who's the devil?

I like hearing Mass at our church in the subdivision. Sure, the choir makes you want to scream in pain, and it can be very hot outside (always outside, because we're always late). The priest, Father Jun, is this flamboyant, motor-mouth man with gray hair and accents to rival Britney Spears' or a call center agent's. I swear. We used to wonder where he grew up. London? France? Texas? Then he spoke in his now famous sing-song Tagalog. Oh..kay. One Sunday he casually mentioned that he had studied all over Europe. A silent collective "aaaah" filled the church.

Father Jun is a fairly entertaining guy, albeit very talkative. He can speak so fast he says "bras and sisters" all the time (we've gotten tired of snickering). But then he mellows down when he wants to emphasize a point, and his voice reverberates throughout the halls in a shocking "LISTEN TO ME" way. His homilies are notoriously long.

But I like it. I like his homilies. I like Father Jun because, despite his semi-Liberace ways, he does a good job of explaining the Bible. He never takes the stories literally, and always takes time to let us digest the words and understand the context of the passages. He gives historical data, the times and places that made the events significant to the people back then, and discusses how they can be relevant to us today, if at all.

(Too often we assume and define things as they are without knowing their root. Believing in Jesus is not simple. The Christian religion rests on the Scripture. Words. Just words! But words that describe a life, a place and a time. I think it is crucial, in order to understand Jesus - or any person for that matter - to study the context within which his words were spoken, his actions taken. I tend to think the work of priests, ministers and masters of the Scriptures is quite tedious. They can’t just quote the Bible and say “it is so, so be it.” No, that would be completely irresponsible. The best theologians are the linguists, the historians, the ones who dig deep to understand the context, the environment. And if the rest of us are content that they do and we don’t, then we really are the blind followers that non-believers accuse us of being.)

About three weeks ago, Father Jun was talking about Jesus being tempted by the devil. He asked for a simple, “tagalog" (aka Espanol) translation of the word devil.

Demonyo? No.

Diablo?

Yes. He then explained where the word came from:

Devil = from the Latin diabolos.
Dia = through and through; across, from one end to the other (as in diameter).
Bolos = to throw across (root word of bola, ball).

(There you go, now we know where diabolical comes from.)

The devil then is one who throws across or apart. Causes a divide. Wreaks havoc by creating distance or, in a way, misunderstanding. Whoever or whatever disrupts peace and causes chaos is the devil’s work. And no, don’t think that the devil is a creature from your worst nightmare. I think “devil” is more of a concept rather than a horned fellow with bad teeth and a spiked tail. Devil, simply, is the opposite of peace: discord.

The priest also said the devil is the mother of all lies (or something like that). And it’s easy to be deceived by these lies. So beware of the messes created out of seeming righteousness or its defense. Be discerning.

---

I thought of that particular homily when I heard what Sec. Neri supposedly told Jun Lozada, that the president is "evil." Diabolical, indeed. Hahaha. Apologies if I have to place her in the same breath as Jesus.

---

Another etymological bit from that homily. The word repent is often associated with feeling or being sorry, remorseful, or even guilty because of some wrongdoing. And this is where, in the Bible as in our lives, we get lost in translation. The word rendered from the original text as the repent in English form is: metanoia (Greek) or Shuwb (Hebrew).

Meta = to change, to transcend, to move beyond
Noia = mind

Metanoia then means to change one’s mind. It is an act within oneself – decisive, definitive and empowering, rather than sorry, guilt-ridden, or embarrassed.

---

If there is anyone who I think has undergone metanoia, it might be Mr. Lozada. For all his tears and broken voice, I daresay he has made that transformation. I wonder when others will be as decisive or empowered as to truly repent. Because, as we realized long ago in this country of sinners, "I am sorry" just doesn't cut it.

financial freedom and such

The key is not to live within or below your means, but to expand your means and live fully as you wish.

booster shot

I was being a little vain and searched my name on Google (we all do that, admit it).

I found an article of mine, written almost a decade ago:

www.upm.edu.ph/manilakule/Webby_2k2/opinion/SMall_Price.htm

I can't help but smile. Young as I was, I actually had...opinions. Sometimes spot on, other times misplaced. But correctness doesn't matter much in retrospect - my Kule friends and I often laugh when we recall the things we'd written way back when. But I'm glad I had thoughts like these. Happy knowing I could believe with all my heart that my thoughts, the complex jumble in my head, actually had relevance. Happier that I had an avenue to express them.

There are moments when you feel truly, truly alive. Like you've been suddenly injected with with a potent dosage of life. Writing used to be that for me.

comfort in strangeness

A man spoke to me out of the blue at the coffee shop this morning.

Yes it is strange, at least for me, in this city. In other countries this isn’t so unusual, strangers talk to me all the time at coffee shops and restaurants…but in Manila, the only strangers who approach me are those looking for directions or wanting charity. I am a magnet for those I tell you. But strangers queuing for coffee? Unlikely.

I was peering at the food display; the server had just told me they didn’t serve cream cheese anymore and I can’t eat bagel without cream cheese! I haven’t been here for some time and I guess things have changed. Anyway, I stood there for a few minutes feeling lost.

“Try the bacon twist,” said a voice behind me, “it’s very light.” It was a guy in an orange shirt. I told him what was taking me so long, and a short conversation about bread ensued. He asked if I minded him ordering first. I said I didn’t, so he called Rian the server and ordered his usual drink. I finally ordered a croissant and coffee to go, then we both went our separate ways.

I was about to cross the street, but stopped. I backtracked and re-entered Starbucks. I asked for a plate and sat at one of the tables outside.

For some reason that short, meaningless conversation made me want to stay. Not for anything else, but just to sit with these strangers who, like me, were simply minding their own business.

I love these moments. Moments when I am in my own world, thinking, observing, noticing the minute details of everyday life. Mornings when the air is not so stale, and people are still smiling, Me in my own little bubble of thought, but sitting among others with whom I feel some strange affinity with. Like the man three tables down, holding a cigarette in one hand and a pen in the other, looking around one minute and scribbling something on his notebook the next (just like me, except I don’t smoke). Or the lady with the nice makeup, just sitting, staring out, sipping drip coffee. Or the guy in the orange shirt, texting and waiting for his officemates. Or the middle-aged expat who always sits near the door and reads business news. We share glances sometimes, then go back to what we were doing.

Being alone together. It's a comfortable feeling. For thirty minutes or so, we, complete strangers, share this space. For thirty minutes or so, we are kindred.

