A very quick week...

This always happens. The beginning of our vacation here is slow. We usually take our time getting adjusted. Then we make plans and the last days are suddenly upon us and the rest of the vacation is a blur.

We returned from Ilocos Sur late Tuesday night. The next day, we had plans to go to a resort in Pansol, Laguna. I know. Tough me. What was even better is that it used mineral springs from the mountains so no chlorine, which I am allergic to. Sweet.

Thursday we had lunch plans and we ended up using Thursday and Friday to wrap up loose ends, finish up some shopping, get a hair cut, go to the cemetery one last time before leaving, etc. I spent the last two nights cooking for the family, showing them how to make some non-Filipino food - and having a blast while doing it.

It has been a long couple of days, with little sleep in between and still recovering from this little sinus cold I have. I have to say that this trip, which I wasn't actually looking forward to the travel part (I was pretty exhausted and has been home a total of two days before crossing over several time zones), has been nothing short of spectacular as far as vacations go and for spending some time with family, which always has a tendency to ground me.

I find myself sitting in the airport in Manila after five checkpoints and arguing with the guard to let me bring some Philippine wine home and feeling somewhat blue at having to go back. And exhausted because we haven't slept and arrived at the airport at 2:30 for a 6:30 flight. With all this damn security, I now remember why (two hours later).

Several folks have commented on going back to see and experience your roots and it is a phenomenally rewarding experience. This time, I heard stories from my grandmother I had never heard about the Japanese occupation during WWII and what it was like. I'm planning on helping my family put together a documentary for the town about the experience. I experienced a lot of religion here, but that's par for the course. For the first time in five years and four trips, I can say having to come here for a visit and not a funeral has been freeing for once. And has made it much more enjoyable.

And thankful and humble again. To remember where we came from, how thankful I must be for the life I've been given and have had the opportunity to live and my family that continues to grow in love and support. So even though I missed thanksgiving back home, I assure you, I sure felt it here.

Back home. And while I won't be blogging with such intensity, I will keep going because god knows I ain't getting another break anytime soon!

Mabuhay!

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Location:Metro Manila, Philippines

I'm an adult...

In the eyes of the Catholic church, anyway.

Amazing considering my history in the church - of blasphemy at three. In my defense, I thought that Jesus sat behind the altar and was psyched because people came to his heezy every weekend. Literally. So me calling out the third time they rang the bell during the consecration, "Jesus Christ, pick up the phone!" was quite literal. His house, answer the phone. Simple. All it cost us was not going to that church anymore. Again, terrible threes, not twos.

I was confirmed in the maternal hometown of my mother, like the generation before me. My grandmother stood behind me as my witness. It was actually pretty picturesque. In theory, really.

Because as I've said before, Filipinos are really SUPER Catholic. And me growing to the ripe age of 31 without a confirmation was a bit of an anomaly. An anomaly that needed to be fixed if I was to properly be a Godmother to my cousin who is going to be confirmed. My mom and I had talked about getting confirmed in the Philippines for years, but never had much of an impetus to do it. Until now. So talks began before I arrived here two weeks ago.

Eventually, the talks yielded fruit and the parish priest that presided over my aunts funeral just three years ago got special dispensation from the
bishop, who was conveniently in Rome. Anyway, the day before my impending confirmation, I realized something may actually required of me and I didn't (don't) speak Ilocano. I questioned my grandmother.

She looked at me sideways. "Do you know the Lord's Prayer?"

I scoffed. "Yes."

"Well what about the Hail Mary?"

Incredulous look. "Of course, Mamang, I went to Catholic school for seven years, I know all those prayers!"

"What about the Apostles' Creed?"

"Yes, of course I...um." I blinked. "How does that one go again?"

She looked at me like a wayward child. "We believe in God, the..."

"Father almighty," I chimed in, "Maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen..."

"NO! That's not it! I believe in the Holy Spirit, of Jesus Christ..."

I stopped her. "Huh? That's not the one I know."

This quickly lead to a frantic search for a prayer book in the house. She pointed out the Creed to me. "Wait," I realized. "I know the Nicene Creed, the longer version of this." Which lead to a longer conversation about the difference and then the actual trying to write down the Creed from memory.

"This is so much easier to recite in church," I groaned.

"Because you hear the next word and know where it goes. The problem is putting it in order," my mother tried to helpfully intone.

