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Accountability, Faith, Family, Forgiveness, Friendship, God, Love

Ask and it will be given

July 29, 2014 administrator 2 Comments

(Sharing something I had written three years ago. As real then as it is now.)

April 20, 2011. Wednesday afternoon, Mike’s doctor called to tell us that there was a cornea available that fits the profile needed by Mike. A 21-year old gunshot victim. A quick decision was needed; otherwise, the cornea would no longer be suitable. Mike decided to go for the transplant, and so it seemed that our journey for the past two and half years was coming to a close.

It all began when Mike decided to go for cataract surgery. He had a cataract in his right eye removed over 15 years ago, and everything had gone well. He has also had laser surgery to correct his vision, and that went well too. So he thought nothing of having his left eye fixed, and decided to go to Asian Hospital and ask them for a recommendation. He met up with a young woman doctor who had trained in the United States, and whose clinic hours worked favorably for his schedule. Mike was impressed with the confident way she spoke, and thought he was in good hands. After a few visits, he decided to schedule the surgery.

It was a very busy time, work-wise, and so it was only on surgery day that I was able to accompany him to Asian Hospital. Before the surgery, I spoke to the doctor and asked her to walk me through what was going to happen. She told me it was a simple 15-minute procedure using the latest equipment, and assured me that she had done it several times. All she needed to do was replace the lens with a new one. He didn’t even have to be confined.

I settled to wait in the lobby and worked on my laptop while waiting for the operation. After an hour, I approached the nurses’ window to ask how the operation was going. They said everything was OK. Assured, I went back to work. After another 30 minutes had passed, I again approached the window. This time, the lady doctor came out and said Mike was just resting. Not to worry. But when another 45 minutes had passed, and still no Mike, I became really agitated and demanded to know what was happening. The nurses had no answer. I paced back and forth and kept coming back.

Three hours after the operation had started, the doctor finally came out and said everything was OK. I asked her why it had taken so long, when she said it would just take 15 minutes. She said there was a slight complication, but not to worry, his eye would heal and he should be able to see clearly in a few days.

When I saw Mike, my heart sank. It looked like he had been pummeled, and his eye was grotesquely out of shape. I put up a brave front, and brought him home after settling all the hospital bills.

After several post-op visits and Mike could still not see, we began to worry. His doctor kept giving many reasons why Mike’s eye was not responding as quickly as it should. I was shocked to learn later that they had to call another doctor to finish the operation because his own doctor had panicked during the procedure and could not put in the lens. His cornea was irreparably damaged due to the long wait that the eye was open and irrigated for the operation.

We consulted different eye specialists, but the prognosis was always the same: he would never recover clear eyesight in his left eye. The only glimmer of hope left was a cornea transplant, and that would be a hit and miss affair. Nevertheless, we signed up at the eye bank.

Later, Mike found a doctor he liked and could trust wholeheartedly in the person of Dr. Manolette Roque. An earnest young and distinguished doctor, Manolette had set up the Eye Republic Ophthalmology Clinic. Manolette quickly became Mike’s confidante and friend. Both highly IT-literate, they discussed different options for surgery and explored new technologies as they became available.

Being a prolific writer, Mike was severely affected. Physically, he was in a lot of pain. He got tired easily. He also lost his depth vision, and would sometimes walk into the wall, or miss the glass as he was pouring a drink. Financially, the constant medicines and visits were a strain. Emotionally, it took a heavy toll. He kept blaming himself for choosing the wrong doctor. He even asked me if I still wanted him. All I could do was assure him of my love.

I hated myself for not taking better care of my husband. If only I had not been so wrapped up with work that I did not pay attention to his plans for cataract surgery, we could have spent the time searching for a good doctor. I had so much anger in my heart. I wanted to hurt the doctor, destroy her reputation, sue her for what she did and prevent her from inflicting similar harm to others. I even went as far as consulting a lawyer. It galled that she never ever apologized or accepted her fault. But, Mike, being a very private person, did not want me to talk about the situation or pursue the matter. He vacillated between wanting to sue her and saying he did not want to destroy her life and her livelihood. Of the two of us, Mike has always been the better person.

It took a while for Mike to adapt to his new condition. I swallowed my fear each time he would take the wheel, but knew that if I did not let him drive, it would make him feel even worse. Forbidden to wet his eyes, Mike also had to forego swimming, snorkelling and diving, activities he enjoyed immensely. While our family and friends continued to pray for his healing, we all adapted to the situation. What was abnormal became the norm. It was thus a jolt of surprise when Mike received Manolette’s call last Wednesday.

