Promdi and loving it

Talk about blogging in white heat. I have to, if I want to capture a feeling like I have now.

Around two hours ago, I landed in Singapore; around an hour ago, I arrived in my room at the Shangri-La Hotel. I had stayed here for six nights during an office conference last February, and had been awestruck at what a luxurious place it was.

Even so, I was unprepared for the first thing I saw when I stepped into my room this evening:

Oh my God, I thought. Unlike my room last February, there was a couch, a desk, and no bed from the vantage point of the door.

Well, here's what I saw when I took a few steps more. OH MY GOD.

I couldn't believe it. I was in a room of the Horizon Club of Shangri-La Singapore -- the premiere club, of a five-star hotel, in a first-world country. (I don't know if this room is in the "suite" category -- I'm sure pretty this hotel has much much snazzier rooms than this -- but this is the suite-est I've ever been in, or even imagined setting foot in for that matter!)

Sophistication melts away and promdi-ness sets in. Think the "I Think I'm Gonna Like it Here" production number from the musical Annie. Think the cliche "pinching myself in disbelief." Think of the promdi who has just stepped off the bus, in the city for the first time, gawking up at the Makati skyline with the camera tracking around him from a worm's eye view to emphasize the bigness of everything.

I call up James and give him a breathless series of ten or so "oh my God"s, and "I wish you were here"s. I take pictures of the room from every possible angle. I log on to YM and put ito ang totoong OH MY GOD as my status message. I send James the photos. Then, still in the clothes I'd been wearing all day, and without moving my stuff from my luggage into the closet, I start blogging.

Two days ago, my boss's first line to me when he arrived at the office was: "Are you busy Thursday and Friday?"

"Just a few meetings," I replied. "Movable."

"Okay," he said, "you're going to Singapore for a so and so meeting..."

Cool. Nice opportunity to get out of the regular office routine, shop for a few things not available find in the Philippines, and have some good meals.

It wasn't a treat for the travel agency though. My boss confirmed my trip only late that afternoon, so they had only yesterday to put it together.

The plane ticket was fine. I was initially waitlisted, but they were able to book me.

The hotel booking, however, was another story. By some uncanny coincidence, a handful of companies had suddenly decided to hold conventions in Singapore the same days I was flying there, thereby filling up all hotels. In Sheraton, our usual hotel, the only available room was US$690 per night. The Hilton, where my two-day meeting would be, was full. All other hotels near Hilton were full -- and all other hotels far from it. "I've called 10 hotels," my travel agent wailed over the phone in panic. "Patay ako sa overseas calls."

Finally the travel agency found Shangri-La. The room rate quoted was higher than I remembered my room last February to be, and more expensive than our standard hotels. But hell, the office wants me here. So I give the travel agency the go-signal.

So back to today. Before my 6 PM flight, I have a full day of field work, which leaves me sweaty and drained. At the last minute before leaving for the airport, I realize that I didn't have my e-ticket. At the airport, I snap at a line-jumper entering immigration. In line at immigration, an officemate just won't shut up, not taking the hint from my non-stop texting that I'm not interested in chatting. And in the taxi from Changi to the hotel, I'm victimized by yet another nonsensical incessant talker in the form of a Malaysian taxi driver. (More on that in another entry.)

I was exhausted. As much as I'd enjoyed the flight (my first on Singapore Airlines -- more on that in another entry too), I was starting to feel feverish.

Which was why I was so happy when the taxi pulled up in the Shangri-La driveway. I was SO ready to kick off my shoes, take a nice shower, and go to sleep.

It was 10:30 PM. I walked up to the front desk and half-jokingly asked, "I hope you've held the booking."

The lady at the desk checked, smiled, and said, "Yes, it's still here."

But then, she handed me back my passport and credit card and, gesturing to another lady, said, "You're checked in under the Horizon Club. Grace will accompany you to check in."

Horizon Club? What was that? Was there a problem?

I asked Grace where we were going as she led me to the elevator. "The Horizon Club is the hotel's exclusive club." And went on to explain that the Horizon Club had its own check-in on the 24th floor, plus an exclusive breakfast area, free access to the Horizon Club lounge and to the business center, free cocktails in the evening, free internet in the room... I wasn't really listening anymore, I was still trying to digest that I was part of anything exclusive.