I looked at my grandmother. "I can't recite the shorter Apostles' Creed without getting it messed up with the Nicene and I can't remember the exact order. But I know the story really, really well. Can't I just relate the story roughly and let the priest slap me a few times on the cheek and be done with it?"

"Ay apo!" (Ilocano for "Oh my God!")

I quickly walked out of the room.

My uncle had joked that getting confirmed was as simple as standing in church, have the priest slap me once and I'd be done. Apparently, it wasn't going to be that easy.

An hour later, my grandmother came to me and said, "I told Father that in America, they recite the Nicene Creed and he agreed that would be fine. He said they are going to start using it next year so you're going t introduce the Nicene Creed to San Juan."

"Oh?" Neat.

She walked away with a smile on her face. Yikes.

What didn't really help me was that I had also managed to get sick. I was taking NyQuil PM and Advil to break the fever. Regardless, I found myself awake at 5 am and walking to church 40 minutes later in the darkness with my mother and grandmother, amidst the sounds of roosters starting to wake. It was still cool enough, thank God. We got to the church as daylight was starting to break. We were directed to a small chapel off the large church. I was struck by it's simplicity, rather, it's rustic look. Exposed brick from what must have been the original church wall surrounded me, a roof extended beyond the dilapidated stone walls, held by iron rods. A beautiful cross hung in the front, made completely of withered wood that gave the impression of beauty rather than sorrow. Birds flew in and around, singing while they flew overhead. Paintings lined the walls. A simple marble-topped altar stood in the middle of the room while a neighborhood dog wandered between the aisles. I looked down. Apparently, they decided to save money on the kneelers. Simple pieces of 1x5 served as the place to kneel. Yup. It hurt like hell.

As we sat, waiting, my fever started to break. I was feeling quite cool but started to sweat. A lot. Oh boy. And of course, that was the moment Father Manolo came over to me and said, "are you ready for your confession?" I swear I was sweating beforehand. Anyway, he takes me into a small room off the back that was still just getting the first taste of daylight. I turned the corner into the room and was shocked.

Before me, on a table, lay a dead Jesus wrapped in cloth and in a box of glass. It took me a second to realize that it was the statue they used in Easter processions around town. He then motioned me over to two plastic chairs facing each other. Not only had I not confessed since I was thirteen, I was now going to have to face him. Yikes. After it was over, my mother asked what I had said. "That's between me and God."

So then came the time I had to stand up. My grandmother stood behind me. Thankfully, only a handful of people had attended the mass, most of them my grandmothers friends. And then my fever started to break. Dammit. I am now standing, sweating wildly, even with a fan right in front of me. Thankfully again, this part of the mass was in English. For my benefit, I imagined.

However, my head was spinning as I struggled to stand straight, sweating and wiping my brow and decided to concentrate on the cross so I wouldn't fall over. Then my grandmother's hand appeared on my shoulder. It was time for the Creed.

Up until this point, the priest had been pretty serious. I started into the Creed, as my mother and I had remembered it. Clearly, my order was wrong. Father Manalo started to read from the book. Thank God. I can do it when someone else reads it. It clicked and I just started to recite, then, he came over and just as he's reading, my grandmother leans over and whispers in my ear, "You're sweating profusely."

Oh, really? I hadn't noticed. Father hesitated for a second but then made the cross on my forehead. It was done.

And that's the courageous story about how I became an adult in the eyes of the church. Sheesh.

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Location:Panther Rd,Pasig City,Philippines

The Teachings of Cathol

Filipinos are mostly Catholic. Like. Really, super Catholic. Thanks to 300 years of Spanish rule, the Philippines is one of the largest Catholic countries in the world.

So while here, it happens to be the Feast of Christo Rey - or, Christ the King. Yes, I blinked, too. I had no idea that was a feast to celebrate. Apparently it ends the calendar before Advent starts. Who knew? You learn something every day.

I was told that we'd be traveling high into the mountains, to a place called, Cervantes - yes, the guy who wrote "The Adventures of Don Juan". I can't be sure they named the town after him, but it's not a terrible guess.

Anyway, everyone said we were going into the hinterlands. I stared back. "Weren't we already there?", I inquired? Everyone laughed at my question. Good joke. Um.

So we ventured out at 5am because it takes four to five hours to get there. Alright. We piled into the car and I was greeted with some gorgeous country:















High in the mountains, my sinuses took a serious tumble. I was already starting to feel sick from allergies. This mass it worse, but it was worth it.

