wingwmn

spreading my wings and sharing random lessons learned along the way

Travel

Observations on itchy feet

Birthday Moments

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Closing the decade chasing sunsets in Morocco.
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I almost forgot that exactly 365 sunsets ago, on my birthday, I had my very first chemo session. I was facing about a year’s worth of treatment. A well-meaning friend advised: Just consider the year lost.

Quick-witted that I am, a year and 22 chemo sessions later, I finally have a reply: 6.4 billion.
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There are 6.4 billion moments in a day according to Zen Master Dogen. (A snap of a finger has 65 moments.)

Rather than viewing Time as hulking chunks — a whole year of loss, a solid block of pain to power through — I prefer to think of Time as Dogen does: fine particles of moments. Billions interweaving, overlapping, entangling, almost merging with each other.

Because if not, how else could this year have been?

How could the discomfort of a needle co-exist with the comfort of a nurse’s soothing caress;

How could the tedium of chemo exist right next to the delight of settling in a chemo chair with a good book or podcast;

How could physical exhaustion occur right by the joy of sunlight streaming across the bed;

How could cancer in a foreign country be associated with feeling embraced and carried by friends and family sending messages and snail mail and gifts and new friends to meet;

How could a supposedly lost year be filled with laughter and lightness?
The good can co-exist with the bad because each moment offers space for something new, breathing room for an entire universe of potential.
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In this 65-moment snap of a finger, I am sad to see the (rapid) fading of youth, happy to be aging, nostalgic for the decade that was, excited about the decade that will be, and just profoundly grateful. All of it possible and all of it existing so potently side by side on this bittersweet birthday.
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50 years. 18,250 sunsets. 116.8 trillion moments. The terrible and the beautiful, I’m owning all of them. None of them worthless. Not one of them lost. All of them essential to the becoming of little (kinda very) ol’ me.
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Thank you so so sooo much for your birthday wishes. Between spotty connection and too many hours in carpet shops, i am slow on the catch up and replies. I also learned of a secret anitapifty account set up by the bestest sisters Angela Payumo-Stricker Aileen Payumo Alexandra Asuncion. I will read them, wallow in them, and shed many many tears. Then we catch up, ok?

Carousel Perspectives

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Walking by Madrid’s Royal Palace, my family and I stumbled upon a Christmas carousel. Naturally, my nieces wanted to ride so we made our way over.
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While waiting in line, we watched the kids revolve around the carousel in and out of sight. We noticed one of the bigger girls, about 6-years old, unquestionably dejected. She was riding the only horse that didn’t dance. While all the other kids bobbed up and down around her, she was on a motionless horse that didn’t do anything. She sat slumped, sides of her mouth sharply turned downwards, her face scrunched up holding back tears.
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When our turn arrived, we instructed the nieces, “Choose a horse with a pole. Not that small one; it doesn’t move.”

And “Hold on to the pole with both hands. BOTH hands.”
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The music started, and the next revolution began. Kids appeared and disappeared, tentatively releasing a hand from the poles to wave at their parents.

Then we heard “Mama! Mama! Miraaaa!” A little girl of barely 4-years old spun past us. She was on the same motionless horse, her body leaned waaay back against it, one arm dancing in the air rodeo-style. She spun out of vision.

Then she came back, this time with one leg standing on a wooden stirrup, the other leg floating behind her. “Mira Mamaaa!” She disappeared again.

She returned, “Mamaaa!”, in jockey position, bouncing on her horse, slapping its wooden culo.
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She had us all in stitches and in awe. While one kid saw a dud of a horse, this rockstar kid saw a safe platform for her equestrian dreams.
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May we all see the rodeo in any and every horse we’re on. Merry Christmas!

For Better or For Worse

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As a visitor, Madrid had always felt intense. For better or for worse. Its culture is undiluted. Its streets and tabernas — teeming with cacophonous herds. Its people — direct, vibrant, overflowing. The language — impenetrable and unrelenting.

Also, the meals — abundant, and late. And store and office hours — incomprehensible.

As a historically imperial city, land-locked in the very center of the country, it didn’t care to be anything else. While its coastal neighbors were being transformed by centuries of immigrants, Madrid was a stronghold for the Spanish way of life.

