the inevitable malicious inspection. My college friend Daki was very upfront saying, "You have to admit, we all do it." He meant that look one second longer than necessary, when we see a brown woman out with a white man, trying to figure out if the relationship is for real or if she's just a bitch for hire.

As if adjusting to normal married life wasn't hard enough...


Help this brown girl adjust. Add to the list and leave a comment!

Drama!

I moved all the way to France to star in my very own fit-for-Pinoy TV telenovela. Imagine me last Saturday a gorgeous Iza Calzado, long black tresses falling in sensual curls down my back as I stand at some restaurant's bar, sipping a drink, talking to a guy who was not at all hot. Ugly as hell, in fact, no Dingdong Dantes this one. Anyway, he had started small talk and to be social I was small-talking back.

A little while later, I took my leave, turning to say goodbye to the guy's companion, a blonde with bad posture, craggy face, and skin the color of pastry dough. Unbeknownst to me, this female character had the spirit of an evil Princess Punzalan. In a jealous rage peppered by a mega-dose of racism, she focused on me her mean eyes, reached a claw out to give my hair a tug--yes, members of the audience, a sabunot it was--then proceeded to abuse me with a sentence not fit for printing here. And then her final line: "You, Thai puta."

As I wrenched myself out of her grasp, I wanted to scream, "Excuse me, pero hindi ako Thai!!!"

Attempt at being funny and cute failing miserably, let me just say, Fuck these small-minded and uneducated idiots, I want to go home.

Obsession

Chasing Sally I've fallen down a dark rabbit hole where I spend sundown haunting the 13th-century streets of our village, a ghost hybrid that doesn't say "boo." I'm infectious: Going into a bar for coffee, I heard the two barmen begin meowling too. Occasionally, ancient female spirits join me. Led by Madame Bardella, saint mother to cats lost or abandoned, we go on our tours when the world turns gray, our beacon her hair dyed magenta.

Alone I go to church grounds. Once in the chapel of gray penitents, I thought I'd found the errant juvenile, but her tail had grown two centimeters and there was a patch of white on what should have been an all-black neck. Still I was staring, willing this beast to transform into mine. "See how it raises its legs to pee," cousin Sylvain suddenly came up behind me. It can't possibly be Sally, because this one's a he.

Exactly one week after her little sister disappeared, on the same day and the same hour, our other cat Dolly went out the cat flap and wasn't seen again. The witches had returned hunting for meat for their cauldrons. Fortunately wise and quick, Dolly managed to jump off the broomstick and fly across the moon, landing back in my garden on the twentieth hour.

I am still hoping for the best, convinced that someday soon, Sally will walk right in through our lavender gates, bruised from her adventures but happy to be home. This despite knowing that many other cats have not made it. A new friend who lives two streets away told me that she lost two felines in one year, a mother and her son. That's nothing compared to our blonde neighbor.

We managed to track her down yesterday. Her gray-and-white male had been pissing in our home, and we demanded to know if the horny bachelor was keeping hostage our little girl. She said not at all, but she'll be keeping her eyes open. Then she warned us not to hope. The woman's lived here six years, and from a total of thirty cats, she's lost twenty-four.

I'd die. So yesterday Dolly was cut up and her ovaries removed. In exchange for protection, we offer her innards to the cat goddess Bastet.

Meowing Plaintively

All activities on this site are suspended as the Provenciana's energies go to posting flyers, harrassing people on their afternoon walks, aiming a flashlight down abandoned wells, knocking on neighbors' doors, quizzing the veterinarian on cat behavior, and meowing like a fool on the road at sundown, all in the effort to look for baby cat Sally. If despite her broken tail and lack of a passport she had happened to get on a plane and flown away, and you see her being a tourist in the Philippines, Singapore, the States, or Spain, please let us know. Pierre is tired of investigatigating the neighbors' chicken pens, and Dolly and I spend the rest of our time looking out the window, trying to figure out if any of those black shadows could possibly be her.

Chikahan

Eksena sa Osmena.

Ang saya-saya!!! Ilang raw na rin ang nakararaan ngunit ninanamnam ko pa rin ang alaala. Mga ati at kuya, kinakailangang maranasan niyo ang araw-araw na niraranas ko para lubusan ninyong maintindihan ang rurok ng aking kagalakan. Sa unang pagkakataon sa loob ng siyam na buwan na halos walang humpay na pagbubugbog ng utak at pagpipilipit ng dila para matutunan ang isang wikang banyaga, ibinuka ko ang aking bibig at--nanginginig at pumapadyakpadyak ako hanggang ngayon habang naaalala ko ito--nagsalita ng walang iba kung hindi Tagalog, o Filipino kung gusto mo.

Oo, dito mismo sa Pransiya naganap ito, chikahang nagsimula ng alas-diyes ng umaga at natapos ng alas-kuwatro, anim na oras , sey mo. Salamat kay Kala at Makis, na nagmaneho mula sa malayong lugar para makipagtagpo sa isang kababayan (ako) na hanggang noong nakaraang buwan ay nag-aakalang walang ibang Pinay na nakatira sa may dito. Ulit, Kala at Makis ang pangalan nila, wala akong litrato, pero may blog ang dalawang ito. (Ayan, nag-Ingles tuloy ako, pero ano ba ang wikang Filipino para sa blog, "blag"? Ili-link ko sila dito, hintay lang kayo.)

Nangyari ang lahat sa lungsod ng Arles, nung nakaraang Miyerkules, anim na oras na walang kahirap-hirap na pagsasalaysay ng mga kuwentong buhay. Kumain din kami, una sa Restaurant L'Entrevue at pagkatapos sa Fad'Oli, at naglakad sa napakahabang palengke, naghahanap ng itim na sinulid at itim na bag ("maleta"? "tampipi"?), ngunit karamihan ng panahon ay ginugol namin sa talakan.