When we arrived in Cervantes at 10, we were happy to get out of the car. Until we learned the mass started at 2. Two?! I was pretty incredulous. I was peeved about having to sit through a mass I'd barley understand, let alone wait for four hours for the thing to begin. Throw in "Filipino time" and we were looking at a five hour wait. In the sun. But we had left early because my grandmother feared parking would be bad. I'm certain we were one of the first people besides the people who already lived therre who showed up.

Anyway, we ate our lunch, enjoying the breezy air and me enjoying an episode of NCIS to bide my time. But soon after, I was told we had to sit down and find seats because otherwise we wouldn't have a place to sit. I checked my watch. It was 11:30am. I steeled myself to keep my big mouth shut as we walked back up the big hill to the square to find seats as they rehearsed their parts. I quickly found a book and my iPod to keep me occupied.

An hour later, sticky from the heat and still sitting in our chairs, we find out the mass is to start at 2:30. Dear God in heaven.

Thirty minutes from then, the place starts to really fill up. My uncle played games on his iPhone while my mother and I busied ourselves watching these adorable kids find their seats in front of us and out on their matching headbands. We assumed they were there for a first communion. Which was adorable until I remembered how long first communion masses are - on top of a feast day. Sweet Jesus Christ in a manger.

Thirty minutes later, the place is packed. I mean, packed. I've never seen this many people at mass - forget it, this many Catholics in one place. There are people standing on the street outside the square. Finally, the bells start to ring and we know it's gonna get started. My mother then turns to me and says, "They're gonna do a program first." One quick glance at my mother and uncle confirm that all three of us a thinking the same thing, but know better than to say a word. We quickly avert eyes so that we don't slip. Mother of...




There are a few skits that have the crowd laughing and my mother and my uncle and I shaking our heads. The skits are about politics. We're not entirely used to - and I'm certainly not comfortable - with such a bully pulpit. As they rail against the Mayor of the town and his corrupt cronies, I can't help but grimace. I fully admit I disagree with my church on a few things and while they may be right about such a disgraceful politician, I know these people will accept what they are selling without question. They are devout and true believers. And this goes against my rational mind, my better angels and even my belief that religion is a private matter. I cannot help but feel even more frustrated as I am forced to sit and endure such pandering. Yes, even a person as jaded from politics as me believes strongly that politics has a place and church is not one of them. I am thankful when the gongs and drums start and they start a native dance that will eventually start the mass.

I am busy counting the pages in the program - all 24 of them - when the mass starts and the people start to sing. I immediately lose count. Its not that I understand what they a singing. It's that all of them - with or without programs in front of them, are singing with a full voice. I almost drop the program and fan in my hands. I am amazed at the surround stereo sound of hundreds of voices all singing as one. I have NEVER seen nor heard this many people singing in church before. Suddenly, I'm interested.

This soon dissipates as I have no idea what is happening. Instead, I busy myself with finding where we are in the program. I focus instead on how the words look and are pronounced than to concentrate or even try to guess what's happening. Before I know it, the priest gives a 25 minute homily. I have no idea about the words coming out of his mouth so I just sit and count chairs. I'm on 156 when communion starts and I'm really amused, watching all these Filipinos try to do this in any kind of manner. Eventually, it becomes a strange bedlam and we just try to hold onto our seats as suddenly someone decides to use our row to pass by and a bunch of people come through. Like 50. Seriously.

Finally, the procession starts to leave. Only to return. More prayers are offered. My uncle tells us that we have been sitting in those seats for 6 hours now. I have officially spent more time at church in one day than I have the entire year. Hmm.






As we leave in bedlam in a bottleneck and try to prevent from getting trampled, I realize just how devout these people are. They have made a long pilgrimage to sit in the heat for a mass and then nothing more but leave. They tell us that next year, they will celebrate Christo Ray in Santo Domingo, the town just next to ours.

It figures.

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Location:San Juan (Lapog), Ilocos Sur, Philippines

Goin' Back To My Roots

There will be a few posts here since I find myself in the middle of the Philippine hinterlands with little else to do and not a lot of wifi. I'd put all these thoughts in one post, but as you may see, the few I do while here each need their own entries.