I was shaken out of my reverie by a woman in a halter dress and flowing hair. Then I remembered. The last time she was here, I heard her cursing loudly and thought she was in a heated argument with someone. When I looked up, there was no one with her, no one at all, but she was screaming anyway. For a moment I thought she would lash out and throw paper cups at me.

Here she was again. She took a used cup, faced the guard and shouted curses at him. “Ayan ka naman…” says the exasperated guard, as she continued to throw expletives.

I stood up, feeling my morning bubble bursting.

Off to work then. See you tomorrow.

Fin

And so it ends.

The final scene finds three friends talking to each other, ecstatic about a dream coming true, and bathed in the happy glow of love – both romantic and innocent, with the tiniest tinge of bittersweet.

That’s Dawson’s Creek for you. I remember the time I watched the finale on primetime tv. I hadn’t realized that it was actually the last episode; I had been spending the previous months ignoring the show because I thought it was going nowhere.

Watching entire series again on DVD, I knew I was right. The show didn’t seem to be going anywhere in its final season. The love triangle was still there, but wrung dry after almost six years. Some characters had stagnated, particularly Dawson. Kevin Williamson must have been tearing his hair out at how Dawson was progressively deteriorating. I mean the show was semi-autobiographical, after all. If he had stayed on instead of leaving after Season 2, would that have made any difference? Or is Kevin simply as boring as Dawson? Ah well, as Pacey always said, the issue is moot.

And Eddie…what a cardboard cutout. Bland to the point of puking.

The last two seasons really made no sense in terms of character and story development, except maybe for the sporadic sparks between Pacey and Joey - too few and far between to really keep us riveted for more than two episodes at a time - and Michelle Williams’ noteworthy performance. I like that girl. The rest was just fluff, fillers for the finale, which would have been more beautiful if the show actually ran until the year when the ending was set. I guess the producers had to settle for a fast forward, due mainly to the plummeting ratings. Too bad. DC could have done a “Friends” and lasted a decade. Friends had that sustainability factor that not a lot of shows have. I guess because they also dealt with stories that did not completely revolve around the characters or one single running theme all the time? They just went the flow, kind of the same way Seinfeld (the ultimate “sitcom about nothing”) did.

This was difficult to do with DC. DC was originally very focused; expansion meant veering away from the essence of the show: the coming of age of a boy and a girl sharing a bed in a small town, and the best friend who burst their bubble. Making it more complicated than it already would spell disaster, if done improperly. And that’s exactly what happened in Seasons 5 and 6. Too many new senseless subplots and secondary characters that had no real impact on the main cast. Audrey would have been enough, but no, they had to throw in Charlie and Eddie and CJ and other forgettables who ended up sleeping with half the cast. And yeah, their “it’s a small world after all” bit was getting too bizarre. Boston is way too big for 10 people to be playing sexual musical chairs all the time. Get a life, people.

It was so inconsistent, too. One episode it was Eddie, the next it was Pacey, the next it was Eddie again. Where was the protracted tension that made us fall in love, where was the sincerity? And why was Pacey making out with a chick barely three months after his devastating split with Joey? After two years of “True Love”, how can the writers tease us with anything less? Everyone was so out of character, it was as if the show had a mass layoff and the old writers were replaced by overexcited interns.

On the other hand, not deviating meant that DC would be trapped in its own story. So I guess they were just trying to evolve. But the attempts to add more layers to that story proved hugely unsuccessful, largely because the writers seemed to get lost and forget what they were writing about in the first place.

The only way out was to search through all the muck that had piled up, and go back to the heart of it all, the very reason Kevin Williamson created the show. It had to take Kevin himself to do that, too. Glad he went back to write the final two episodes.

That said, I love Dawson's Creek, flaws and all. I'm happy for all of them (sure, even Dawson). When I finally turned off my DVD player at 3am the other night, I was still crying. The following day I felt an unexpected void. Like something had been snatched away so suddenly. All over again I had that "it's finally ended, what now?" feeling. Even though I knew the end was coming and what exactly happened - down to the last spoken words - there I was the morning after, feeling somewhat lost, but also relieved. Glad it was over, but wanting it to continue. The answer was there, but so were questions. Wondering, but ultimately at peace.

But I guess that’s what stories do. No matter how many times you see, read or hear them, the experience never fully wears out. It takes you somewhere, every time. It brings you something new every time. An added meaning, a new realization, another snippet of life relived in memory.

That feeling stays, sometimes filling you up, other times receding to the subconscious. But it’s always there.

And thanks to bootleg DVDs, it can always be revisited. ;)

---

Speaking of Michelle Williams...may Heath Ledger rest in peace. So sad. :( Parang kelan lang yung 10 Things...hay.

Trip down the creek

I haven’t been getting much sleep lately. Since late December last year, actually. The reason being that I’m in a massive Dawson’s Creek phase. And if you’re not a DC fan or haven’t watched a single episode, then I suggest you click the x button now.

Still here? Okidoks.

It started when I was searching youtube for a video of Carrie Underwood’s version of God Bless(ed) the Broken Road. Among the videos I found was a compilation of Pacey-Joey moments, set to the same song sung by its original singer, Rascal Flatts. Perfect. Perfect perfect song for them (later on I realized that the song was actually Joey and Dawson’s – it played in the background as they simultaneously realized their feelings at the end of Season 1. But I insist that it fits Pacey and Joey better :p).

Anyhow, I was hooked. Memories flooded in, and the quest for the perfect Christmas gift ensued. I egged Mark to get me the complete series. Being the good boyfriend that he is, he obliged and made several trips to Makati Cinema Square before finally getting a working 6-DVD set. Then during our office Christmas party, I won a portable DVD player. And this, my friends, was when my nostalgic, unstoppable spiral into the land of hyper-verbal, psychoanalytic teenagers officially began.

I’m halfway through the fourth season now, after crying a number of times in Season 3, which for me is probably the most heartwarming, optimistic season. Season 4, on the other hand, is the most heart-wrenching. The range of emotions is wider and more intense than in the previous seasons. It was in this, their senior year, when they actually grew up and faced the consequences of their decisions. And, as Jack aptly told Joey, “there are no right or wrong choices, just a bunch of choices.” Choices that had an impact on their lives in big ways. Getting together, drifting apart, letting go, holding on, ending. No other season after this (there were two more) had such…significance.