When Mike decided to go on with the transplant, I quickly got my mobile phone out and started to text my children to inform them, and my friends to ask for prayers. Mike asked me what I was doing, and told me to stop telling people as he didn’t want people to know. I asked him why, and he said it was just an eye operation, and he did not want to bother anyone, especially since there were other people who were suffering from much more serious conditions. I stopped what I was doing, but when I learned that he had emailed our excom to advise them he would not be around for our next meeting, I decided to go ahead and ask all my friends and family to pray for him, for Manolette, and for the young cornea donor who had died. I am so thankful that I did.

Yesterday morning, I was touched by the Lord, and felt His presence in my life. While waiting for Mike’s surgery to begin, I confided in the Lord that I did not know how to pray to Him. I opened my Bible cover, and saw tucked into a side pocket, a small novena that someone had given me long ago and which I had never read. It was entitled “Novena to God’s Love.” In the inside back cover, there was a prayer of thanksgiving and surrender. While reading it, I felt a wave of calm pass over me. Then, flipping through the pages, I discovered that the footnote for each page was calling out to me:

“Ask and it will be given to you, seek and you will find, knock and the door will be opened to you.” Matthew 7:7

“Your Father knows what you need before you ask Him.” Matthew 6:8

“My God will fully supply whatever you need, in accord with His glorious riches in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4:19

“If you ask anything of me in my name, I will do it.” John 14:14

“Amen, amen, I say to you, whatever you ask the Father in my name, He will give you.” John 16:23

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavens. Ephesian 1:3

“Therefore I tell you, all that you ask for in prayer, believe that you will receive it and it shall be yours.” Mark 11:24

Surely, I thought, this was the Lord telling me not to worry, that he would take care of Mike. And so, I felt strangely calm while the operation was going on.

When I was told that Mike was now in the recovery room, I asked the nurses if I could see Mike. They said I could not go in, but that I could peek at him through the glass window. After checking on him, I returned to the nurses’ window to ask if I could see the surgeon and the anaesthesiologist so I could thank them personally. I was told they had already left. Then a lady doctor who had passed me earlier and was already quite a distance away, doubled back and approached me, introducing herself as the anaesthesiologist. She assured me that Mike was fine. I was so happy that I could thank her personally, since I had never met her before.

While waiting in the lobby for Mike to recover, another lady doctor approached the nurses’ window. She had her back to me, but she seemed strangely familiar. When she turned, I smiled at her. She then approached me. When she was closer, I realized that she was the doctor who had fumbled up Mike’s cataract surgery two and half years ago.

She introduced herself and asked why I was there. I said I was waiting for Mike to recover from the cornea transplant surgery. She asked how he was. I am ashamed to say that at that moment, I wanted to hurt her, but suddenly, the words I had read earlier in Mark 11:25-26 flashed before my eyes: “When you stand to pray, forgive anyone whom you have a grievance, so that your heavenly Father may in turn forgive you your transgressions.”

Instead, I told her: “You know, Mike has suffered so much because of what you did to him two years ago. He has been in pain not just physically, but emotionally, mentally and even spiritually. I have hated you so much and have wanted to sue you and destroy your reputation for what you have done. But we have not done so, and after praying, I have realized that I must instead forgive you.”

She started to cry and said that she had not intended for it to happen. I understood then that she must have carried guilt and regret in her heart all this time, and that it must have been a heavy burden for her to carry as well. I just asked her to please make sure that she doesn’t harm anyone else, and that she also speak to my husband and apologize to him. I then embraced her and we parted.

When Manolette came out of the operating room, I was surprised since the nurse said he had already left. I rushed to hug him and thank him. That afternoon, after checking on Mike, Manolette said he was very happy with the results of the surgery. He rated the operation as 9 out of 10, and only because he had to give Mike general anaesthesia so he would be asleep during the procedure.

The surgery went well, and he is now at home resting. The next three days are critical though, to ensure that his eye does not get infected or inflamed so that the cornea would hold. But, Mike can see more clearly now that he could for the past two years, and we are so very grateful to the Lord, and to all those who prayed for Mike!