My mother's family is from the north of Luzon, in an area known as Ilocos. It is the northernmost part of the Philippines, some really gorgeous beaches line the land here. In the northernmost tip, you can see Taiwan. If you're quiet enough in the morning, as the sun rises, you can actually hear it. I've done this. After my father's funeral, we came back to the province to visit and given our exhaustion after a week of the funeral, we found ourselves wide-awake at night. My aunt suggested we go north and go to the casino, see the sights and see the place where my grandfather is from. We discovered a gorgeous, almost untouched place. White beaches. And as I snapped a picture of the sunrise over Taiwan, in could hear cars from it's direction; it's closer to the Philippines than Cuba is from Florida. It was a pretty cool experience.

Ilocanos speak a specific dialect, known as Ilocano. Of which I only know a few choice phrases, and if you know anything about me, most of these phrases are mostly useless and it was, most certainly, a language in which I strove to learn a phrase I have since learned in many different and random languages - "There's a party in my pants." You'd be surprised how quickly this sparks conversation in a purely amusing and funny way - especially when I assert that it's simply a phrase, not an invitation. Instant conversation starter. Or ender.

But I digress. I swear, knowing that I only understand a few words and can somewhat make heads or tails of a conversation now by picking up general context will become important. But it still is Greek to me when they all really get going.

Here in Luzon, the sun shines brightly, and hotly. People here live a simple existence, selling wares and food from house to house. The kids play loudly in the streets. Dogs roam into family yards, looking for the occasional scrap of food from the tables. Motorcycles, a popular form of transportation, zoom up and down the narrow streets. During the middle of the day, the hottest part of the day, it's customary to sleep. Take a nice siesta.

Life is slow here.

Lapog is a little village, tucked off the main road, where my maternal roots go back decades. My grandmother's house was owned by her mother, my great-grandmother, Consolacion, but better known as Mamang Bet - who I had met a few times in my life - as she lived to 82. The house was part of a dowry when she married my great-grandfather, Vidal Vera-Cruz.

This house was one of the first two-story houses in the town. Back then, it was easy to see from far away. Now there's a lot of them. The house was used in the Spanish-American War, though details about how are sketchy and most of the people who did now have long since passed on. It is the house my mother and her sister and brothers were born and raised in. Yes, born. In the house. All six of them.

When I was kid, I loved it here. Nothing better. Me and my cousins, borrowing mopeds from our uncles, driving around town. It was a place of fantasy when I was much younger. My first time on a plane was to the Philippines when I was three. I loved crawling under the mosquito net and watching the lizards that would walk on the ceiling. My cousins and I would play for hours in the yard. When I was eight, there was a typhoon and my cousins and I played in the street, enjoying the cold rainwater.

As I got older, this elation at going home has dissipated. For starters, I am older. Obviously. But my cousins no longer accompany me here. I don't understand the language so I cannot converse unless someone serves as my interpreter or I listen really really hard for some clues. Even then, someone has to explain it to me. It's hot here. Sometimes unrelentingly so. I end up in front of a fan, a book in front of me. Or in a room with air conditioning, reading or taking a nap.

I know. Poor me. This is where I'm forced to slow down. Literally. I find it boring. Against my nature. This time, however, I have given in and am enjoying it immensely.

However, one nagging thought has accompanied my more recent trips here in the past five years: I've become obsessed with learning what my family's life was like growing up here. Perhaps I have become more keenly aware of just how delicate a line my life has straddled: if my mother had never left here, I would have grown up here, worlds apart from the life I have known.

When I press my mother about what her life would have been had she never sacrificed everything and left for the states all those years ago, she asserts that she never would have stayed here. And she doesn't just mean San Juan. She means the Philippines. If not for my mothers plucky and independent streak, I could be that kid in the flip flops riding a bike much too small for me, my skin browned even more from long hours on the sun. My uncles all tell the story of how they were chased into a tree by a caribou (water buffalo) and my youngest uncle swears he could tell me the depth of any part of the river that used to wind behind the house. My aunt broke her clavicle trying to steal fruit from a neighbor - who happened to be a cousin and probably would have given it to her if asked. They speak with a wistful look of times gone by, of dances and movies in the square in the center of town - a big deal for a place that didn't have electricity back then. If you weren't home by the time the town bell rung, you were in trouble. And no matter what you were doing, when the church bells went off, you stopped to pray.

Could this have been my life, too? Granted, they have plumbing and electricity but this is still a vastly different world than the one I grew up in.