Dahil mga kababayan, madali silang basahin at kaibiganin. Bukod sa hindi ko kinailangang maghanap ng palaging nagtatagong wikang Pranses, hindi ko din kinailangang palaging kuwestiyuhin kung tama ba ang basa ko sa personalidad at karakter ng taong kaharap ko, katulad ng madalas kong gawin kapag kahulimilo ang medyo malalamig at madalas na seryosong mga Europeans dito.

Hanggang dito na lang, magpapaalam na ako. Kay Kala at Makis, maraming salamat, kahit na hinayaan ninyo akong molestiyahin nung mamang matanda na maydalang gitara. Gayunpaman, winner ang araw na iyon. Ay hindi pala. Panalo!

Something That Made Me Go Wow

Not-so-little pinkies.

Yesterday morning, while drinking coffee, we drew the curtains to get our view of the salt mines in front and the marsh on the right, and got a pink surprise. Our dear departed duckies (remember them?), after hopefully having caused indigestion in the bellies of their nasty hunters, must have flown on to bird heaven and partied with the bird king, and to his majesty told how good we've been with our morning offerings of dried baguette, so that the king decided to send us a gift.

The Camargues, where we live, is from spring to autumn home to tens of thousands of flamingoes, those elegant-looking birds that range in color from white to deep pink, which many of us have only ever seen in pictures or on The National Geographic Channel. In Manila, the only birds I'd see flying free were the nondescript maya and the ubiquitous kalapati, so the first time I saw flamingoes on the road to Le Grau du Roi, I was squealing with delight. Since them, I've spotted more of them, on the same road and when we go to Les Salins du Midi, but always they were in large groups and keeping their distance from men.

So imagine our surprise when yesterday we were treated to the sight of flamingoes right there in front, a few meters from the edge of the terrace! Seven of them were feeding, standing stick-legged and their beaks in the marsh. They were there while we breakfasted at nine, and stayed until after the sun had set.

As I made dinner, I told myself: I complain about how hard life is trying to adjust to life in provincial France, but having lawn furniture like this makes me determined to shut up.

P.S. Whatever is in that marsh must taste good. It's March 7, and it's the third day the flamingoes have come. This morning they even brought over friends, three seagulls and an heron.

State of Emergency

Do they give Olympic golds for sliding down snow on your butt?

Forgive me for not blogging anything witty or smart, but I direly need a vacation from the vacation I just took. Last week we drove up to Briançon in Hautes Provence, thinking of doing nothing more than spending a few days inhaling chill air, enjoying the company of friends, and feasting on rich mountain food.

Unfortunately, Pierre and I are so out of it that we did not realize that the Winter Olympics was just an hour's drive away over the border into Italy, a distance short enough for the athletic endorphins to travel and infect the two other couples we were vacationing with and their accumulated four children. We knew we were in trouble when on the first morning the kids filed into our room at seven a.m., already wearing snowsuits, shaking us awake with chimed threats. "Time to ski! Time to ski!"

As I brushed my teeth, I started getting images of a giant snowball with a Philippine flag stuck to its side. It would be me, accidentally pushing my ski professor off a steep ravine so that I was left to my own devices and out of control, rolling down the slopes, gathering speed and packing up snow. Reaching ten meters in diameter, I would flatten entire families of French tourists. Forever their death screams would haunt me: "Merde!" "Putain!" "C'est quoi cette connerie?!" Screaming as well inside my prison--"Putangina!!!!!!!"--my alien vocalization would cause an avalanche and cut the town off from all major roads. After they'd run out of wine to maintain the joie de vivre and cheese to make a proper fondue, the survivors would have to walk home (school break's almost up anyway). The chic would curse me for making them look ridiculous, wearing those tennis rackets they strap on to feet and call snowshoes. Nonetheless, they would attempt to sashay and strut, the three surviving Parisians actually managing it.

I would be deported encased in ice and shame, and Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo would have a lot of explaining to do in front of the European Community. Afterwards there would be an international ban against all Filipinos: any one of us even attempting to step on snow would be instantly shot.

Fast forward to now: We're back home and a coup attempt is the headline at inq7.net. We survived, but barely.

Waking up in a cold sweat, we have nightmares about spending the rest of our lives required to get up all chirpy at dawn. Pierre cracked a rib because he forgot that he wasn't twenty years old anymore and went up on the steep red slopes the first time he ever tried snowboarding. I managed to ski just fine, but fell too many times ice-skating and even got myself kicked on the calf by my husband's metal skates so that I was limping for a day. The holiday's triumph: Angie was chanelling the spirit of her countrywoman Shizuka Arakawa, gliding after just an hour on ice skates.

Adrenaline pumping anew through his aging body, Pierre threatens to bring us up again for another week, at the end of which he says I have to be skiing down the red slopes with him. Make a petition to stop him, please. It's for the national good.

Les sportifs.

A Hallmark moment between father and daughter--

except for the plastic bags on his feet!

Future ice-skating champion?

After snowboarding, Pierre tries dishwashing,

an activity he also considers extreme.

Je Suis Wicked Stepmother

She was just here, Angie, my stepdaughter, child of the world, a passport holder at 45 days old. One and a half months after being born in France, she visited Japan, lived eight months in Mexico, and, to recover, stopped a few years in the Philippines. Long enough that, when I met her, aside from English she was speaking Filipino and two Visayan dialects.

At the ripe old age of six years and eight months, she has settled down. Home is Essex, with her Japanese mom and English stepdad. School breaks she goes back to where she saw her first summer, vacationing with her French father and Filipina stepmother. She speaks the Queen's English, and of Filipino remembers only "manang" and "patay." ("Old woman" and "dead"--don't ask me why.) We're proud of how her French is coming along. This past week it was amazing to hear her forming complete sentences all on her own. (Of a lost stuff toy: "Mon chat, il est parti.")