As we enter the Lenten season, I’d like to share with you a passage from the Book of Isaiah (59:6-9) on true fasting:

“This, rather, is the fasting that I wish: releasing those bound unjustly, untying the thongs of the yoke; setting free the oppressed, breaking every yoke; sharing your bread with the hungry, sheltering the oppressed and the homeless; clothing the naked when you see them, and not turning your back on your own.

Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your wound shall quickly be healed; your vindication shall go before you, and the glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard. Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer, you shall cry for help, and he will say: “Here I am.”

Truly we have an amazing God who loves us and makes the impossible possible! He has everything planned out. I called and He answered. But first, I had to remove the hate and anger in my heart and learn to forgive. For it is in forgiving others and ourselves that we open ourselves to healing. How blessed we all are to be called His children!

Accountability, Church, Faith, Governance, Principles, Transparency

A Controversy Like No Other

July 27, 2014 administrator 1 Comment

July 23, 2014. Bishop Jesse Mercado was slated to pay a Pastoral Visit to the Ascension of Our Lord Parish at 5pm. He was to say mass at one of the developing areas and then proceed to the parish for a fellowship and meeting with the parish leaders. The parish leaders and Fr. Joseph Landero have been preparing for the visit for three weeks. I was asked to emcee the meeting and to help our parish secretary with the PowerPoint Presentation of parish plans during the meeting.

Truth to tell, I was hesitant about even showing up, not knowing how I would be able to handle the visit. The first time I encountered a Pastoral Visit was in 2008, when I was president of the Parish Pastoral Council with Fr. Didoy Molina as our parish priest. Together with the other leaders, we prepared documentation of our parish activities, achievements, financial report, and plans which we presented in a Parish Covenant Book to the Bishop. Full of fervor to serve the church, we were so happy when the Bishop congratulated us, saying The Ascension of Our Lord Parish may be a small one but it was an excellent example of a God-filled ecclesial community.

The last pastoral visit was in 2010. By then, I had finished my term as president of the PPC and was now just a member of the Parish Planning Board. But still, the fervor was there and we were again congratulated roundly.

This visit though was different. This was the first time the Bishop was coming to visit after the heated controversy that took the Diocese of Paranaque by storm in 2012, spurring concerned parish leaders and parishioners to question the way the diocese was being managed on issues of governance, transparency and accountability. The controversy landed in national news and was covered in a chapter in the book, Altar of Secrets. The Lay Initiative for Transparency and Accountability (LAITY) was established, as the laity pushed for reform, communicating with church leaders, even as far the Vatican.

For being one of those who voiced out our concerns, I was criticized roundly and made a target during parish sermons. The other parish leaders were also treated the same way, eased out of their parish pastoral councils, and some even were not renewed as lectors and ministers of the Holy Eucharist. The priests who had stood up against the bishop were removed from their positions, and assigned to hardship posts.

The controversy cut the community deeply as parishioners all over the diocese took sides. My daughter withdrew from being a lector, and my son from being an altar server. Niccolo could not bear hearing his mother lambasted in church. Mike stopped going to church, and ordered me to stop tithing until we were sure that the monies collected went to their intended beneficiaries. Pretty soon, I was all alone going to mass, still serving as a lector but hurting nevertheless. I reminded myself that it was God I was serving and not the church leadership. And then Mike took ill, and I withdrew from attending LAITY meetings to focus on taking care of him. I agonized over what had befallen our family for having stood up on my principles. Did God take Mike away because of this?

On Pentecost Day during mass, Fr. JoLan announced that the bishop had been cleared by the Nuncio of all wrongdoing in a report. I asked my circle of priest friends if they had seen the report. None had. I wanted to ask for a copy of that report, as the LAITY as well as concerned priests had met with the Nuncio several times regarding the situation, asking for an answer to our questions. Such a report would put the matter finally to rest, I thought and would be a first step towards healing the rift.

The day before the pastoral visit, I called Chris, our parish secretary to ask for a copy of the Parish Covenant Book on which the presentation was to be based. Chris said he was still working on it, but would email it first thing in the morning. I woke up at 5am that day, ready to work on the prezo, but it had not come in. With back to back meetings all day, it was not until the afternoon that I realized that I still had not received the promised email. So, at 5pm on that rainy afternoon, I went to the parish to work on it, but not before first passing by the new adoration chapel. As I knelt in the still chapel, I prayed for guidance, discernment, patience, forgiveness and understanding. Let Your Will be done, Oh Lord, I prayed.