I also remember that it was this season when I started to really hate Joey. I just finished the episode where Pacey finds out that Joey lied to Dawson about her and Pacey having sex. For the life of me I couldn’t and still can’t find the reason for Joey’s inconsistency, for such an irrational response to Dawson’s question, which came from nothing but friendship. Dawson was finally accepting Joey being with Pacey, and now she hurls him off-track with such a lame lie. And she says she loves Pacey? Bah. I remember it was around this time when I decided that I would watch the show for Pacey and Pacey alone. Joey can go to hell and Dawson, well, Dawson was, at this point, pretty much irrelevant. Pacey had stolen the girl and the story from him just as Joshua Jackson stole the acting spotlight from James Van Der Beek.

Season 4 had the best and worst. One of the best episodes was, of course, the ski trip. Which made me hate the writers even more because how could they make Joey out be such an asshole after that episode? And the worst, the very worst episode of this season was the prom (Promicide). That just killed me. It killed everyone. I could imagine people standing up and walking out, or crying in anger.

Oh well, bygones. And I’m rambling.

I was telling a couple of friends yesterday how the finale of the series was set in 2008. At 25 years old, the main characters had finally gotten their acts together. The ending? Typically Dawson’s Creek – self-referential, analytical, eloquent, bittersweet.

People tend to underestimate the impact of DC on television and on my generation. DC has the distinction of ushering the new wave of teen-oriented shows post-90210. Its successors in one way or another attempted to imitate its wit, capacity for extended verbal sparring and ability to make its characters intelligent and normal at the same time. Nothing came close though. Not even The OC, with its endless barrage of monumental conflicts far more serious than those that were introduced in Dawson’s room and thereabouts.

See, it wasn’t the gravity of the circumstances or problems at hand, but how they were treated and addressed by the characters. The thing about DC is that they dealt with issues – whether mundane or earth-shattering – in an adult way, albeit in the body of teenagers and amid growth spurts and hormonal imbalances. It was both youthful and mature, and so the moments and lessons resonate, at least for me, even beyond my adolescence. In the case of life imitating art, I think the show helped polish (for better or for worse) my then burgeoning overanalytical, neurotic ways. It reinforced my excessively introspective takes on myself and my world. At the very least I found something I could identify with – growing up too fast, feeling old despite my lanky, obviously undeveloped body, the weight of real and imagined responsibilities on my shoulders, fear of failure and risk, and all that angst that was brought to life only in the mind. At the same time it helped me realize there were more important things than my ability to rationalize my existence and perspective – infinitely more important things like friendship, integrity, and unconditional love.

“I love you. I mean, I always – I have always, always loved you. But our timing has just never been right…I also want for you to be happy. It's really important for me that you be happy. So I want you to be with someone, whether it be Dawson or New York Guy or some man that you haven't even met yet. But I want you to be with someone who can be a part of the life that you want for yourself. I want you to be with someone who makes you feel like I feel when I'm with you. So, I guess the point to this long run-on sentence that's been the last 10 years of our lives is just that the simple act of being in love with you is enough for me. So you're off the hook.” - Pacey

Ah, yes, the love. It could fill up pages.

But let’s put that on hold for a while, perhaps until I finish the very last episode. Let’s just say that there was lot more going on in that little town called Capeside than sex, recklessness and self-awareness.

I was 15, I think, when I first met Dawson, Joey, Pacey and Jen. Ten years later I am, like them, 25 years old, and in some ways I do think I've gotten my act together. I feel like I grew up with them. And still growing up. I'm still discovering some of the lessons they've taught me. On the other hand, they will never really grow old for me.

If there's anything Dawson and I have in common, it's that we firmly, without any doubt, believe in happy endings. What makes them happy is not that the problem has been resolved and the story has come to a definite, cheery close. Far from it. Happy endings are transitions, pivotal moments that reinforce your faith in the belief that whatever happens from this point on, whatever problems may still arise (and they will, along with triumphs and everything in between), things are still going be alright. Because your life is a beautiful, amazing product of what has been, and a promise of what will be.

The credits may roll, but in many ways, the story has just begun.

“And now that this scared little girl no longer follows me wherever I go, I miss her. I do. 'Cause there are things I wanna tell her... to relax, to lighten up, that it is all going to be ok. I want her to know that meeting people who like you, who understand you, who actually accept you for who you are, will become an increasingly rare occurrence. Jen, Jack, Audrey, Andie, Pacey, and Dawson. These people who contributed to who I am, they are with me wherever I go, and as history gets rewritten in small ways with each passing day, my love for them only grows. Because the truth is... it was the best of times. Mistakes were made, hearts were broken, harsh lessons learned, but all of that has receded into fond memory now. How does it happen? Why are we so quick to forget the bad and romanticize the good? Maybe it's because we need to believe that the time we spent together actually meant something, that we were there for each other in a time in our lives that defined us all, a time in our lives that we will never forget. I can't swear this is exactly how it happened. But this is how it felt.” - Joey

Hay

Was scanning the university website for updates on the Centennial celebration, and I found one of the most depressing holiday greetings ever (below). It attempts to be both optimistic and realistic, but the end result reeks of despair anyway. --- Christmas Message to the UP Community

Monday, December 17, 2007 UP President Emerlinda R. Roman

The run-up to our Centennial celebrations has given us the opportunity to re-examine our record for the past 100 years and to reflect on what we hope to achieve in the next 100. That there have been problems is undeniable. But surely these are outweighed by our accomplishments. Though the University might be flawed—given that it is a human institution—it remains steadfast in its chosen role in shaping young minds for service to the nation. Despite the perceived negative trends of recent years—a lowering of academic standards, deteriorating security conditions, a creeping apathy and cynicism—it holds firmly to the principle that ideas have the power to influence national development, and continues to provide the environment that will enable these to flourish. No other institution sets such high goals for itself or comes closer to actually achieving them. So there is little cause for discouragement, let alone despair. As 2007 draws to a close and we approach our centennial year, let us look to the future with confidence. We are unhampered by doubts about the importance of our mission or the honesty of our intentions. And we are rich in the most valuable of all resources: a high-powered, self-selected teaching faculty, composed of some of the country's most intelligent, imaginative, resourceful, and dedicated persons; a bright, curious, creative, immensely energetic, highly motivated studentry; and loyal, steady long-suffering support staff. This alone should propel us closer to our dream of what our University should be. I wish everyone a happy holiday season! --- What a downer. Someone who thinks the past year was actually fine would suddenly have the weight of all of UP's problems on them. Just saying there is "little cause for discouragement" brings forth feelings of discouragement. Never start what is supposed to be a positive message on a negative tone. It just runs on and covers the entire thing in disheartenment.

cubicle wisdom

1. Do you love your work?

2. Does your work love you?

3. Do you love yourself?


Thanks Jaja. :)

The end

I finally got to read the last and in my opinion best of the seven Harry Potter books. I couldn’t put it down. I couldn’t eat dinner because Harry was facing the battle at Hogwarts and I just had to know what happened.