This petite peripatetic taught me an important survival skill last summer when I heard her in conversation with our neighbor. Cesar was saying goodbye, telling Angie that maybe he'll see her again during Christmas, when she could meet his sons. The little one was looking him straight in the eye, nodding her head, enthusing every now and then "Oui! Oui!" She did this all throughout Cesar's enumeration of potential winter activities.

After he had left, I asked if she had really comprehended. Angie answered, "Oh, not really. I say Oui to everyone talking to me in French so they'll think I understand and then they'll go away." I tried the trick a few times when I just didn't have the energy to get my brain's language center working, or when the speaker's southern accent was too thick. It worked!

Why I Must Be in France

A scene from L'Express Bar. (Spot me, hiding behind the roses.)

They don't know their rice. They boil it in a pot full of water, as if it were spaghetti, and even then they don't know to make it al dente. The first time Jeanette saw me do it, adding water just until the second line of my middle finger resting nail-first on the bed of white grains, she seemed unconvinced. Some time later, with the water absorbed and evaporated, I put the heat down low to get that nice, steamed puffiness. Jeanette couldn't stand it. In that way mothers-in-law have of assuming that, yes, they can, she marched to the stove and turned off the fire. Excuse me, I interrupted, but when you look at my face do you see anything there? Yes, you got it, I told her. I'm Filipina, and I know my rice. So I lit another match.

It's not all about beer. In college at the University of the Philippines, it was San Miguel Pale Pilsen at Gulod, near Krus na Ligas. After graduation, in the bars of Ortigas and Makati, the order remained basically the same. San Miguel Beer, this time Light. These days, I go either to Perroquet or L'Express, two bars on the village square. After having at different times imbibed moresque (pastis with almond syrup), panache (beer with ginger ale), Martini (red, white, and rose), whiskey (once with Coke and another time with fizzy water), and all kinds of wine, I have finally decided that my aperitif of choice is kir, white wine with blackberry syrup. Still, old habits die hard. When we walk over to Tac-Tac, a few cobblestoned streets away, I often return to my roots. Marco, the owner, doesn't make it easy. He gives me the drinks list, and demands that I choose from his stock of fifty beers.

They distrust water. You go visiting and you're shown Frech hospitality with one of the first sentences uttered: Do you want something to drink? Une verre d'eau, you answer. A sound like your hosts are uncomfortable, and then you're told, a bottle of rose wine is chilling in the fridge. You say, I'm sure it's very nice, but no, thank you. Just water, really. That sound again. Pretty soon, you have a complete list of everything in the alcohol cabinet. They're even willing to make you try some homemade aperitifs, although the recipe will have to remain a closely guarded secret. When they do finally bring a glass of H20, before the first sip they have to stop you. Wouldn't you really rather have some wine instead?

They have only one word for rice, and it's riz. I read that a people's language reveals what they consider important. So back in the Philippines we don't just call it kanin. It starts as palay, and when pounded becomes bigas. Cooked, it's sinaing; the overcooked part, tutong. The day after, leftovers are sautéed to become sinangag. Over here in France, there's ivre, enivré, soûl, bourré, bu, cuit, cuité, beurré, bituré, and aviné. Along with some thirty other words, all mean the same thing: drunk.

Keynote Speech #2

It doesn't matter, Tweet, Steph, all my other dearies, what nationality your man carries. This advice applies to all: It pays to know your guy's dirty secrets. Go ahead, dig and prod, unearth all those nasty things that he's got buried. It will be useful one day. Trust me.

Case in point: Many weeks ago, I was hooked. I'd hear the opening words coming from the television, perpetually tuned to a music video channel, that insouciant voice declaring, "I know you like me, it's easy to see," and instantly I'd start wiggling my ass and jiggling my boobies, dancing in front of the mirror, making like a Pussycat Doll. I even clicked on to their official site, found out that the lead singer is part Filipina. I knew it! There was something familiar in that long black-haired sexiness. I felt a connection. I thought they were, as the Fil-Ams used to say, da bomb. Dontcha?

Well, my husband, the dear, serious-minded European, answered plainly, "I don't." The Pussycat Dolls were shallow, he declared, the lyrics to the song downright stupid. Les idiotes, he said they were.

That instantly stopped me shaking my bootie. I looked at him, then back at my reflection in the mirror. I frowned, and then smiled. I remembered. Grabbing a hairbrush, I made that my mic. Opening my mouth, I started to belt.

"And I-iay-iay will always love you-ooh-ooh-oohhhh..." I went at it long enough and loud enough that if we were living in a tenement in Manila and I had the help of a karaoke machine, a beer-drunk neighbor would have dropped his forkful of sisig to come and shoot me dead in the head.

That instantly stopped Pierre badmouthing the hotties. You see, one of his deepest, darkest secrets is this: He was once an avid fan of Whitney Houston, and up to today he considers The Bodyguard one of his favorite films ever. Ha!

Why I Think I'm Still in the Philippines #1

1. My father comes from Batangas, where they have that ala-eh punto. So when I came here to the south of France, I didn't mind that they don't cut the ends off their words as they do in Paris, that they sometimes even add an "n" and a "g." I find it adorably quirky that to say "hand," le main, you don't pronounce it "luh mah" but rather "luh meng"; and the French word for "when," quand, doesn't sound like the "kauhn" they teach you at Alliance Française, but more like "kang." You want to buy bread, le pain? The boulanger will look at you funny if you utter "luh pah." Stretch it and curl it, and you'll get your "luh peng."

2. I used to live near the Mandaluyong City circle, where it was not unheard of to bring out motor boats after a big storm. Now that I'm a resident of one of the world's richest countries, I'm still not exempt from flooding. Just a few months ago, after heavy rains, they evacuated two neighbouring villages. When the baha comes, we sometimes even have brownouts too.