The elevator door opened on the 24th, revealing a fancy lounge full of important-looking Caucasians. To the right is the Horizon Club's front desk.

Linda checks me in and leads me to the elevator; my room is on the 20th floor. The 20th floor hallway looks just like the hallway leading to my room last time. Okay, I think to myself, Horizon Club is just about the privileges. The room's the same.

Not so, as I realize when Linda opens the door and I make no effort whatsoever to hide my drop-jawed amazement. What a hick, Linda must have thought as she looked at me, gawking at this room in faded collared shirt and jeans and sneakers, smelling of a day of fieldwork in the Manila heat, and with a backpack to complete the image that was nothing at all like those important Caucasians on the 24th. But she smiled pleasantly, maybe even amusedly, thanked me for choosing to stay at the Shangri-La, and left.

And the rest you already know.

Several thoughts as I sit here now, still in my stinky clothes, still with my luggage unpacked, still pinching myself that this is happening, but without any trace of an impending fever. First train of thought is ethics: What did I do to deserve this? Is it fair? Am I getting spoiled? Second is justice: it's only right, after putting me through two yakkers in the span of a few hours, God is fair. Third is mush: I wish James were here, and I only hope the next time the office sends me to Singapore only the Horizon Club rooms will be available. And fourth is good ol' gratitude: as much as P&G frustrates and infuriates and exhausts me sometimes, I can't deny that being with this company has given me incredible experiences I never would have been able to afford (or at least, never cared to pay for) myself.

And now, having articulated this unforgettable mix of awe, wonder and thankfulness, I can now unpack my bags, get settled, and start soaking in four days in this gift of an experience.

Photo-Op: Typographical Error, or Global Politics?

It just occurred to me that having a blog now lets me to share my photo ops. There are laughs to be found in the most unexpected places -- just open your eyes. I've captured quite a few on my camera phone.

For instance, check song 3515 on this videoke list, spotted by some Hangad friends. A bit too far-fetched to be a typographical error, don't you think? I guess the typist's humor revolves around global politics.



More photo ops to follow. :-)

Mysteries of the Ting Sun dynasty

P&G is a place where there's something new to learn every day. That's especially true for me, having gone through college with zero business units, and having spent six years in a company that didn't do much thinking. In just over a year in P&G, I've learned what an "index" is and how to compute for it, how to do correlations (imagine my MBA boss's dismay when he learned he'd hired someone who didn't know what a correlation was), and all the little acronyms and processes that make up this company's self-contained subculture.

A few weeks ago I learned a new kind of thing.

Nats Lim, fresh from her maternity leave, came to our floor with a photo album of her two-month-old twin girls. A bunch of girls flocked to her (as girls do), me along with them (as girls do), to "ooh" and "aah" at the photos. The twins were adorable.

My co-flockers happened to be Chinese (not surprising, since P&G is a virtual Chinatown). One of them asked, "May ting sun ba siya?"

"May what?" I asked.

"Ting sun," replied Tin Tang.

"Is that a Chinese word?"

"Yes."

"What does it mean?"

"Double eyelid."

I had first heard of double eyelids some months back in a Dove TV commercial. (Apologies to P&G, but I love those classy Dove ads.) The commercial shows a succession of girls in their early teens, each with superimposed text: "Wishes she were thin", "Wishes she were tall", and so on, leading up to the Dove self-esteem fund, a part of Dove's campaign for real beauty. I had seen the Caucasian version of that ad, but what struck me about this ad was one Chinese girl with a statement I'd never heard before: "Wishes she had double eyelids."

What was a double eyelid? I had read before that some marine creatures (frogs, I think) have a second eyelid, a translucent film over their eyes, to protect their eyes while in the water even when their eyes were open. But I guess it had to be something different.

"What's a double eyelid?" I asked Tin Tang.

"It's the fold on top of the eye."

Leave it to a P&Ger to demonstrate ting sun through a side-by-side.
(Tin Tang's photo used with permission.)