I came out of it in a melancholy state, which, two days later, I still can’t shrug off. I don’t know. It seems sad that the series has ended. The finality has left a gaping hole that I did not realize or believe I would actually feel. I mean, so it’s a book. And it’s not as if the world didn’t know that the seventh would be the last. I guess in the end that a good thing. It makes it more believable to put a period to it (unlike the book series of my pre-teen years a.k.a Sweet Valley Twins/High/University, where school never seemed to end and only the characters’ appearances evolved depending on which artist drew the covers).

Still, you can get so attached to Harry after reading about him for so long, it’s hard to accept that the end has finally come. It’s probably the same with the other book series that I love, Anne of Green Gables (then Anne of Avonlea, and so forth), but I read those books when I was really young, when I didn’t know about attachment and goodbyes and letting go.

Haha drama.

But I’m happy too, because Harry finally got his happy ending (okay don’t you dare say I ruined the surprise because I’m probably the last person to have read this book). Yeah sure, I can detect the silliness in that statement. How can you be happy for a fictional character? But that’s the beauty of story-telling, eh? Granted, Rowling probably ripped some ideas off of other coming-of-age, follow-your-dream, good-versus-evil books, but you have to admit that this one definitely sticks, and not just because of the merchandise and marketing. Harry Potter is as real as any other kid with huge problems is. I daresay Harry is in everyone. And so is Hermione, Ron, Draco (maybe a little bit) and the new astig kid on the block, Neville. We felt the pain, longing, struggle, and now happiness.

And don’t we all dream of happiness? Of contentment? Hmm. See, this is why I think Rowling’s target market is actually my age group. People in their 20s to early 30s, torn between careers and principles and desires and responsibilities, wondering what to do and where to go. Harry was born in 1980, after all. How perfect, how relatable.

My only beef is that it tries (too) much to be contemporary. Ron says “effing” quite a lot (parents, you really shouldn’t have bought this for your kids). That made me laugh. Was it really necessary? How can you become classic and ageless if you use words popularized during the effing friendster era? Hay. Sabagay, the Elizabethan language is out of this world din naman. Wait, so if Harry was born in 1980, then the setting of the story would have been 1997. Did people say effing way back in 1997?

Anyway, so that’s it. The saga is over. No matter what critics (I was one of them) say about Harry, it has to be admitted that the book has made an indelible mark on the literature world and people in general.

Harry moved us, and that was enough to reinforce those timeless beliefs that make this world turn.

Boitday

I turned 25 last Friday. Yey! I barely noticed it because my entire being was occupied by my thesis defense, which happened to be on the same day. More on this in another entry.

25. Nice number. Not as scary as I imagined it to be, actually. Mark says it's a good thing I had my quarterlife crisis when I was 23. This "pre-quarterlife" crisis culminated in an anxiety attack on the roofdeck of a building on Ayala Ave. It was lunchtime and I was crying and shaking and laughing, not knowing the reason why. Other people probably thought Mark and I were breaking up, or that I was a lunatic. Hee. Intermittently I would succumb to "episodes", which meant shopping for outrageous stuff that have (thankfully) stayed in the shadows of my closet ever since. I've been to the the doctor because of severe headaches which I thought were migraines, only to be prescribed anti-anxiety pills.

I must confess, I was scared. In one of my grad school classes, we were asked to come up with a "life plan." I took it way seriously, of course. It was the hardest assignment I had to do. I had to put down on paper what had only been swimming in my head, provide targets and timelines, present an appropriate approach and process. Plan my life? I could hardly make my bed in the morning. How do you plan for the uncertainty of everyday, for the inconsistencies of human behavior, for the unpredictable nature of human life? Is it really unpredictable or is that just an excuse? What is our purpose anyway? Why do even endeavor to do what we do? What the hell is the point when we can die the very next minute?? Ah, such is the paradox of planning. Which makes you realize that the question of planning - urban, regional, development, all kinds - lies at the heart of those philosophical questions you dare not ask. It's a great big can of worms. I opened the can and I was horrified - and equally excited.

Anyway, by the time 2007 rolled by, I managed to put those questions behind me, and I was finally fine. :)

Speaking of 2007, it has been a pretty darn good year so far. Traveled to three continents, passed (nay, aced! Hahaha.) the Board, finished my MA (although it's not over until the dean affixes his precious signature on my book. yikes.), and began realizing my (and my friends') vision for the future of environmental planning in the Philippines (naks). I've been faced with and still face big and small problems that I shall happily solve. I continue to have the wonderful, supportive loved ones who all mean the world to me.

They say it's not wise to make lists of things you have or still have to accomplish, so I'll stop here. I'm happy. I guess that sums it up. There is so much more to do, but there really is nothing I could ask for from the Universe, except to continue giving me strength to push on. I know my faith will move me.

Happy birthday to me!

ebb and flow

24 September
I’ve never felt as professionally inadequate as I do now. And it’s not even my fault. I think.

Today we had the first of several de-briefings. I won't go into details so let's just say we totally fucked up. The CEO of the power company was there, the head of the environment and social division, and all the other bigwigs. By the middle of the presentation, you could actually taste the awkwardness. I sat there, tapping the laptop keyboard stoically, going back and forth the slides in a daze. Our team's presentor had apparenty switched the slides in his copy (which he was reading from his laptop) and did not inform us of the changes he made. And that was the least of our problems.

Our team is composed of people whose combined experience exceeds my grandmother's age. How could things go so wrong?

I don't know. Frankly, it doesn't even matter. The bottomline is that it was completely my fault. Because I am responsible for everything. Everything. Even the things that have nothing to do with me, but concern other people's personal flaws, personalities and idiosyncracies. Little whims like having their hair done in the middle of a busy day of report-writing (correct me if I'm wrong, but this is a totally alien concept for me; I'm a crammer, sure, but I don't prioritize pagtitina over a critical deadline.) Are they held accountable for their actions? Nooooooo. Of course not. Because I am.