3. When I was a kid and came down with a fever, my mom would have called over to the house an old woman who would poke my tummy and feel my head, then stick little square mirrors to my back. The woman would murmur some words under her breath, before pronouncing me soon cured and then taking her leave. That was the hilot. Last year, Pierre fell off a motorcycle and got seriously scraped on the legs and arms. The day after the accident we went to his aunt, an old woman who cupped her hands over the wounds while whispering incantations. C'était la hilot.

4. I used to go out with a boy who grew up in Malabon, where the people are so chummy they give neighborhood characters special nicknames. Fond of playing the guitar, my ex was called "Clapton." Lucky him. He had a neighbor who was christened "Lamok" and another one was "Manok." (For the benefit of non-Filipino readers, the first neighbor was "Mosquito" and second one "Chicken.") Over here, it's the same thing. There's a man, slight of built, that they call "Anchois." A mechanic whom I met just this afternoon is "Camoui." If they lived in Malabon they would be, respectively, "Dilis" and "Langis" ("Anchovy" and "Grease").

Too Much!

It bugs me, the way my face keeps staring at me all the time from over there on the right. I put it up a few days ago, thinking I looked very cute, but now I realize that it's a snigger, not a smile, there's a malicious glint in my eye, and that my teeth look monster-size and too white. Then there's the fact that I present proof of being a camera whore everywhere I post a comment on blogger. Aside from the hi, hello, i luv what u wrote!, I also leave this statement: left profile, chin slightly down, 'yan, best angle ko 'yan! Time for cosmetic surgery, then. I think I'll just put up a picture of my cats...

Name Game

Rosalinda Pertierra Lejano is the name I was baptized with. My husband loves telling that to friends and acquaintances, having them try with their Francophone tongues to pronounce all those hard consonants and abrupt vowels, especially attempt to roll their Rs. And then the coup de grace: He tells them that the name means "beautiful rose from a land far away."

"So, your life, it is predestined, yes?" Cesar proclaimed the other night. Naturally immensely flattered, I preened and I smiled, may have even fluttered my lashes ohmigosh, all in the effort to channel the spirit of Jeanette's blush pink Rosa alba.

Then yesterday the universe decided that lately I've been having too good a time and made homesickness strike. I woke up this morning cursing my parents for not having had the foresight to name me otherwise.

My preferred options: Sampaguita Satabi Ngcornerstore, Gumamela Sa Kabilangkalye, maybe even Bougainvillea Ngkapit Bahay.

Starting the New Year Happy

An indispensable tool for survival, wherever you are, whoever you're with, is the ability to have fun. So New Year's Eve we drove some 70 kilometers to a vineyard near Fourques, to welcome 2006 with three dozen others, majority of whom I was meeting for the first time, and whose names, I have to admit, I now forget. It didn't matter, as all together we gorged on oysters, drank a tremendous amount of alcohol, and danced till our feet hurt. Bonne annee!



(Top to bottom: Don't ask me who my dance partners are. With my brother-in-law Rudy. Our first New Year as the Massebieaus! Me, just after doing a Bonnie Tyler.)

O Eto Na, Tars

Having a major lightbulb moment.

Tara called Friday, asking me to post epiphanies, those lightbulbs whose illumination we cheer as if we were stuck in Boracay in the nineties during a month-long brownout. It was my thirty-third birthday after all. So, sige na nga, eto na. And since this is for Tara, lover of lists, I enumerate:

1. Learning French is easier than you think. "C'est tres difficile, le Français," I've been told by the French themselves so many times, told with a certain air of smug superiority I might add. Well, I've been here seven months and speak well enough to be funny at dinner parties. Having spent previous vacations here, my ear is used to their nasalities, but I only really applied myself last May. There lies the secret, I think. I applied myself. It's the truth of clichés that makes them clichés: You put in the hard work, and you can do most anything you want. Plus this: It was a matter of survival. Learn French or lose my mind? I'd long ago done the latter, so there really was no other choice.

2. Dirt under my fingernails makes me happy. Seeds thrown into holes in the ground turn up in salad, stir-fries, and stews on my dinner table. There's some magic at work there. Now if only I can find a spell for ridding the garden of those nasty slugs...

3. Marriage is calming. You have to ask yourself, "Do I want to spend the rest of a lifetime getting upset because somebody plays his music too loud/leaves his dirty socks lying everywhere/disagree with me using a tone of voice I find displeasing?" You answer no, and you go out to buy headphones/think about hiring a yaya/ever so subtly raise an eyebrow in that way he knows is the signal to shut up.

4. If I were a Miss Universe contestant, I'd say "Tolerance." That should be the goal. Part of the minority for the first time in my life, I've become hyper-conscious of signs of racism. I've not found blatant discrimination against les Asiatiques, but stereotypes abound. We are perceived as a mysterious lot possesing arcane knowledge, wily and clever, the women seductive temptresses to boot, everyone capable of some mean kung-fu. Gosh, I took up some kickboxing at the gym back in Manila but that's about it.

5. Even long-distance, friends are important. Tara called yesterday, Maya remembered to pray for me. They're so sweet they make me want to cry.

6. You can take the girl out of Manila, but you can't take the bakla out of the girl. Part of New Year's Eve was spent singing Bonnie Tyler all-out, holding a blue Bic ballpoint as microphone, up the bar top and down again, then up and down the hall pausing to gently toss a balloon here, run my fingerss along some confetti there, belting for a captive audience of thirty Frenchies, many of them strangers, those not singing along looking completely stunned wondering what just hit them. Me answering, "Nothing I can say... total eclipse of the heart."

Oh, and did I mention that last week I met a real-life girl named Lavinia?