Aah. So that's what it was. I looked from the photos of the twins, to their mother Miss Lim, to my Chinese co-flockers (Miss Choa, Miss Sze, Miss Tang, and Miss Lao). Hardly any folds on them, if at all.

"So what's the big deal with the ting sun? Is it a lucky Chinese thing?"

It was an honest question, but they rolled their eyes at me.

"Not having a ting sun makes your eyes look smaller," Tin Tang explained. "It makes you look like your eyes are closed all the time, especially when you smile."

"Is it a big deal?" I was genuinely curious.

"Yes!" they all said together.

Miss Sze shared that relatives of hers -- boys out of high school, at that -- had undergone surgery just to give themselves ting sun.

"Do I have ting sun?" I really wasn't sure.

"Yes you do!" whined Tin Tang, "ang laki nga ng sa 'yo e, nakakainggit."

Having an enviable physical trait was new to me. Receding hairline, wide forehead, dark circles around the eyes, big nose, crooked smile, improminent chin, weak jaw, a tummy that won't go away -- but at least I have big ting sun. Haha. I took a self-photo with my camera phone just to see for myself. Yup, they were big all right.

I pressed on. "But isn't it nice? Doesn't it make your face look cleaner?" I meant it. I hadn't meant to come across as patronizing.

"Nooo!" Tin Tang was really whining now (nothing new, nothing to worry about). "I want ting sun!"

"I think you look fine," I said matter-of-factly. And that was that.

Going back to my desk, my thoughts drifted back to high school, when my male classmates would pine for chinita girls, whose eyes for some reason were so appealing to them ("Pare, chinita!"). I recalled how I'd heard, over and over, people wishing they had Chinese blood, if only to have fair complexions and skin that would never age. I thought of literary classics we had read in high school, where people of the far east were constantly described as exotic, and delicate as porcelain, with mysterious almond-shaped eyes.

Who'd ever thought that these China dolls wanted something the rest of the world had? God is fair -- you can't have it all.

First love never dies... even the gastronomic kind

This was originally a much MUCH longer post, but I decided to cut it into two. Yes, sa lagay na 'to, this is already an "edit-down". Check back within the week for what would have been the post's second half.

My life changed sometime in the middle of high school when my parents dragged the family to a then newly opened restaurant on the fourth floor of the then newly opened SM Megamall. (Back then, Megamall was still a place you'd go to for a pleasant meal.)

I did NOT want to go. At the time, my gastronomic adventures extended as far as burger-and- pizza-land. And despite knowing I was neither a soup-eater, noodle-eater, nor exotic-stuff eater, my parents had ordered soup and noodles and other dishes I'd never heard of.

But I guess there's something about nicely decorated restaurants that makes you more open to trying food. And this restaurant, Sukhothai, was a nicely decorated place. Wood carvings and rich purple fabrics and mosaics of bits of colored glass that reflected light. So I tried the food.

A blinding flash of light and a heavenly chorus somewhere in the background, and with that meal my love affair with Southeast Asian food began. Starting from Thai food, it gradually expanded to include Malay, Singaporean, Vietnamese, and Indonesian cuisines. (Though as my friends know, it's always mysteriously eluded Philippine food, haha.) Up until today, nothing makes me happy the way curry, satay, phad thai, kway teow, rendang, and roti prata do.

Unfortunately, over the years, Sukhothai's prices got higher, and the quality of food went down. James and I would go to Banana Leaf Curry House, Penang Hill, and Krua Thai instead. Still, when Sukhothai closed its branches in Glorietta and Megamall a few years back, there was a certain sadness. How could I not feel sentimental about the place that started it all?

Now some days ago, while looking for a caterer for our June 9 event (more on that in another entry), a friend offered to give me a caterer's number. "No," I said, "I'm already getting Banana Leaf for the event." And she said, "Oh, okay." ...then added, "Kasi this caterer is the former owner of Sukhothai."

Oh. My. God.

I leapt at the number, called the next afternoon. Her name was Mrs Rose Garcia, and she was indeed the owner of the former Sukhothai (which, she said, was forced to close due to the malls' prohibitive rental fees). I just had to tell her: "Your restaurant started my love for Thai food."