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I love a coffee shop, and I love cities with a specialty coffee shop culture. You know the kind — cozy and bright spaces; soothing playlists; Chemex on display; serving coffees, lattes, and chia bowls. Their young international english-speaking staff in pink socks take your orders and talk bean origins and roasting methods. Digital-generation customers nurse their drinks, minding nothing else but their laptops.

To me, these places feel like a neutral safe space. They call out, “Rest your weary backs on our subway-tiled walls and pretend, for a lingering moment, that you’re home. Or in East London. Or Brooklyn. Or Melbourn. Or Berlin. Or heck, even Manila.”

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The traditional Madrid coffee shop, on the other hand, is not a neutral space. It is ‘cafeteria’. Like Madrid, they are loud and spirited.
The disorganized bar, laminated tables, and napkin-strewn floors belie any intentional aesthetic considerations. Surly men serve 10 customers at a time and dispatch of them with admirable efficiency.

The coffee culture in Madrid is transactional. Customers approach the bar, order their cafe solo, chug it while catching a bit of news on the overhead TV, and leave. If they stay, it is to gab emphatically with friends and family over food. There are old people, young people, children; the whole village.

There is no spotify playlist to appreciate, no non-dairy milk options to choose from, and absolutely no laptop in sight.

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Very recently, however, specialty coffee shops have sprouted hard and fast around Madrid. Mostly founded by expats, they cater to an equally international customer base of travelers and migrants who, judging by their strong endorsements, have been hankering for these spaces just like I have.

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I sip my black sesame latte and think about coffee and culture.
On the one hand, I am thrilled that in a full-on city such as Madrid, I can finally escape into any of these happy spaces. But at the same time, I am unsettled by this trajectory.

Because to travel is to expand; to tear us away from our everyday. To travel is to be part excited, part uncomfortable. It is to allow a new place, in all its distinctiveness, to dictate our experience and leave a mark on us.

However, as post-pandemic travel and migration rise at remarkable levels, visitors are making their mark on their destinations. The cross-pollination of cultures and tastes seem to be producing increasingly standardized cities. Extremes and Uniqueness are moving towards an Average. Paris is finding its smile; Tokyo is discovering a bit of chaos. Fortress Madrid has sprouted specialty coffee shops and vegan restaurants. Will restaurants soon be serving dinner at 7pm?

The homogenization of cities is a sign of cultural gentrification on a global level. We trade in a city’s essence for what is universally agreeable. In the near future, travel may no longer be associated with novelty and growth. Rather, it may be simply about posing in front of a famous landmark, but being assured of comfort and predictability. For better or for worse.

The Hustle

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“Have you ordered from Pablo yet?” our neighbors asked with a mischievous smile.  We were having dinner at their house catching up on neighborhood news.

“Who’s Pablo?” we asked.  

“Our neighbor who sells paella.”

A small pause.  “Wait, he sells paella . . . from his house?” we asked confused.

“Yes!  He actually lives right across the street from you!  We used to be able to run to him for last minute orders but he quickly became so busy that he now requires advance notice!  Well, he’s also a pilot so he only takes orders for the weekends.”

Another brief pause of disbelief. “A pilot that sells paella in his spare time?” 

“Yes,” they laughed.  “Pablo Piloto Paellero!  Que raro, no?!”

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A few weeks later, we placed a paella order.

Gathered around his delicious paella, family and friends discussed this Pablo character with a lot of befuddled vigor.  “I still don’t get it! No lo entiendo! Why is he doing this? As a pilot, I can imagine he doesn’t need to.”

“Must be a passion,” I volunteered.

“Sure, but he could indulge his passion by having family over for lunch.  Why make it into a business?” 

The concept of Pablo, the paella-peddling pilot, just didn’t compute with these people.  A side-hustle, particularly a laboriously manual one, is a very foreign idea in these parts (“If it were a consulting side-gig, maybe I’d understand it better.”)  Also, governed by a strong dedication to leisure and socialization, weekends and work never ever mix (“Bosses don’t call on weekends. Saturday lunch is the absolute latest they would dare call.”)  Pablo the weekend warrior was a very rare breed in Spain.