7. Nothing beats a husband who supports all your endeavors. After I'd made a complete spectacle of myself, bowed and let go of the Bic microphone, Pierre comes up, gives me a kiss, and says, "Baby, I'm proud of you."

8. You can just say no. There's this New Wave song that goes, "Why do I spend so much valuable time, with people who don't care if I, live or I die." On hindsight, that was the soundtrack of my twenties, when what my momma taught me since I was little had such strong hold, and I did my very best to smile all the time and be nice, brainwashed to think that not to like anything or anyone was a crime. The problem was exacerbated when in my late twenties I got myself a boyfriend who would go to the opening even of envelopes. Dragging me along, of course. Now, I've realized, life is precious, my time is limited, and I really don't have time for all that crap.

9. In my next life, I'm coming back as a cat. They sleep sixteen hours a day and never have to take baths. Need I say more?

10. You know you can't have all that you want... (Back home I drove a kick-ass car, a Lancer GSR, but with the impossible traffic I'd consider it driving super fast if I manage ninety kilometers an hour. Here in the country of first-world autoroutes, I clunk around in an old box-type Ford that begins to shake once I hit 120.) ...but that doesn't mean you can't keep trying for it. (New Year's resolution: Buy a red Mini-Cooper!)

Living With Animals

What is Pierre doing? (The boy on the left is Mateo...

I think we scarred him for life.)

I will never read Neil Gaiman again.

Something you have to know about me is that I'm one of those flaky sorts who believe that if you think something hard enough, you'll make it real. It works both ways. You can make come true the good, the light, and the wonderful; at the same time the bad, the horrible, and the ugly. Just as long as you believe.

So, back to Neil Gaiman. I'd just finished reading his collection of short stories, Smoke and Mirrors, and as I do when I read something very good I'd given his characters space in my brain for a few days. They got full play at night; I'd gone to bed with images of babies being used as lab animals, God setting up Lucifer for his fall, a child's fingers in a pool of wolfman's vomit, the monster Snow White feeding on her father's genitalia. Truly horrible stuff that used my head as a bridge to walk out of the pages of a book into the country roads of southern France.

Yesterday night the elegant black cat came, fur slightly dusty, a rat clenched between her jaws. She approached her sister, the smaller, nervous one, sleeping on my bed, and with a call like a crow cawing, woke her up so that together they could torture the dead. They moved to the living room and tossed the body around, poked its belly, pulled the tail, nibbled a little.

I shut myself up in the bedroom, barely able to breathe. I remembered myself, five years old, in bare feet going at night to the kitchen for a glass of water, but a few steps away from the fridge stepping on something warm, furry, and alive, feeling things cracking underfoot, then hot liquid on my soles. I turned on the light to find my foot covered with meat and blood.

After I'd spent an hour listening to the sounds of the cats' macabre play in the next room, my husband came home. I thought, "My savior, my hero." I asked him to get rid of the rat, please.

"In Peru, ancient kings considered rats a feast." (Yes, Dang, again he was in Yoda-speak.) I wasn't in the mood for his tales of travelling the wild lands, so I repeated, Come on, get rid of it.

Which he did. Holding the rat upside-down by its tail, he went to his mother's house next door. A few minutes later, he was back with something red and glistening packed in cling-wrap. I saw him feeding tiny bits of meat--was that liver and a heart?--to the cats.

Later that night, in the middle of a post-Christmas dinner at a friend's house, my husband got up and went to the fireplace. From his jacket pocket, he took out his cling-wrapped bundle and gingerly freed from it a string of meat. He put it in the fire and grilled. So while the rest of us feasted on oysters, smoked salmon, foie gras, and duck, my husband, he ate like a Peruvian king.

Gutted and skinned.

Adventuring

I'm spending Christmas as an Inuit on a black-and-white beach, enchanting dragons with a tusk borrowed from the silver walrus.

How about you?

The People In My Neighborhood #1

Nope, he's got the same nickname as my husband, but it's a different man.

Pierre--the husband--was the guy behind the camera though.

Pierrot lives in a big old wooden boat, a retired peniche, one of the lumbering cargo carriers that until the early twentieth century was essential to life in these parts. The Camargue, as this region is called, was a poor area that had not much roads, but made up for it by having connecting bodies of brackish water, les etangs. The peniche would move supplies from village to village, powered not by any machine, but by the muscles of the horses teethered to its two sides, the animals galloping on dry land, pulling the boat along through the narrow marshes that snake all over the region.

Given the must-see value of his abode, Pierrot occasionally hosts concerts and parties. One I recently attended was a period piece: come dress as a Gaul, the modern French's ancestor, and feast on wild boar roasting on the spit. Pierrot not being a very sociable guy, his events are considered a success if he manages to attract more than a dozen people. That one I went to had maybe twenty attendees--half of them dressed like Asterix and Obelisk--so I guess that it was a smashing hit.

*****

You don't need a frontal view to know that the man in the old boat doesn't care much for depilation. This serving as my segue to a postscript:

Blame it on the wine, my amateur French, or my brain shutting down because it just! couldn't! take it! anymore! In my neighbor retelling the story the day after, I realized that I had missed an important part of Anick's depilatory adventures. It turned out that after slathering on the hot wax, she went chicken when it was time to tear her hair off. So she decided to leave everything where it lay, and went to work with hardened goo still stuck to her pubis.

The next time you see a postman, wonder if she (or he--why not?) is carrying more than just your mail.

New Parents

PIERRE (standing in the kitchen corridor, watching the little ones have lunch): They always have a good appetite, no?

ME (walking up to stand next to him): Yep, they eat all the time!

PIERRE: They're growing up so fast...

We look at each other fondly, with wide smiles, then continue watching the girls.

*****

PIERRE (talking to one of the girls in French babytalk that we try to translate here): Ooohhhh... yes, that's my moomoon. Moomoon loves her Papa, yes? Come to Papa now... My moomoon...