Mrs Garcia and I stayed on the phone for 30 minutes. Apart from discussing the event, she told me about the new restaurant she opened last October: Thai Pad. It carries Sukhothai favorites, but now targeted office workers around Pasong Tamo. She invited me Thai Pad for dinner the next day. But I was too excited to wait -- James and I pulled up in front of Thai Pad that evening.

It was nowhere near as elaborately decorated as Sukhothai. Flat lighting, brightly painted walls, none of the carvings or fabrics. But after looking at the menu, I couldn't complain. Old familiar favorites from Sukhothai, but at less than half the old prices! Phad thai noodles for P95, chicken pandan at P31 per piece, tom yum goong soup for P86. Even the rice meals -- both with plain and fried rice -- were mostly less than P100.

After closing its branches in Megamall and Glorietta due to prohibitive rental fees,
Sukhothai is back -- at much lower prices! DAMN THOSE MALLS!

James and I ordered Thai iced tea, tom yum goong, phad thai, spring rolls, and of course chicken pandan. Honestly, I hadn't let my expectations get too high. With those prices, the servings would have to be too small. Or they might have cut back on ingredients and flavor. But each dish proved me wrong as it came. It was delicious thai iced tea; the old tom yum goong we loved; the same phad thai, in the same old very generous serving; the same flavorful spring rolls; and the same juicy chicken pandan with half-grilled corn kernels adding to the flavor and texture.

Mrs Garcia gave us a few complimentary dishes too, so we could try more items in her catering menu. We had chicken in crispy cups, which was ground chicken with corn kernels and shredded carrots in what seemed like tortilla cups (of course they weren't tortillas because it's a Thai restaurant, and how the hell should I know I just eat the stuff); takoh rice cakes (another old favorite, still as gooey as ever); and Thai halu-halo.

Happiness is a big bowl of hot, aromatic, spicy tom yum goong...
especially when it's only P86!

It was a thoroughly enjoyable meal, and our orders came up to less than P500. Not bad at all, especially compared to places like Som's which say they have good cheap Thai food, which I find is cheap but not all that good. Definitely a place I would go back to, and even bring friends to. In the future, I can just order phad thai and a piece of chicken pandan -- a satisfying meal that would come up to just P126.

Getting reacquainted with an old flame: Sukhothai's phad thai.

Just before James and I left the restaurant, I again told Mrs Garcia -- rather, Tita Rose, as she told me to call her -- how happy I was that Sukhothai was back with much lower prices. I told her I'd tell all my friends about it, to which she gave me an effusive "thank you."

So here I am blogging, and telling my readers (yes, I have readers, imagine my surprise!) to go and visit Thai Pad. You've never had cheap Thai food this good. :)

Thai Pad is at the corner of Pasong Tamo and Herrera, on the ground floor of a building whose name I forget... it's the same building with the Canon service center, across Hererra from Shell and across Pasong Tamo from Goldilocks. They're open Mondays to Saturdays from 11 AM to 9 PM. Call them at 815 1329. They also cater for a minimum of 20 people at only P290 per head, a steal considering it's 7 dishes -- just look for Tita Rose.

View from the top

James and I moved into a condo along EDSA in September 2003. People would ask how the hell we got any sleep, living along EDSA, but our unit was on the east-facing side, which meant we had peaceful nights and a great view of Marikina valley. Still, the sun shining through our window every morning was a killer. Morning sun on your face? Nice. Heat? NOT.



Three and a half years later, we're still in the same building, but in a unit 15 storeys higher on the other side of the building -- i.e, facing EDSA. Even at that altitude, the occasional siren's wail still jolts us awake at midnight; and more than our cellphone alarms, it's the din of the morning rush hour that wakes us up in the morning. But who can argue with a 38th floor view that lets you see Manila, Rockwell, Ayala Center, Manila Bay, and the Manila Bay sunset from your floor-to-ceiling bedroom window? ;-)

When in Bora, stay at SUR :-)

Might as well use my blog to advertise the family business. ;-)


Tired of the commercialized tourist trap that Boracay has become? Then next time you're in Bora, try SUR Beah Resort and experience Boracay's gentler side.