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I thought of the Philippines, the land of the home-based enterprise. Where the national past time is tossing around ideas of what new discovery from the outside world can be replicated, baked, or imported and sold from home.  Where every iconic ensaymada, caramel cake, ube-cheese pandesal, sushi bake, creative pie, you-name-it likely began with a sparkle of an idea, a home oven, and a hustler who said “why the heck not?”  

In the Philippines, home businesses are a source of creative expression, entrepreneurial adventure, and communal gastronomic advancement.  Additional income is often the cherry on top.  To the delight of customers, the number of home businesses exploded in the pandemic.  During the dreary days of quarantine, they fed our bodies, our economy, and our sanity. They are our modern-day ‘bayanihan’.

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After our lunch, Pablo came over to pick up the paella (pan).  I greeted him at the door and told him how much we enjoyed the paella, and how thrilled I was that he was open for business. He asked where I was from. I said I was Filipino.

“Oh, my wife is Filipino.”

And at that precise moment, everything clicked!  It suddenly all made sense! Of course!  The only way to explain this maverick Spaniard entrepreneur was a hustler Filipino wife!


Photo credit: Manuel Mouzo

Intermediate Spanish

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In Spanish, there is a grammatical concept called the Subjunctive.  The subjunctive mood expresses uncertainty or un-reality.  For example, a speaker would use the subjunctive when giving advice (“I  suggest you call home”) or expressing desire (“I wish you were here”) to convey tentativeness in what the other person might actually do.  

The form of the subjunctive is curious; the verb becomes almost unrecognizable.  Take the verb Tomar, to drink.  Normal conjugations would be toma, tomas, tomando, tomaba, has tomado (drink, drinks, drinking, drank, have drunk).  But in the subjunctive, the verb becomes Tome.  Very distinct.  If there were an english equivalent, it might be something like DRONK!  

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At a cafe, I heard the lady at the next table call out to the server “La cuenta por favor, cuando tu puedas.” 

I was bewildered.  “PUEDAS.  Cuando tu puedas.  Normal conjugation of Poder would be Tu PuedES.  Why did she use the subjunctive? Is she expressing doubt on the actions of the server?  EVEN IF she knows the server will surely undoubtedly absoluletly undeniably give her the bill?  EVEN IF the server will hand her the bill in the so very immediate future that she can actually already smell it?  Why the subjunctive??”

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Late last night, the boy said, “I invited the neighbors for a 9 o’clock dinner tomorrow.”

I pointed at the fridge, “Have you noticed its emptiness?”

“Don’t worry.  I’ll go shopping after work tomorrow.”

I bit my tongue, anxious to see how this would all play out.

This evening, this is how it went down:

At 7:30pm, the fridge was still empty.  The boy was still hard at work.

At 7:45, he stepped out of his home office, “Give me 15 minutes. Don’t stress, there will be food for dinner.”

At 8, there was no sign of progress in anything but my hyperventilation.

At 8:15, he re-emerged from his office and said, “Alberto just cancelled.  They’re feeling under the weather.”

I was dumbfounded. And enlightened. 

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I am learning that making plans in Spain and talking about the future is practically living in the Subjunctive.  No matter how immediate the future is, even if it is a mere 2 inches from your face; no matter how practically absolutely unambiguously certain the plans may feel to you, there is always a shroud of tentativity.

A DRONK is a DRONK and will continue to be a DRONK until you actually have the glass in hand, lift it to your lips, and DRINK.

Gentle Portugal

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Evora, Portugal

“There is no menu.  We will just bring out various courses of traditional Portuguese dishes.”

So out came a parade of dishes.  It started with the nibbles:  olives, and jamon, cheese with jam, and a refreshing cold soup.
Followed by heartier small dishes including fish empanada, stew of pig feet, and a lengua sandwich.
The mains included a duck rice dish, slow-cooked black pork, various vegetables and mushrooms.
And the dessert platter consisted of a sorbet, fruit, and a flan.

It was all very delightful.
And all very Spanish.

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Similarities between Spain and Portugal shouldn’t come as a surprise.  After all, at different points in history, they were one and the same country. They were part of the same Roman Hispania province, then again they were unified under Philip II in the 1500s.  Throughout history, their royals married each other. 