ME (looking at our other little girl; then, in English, so that the barely bilingual children don't catch it): Honey, that's why this little one is developing an emotional problem. She knows that the other one's your favorite.

PIERRE: Of course, she doesn't know!

He thinks for a second, then goes to the neglected little girl, resumes his babytalk.

PIERRE: Yes, my moomoon. Come to Papa, moomoon...

*****

ME (at night, in bed): Where are the girls, honey? Can you bring them in here?

PIERRE: You know, you have to start learning to let go. One day, they're going to be all grown up and won't want to sleep with their Mommy anymore.

*****

PIERRE (early in the morning, in bed, just woken up): The girls are crying, honey. Maybe you should see what it's about.

ME (half-asleep): You go look, hon. I take care of them the whole day, now it's your turn.

I go back to sleep, Pierre gets up.

*****

Meet the girls, that's Sally on the left and Dolly on the right:

I know, we're sick.

My Spaceship Has Landed

Now that you have the map, come and save me.

Last night was girls night at neighbor Violette's house. Now "girls" may not be very accurate here. I was a good ten years younger than everyone else, and I'm at an age when some mornings I actually spend time checking for wrinkles under my eyes. The conversation, however, was decidedly female (and don't be going feminist on me on this one!).

Ever since those times in Mandaluyong that I spent with Maya and Tara, often over coffee, sometimes over wine, occasionally over harder stuff, talking about our jobs, our dreams, our loves, our writing, and, yes, about other people, I have learned to appreciate female-bonding sessions. This time, somewhere in southeast France, I don't think I bonded with anyone.

"Don't expect to be discussing art and literature," Pierre had said, sending me off, the anxious husband thinking that for her sanity his transplanted new wife has got to start finding girl friends to replace her old ones. Of course not. Just art and literature would have been a bore. Pierre, however, did not prepare me for this:

There we were, first with our aperitifs of white wine (that would be me and another dark-haired guest) and whiskey coke (the four tougher mommas), later attacking the raclette and green salad, talking about: where to get the right bra for big bosoms, how much the shrimps went for at the just-opened supermerket, stockings or tights for the winter, the place to shop in Montpellier, what exactly is a bag tag, and where to go for tequila and rhumba. The high point of the evening was Anick the postman entertaining us with her depilatory adventures. (Are you ready for this? I sure wasn't.) All flushed with the excitement of remembering, she recalled the pain of waxing her own crotch, of chickening out halfway through the torture, and so living for a few weeks with the dire consequence of having half her vaginal triangle hairy as usual and the other half smooth as a baby's butt. Nowadays, she just lets it all grow wild.

As Abi would say, Hindi ko kaya...

But He IS Cute!

No, Pierre is not pushing 50! And neither is he without any chin. I admit, my husband is not a very photogenic fellow, and his skin is somewhat sun-damaged, but he does have his charms. That includes his integrity, intelligence, kindness, and, yes, his abundance of body hair. I find him hot. Just to prove you wrong who've said Pierre is pangit, I've put together some of my favorite pictures. Di ba okay naman siya?


(Above) Sailing the Atlantic.
(Right) Life as a beach bum.
(Below) His everyday face... Oops! Eh hindi nga photogenic...

Keynote Speech #1.1

At left: The happy couple...

If you need more convincing, if you still do not think it wise to stqy qzqy fron the French, then look qt ny blogging; They insist on being different, the cheese_lovers, even zhen it comes to computer keyboqrds; Thqt meqns thqt these dqys, qith ny old, Philippine_bought conputer sold qnd replqced zith q French model, just spemming ny words right hqs becone an exercise in pqtience qnd concentrqtion; Thereùs q Q where there used to be qn A, qnd q Z zhere before there zqs q W; It gets zorst becquse K, L, qnd M qre qll nixed up; Don,t even qsk me to do qny mqth noz. If I zqnt to type the nunber five I get (, instead of the nunber eight there is _; Wondering zhy I end my sentences zith q semi_colon/ Thqt,s zhqt I get zhen I press dozn on the button zhere ny period used to be;

[Translation: If you need more convincing, if you still do not think it wise to stay away from the French, then look at my blogging. They insist on being different, the cheese-lovers, even when it comes to computer keyboards. That means that these days, with my old, Philippine-bought computer sold and replaced with a French model, just spelling my words right has become an exercise in patience and concentration. There's a Q where there used to be an A, and a Z where before there was a W. It gets worst because K, L, and M are all mixed up. Don't even ask me to do any math now. If I want to type the number five I get (, instead of the number eight there is _. Wondering why I end my sentences wih a semi-colon? That's what I get when I press down on the button where my period used to be.]

Keynote Speech #1

So you've heard all about why interracial relationships are difficult, right? So I don't have to tell you anymore about it, yes? Well, I just gotta.

If you absolutely have to marry someone from another country, at least make sure he comes from somewhere they speak the same language as you do. That way you don't have to suffer a 30-minute argument because you and your husband are going out for dinner, you've put on mascara and high heels that's how much you're looking forward to the evening, you've even sprayed on some vanilla perfume because you know he loves the scent of this sweet stuff, and then you ask him, "So where do you want to eat, honey? Cafe Bouzigues or should we try someplace new?" In response he looks at you in what you will very soon interpret to be a bored manner and says, "You choose. I don't care."

I. DON'T. CARE.

You think about that. Allow the words to bounce around in your head for a bit. And then, a full minute after, newly-married, sensitive you, shrieks, "You don't care?!?!" You repeat the noise one more time, and then continue. "We just got married last June and already YOU. DON'T. CARE. ?!?!" You're not done: "If you don't care, then why are we going out anyway???!!!"

It takes 10 minutes of you sulking, not saying anything, and him trying to make you stop pouting, and another 15 minutes of you both discussing the nuances of language before man and wife finally figure it all out.