It's located along the beachfront near Boat Station One, near Sea Wind and Friday's, which means it's along the best stretch of beach on the island.


It's designed with lots of space for sunlight and sea breeze to flow through; and having only a few rooms and a friendly staff, it's clean, peaceful, and personal.

Guests who've stayed at SUR have loved it. In fact, we've had guests who have come back three or four times or more, for the location, the quiet, the clean facilities, the friendly service, and the value.

Click on the images to view / download pics, rates, and more information.

Book now, you'll love it too. :-)

Sur Beach Resort, Boracay

surboracay@gmail.com

+63 36 288 6844

+64 36 288 6843 (fax)

+63 928 781 1233 (mobile)

When's the last time you thought about the solar system?

Friday is my coding day. So I wake up at 6 AM (not easy with Hangad practice the night before), leave my condo at 6:45 AM, and pull into my parking slot at 6750 Ayala at exactly 7 AM. Then, since the office air conditioning isn't turned on until 8 AM, I stop by Starbucks for breakfast and pop open my laptop to do some light work, or even just clean up my desktop (where I put unread e-mail attachments).

I usually go to the counter, order a basic black iced tea (tall, with less ice, no valencia syrup, thank you) and a sausage roll (yes, heated, please), head upstairs and sit at one of the couches. It's usually quiet for the hour that I'm there.

Not this morning. When I went upstairs, an American family was occupying the mezzanine's semi-enclosed carpeted area -- a man, two ladies (cousins?), three little boys and a little girl. They were noisily playing an educational game about the solar system. I couldn't really get what the objective of the game was -- all I could understand was that several cards, each with a planet or body in the solar system, were randomly distributed to the kids. One of the ladies (who seemed to be the game-master of sorts) was using it to educate the kids about the solar system.

"Which planet has rings?"

"Who can tell me about asteroids?"

"Jupiter is as big as 1,000 earths, and it has 14 moons."

"The sun is the biggest star." (Wrong.)

"Is the earth's surface more land or water?"

"Who's got the card for Uranus?" (The man tried to suppress a smirk with this one.)

I usually get irritated with noise, but I didn't mind this time because they were American. Just kidding. I didn't mind because it got me to thinking about how long it had been since I really gave thought to the solar system. (The last time, I think, was when they stripped Pluto of its "planet" status... and even then, only in passing.)

I used to love the solar system. As a kid I had a book of paintings of the planets and their moons, the histories of each planet, and even the legends behind their names. (I just looked at the pictures, though, and so I still don't know who Io and Ganymede are in mythology.) I loved it just because it was fun, and the pictures were pretty. And listening to these kids and their Mom / Aunt, I realized how caught up I'd gotten with day to day things that I don't get to think about fun and pretty anymore. The phrase "matters of consequence" comes to mind.

At the same time, thinking about the solar system rubs it in how small and insignificant we are. A few weeks ago, during a particularly boring training, I downloaded Google Earth (thank God for office-wide WiFi). That night I showed James all the addresses I'd pushpinned on the map. He said, "Makes you feel really small doesn't it?" And that's just Google Earth. Think what Google Jupiter would be like.

The family left Starbucks earlier than I did. Though it had was quiet after they left, I had enough thoughts about the fun-ness and pretty-ness and smallness and insignificance to last me the day. I got the office unusually bright-eyed today. No, not because of any "moral lesson" about "stopping to smell the roses"... but simply because there's nothing like side-nudging introspection to perk you up early in the morning.

Phone memories

I bought a new phone last April 8—a Sony Ericsson K800i, otherwise known as Cybershot phone. I got it in Greenhills, along with a 512 MB memory card and screen cover, for a cash out of 11k, plus a trade-in of my previous phone (Sony Ericsson W800i, the first Walkman phone, for 6k) and two phones James had lying around at home (a Nokia 1100 for 1k, and a damaged Nokia 3315 for P200… better than nothing hahaha!).