Now, even as 2 separate countries, they share the same religion, the same Iberian land with its flora, fauna and animals, the same surrounding waters, the same climate.  

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However, there is a palpable difference between the two.

Spain, I would describe, has edge. 
Her people are intense and fiery.
The language is impassioned; it strikes the ear roughly.  Almost angry, always making a point.  

Spain has a cultural RBF (resting bitch face).  She comes off aloof until you beg and plead for years to make her like you.
Spain is proud.  She will have dinner at 11 pm just because she wants to.  

Meanwhile, on the other side of the border in Portugal, the difference is immediately visible.   

The Spanish landscape of austere scorched flatlands, grain warehouses, and endless rows of solar panels give way to rolling green hills dotted with age-old cork trees.  Wild flowers abloom where they can. 

As with its docile landscape, there is a certain softness to Portugal.

Her people are gentle.  And smiley.  And calm.
They are your instant best friends.  
Her language, too, has a lilt, a soft susurration.

And she eats dinner at 8pm because she is agreeable.  

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As the two Iberian kids, there is also a certain dynamic in their relationship.

If I dared, I’d say Spain is like the older sibling — the ambitious one with her sights far outside her backyard.  She wants to join the cool kids out yonder.  She’s busy achieving and doesn’t spend time thinking about what her younger sibling is doing.

Portugal is the agreeable younger kid.  Relaxed, going about her business with far less ambition, but always peering over her shoulder at any aggressive moves from Spain.

An Examination of Fear

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“You’re basically committing suicide. For a man.”

I usually eye-roll at my Mom’s hysterics. But this time, I understood what she meant: In an imploding world, you’re safe here. You have food, help, and a support system that can provide whatever you might need — doctors, supplements, oxygen concentrators, horse anti-parasitics.

But you’re leaving. Protected by a questionably-effective vaccine. Taking a long-haul flight into a country where you know no one, are unfamiliar with the health care system, and can barely say “cough” in the native tongue. You are launching straight into ever-morphing travel rules and anti-asian sentiment that might find you homeless and helpless.

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As a traveler, I used to be pretty audacious. Unfortunately, covid fearmongering changed that. I am now pure paranoia. For months, I equivocated about leaving. What nga if I get sick? What if i . . . die??? I needed to find a way through this fear and wrest back some of my power.

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The Stoic Epictetus said, “Philosophy’s main task is to respond to the soul’s cry; to make sense of and thereby free ourselves from the hold of our griefs and fears.”

I parsed through my angst and pitted them against rational thought:
What if I travel and get sick? / You could catch covid even if you stayed home.
What if I can’t get medical attention? / Getting covid doesn’t necessarily mean you will need medical attention. And worst case, you have medical insurance.
What if I leave and there is a family emergency? / Get over yourself; staying home doesn’t equate to the prevention of family emergencies. Talk to the family before you leave. Have a plan.
What if I die? / Well, then there really wouldn’t be anything to worry about, would there?

An examination of the fears we hold illuminates this important point: Our fears are not Fact. Nor are they Foregone Conclusions.

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And what about my other latent fears that haven’t had enough air time recently? The fear of regret. The fear of living with What Ifs. The fear of settling back into a too-comfortable life that doesn’t propel progress. Aren’t these more valid fears worthy of consideration?

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To thrive, the Stoics believe constant exposure to our fears allows us to prepare for them. They espouse practicing or at least visualizing the materialization of the worst. “The man who has anticipated the coming of troubles takes away their power when they arrive,” said Seneca.

Mentally going through what could happen allows me a prepared response. So, I do as much as I can. I grab myself a fully changeable airline ticket, good medical insurance, a hefty stock of vitamins and supplements, and a WHO-certified vaccination card. I do walk-throughs with my family about what to do in case of emergencies back home. I keep travel plans wide open and entirely flexible. I do contingency planning with staff. I write my will.

Then I take a deep breath and go forth.

Because if I am to flourish in a time of extreme uncertainty, I need a radical reframing.
I could choose to view this as committing suicide for a man. Instead, I choose to see it as recommitting to courage. For me.

Crisis and Freedom

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This time each year, I usually escape into a solo trip to fill my seemingly insatiable appetite for silence, and solitude, and freedom.