Pierre tries again. "You choose," he begins slowly. "I'd like to eat at Cafe Bouzigues, but we can also try another restaurant if you want. I. DON'T. MIND."

P.S. Also try to look for someone who doesn't come from a country with such a thriving and independent-minded film industry that many of its citizens know nothing about Hollywood movies.

Me, at the film rental shop: "Hon, I heard this is a good movie, do you want to get it?"

Pierre glances at the DVD jacket, looks at me funny, and smiles: "What are you planning for tonight?"

Me, not getting it: "What do you mean?"

Pierre looks at the title of the movie, examines the pictures of a sweaty Halle Berry and Billy Bob Thornton in a kamiseta, then taps his finger against the lettering on the jacket that proclaims, "Monster's Ball." He says: "This is a kinky movie, no?"

Third Time's The Charm

Thick walls, deep resentments

(The explanation for the title: Twice last week I tried to blog about this subject, but my efforts were botched by computer troubles. Here's wishing me luck this time...)

Even before the rioting that went on for three weeks made the fact of racial tension inescapable, I would already occasionally feel their discomfort, this pervasive unease.

***

Nico, who helped build our terrace, telling another story of how he had gotten into a fight with Beurs, second- and third-generation Arab immigrants, a fight that like the others that preceeded it, his anger, heft, and military training made sure was bloody. For my benefit, he added in English--quite unnecessarily, because how could I miss it?--"Me no like Arabs."

***

On our first visit to an Asian-goods supermarket in Nimes, Pierre warned me against ever coming alone, especially not at night. We were crossing the parking lot closed in on three sides by square, ugly buildings, and he told me of how he had grown up in places like this, the slums of France, inhabited mainly by Arab and North African immigrants. Pierre's eyes were alert, resting a few moments on a young man with brown skin, black hair, dark eyes. He knew this type well, he said, especially the feel of his fist against his face. Pierre was the son of a policeman, and until the age of 15, he was almost every day assaulted, sometimes verbally, often physically, by Beurs who wanted to get back at the older Mister Masssebieau and the establishment he represented.

Often Pierre would say to me, "I've travelled everywhere, but nowhere do I fear violence as I do in my own country. Out there, you know that when they attack you, it's because they want something, your wallet, your jewelry. Here, they'll do it just because they hate you."

***

Malika was the first Frenchwoman of North African origins I met, the daughter of Moroccan immigrants. She's in her forties, educated, single, working as a production manager for theater productions. Being those things has made her an outsider in her own ethnic community, where even now living outside their country women are expected to do nothing but marry their own kind, stay home, and raise children.

***

Lawrence, a social worker, invited us over for a grilled fish dinner where talk inevitably turned to the rioting. Everybody seemed to agree that the violence got as bad as it did because the resentment that the young rioters had inherited from their immigrant parents have, in this generation, transformed into anger, even hate, because, yes, they really do not have the same opportunites as the blancs, the "whites." Lawrence had no trouble convincing us how hard her job is. She engages the interest of youngsters in the banlieus, the slums, so that they are motivated enough to enter into a training program. Then she has to help them find jobs. Are there any for these sons and daughters of immigrants? She shakes her head, "Rien." Nothing.

Not Another Wildlife Story

The ducks may be gone, Tara and Maya, but the cats still meowl.

Here is a picture of Dolly, back when she was two months old (she's four months now); or can it be a picture of Sally, who would have been an hour younger. They just look too much alike. (Or maybe I am addled by dinnertime's Bordeaux?) .

Daughters of ginger-haired Marmounette, they are two balls of black fur rolled up beside me on the bed as I write. One is near my feet (that would be Sally... or is it Dolly?), the other is to my right (pick a name and place it here). Now they yawn and they stretch, at exactly the same time. If they weren't so sleepy, I'm sure they'd want to say "Enchanté, pleased to meet you." (Yes, they're bilingual).

Now to my left, just a little less hairy, and splayed out instead of rolled-up, is multilingual Pierre. If he weren't in deep sleep, I'm sure he'd still be incommunicado. Three a.m. is much too late for him to be exchanging pleasantries with anyone.

The quacking out in the marsh may have been squashed, but here under the blankets, the husband still snores.



P.S. Neither animals nor humans were harmed in the taking of any of these photos.

In Memoriam

Goodbye, feathered friends!

It was but a mere week ago that we would open our doors to the rowdy quack-quacking of the family of ducks that lived in the marsh out front. Wild they were, the types you'd see with jewel-green feathers, but not wild enough to resist the day-old bread we'd toss them. The ducks developed such a liking for the dry baguette that they would have given those dogs in Pavlov's experiments stiff competition.

Every morning it was like clockwork. Pierre, crumbly offering in his hands, would come out and whistle a high note. Three short bursts, and the five canards would come paddling, tracing a swift diagonal line from where they stayed on the other end of the marsh to where our terrace ended. Voila! Breakfast is served.

Now there is only silence. We have come to accept that the quacking came to an end when the gunshots began. For a period of three days, from the left of the property, where the marsh connects to other bodies of water that the ducks no doubt fished, we kept hearing loud blasts. It was hunting season.

Our fowls have fallen. I imagine them now, stripped of feathers and webbed feet, swimming in bile, digesting in some fat Frenchman's gut. Their only consolation the fact that pieces of their beloved bread are no doubt being digested along with them.

I make my statement now: I protest the violence in France.

P.S. I know. I am too flippant. France burns, and I make a joke. What do I, an immigrant of less than six months, make of the violence in the cities? I make of them many things. Tonight ends my mourning for the duckies, tomorrow I write more.

A Postcript

I guess this guy never heard about jumping into the water.