I wonder what I would have been. Would I have stayed in the province? Would I have gone to Manila? Would I have been the first of my family to break away to the west? My mother sent her family to school once she got to the states. What would we all have been otherwise?

I sit and watch the world here, lost in my own thoughts, unable to fully communicate and wonder what would have been. Honestly, what else do i really have to do? I think about my roots. How different, yet how strong they are, even thousands of miles away from each other. I didn't grow up with my family around me and yet, here I am, in the middle of a place I never imagined growing up in and strangely feeling sated and at home.

Despite all my hesitations, I am always glad I came back. It makes me humble. And thankful for fate.

And family.

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Location: San Juan (Lapog), Ilocos Sur, Philippines

Yesterday, we took a trip into Philippine history. It's somewhat surprising to me, a self-described history geek, that I have not seen this before.

We went to Intramuros, Spanish for "inside the wall", otherwise known as the original settlement of Manila. It's actually pretty beautiful, reminiscent of a small Spanish settlement, wedged between Manila Bay and the Pasig River.

It's also where all the history is. It was ground zero for the Spanish-American War (back in 1898, when the Americans liberated us from 300 years of Spanish rule and then promptly decided to make us their territory) and WWII where General MacArthur had his headquarters. It's also where the Japanese tortured Filipinos during their occupation after Pearl Harbor (they attacked the Philippines the day after Pearl Harbor - which is also the day my Grandfather earned his Purple Heart as a Filipino guerilla for the US when he was shot in the wrist) - including such Filipinos as Ferdinand Marcos. Or so I'm told.

It is where the Spanish jailed the Filipino national hero, Jose Rizal, before they marched him to a nearby park and shot him in the back for being a traitor (he wrote two novels that told the truth about life under Spanish rule - enough to earn him a death sentence).

Of course I was fascinated. I know rough sketches of Philippine history and am much more aware of when the United States entered the picture. But it once again became clear to me the stark effects colonization by first Spain and the United States have had on my people. It's too long to go into, but let's just say it sure reminded me of my trip earlier this year to Ireland. I knew we had a lot in common.

Oh, but it's hot here. Ridiculously so. I know all of you back home, getting ready for winter are crying for me right now but I assure you, this is almost too hot to handle. Remember this summer, how hot July was? Same humidity, about ten degrees hotter. I'm sweating like a priest at a little league game. Seriously.

And I say that because I am about to get confirmed. I am leaving Manila for the province, the true homeland where my mom was born and raised. So no internet for a few days. I'm sure I'll have great stories... Until then, enjoy this lovely picture of three generations of women in my family conversing with MacArthur and President Quezon...
.









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Location:Corinthian Hills, Quezon City, Philippines

DOWN WITH THE BROWN?

There is a strange phenomenon afoot.  Everywhere I go here in the Philippines, I am faced with billboards advertising a lotion or face wash's "whitening features", places advertising "whitening services".  I know that places like India and the Philippines and other parts of Asia are part of this phenomenon, but I never saw it as pronounced as I have on this trip.

Even ads for stores, fashion, food and new housing developments bear the likenesses of washed-out Pinoys (Filipinos for those of you who aren't  familiar with our colloquialisms) thus advancing the idea that whiter and lighter skin is the admired trait and we should shun our natural, brown skin - which also gets special treatment from the sun that constantly shines here.

What is wrong with this picture?  Everything, in my mind.  Because while Filipinos and other Asians aspire to be white - white folks and Americans aspire to be dark, thanks to tanning beds, spray tans and the Jersey Shore cast.

When I was a kid, my skin made me stand out from everyone else that I grew up with; the exception being the Indian family that lived down the street.  I remember being keenly aware of it at some point, but never to the point of seriousness.  I knew it made me different, but my parents raised me to believe that instead of working hard to accept my own skin tone or to simply try to "blend in", they taught me to believe that different was okay and acceptable and other kids, in fact, needed to learn how to accept me.  They taught me that my value as a person was always going to be based on my character, not my skin tone.

I learned to make fun of it at a young age.  When I was little, I had a blood test and was obsessed with blood types for the hour afterwards.  I marveled at how people had different types of blood, like their own particular type of show their body preferred and how families share blood types.  My father and I shared the same type: B negative.  My mother, who has the fairest skin in the entire family, has an O blood type.  Fascinated by the results, I explained to my mother, "See, Dad and I are B negative because we have brown skin.  You are O because you are... Other." 