Ay naku. Like my teammate said, tatanda ako rito.

25 September
Nakai Plateau, the soon-to-be reservoir of the dam, rests on the northeast side of Laos, near the border of Vietnam. It served as a convenient hideaway for Vietnamese soldiers in their war with the US in the 70s. Because of this, Laos, which had nothing to do with the war, is the most bombed country in history, host to more bombs that all the bombs used in World War II. This little known fact played in my mind as I walked around the resettlement area. Prior to construction of the new houses, the power company did an extensive ground survey for unexploded ordnance. Outside makeshift village offices hangs a poster showing a variety of bombs. The system goes: if a villager sees a suspicious-looking object on the ground, he/she checks the poster, fills out a form, deposits the form in a letterbox. A roving team checks the letterbox, and proceeds to retrieve the object.

I shuddered at the thought.

I had been touching the soil since I got here. It was powdery white – sand. Scattered around were stones that looked like those you find on beaches. Strange at first to find such soil so high above the ground – on a plateau, that is, until you realize that this spot has a past life: it was once part of the sea. The ebb and flow of tide over millions of years created this landscape, and now that the water has receded indefinitely, its remnants sit silently with rice fields and vegetable gardens. How wonderful this Earth is, that I get to stand on something that is the child of both land and water.

Then I remembered the bombs, and I quickly stood up.

Humans always seem to destroy the wonder of life.

28 September
Things are a bit better now. Crazy, but better. I feel like my purpose has been reinforced.

There are good things being done in this world. There are noble pursuits of goodness.

Yes, even those involving the World Bank.

notes from a country that is NOT Cambodia

20 Sept
Two days ago I breezed through Bangkok and Nakhon Phanom, Thailand, before crossing the Mekong River to Lao People's Democratic Republic (Lao PDR), specifically the riverside town of Thakek, and inward to Gnommalat where I currently am.

Nakhon Phanom looks uncannily like Jaro, Iloilo on a lazy Sunday afternoon, or Lucena in Quezon, with far fewer cars. The streets are narrow but navigable and clean. The houses lining the streets are typically of town center flavor: on the ground floor stands a small neighborhood grocery or some local service – locksmith, seamstress and what-have-you, and a second storey presumably used for residence. Balconies are scattered here and there, in a type of architecture that appears to be authentic Thai. The corner shop is almost always a local drugstore. Nearby on the riverbank is a ten-floor hotel for visitors like me and others waiting for the ferry to Laos. In front of the hotel is a tiangge, where you can find used rubber shoes (ukay!), children’s toys and an assortment of street food such as dried squid, boiled eggs on a stick and chopped roasted chicken. A local Baclaran, if you may. To get to the tiangge you have to risk your life in a way, what with the speeding motorcycles criss-crossing the road. Not for the faint of heart.

Nakhon Phanom is rural – certainly not Bangkok – but you can’t mistake it for being backward. It moves in a pace that seems to satisfy its people, and does not compromise their quality of life. It seems to be a happy, bustling place that has nonetheless decided to remain laidback and easy.

21 Sept
Meanwhile, Thakek on the other side of the Mekong is…a forgotten place. On the riverbank is a small office where non-Asian foreigners, their long-sleeved dress shirts wet with sweat and suede shoes half covered in red mud, queue in front of a tiny office to get their visas on arrival.

The town isn’t rundown by any means, unlike the abused blighted sections of Manila. But the empty, dust-filled buildings tell a story, one of seeming disregard and possibly - dare I say it - helplessness.

Now though, Thakeklooks to be rebuilding itself. Or at least trying to. This rebuilding is brought about by the same thing that brought me here: the Nam Theun 2 Hydroelectric Project.

21 Sept
pm
Being a project manager, or pretending to be one, is pretty tough. Especially if you’re doing for the first time and you haven’t had any training whatsoever.

I’m not supposed to be here, not really. By some twist of fate, our original project manager for this project was pirated by our client’s contractor; I now deal with her from the other side of the negotiating table so to speak. And again, through sheer luck – or misfortune – the replacement manager gave birth just as we were about to embark on our first mission. So here I am, plucked from my desk job and thrown to this strange land. Not that I’m complaining. This is the kind of work environment I want to be in for the most part of my life. But the manner through which I got here is somewhat confusing. And greatly embarrassing at various points, given that I’m working with extremely experienced consultants (whose work I’ve actually used as reference in my graduate thesis and other papers), an international contractor and the Government of Lao, on a World Bank-funded, billion-dollar, high-profile project that has caught the ire of and been endlessly criticized by national governments and organizations the likes of International Rivers Network and no less than the UN Commission on Human Rights. I’m an inexperienced neophyte, so yeah, this is freaking me out a teensy bit.

23 Sept
I am dying of hunger here. The Laotian diet and I definitely do not mix. I’ve never seen so much fish and vegetables in my life! And the dishes are full of MSG, too. Dear lord I do not want to get cancer. Even the junkfood is a downer. For some reason the Pringles here are different from those back home. They’re thicker, smaller and rather tasteless.

As a result, I’ve been eating bread and feta cheese. Plus lots and lots of salad. And the occasional beef at the overpriced French restaurant near the staff houses. The other day we bought suha, lanzones (imported from Thailand) and melon, so that was good. But overall, I miss the gluttonous diet of Pinoys. Hay.

in between posts

Have lots of other things to write about that I haven't had the time to post, but this, this can't wait because I feel my head is going to explode.

You know when you know that you've got your life together, that you couldn't ask for anything more, and that everything around you is positive and bright? You feel like you've got your pulse on the secret of the universe, and you float by knowing that things are going to be alright. And really, really it is some form of communion. One that indeed should be treated delicately because it is a relationship so precious and fragile.

And yet...it feels empty somehow.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Lightness can be exhilirating, yes. But it can be excruciating, too. You have to experience it before you can admit it. Being weightless and formless sometimes makes us lose the touchstones and footholds in our lives, forming an existence that is far-removed and distant from the rest of the heavy world, which, in our highest of highs we can so wrongfully scorn. A life that is without consequence can become dangerously a life without responsibility, a guiltless existence centered on the "I".

I can't remember who said it, about choosing between a happy life and a meaningful life. To be happy means to live in the present. It is an extremely beautiful and enjoyable experience; it makes you feel that you can do everything you could ever dream of, and nothing, NOTHING can stand in your way. You just are. And you're happy.