I had been deciding between a Nokia 6233 and Nokia N70, but found out that the Nokia 6233 could store only 500 names (which was my issue with my Walkman phone) and that neither had great reviews. Good thing the billboard across EDSA from my condo flashed in my head—the one that heralded that the Sony Ericsson Cybershot phone had won some or other award-giving body’s “best GSM phone of 2006”—and, checking the reviews, found out what a great phone it was.

I’ve been happy so far. The body and display look great, the features are no-nonsense, and the interface is a huge improvement over my last Sony Ericsson.

Thinking about this made me think back several years to my first phone—bought after graduation in 1999, primarily to keep in touch with James who was heading back to Cebu.

James and I had had a big fight when college was drawing to a close. I was idealistic back then, with Philosophy and Theology on my mind, and a virgin to the seductions of consumerism and compulsive acquisition. He urged me to buy a phone—no, he urged me to let him buy me a phone—so we could keep in touch. Silly me insisted on a “simple lifestyle”—that we should save the money and get by with weekly snail mail. Hah! Anyway, I gave in just to make him happy—but I wanted to be the one to buy the phone. Not something I’d be happy with, but if it would help keep the peace, then what the hell.

He took me to Greenhills and having learned from my cheapskate Tatay, we scoured the entire tiangge (which was not the orderly tiangge we know today) looking for the best deal. I bought myself a yellow Nokia 5110 for around P6k. We took it home, and James did all the setting up, with me pretending to be uninterested. I didn’t have a SIM yet (Me to James: “What’s a SIM?”) then because Globe Prepaid SIMs (Me to James: “Prepaid? What’s Prepaid?”) were always out of stock. (Cut to five years later when I was giving away Globe Gizmo SIMs because no one wanted them, mwahaha.) James had asked his Dad to buy one in Cebu (they were P300+ at the time), anyway James and I were flying to Cebu the next day for vacation.

I’ll admit, I quickly learned to love that phone. To this day, I feel sentimental when I see a Nokia 5110. It was functional, it was sturdy, and it came in cool colors (with lots of fake ones in Greenhills).

It's a classic. You just had to love that Navi-Key.

I didn’t love Globe though—no messages were getting through (this was right before they implemented a P1/text tariff), and besides, they cheated me out of P200 with a defective prepaid load card—but the phone. So how ironic it was—with my hate for phones in college, and the crap Globe put me through—when I joined Globe! Hahaha!

But I think I’ll need a whole different blog entry—maybe even 10 of them—just to ask whether Globe is crappier as a service provider, or an employer. So back to phones.

Between then and now, I went through 4 more phones:

1. Nokia 6210 (2001-2003). I got it because WAP was new—and because I was feeling the first consumerist urges to keep up with the Joneses, and phones were getting smaller and Bermuda Yellow was no longer cool. This must have been my favorite phone ever. Totally functional, totally fast, no-nonsense and professional, easy to use, totally sturdy… imagine it working after I slipped and fell on my butt on a sidewalk (thanks to Decolgen Forte just minutes earlier), and it flew out of my hand and bounced twice—once off a metal telephone cabinet and once on the concrete pavement.


2. Nokia 6610 (2003-2004). Again, keeping up with the Joneses… everyone had MMS! And I wanted a colored screen for colored photos and wallpapers. I liked this phone too… great white body and no major glitches… but it wasn’t as sturdy as the 6210. It scratched easily, and it just didn’t feel as strong.



3. Nokia 6660 (2004-2006). I got this because I’m a sucker for employee handset promos. This must be my second-to-the-worst phone. Slow, hanging software and lots of useless stuff loaded into it (these two things, in my mind, have pretty much become Nokia’s equity); and something went wrong with my speaker so I could never hear who I was talking to unless I was alone and everything was quiet).



4. Sony Ericsson W800i (2006-2007). Silly, silly, silly me—thinking that there was merit in building my equity as a musician by getting a walkman phone. Nonsense! The PC software used for loading MP3’s into the phone was even less reliable than iTunes, and I gave up updating my playlists after several headaches. And to that a totally counter-intuitive interface and a tiny phone book memory that had me staying up till 4 AM trying to figure out which 300 names I could afford to delete from my phone book. I was more than happy to give this one up.