I was three, what do you want?  Other people had terrible twos.  Apparently, I was my most precocious, most ambitious, most blasphemous and therefore amusing at three.  Always the overachieving Asian, I suppose.  Even at a young age.

Anyway, my point here is simply, can't we just accept our own skin?  Or are have we as a society decided to not be comfortable in our own skin and instead, aspire to be like everyone else?

I've found a few advantages to my naturally brown skin.  Not only are Filipinos not naturally hairy people, my leg and arm hair blend in with my skin tone.  Which makes me the envy of all of my girlfriends who are forced to shave their legs for society.  I end up having smooth skin from moisturizing since I get ashy when dry (it's like a natural gauge).  I get to pretend that I don't speak English when asked particularly racist questions (though this is rare as I end up doing my best to show the person asking if i speak English that I do in the biggest SAT words possible).  When I am asked where I am from and when I say, "Syracuse" and they tilt their head quizzically and ask again, "No - where are you from?" - even this can be more amusing than annoying.  Because at the end of the day, my brown skin will age better and make me look much younger when I age.  Because I always have a tan.

Because I am comfortable in my own skin.

So go ahead.  Ask if I'm Hawaiian or a Mexican.  I can take it.  Because even with natural insecurities and the demands of society, I am quite okay with who I am.

MANILA

Blogpress isn't working on my iPad. So until I figure that out, no pics. Argh.

There is a smell.  It's somewhat indescribable except that to me, it reminds me of home.  It hits you the minute you step off the plane.  To me, it's synonymous with heat.  Humidity.  Home.  It makes me feel warm and fuzzy; the same way I feel when I smell a fire-burning stove during the winter.

My mom says its the pollution in Manila.  When I was younger, my uncles would visit the States and stand on the front step, breathing slowly and always say, "The air is so clean here." I'm always reminded of that when we get to Manila.  Either way, it's a smell I associate with home.  Family.  Roots.

The traffic is always bad here.  It's one place I'd NEVER want to drive and that says a lot since I will drive anywhere.  Filipinos find a space and go with it - there is no city in the United States that drive as crappily as they do here.  Once, when I was 13, my aunt was pulled over in Manila and all I could ask was, "What on earth did you do that singled you out from everyone else?" She could only shrug.  She had no idea.  It's kind of amazing that people don't get into more accidents here.

I was incredibly jet lagged the first day I was here.  I kept napping and if you know anything about me, I don't nap.  I finished an entire Greg Iles book along with all the sleep I got as well as visited my dad's grave in Manila.  Not a bad day for a first day of vacation.  But don't ask me what day or time it is.  We're 13 hours ahead and all I know is that it's the opposite back home - night is day, day is night.  I'm all confused.

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DETROIT TO NAGOYA

Okay, so I thought that I would be on this flight for 17 hours.  They say it will take 12. Potato, po-tato.

I think it's somewhat cruel to advertise that the flight goes straight from Detroit to Manila with a stopover in Nagoya for an hour or so.  That's false advertising.  We're stopping in Nagoya, for chrissakes, where we have to go through customs, security and get off the plane.  Then get back on and then fly another 2 hours to Manila.  Cruel.

What's even more interesting is they show a map of where you are flying and exactly where you are on your journey.  Ever see a map of the United States, the Pacific and the eastern part of Asia? I assure you, for every mile we get closer, the plane looks like it's barely moving on the screen.  Start with something closer so that you actually feel like you're moving.  For instance, we realized it was mentally easier to think of riding 100 miles on a bike as smaller increments.  So after 20 miles, we would say, "we have four 20's to go." Same rule applies here: show a map of Detroit to Chicago, Denver or even LA.  LA to Hawaii.  Hawaii to Japan.  Not the entire map of the world and then basically say, "See? You're here, barely moving." the only good thing about it is that if there is turbulence, I'll know whether to duck or to prepare to use my seat as a life cushion.

Hard to believe it's been three hours on the flight only.  I know what you're thinking.  It's a long flight.  It doesn't feel so long at first.  Just like any flight, really.  Except that in three hours, we've had drink service, dinner and I've enjoyed a free Miller Lite.  I don't think I eat that much in an entire hour period on the ground.