A life that is meaningful, on the other hand, is when you worry about the past and the future, about impacts and consequences, about other people. There's a certain heaviness about it that can't be shaken off.

So which life would you choose?

I value lightness, that feeling of being present, of being one with every particle of the universe. I have shared and preached about how wonderful and liberating it can be.

But I have also come to value the chains that bind me to this wretched world. Strangely, those chains also give me a distinct, sometimes even sharper sense of freedom.

Now it can be told Part 2

Okay, loooooong overdue continuation. Lots of stuff happening right now, my typing can't seem to keep up, so...ganito na lang.

Second day sucked bigtime. I didn't kill Mark, but I swore if I didn't pass I'd pin him down. Hehe.

Third day was alright. I finished before lunch I think, and waited for Edison to get out of the room (he did, about an hour later? Kamusta naman ang pag-maximize ng oras.). We took post-exam photos while waiting. I went back to work right after. How dull is that?

Friday, one day after the exam. To my chagrin, I realized I didn't feel relief at all at having finished the exam, but the sudden terror of waiting. If we were to believe PRC, the results would come out no later than two days after the exam. So would it be coming out today? Or tomorrow? Does the PRC issue results on weekends? Or would it come out on Monday? In that case, I'd be experiencing several more days of agony. Shet.

That evening Mark and I decided to watch a movie. For the life of me I can no longer remember what was playing, but I remember that near the end, I got a text from Chris saying "Congratz!"

I found myself shaking. I asked him, "totoo ba 'to?!" He replied, "Assuming...psychic ako a few seconds ago..."

Well thanks Chris, your reply left me completely befuddled!

At this point my head was spinning, and expanding so fast, all the air inside wanting to come up and out of the my scalp. It was ready to burst. Then came texts from Lorenzo and Agnes, and I wanted to get out of the cinema right then. But we finished the movie anyway.

After the movie I called up all concerned people to confirm or deny. Everyone seemed so sure, everyone except Len, Edison and me aka the exam takers. Vir was MIA.

But hey, they said so...right? So I hugged a gloating Mark ("Sabi ko naman papasa ka di ba. Tsk, pano ba yan, tama na naman ako...") and off we went to the church in Greenbelt, to say a little prayer of thanks.

Saturday, I woke up. With a nagging feeling.

Did I really pass? I had no proof. No proof!! Just words from other people who reportedly saw the list. Trustworthy though they may be, what if they made the honest mistake of misreading someone else's name for mine?? (Although in hindsight this would be nearly impossible, no one else has my name. No one.) Gaaaark. I shot out of bed and texted Mark and Edison. Mark scolded me. Edison, who possesses almost the same level of paranoia as I, succeeded in easily feeding the fear. I persuaded him to pester the source of information - his professor, Dr Bravo. After much hemming and hawing, he asked the dreaded question. To which he finally got an answer, straight from the horse's mouth. Dr Bravo got the list from PRC itself.

The list from PRC can't be wrong, and a distinguished professor couldn't be rattling off names if they weren't actually there, so I guess it was time to truly celebrate. We rounded up the gang and met up at Glorietta for lunch and then some - which included wacky puzzle-solving (yes, for nerdoids like us this is fun), free coffee at Seattle's and a spontaneous trip to Manila Zoo! Good times. :)

Sunday, early morning I woke up to the sound of my ringing phone. It took several rings to realize that someone was actually calling me. Agnes. "Hello?" (uy bedroom voice).

"Cooongrraaaaaats!" she was squealing. "I'm proud of youuuuuu!" Huh?

"Huh?"

"Congrats! Top 2 ka!"

"Whaaaaat?"

"Top 2 kaaaaa!!!"

I leapt off the bed for the second time in three days and rushed out to buy a copy of Manila Bulletin (the only time this newspaper is actually worth its price), flipping through the pages until I found an almost inconspicuous article about a little known group of people dreaming to change the world (Huwaaaw pare hebigat).

The rest, of course, is history.

And no, I didn't deliver any speech. The #1 did, naturally, and he seemed nervous! To think he's been speaking in front of audiences for ages (he's one of our professors). It was adoringly cute. As for me, I said the opening prayer. I sped through it like the world was coming to an end and I had to get out fast. 30 seconds of fame/shame, basically.

***

So...thanks to all who were and continue to be with me in this amazing journey. Thanks to everyone who took those baby steps with me, and are poised to take gradually larger steps, leaps and bounds even, to where our collectve dream lies. To Mark, my baby, my infinite thanks are not enough. To Len, Edison and Vir, it's crazy to think how we've managed to hurdle this! Agnes (last year's topnotcher, by the way), you probably would never get to read this, but thanks for your openness and big heart, and for being a friend, after all. ;)

To Chris, Lorenzo, Bonets, and all the other SURPees out there, take the exam, when you can, despite your fears and with all the faith you can muster. Make the commitment. Live your passion.

Now it can be told

Endless bloopers, food- and beer-laced (woohoo!) review sessions and a shouting match with Professional Regulation Commission (PRC) employees, and here we are. Full-fledged, licensed Environmental Planners. This year’s passers included, there are less than 620 EnPs in the entire Philippine archipelago. I am one of them. And yes, I understand if you don’t know what an Environmental Planner is. The answer is P.D. 1308.

I’m not sure if I should be proud of the fact that I’m one of the first few (waaw, pioneers) or sad that there are so few of us, especially when I believe our role is crucial – and I have to say all too often neglected in the face of ever-present selfish political and private interests and misguided policy and implementation – to national development.

I’ve never been a licensed anything before so that in itself is exciting for me. I’m not an architect or engineer. I don’t fall into any of the de-kahon categories of eligible EnP Board exam takers i.e Public Administration, Political Science, Economics, and the aforementioned professions. I had to spend half an hour explaining to the PRC evaluator that my undergraduate course (BA Social Science major in Area Studies) actually qualifies me to take the exam, and that I had completed all of my requirements for my MA in Urban and Regional Planning save for my thesis which is due for defense soon. He of course acted unconvinced. What is Area Studies and why does UP come up with such strange courses? he asked. Well how should I know?? I had to endure the PRC guy’s subtle put-down, and his offer of a bribe! Imagine that. He said since my application was “alanganin”, he would put in a good word for me with the Board of Environmental Planning as long as I provide him with copies of my reviewers – which he would undoubtedly sell to clueless students. I was taken aback and had to ask “manong, okay lang po ba yon?” to which he replied, “oo, ako bahala sa ‘yo.” The nerve! I felt deeply disappointed at the entire PRC, for putting my application and my chances of becoming a professional planner at the mercy of a single employee looking for an easy buck. I was enraged, but had to keep my cool and remained pe-tweetums until the very end.