5. Sony Ericsson K800i (2007 to the present). I talked about this earlier. Ahlaveht! And thank God for online reviews. I think I’ll have this phone for a pretty long time.

Now, watch out for my blog entry on ranting about Globe. Bwahahaha!

You had me at hello… not again

My first encounter with the movie Miss Potter was its streamers above Food Choices in Glorietta. A big close-up of Renee Zellweger! She won my heart after Bridget Jones, Roxie Hart, and that yellow-green gown at the Oscars some years back. With her face on the poster, plus some or tagline about an “enchanting tale”, fairy that I am, I couldn’t help but be curious.

James and I saw the trailer when we watched 300. Apparently, the movie was about the Beatrix Potter, author and illustrator of the children’s book The Tale of Peter Rabbit. Apparently the movie told the story with a mix of real life and animation, a la Mary Poppins, to get into the author’s vivid imagination. It had me just giggling and squealing with delight, with its farmyard animals coming to life under Miss Potter’s paintbrush, bringing back childhood memories of a read-along book and tape Tatay have given me about Peter Rabbit, his brothers Flopsy, Mopsy, and Cottontail, and the mean Farmer MacGregor.

Speaking of MacGregor—the movie also starred Ewan, reuniting him and Renee for the first time since Down With Love. Renee, Ewan, and cuddwy cartoon bunny wabbits… how could I resist? I had agreed to sit through nearly two hours of Spartan violence with James… he had better sit through storybook nonsense with me.

Who can resist animated versions of these cuddwy bunny wabbits?

James and I caught the last full show at Eastwood last April 9. Over dinner, I had checked www.RottenTomatoes.com through my phone, and saw that Miss Potter had only gotten around 60% good reviews. Not spectacular, but not terrible either. And anyway, it had Renee, Ewan, and the cartoon bunnies! So we pushed through.

I had been looking forward to a magical movie that left you feeling giddy and like a child again. That was what the trailer had promised—the story of an author struggling to get her children’s book published in a less than childlike world. What a surprise when the book got published within the first half-hour of the movie—leaving me wondering what the plot's central conflict was for the rest of the film. Well, there was none, and for the remaining hour or so, all we had was a narrative with that neither left anything to the imagination nor offered any gripping tension to hold our attention, of a woman who went from eccentric to love-swept to philantropic, but who never really gave us any reason to care about her.

No reason for me to care about her.

And you know those movies where the trailers look great, but then when you watch the movie, it turns out that all the good scenes were already the ones in the trailer? I don’t remember what the past ones were, but Miss Potter is definitely one of them. (James remembers I bitched about The Prince of Egypt in the same way.) So much for a magical movie about a woman’s imagination—if I’d wanted magic and imagination, I could have just watched the trailer 100 times.

And the acting! It was Down With Love all over again with the campiness and the sheer lack of depth. But at least in Down With Love, it was deliberate, Renee was fabulous and Ewan took off his shirt. I said it earlier—we didn’t care about Renee’s character in this movie.

And just to stereotype myself as a Comm Major, just let me add—the movie’s camerawork called way too much attention to itself, and the editing was poorly-paced. (Hah! My four years of Comm amounted to something after all.)

So there. Nowhere as crappy as “You had me at hello”, but a letdown nonetheless from one of my most adored actresses. What's the point in my writing about a movie nobody will go see anyway (not when 300 is still playing on its nth week)? Nothing--I'm just really disappointed in one of my favorite actresses. Now excuse me while I go wash down the aftertaste with five or so doses of Chicago.

My yearly fix of spirituality

April 6 to 8 marked my eleventh Easter triduum in Ateneo.

The Easter Triduum is a series of services held in Ateneo each year during Holy Week. On Holy Thursday, there's a Mass and the celebration of the Lord's supper (a.k.a. Last Supper) with a re-enactment of the washing of the feet. On Good Friday, it's a service with a really long gospel reading, veneration of the cross, and Stations of the Cross around campus. And in the evening on Black Saturday, there's the Easter Vigil. (I don't know if I'm capitalizing the right words here.)