This year, I find myself in just about the EXACT opposite situation — locked down in my childhood home with my parents (and baby sister). If there’s one thing I am learning in this adventure, it’s this: all that childhood trauma you thought you’ve successfully namaste’d out of your life while living away? They were hibernating until the time you decide to quarantine with your parents. Then they fully activate.

It’s easy to be zen yogi when you live alone. Or at least on your own terms. But back under the parents’ roof?

A word, a gesture will be enough to trigger your childhood fears or teenage angst. A comment will conjure up those times you were convinced you were going to be put up for adoption.

But the difference is now, you have more options available than just the pavlovian response. You have the agency to disassociate yourself from the trigger. You possess the wisdom to take a breath, the space to examine your feelings, and the freedom to google “can parents be adopted?”. (adult adoption apparently is a thing). (Just putting it out there).

Oh Tong and Daisy (and Lex), you do not offer an ounce of silence or solitude these days, but you do provide endless opportunities to choose how to respond to all your triggers. For these incessant exercises in freedom, I am grateful. Thank you for being my quarantine tribe.

But I’m still sending you my shrink bill when this is all over.

Note: this map is neither here nor there. Just an expression of how much I miss traveling, and that includes travel to the corner grocer.

French Lessons

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Paris, December 2019

As we were leaving a boulangerie, my friend asked “Why did you say merci beaucoup?”
“Umm, to be polite?”
“But the lady didn’t do anything special. She just gave you your croissant. I don’t think that deserved a beaucoup. Save that for when they do something special.”

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Whenever I enter a store, I throw out a hearty “bonJOUR!” with the enthusiastic intonation of a Filipino and American combined (i.e., the pitch on the second syllable being several degrees higher than the first). My friend frequently reminded, “Not too enthusiastic. All very flat. bon-jour. One tone.”

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Ah the French. It’s all about restraint. They get suspicious about too much over-the-top eagerness. In fact, there is no direct translation in French for ‘I am excited’. Because the French don’t do excitement. Everything is subdued. To express what the rest of the us would call ‘great!’, they simply say pas mal (not bad). To say something is brilliant, they say c’est pas bête (that’s not dumb).

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I have a theory for this self-restraint. I presented it to my friend: “It’s all in the mouth formation. Speaking French is like speaking with a corset around your lips. There are no big vowel sounds that require the mouth to form large shapes. No AAAH EH EEEEH AAAAAW OOOOOH. French vowel sounds are made by puckering the lips, parting them ever so slightly, then making quick sounds by way of the nose — uh, euh, uoh, aw, iui. A lifetime of pouty faces certainly must do something to your facial muscles that it becomes difficult to make grand facial expressions. And physical facial restriction surely must result in that inherent cultural emotional reserve of yours.”

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My friend couldn’t disagree. Then she brushed it off with a big laugh … well, to the extent the French laugh big.

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Original photo by Daria Shevtsova from Pexels

#observationsonitchyfeet

Paris, who are you?

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Paris, December 2019

Can someone please tell me WHAT is up with Paris?? Like, HOW has Paris become so … agreeable? Seriously, it’s disconcerting.
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Suddenly, salespeople are delightfully helpful. Servers are serving with a smile. Pedestrians aren’t mowing down slow walkers. Children are welcome in restaurants. People reply in French when you speak in French, and in English when you speak in English. Restaurants and stores catering to various diets exist. Smiles abound. Seriously Paris, who are you???
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I feel like i’ve stepped into Paris-lite. … or Paris for Dummies. I’m getting the gist of this remarkable city without the cumbersome details.
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I would hazard a guess that this is a result of the airbnb-instagram-ation of the world. It fosters an ever-accelerating homogeneity of our aesthetic, of our standards, of our interests, of our causes, of our tempers.
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The benefit is that even in the remotest of villages, we will find semblance of the familiar. We will find the food we eat; we will find people who understand us.
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BUT we also lose out big time. With declining distinctions, we lose the transformative facet of travel that comes with being poked, prodded, and rubbed raw by the unusual and obscure.
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Original photo by Liam Gant from Pexels

#observationsonitchyfeet #travel