After three more hours, I will have watched several episodes of NCIS and maybe have done a few crossword puzzles.  I may have eaten another meal.  At that point, I will only be slightly interested in continuing to count the hours until arrival.

Three more hours later, I will have fallen asleep, waking up in a panic because I'll need to go to the bathroom and because I'm in the window seat, I will do all I can to hold my bladder because my mother and the kind older (and rather talkative) Filipina woman in the aisle seat will be fast asleep. I will have lost all interest in counting the hours flown or will fly to get there and will instead focus every fiber of my being towards holding my bladder until I fall asleep again.

Two hours after that, I will wonder how the hell longer I will be forced to sit on this plane and will be gently poking my mother to wake up and then disturb the kindly old woman because my bladder will burst.  I will forget all space and time and begin to think I will spend the rest of my life on this plane.  At that point, they will feed us yet again, after just giving us a snack. I'll briefly consider this a conspiracy, but based solely on my lack of comfort.  I will probably consider ordering a shot of alcohol at this point.

After another half hour, no more counting hours, no more wondering where the hell I am, I will have lost hope.  I will believe my mother is a shape shifter and the woman next to her in an elaborate plot to drive me insane.  They will probably try to feed us one last time and then all of a sudden, the plane will land in Japan and suddenly I'm free!

After marveling over the Japanese efficiency, adorable amenities (even the bathrooms are cute), fantastic pens (yes, pens), advanced technology (think cameras), ignoring the Japanese aesthetic to be adorable yet slightly disturbing in some way (my Japanese friend, Mai has described such a study in extremes), I will be forced to once again board the plane I have spent the last 12 hours of my life, once again to take off for two hours before my final destination.  Like a cruel, sad, and unamusing joke.  They will, once again, try to feed us and try to get us to buy duty free items.

I can sit here on this plane and know this is the fate that awaits me until I arrive in the homeland, because without fail, this happens every time.  When I was a child, maybe I blocked it all out.  Now that I'm an adult, I can honestly say I'm really happy I chose to spend money on an iPad to keep me amused.  Of course, NyQuill, if it could have gotten past security, would have been a better choice.

But I also know that the minute I arrive in the Philippines and see my family, the journey and the trip will not only have been forgotten, it would have been well worth it.

If I can only survive long enough to get there.  I presume no surprises on this plane ride.  Let's see how right I will be... 
 
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Vacation, all I ever wanted...

I have been inspired by y'all to not only post pics but to use this vacation as a chance to revamp my blog. See, I started this thing out of sheer boredom in 2002 before blogging was cool and so while I have amusing thoughts, this is a good reason to get back to it.

So I shall post pics, ruminations, stories and thoughts from the Asian Pacific because, let's face it - we all need some culture in our lives. I will share my homeland with you while I am there, deal? At the least, you'll get a picture a day or so. I think this will be fun for all.

So I have spent the last 5-6 hours of my life packing. Yes. Packing.

The first thing you should know about my people is that they love American goods. Like. LURVE. I can't explain it well other than they love that it's from America. Isn't it nice to know that not every country hates us out there?

So I was raised believing that you bring presents whenever you go home. It is because of this that I begrudgingly and without (much) complaint, use my skills honed from years of working at Mailboxes, Etc. to pack and stuff as much crap, er, gifts, in suitcases as possible.

In previous years, the weight limit to the Philippines has been 75 lbs a bag. Thanks to our amazing airlines, this has been reduced to 50lbs a bag, making my hours of tetris packing really interesting. Surprisingly, I managed to get each bag a few pounds under 50, just in case our scale is off. I'd like to think not as it's my personal one, but I guess I'll find out how accurate it is tomorrow and then promptly throw it away before training for Tahoe starts again...

Anyway, we now have 200 lbs of luggage sitting in the garage, waiting for our departure to the airport in the morning. Packing the carry-ons was also a really fun challenge, but rarely worth noting otherwise.

I am officially tired of the travel already. This will all change once I get there and feel the warm, humid, 98 degree weather and the "smell" of home. I'll have to try to describe that in the future. In the meantime, I'm off to find some Aleve and a hot shower for our 8am pickup because my mother believes you MUST get to the airport at least 4 hours before you leave.

I swear I'm gonna enjoy this. If I get there alive...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Thompson St,Fayetteville,United States

Check one, two

Checking to see if this app works for my blogspot account so I can log while I'm in the Phillipines. Here goes...





- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Syracuse