My first encounter with the Triduum was way back in 1997. Fr Nemy had invited me and Mariel, then ACMG's choir heads, to lunch at the Loyola House of Studies. It was a Friday during Lent then, and I was telling Mariel I'd be in trouble because I didn't eat seafood. Well, it turned out to be a good meal... leave it to the Jesuits to serve steak in their mess hall on a Friday in Lent. Fr Nemy had asked Hangad and ACMG to lead the singing at the Triduum, where we would be joined by a few members of Bukas Palad, Himig Heswita, and Tinig Barangka.

And he had asked me to play the piano, along with a string and wind ensemble. It was a huge honor for me -- and a daunting task that made my jaw drop. I was then a sophomore, and since entering college, I had attended Ignatian Masses and ordinations and been spellbound Fr Arnel playing the piano along with Prof Serge Esmilla and Mayos Esmilla leading a talented ensemble of violinists, violists, cellists, and flautists. With Fr Arnel being assigned somewhere else in the country, they needed me to take over.

What an experience that first Triduum was. It my first time playing with an ensemble --a nerve-wracking exprience at first, but a hugely fulfilling and educational one once I got through it. But more than that, I could also feel the music and services feeding each other with energy and meaning, bringing the musicians and the congregation in an upward spiral of joy.

Things have changed through the years. Around once or twice, Fr Arnel has been in town and taken over the piano. Recently, the event has been moved from LHS to the Church of the Gesu. More and more, it's become a Hangad event, with the other choirs having their own activities for Holy Week. The congregation has gotten bigger every year, as more people have heard about it. And this year, the event was televised live over ABC5.

But even with these slight changes year on year, every year for the past 11 years, the Triduum has been a marvelous experience I look forward to. In recent years, in fact, it has been the spiritual highlight of my year. And the services have never stopped energizing the music. There is always wonder in seeing a respected priest kneel to wash strangers' feet; in a sparse Good Friday service commemorating Christ's passion and death; in seeing queues of people slowly advancing to kneel and venerate the cross; in a totally darkened chapel that suddenly becomes awash with candlelight at the beginning of the Easter Vigil; in a haunting Exultet that hails the glorious night of nights; in a series of readings and psalms that proclaim our story as one of salvific love (which actually inspired "Love Untold", my favorite song in Hangad's The Easter Journey); in a church that bursts into light, revealing a sanctuary decked with flowers, as the Gloria is sung; in singing the Alleluia for the first time in 40 days; and the words, "Thanks be to God, Alleluia, Alleluia", leading to a glorious final hymn as everyone happily greets each other "Happy Easter."

Invariably, people ask me each year -- "Are you going to Boracay over the Holy Week break?" Each year, I shake my head, and I think I'll have the same answer for a very long time. The Triduum is one experience that no vacation can ever replace.

Overcoming Inertia

I'm finally starting my blog.

It's been months since I told myself I'd start one. In retrospect, having hesitated this long, too many blog-inspiring moments have flown by.

On one hand, there were moments of utter exhiliaration -- my first experience as a member of a rock band; or a dinner in Singapore with Indian officemates, with fantastic food and fascinating revelations on Indian culture.

And on the other, there were moments of downright bitchiness -- such as when Philippine Airlines lost my luggage, or when I decided to re-christen a supposed five-star hotel in Davao as "The Grand Chaka Hotel."

Each time, I would get fired up and tell myself I'd start writing. But each time also, I would find myself undecided about which blog site to use; at wits' end making sense of the blog site interfaces; and deciding that I didn't have time, and that I'd rather watch TV instead.

Well, minutes ago, James told me for the nth time that I should have a blog ("And dami mong sinasabi, mag-blog ka na nga!"). So fine, might as well stop making excuses. James told me to use Blogger; he guided me through the blog-building process (not without rolling his eyes several times); and it being morning # 3 of a five-day weekend, there's loads of time.

So here we go! I don't know what or when I'll be writing next. But for sure, the way my life goes, there won't be any shortage of exhiliaration, introspection, and of course, cattiness to make for happy writing.