Edison wasn't as placid. In typical Edison fashion, he engaged in an actual fight with a terribly uncourteous, unethical PRC employee who had the gall to shout at us in front of an auditorium full of applicants, walk out and then mutter "putangina mo" under his breath as we passed by - like the complete coward that he was, hiding behind his position.

No offense, but the PRC has got to be one of the most rotten government agencies I’ve ever dealt with. It’s not just the bribery, but the sheer disrespect for the applicants and people in general. The application process is completely demoralizing. You’d be down and out long before you even take your exam. I think they make it a point to dehumanize you. Wala lang, power tripping. They probably think they’ll feel better about their own crappy situation by haranguing and taking advantage of the applicants.

I digress. So I got through that application with more than a few upsets. But that was only the beginning. The greater burden, of course, was actually passing the exam. Indeed, the pressure was on.

I come from a family that doesn't take failure lightly. Thus was the rationale for my keeping the fact of the exam a secret. But really, how could you keep it a secret when your friends and fellow exam-takers spend weekends holed up in your house reading about Myrdal and pedo-ecological zones, and eating indescribable amounts of food? Ah yes, food. From Len's pretzels and leftover cake, Mark's E-Aji, UP's life-saving squidballs, down to Lisa's cooking, Mama's salt crackers and Vir's fantabulous meat-and-vegetable concoction, there was no shortage of things to put in our mouths when we could no longer remember the things we had read about 10 seconds past. If you ask me, it was the food that got us through. That and ice cold San Mig Lite.

And of course there were Mark's famous index cards full of environmental laws, which we tried so desperately to memorize. PD 1151. 1586. Art XII Sec 1. 7279. You wouldn't believe how many laws and regulations we have on planning and the environment. I swear nag-diarrhea ang utak ko. And guess what? Out of the hundreds of laws and statutes I flipped through, only two appeared on the exam. One section of the Constitution and the Hazardous Wastes Act (RA 6969. How can you not remember that?) Ay, I wanted to kill Mark.

But not as much as I wanted to kill him on the 2nd day of the exam. Which was when my ultimate blooper happened.

Wednesday, May 30, I woke up to a badass crazy churning stomach. Bad omen ye think? I popped two tablets of Kremil-S, drank two cups of hot tea and wobbled my way out of the house to the exam center at 630 am. I prayed so hard for the pain to go away, knowing that exam #2 was the toughest, and comprised the largest percentage of the total score. Hey, 45% is no joke.

I was feeling a little better as the exam started. I took out the calculator I borrowed from Mark (because my most favorite calculator, the one I'd used since high school, had gone missing) and turned it on.

On. ON. ON, I say!!

It just stared back at me. Dead.

I. Didn't. Have. A. Calculator. Me, who shuns anything Math-related as if it was a leper. Lara, who naturally flunked her Math17, the grade of which sits hauntingly at the very top of her Transcript of Records. This silly silly girl, who failed to check if the damned thing was working before she stashed it in her plastic envelope. Thoughts of population projections, teacher-student ratio, NPV, IRR and whatnot then filled my head.

Complete, utter, terror-filled panic.

Fuck it. I had to make a choice. So I straightened my shoulders and tapped Aldrin, asking if he had an extra calculator. None. I slipped out of the room and called my mother who had just driven away. None. I knocked on the other room and called Len and Edison, begging for an extra calculator. None. By then the proctor was asking me to turn off my celphone. Couldn't she see the desperation in my eyes? I explained my predicament, which she in turn announced to ALL the examinees, in the hopes that at least one extra calculator would turn up. None. At all? Not even the musical, blinking kind that kindergarten kids use? None??

She asked me what kind of batteries were in my calculator. I had to unscrew the back of the calculator (don't ask me where I got the screwdriver) to find out. AAs. Then she said the most miraculous thing: Okay, we'll buy the batteries.

There is compassion out there, after all.

30 minutes later the new batteries arrived and I sat there, pushing them in as I cursed my boyfriend (Nah, kidding. But I did want to wring his neck.). And...voila! It still. Wasn't. Working!!! Gaaaaaaaaarrrk!!!

To make the long story short, I ended up solving the equation manually. Take note, equation. Singular. Yes people. True to form, the exam had only one question that needed a calculator. All my wasted energy, half my spirit drained away in the first five minutes of that exam, violating one of Agnes's exam rules (wag gumawa ng eksena sa exam)...all of it - for one question. I didn't know whether to cry or laugh hysterically.

It didn't matter. In the end, the exam played its part to the hilt: it scared me to death.

---

Ang haba na nito. To be continued.

daydream believer

Oh, I could hide 'neath the wings
Of the bluebird as she sings.
The six o'clock alarm would never ring.

But it rings and I rise,
Wipe the sleep out of my eyes.
My shavin' razor's cold and it stings.

Cheer up, Sleepy Jean.
Oh, what can it mean.
To a daydream believer
And a homecoming queen.

You once thought of me
As a white knight on a steed.
Now you know how happy I can be.

Oh, and our good times start and end
Without dollar one to spend.
But how much, baby, do we really need.

Cheer up, Sleepy Jean.
Oh, what can it mean.
To a daydream believer
And a homecoming queen.

through the fire

I thought I'd elaborate on my previous post.

I am probably at one of the lowest points in my life. Sagad na sagad.

Unscientific and unsystematic. Those were his words. Sinong hindi manlulumo? One and a half years of work. One and a half years of sweat and tears, of uncertainty and hope, of desperation and a firm belief that "everything will be okay," of stressing and thinking and working my ass off. And what have these amounted to? Nothing, basically.

No encouragement from my adviser or support from friends can fill the void created by utter humiliation and a feeling of inadequacy, which has now returned in full, overwhelming force after a period of uncanny hiatus. As if it was just biding its time until I regained a little of my strength, so it could pull the rug from under me again.

I knew it was too good to be true, that confidence, that assurance I felt. Ah, self-doubt. Cunning little devil.

Now I can't even pick up the many million pieces of me strewn on the ground. I walked around listlessly yesterday, from the College of Architecture to Quezon Hall to god-knows-where, holding a lifeless umbrella with my lifeless hand, while tears flowed from my glazed eyes. Tiny parts of my soul fell with every step, as I realized that all my many million fears had finally come true.