Two Sundays ago was the last day of the revivre, "the revival" or "the rebirth," the weekend when, after a five-day break from a full 10 days of partying, the entire village of Aigues Mortes rises up again, nursed to new life by the steady stream of yellow liquid flowing from the bars, pastis, 90-proof milk of Provence, which the locals suck steadily from morning to night, only weaned away by spectacles involving men riding horses or men either chasing or being chased by bulls.

An excursion at the beginning of the village festival taught me too well why one of the French terms for hangover translates to "my hair is pushing out of their roots," so I exempted myself from the rest of the mayhem. I stayed home most times, even giving up my thrice-weekly evening runs because the festival horses trot twice daily down our stretch of country road, and zig-zagging steaming manure is just not fun exercise.

But that time, two Sundays ago, I decided to have my own little revival. Horse shit be damned, I declared, put on my gray trainers with the neon-green swoosh, and sat down my husband for a serious talk.

"What do I do if I encounter a bull?" I asked in what I think now to be a plaintive tone. (Of course I was worried. Remember that Jeanette had warned me to keep the gates firmly closed lest a creature comes to kill me. She warned me twice.)

"Jump into the water," Pierre said, referring to the canals of brackish water bordering the roads hereabouts, runoff from surrounding marshes. "Bulls hate the water," he added in that quiet way he has of making mundane pronouncements sound somehow important, reminding me of Yoda, if instead of jumbling his words Yoda spoke with a French accent.

Armed with this wisdom, and before I could change my mind, I unlocked the gates and sped off. I was panting after two kilometers, my body having quickly forgotten what a jog was about, and I let down my guard for a minute to gawk at a swarm of swallows overhead so that I stepped on green-brown feces, but the half-hour passed largely uneventfully. Had I dilly-dallied and jogged a little later, this blog would have ended differently. Or would have ended for good.

I had just sat down in the garden with a glass of water, trying to recover, when through the barred steel gates I saw what should have been a hallucination. A bull loose on the streets. As these animals go, this one was only medium-sized, not the massive toro for the corrida, but one of the more slender varieties they use for the course de toro. They were smaller. And quicker. With horns no less sharper. Its passage was announced by the thuds of its hooves hitting the ground, 300 kilos of angry beast looking for a way out. I blinked, but the mirage would not go away, only continued by a throng of men riding their horses fast. These were the gardiens, keeper of the bulls, who had just lost one.

When the frenzied entourage had gone, and once I had managed to pick my jaw up from where it had dropped on the just-cut grass, I looked down at my Nikes and felt immense relief that they didn't have to get wet.

Keeping An Eye Out For Bulls

"Matulis kaya? Check ko nga."

"Naku, na-im ang bull!"

"Swear ko, I only really need one asshole..."

(Photos taken at a local Course de Toro)

Last weekend, the beginning of Aigues Mortes's 10-day-long village festival, mother-in-law Jeanette told me that in the coming week I should never leave the gates to the property open. Keep them closed, she warned, locked even. Why? Bulls are running the streets, was the answer, they might come in and gore me.

And I thought life in Manila was wild.

For Marie

The last time I saw you, we promised to meet up in Paris. I thought maybe we would play tourists and see the sights, Sacre Coeur, Notre Dame, The Louvre, Musee Rodin.



Deciding to be adventurous, we'd get on the metro; buy the discounted pack of ten tickets, pretend to be cosmopolitan, and ride through the lines. Inevitably, we would miss a stop and end up in the suburbs. Mairie de Montreuil, perhaps, where we will find that in the center of France you can discover Algeria and Morocco.


One evening would be spent sharing pitchers of rose, drunk on the sidewalk while marveling at the serendipity that had put us in a glamorous foreign city together. Marveling, too, at the opportunity to take up a friendship just barely begun those many years ago, in our own city thousands of miles away.


But it all never happened. As it was when you started climbing mountains and I was still selling words, life got in the way. So: Maybe next time. Or maybe never. Instead of memories of Paris, forever just a slight regret for missed connections and for journeys never taken.

Meet The Neigh-bor... (title channeling the spirit of maya calica)

This fellow lives right across the street from us, our nearest neighbor on a country road where house numbers are really only optional. (With only four homes to choose from, the postman has got to have overdone the lunchtime wine to make a mistake.) Keeping up with the Joneses now means I've got to start running faster than my current eight kilometers an hour!

Words Fail Me

(Somebody just please bang my head against Aigues Mortes's Medieval walls.)

I dreamt that I was cutting chunks off my upper legs and tossing the meat into a boiling casserole already half-filled with red matter--more of my thighs, I assume, and some tomato sauce.

Playing dream analyst I figure that the gory scene is my vision of life right now. A bit of self-sacrifice seems necessary.

The giving up of job, family, and friends is the least of it. I had been thinking to quit magazine publishing for two years; most of my friends were living and working in other countries; and in my family it's not unusual to not keep in touch.

What is hard is finding out that without any real disabilities I have become deaf and dumb. After working 11 years in media, writing for newspapers and magazines, hosting a television show even, suddenly I am unable to communicate. Imagine it.

I remember in the beginning I would be petrified to go out alone; in bars I couldn't even order coffee properly, so instead of my usual big cup, American-style, I had to learn to like espresso, a few potent tablespoonfuls in a demi-tasse.

My abilities have somewhat progressed ("Un cafe long," I have learned to say when I want the coffee diluted.), but it still takes tremendous effort. At parties, my brain is constantly working, synapses sending electrical pulses at great speed just so I can keep up with the banter. Two-thirds into the night, my brain is fried.

Sometimes I feel them, the mob of articles definite and indefinite; verbs regular and irregular; the question forms, the prepositions, and especially all those nouns whose masculinity and femininity I have always to determine, I feel them getting restless inside my cranium, the nouns deciding to use their gender to reproduce more of themselves, until I feel it so crowded up there that the foreign words are about to erupt out of my ears, or worse, split cracks in my skull.