Don't I deserve this degree? I think about it now, and it's easy to say yes, of course I do. I didn't feel the sheer joy of work for nothing. If I didn't deserve it, I wouldn't have gotten the nod of my professors at every turn I made, or the respect of other people for what I do or want to do. Right? This is my passion, my home, and if a degree is a small affirmation then I am going to get it, I deserve it.

But I don't know. Maybe I am a fraud, and I've fooled myself into believing I can be what I've wanted to be for three years running. Maybe everyone and everything around me are all part of this giant, magnificent farce set up to make me want something I cannot actually have. Mark says these thoughts are poison, termites that only need the tiniest crack in the wood to spread to unthinkable boundaries, and that I should stop feeding them.

But I am not as confident as he is, we both know that.

At the back of my mind I know things will turn out well in the end. Everything does. This is a challange, not a deadend. We are not given anything we can't handle and, as Shiva pointed out so long ago, God does not give us what we don't need. I also know that it's okay to inch along, as long as you're moving. Pero putangina, it's just so hard.

When I muster all the faith I've got in me, scraping the bottom of the barrel for hope and positivity, will that be enough? Or will I succumb to the same desolation I felt more than a year ago when I thought I was heading nowhere? How did I find my way back, anyway? I don't really remember, all I know is that I'm here now. I'm here, and all the little triumphs that punctuated my journey since then have now been run over by the same obstacle of a different face.

I honor my dragons, yes, but do I have the strength to face them, and walk away calmly after they've unleashed hell on me?

I have less than a month, barely four weeks to find out.

looking for the silver lining

"We must honor our dragons, encourage them to be worthy destroyers, expect they'll strive to cut us down. It is their duty to ridicule us, it is their job to demean us, to force us if they can to stop being different! And when we walk our way no matter their fire and their fury, our dragons shrug when we're out of sight, return to their card-games philosophical: 'Ah well, we can't toast 'em all..." – Running from Safety, Richard Bach

I'm so tired. Yun lang. God help me please. Pretty please.

London Part 2

Blooper #1: I step off our car at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport and say goodbye to everyone. On the way in, the guard asks me what flight I'm on. Papa says the Emirates flight. I scream, "no! Lufthansa!" and start walking to the Lufthansa signboard. Then I stop dead, look at my ticket, turn back and smile. "Ay, oo, Emirates nga."

Blooper #2: I'm on the plane. I want to watch a dvd, or at least get my in-flight entertainment system to work. Trouble is, I can't find the lcd touch screen. It's usually nestled in the back of each seat (for the benefit of the one seated behind), but since I was in a row right beside the emergency exit, there was no passenger seat in front of me. So where could my screen be?? I look around, nonchalantly of course, until the person beside me pops his screen out from beside his seat. Oh, so there it is. Hmm, now how I do that? I start pulling at the thing, and pull and pull until it occurs to me that I might actually be damaging plane property. I stop, dejected. After which my seatmate gently leans over, pushes a button on my armrest, and out pops my screen.

Blooper#3: I walk out of my hotel in London to go to our office, which is less than five minutes away. I am damned sure I can do this, because I was just there last night. I had even walked around the block, trying to memorize the streets. So anyway, I'm outside the hotel, pondering on whether to turn right or left (people, this is the quickest indication of a person about to get into a mess). I turn right, and less than 10 steps on I immediately notice the fact the I can't recognize my surroundings. Yet I keep walking. Towards the other corner. Towards the main highway. I reach the corner and realize that I'm heading to the other side of town. But instead of turning straight back, I turn right again. I am, in effect, going around the entire block that covers not just my hotel, but another office building. I honestly can't understand why I continue walking even though I already know I'm going the wrong way. It's a lost-in-space moment, I guess. Five minutes turn into 20, and I arrive at the office with messy hair and numb feet.

Blooper# 4: I forget The List in my hotel room. The all-important list contains the names of market sector managers, technical directors and all the other people I need to talk to, the very reason I went to our London offiice. I only remember a couple of names, and they're not so important, so boohoo.

Blooper #5: Everyone knows this already. I get off the tour bus at Green Park after a morning of walking and touring. I'm quite confident that I know the area because I walked through it the previous night already (lesson: don't ever trust nighttime vision). I look for my landmark, the Ritz Hotel, because I know it's just off Piccadilly and quite near Oxford St, where I'm planning to go for some pasalubong shopping. Sure, I do find the Ritz. Unfortunately, it's the other side of the Ritz. I now wish I were playing Sims or using some 3-d animation software where I could tilt the structures and find the proper orientiation, but I can't. I'm just a small person between big buildings trying to find where the front door of the Ritz is. Pero puchangina, everthing looks THE SAME! So I walk. To wherever. And just walk. Like I said, it's alright to get lost. But why now when I've got four hours left to shop before I run to the airport? Buti na lang I walk by a flea market in front of a church (how Pinoy) and manage to buy amber trinkets that my mom wanted me to get. Then I remember I have another landmark I could use. Pret A Manger, that sandwich place I saw last night. So I walk walk walk. There it is! But then it doesn't look so familiar..Then it dawns on me. Well, more of I suddenly remember what Duncan said a few days ago, that Pret A Manger is everywhere, literally. There's probably one in every corner of London! A fucken 7-11 for sandwiches! By this time I am so depressed I just want to sit on the pavement. But I can't really do that because now I've only got three hours before ETD for Heathrow Airport. So I do what I should've done an hour ago: Ask. I run up to a guy cleaning the sidewalk and ask where Oxford St is. He points to the other direction, straight ahead. FINALLY. I walk and heave when I see "Oxford St" on a signpost. And then, the ultimate question (drumroll)...left or right?

Blooper #6: I turn left. I get the same feeling I got when I turned right from my hotel before. Because alas, the shops are on the right side. So. Feet numb. Hair in disarray. Scarf undone and trailing behind. Jacket loosened and falling off. Bag heavy and, well, HEAVY. I walk into the first store I see, Marks & Spencer -- I find it odd, by the way, that I chance upon M&S just now because in London it's also like a 7-11 for clothes. I get in, look for the underwear section, and sit on the floor for a good 10 minutes. I grab all the cutesy undies I can find for my cousin, a couple of other items for the bf, and then trudge back to my hotel. I know perfectly where it is. I swear.


More to come.