At the bahay pari, I learned that Chris was still at work and had not finished putting together the Parish Covenant Book. I asked him to email what he had finished so far. Instead, I got the individual reports of the various commissions which were in different formats. As I rushed to compile these into a coherent presentation, I heard the Bishop and the priests arrive. I stood up and greeted the Bishop, who extended his condolences on Mike’s passing. I was surprised that he had known. Perhaps Fr. JoLan had told him.

The dinner and the meeting went smoothly. I was itching to grill the Bishop regarding the controversy and the Nuncio report that Fr. JoLan had talked about, but did not want to embarrass the council and Fr. JoLan, and so I kept quiet. Doing so would only make matters worse, I thought. No questions were asked during the open forum. It was only later I found out that they had been told not to ask questions. Oh, well!

As we left the room, I went up to the Bishop and asked him why he still had not given Fr. Didoy a parish. After all, the Bishop had told me that he would do this a year ago. The Bishop said it was because Fr. Didoy would not see him. What if I arranged the meeting, I asked him. Would you talk to him as Christ did his disciples? He gave me his mobile number and said yes.

Will need to storm the heavens with prayers to make this work.

Art, Family, Love, Work

Love in Pictures

Gallery July 26, 2014 administrator 2 Comments

(July 26, 2014, Manila) This morning, Bea handed me a sketch of Mike holding a camera, drawn by Joyce Romero of our Creative Department.

Each year, our TeamAsia family celebrated Mike’s birthday with a caricature of Mike as the hero of whichever movie blockbuster was hot then. The tradition was started a decade ago by our then Creative Director, Ritchie Baquirin, and was continued by the Creative Department. I bet the artists competed as to who would have the best caricature that year.

Like a little child, Mike looked forward eagerly to receiving the caricature, wondering weeks ahead what they would come up with for his birthday. And when he got his gift, he would put it up on the shelf of honor to join the others. There was always a lot of ribbing by visitors when they would see the collection:

Now displayed on what I call Mike’s wall of fame in the office, these caricatures, unspoken, tell me how much Mike was loved by our staff. He was a natural leader, a visionary who guided TeamAsia through the many challenges we had faced, embracing opportunities for expansion and growth, always with an eye to using technology for innovation, spurring everyone to be world class, and keeping firm values of doing the right thing always and giving back.

He was great at motivating people, yet set the bar high for performance, beginning with himself. He was generous with his time, mentoring the staff, allowing them to make the mistakes that would make them better people. No wonder they respected and loved him.

On his last birthday on earth, he was portrayed as the kindly grandfather who had just lost his wife whom he deeply loved and was very saddened, until a chubby little boy scout came and badgered him to buy his cookies.

I don’t know why but when I first saw that last sketch of Mike holding on to the colorful balloons as he swung up, up into the air, I felt a tug in my heart. It seemed like he was saying good-bye to me. I didn’t know that just eight months later he would be gone forever.

And now, here’s this sketch of Mike with his camera pointed at me, just as I remember him.

Is he telling me something?

Family, Food, Friendship, Love

July 15 Birthday Blues

July 15, 2014 administrator 1 Comment

Mike's birthday at Paul and Hazel's home in Bangkok — Mike’s birthday at Paul and Hazel’s home in Bangkok

For the longest time, July 15 was a date I always looked forward to with eager anticipation, planning how best to celebrate my beloved Mike’s birthday. A shy person, he preferred intimate celebrations, with family and very close friends. Invariably, it would be a paella and steak dinner, washed down with wine.

Mike loved to sing, retiring to the entertainment room with his friends after dinner for an evening of music. I can’t carry a tune, but loved listening to Mike sing. I would fall in love with him all over again each time he would sing to me.

On the day he turned 40, his staff at AIM gave him a surprise party. I dropped by to say hello to the staff, and got invited to the party. A few weeks later, Mike asked me to marry him.

When he turned 50, I threw him a big surprise party and invited his friends to our house. It was hard keeping Niccolo from spilling the beans, but Bea and Cara gamely kept him quiet.

We spent his 54^th birthday visiting his best friend Paul and his wife Hazel in Bangkok. Paul cooked up a storm at their flat, and gave him a Superman doll as a gift. Those two always teased each other endlessly. When Paul and Hazel came to live in our village, we would celebrate Mike’s birthday at their house.

On his 58^th birthday, we invited friends to the Alfonso retreat. His steak group was there. And it turned out to be a triple celebration, as we also feted Julia Holz and Mon Jimenez who were also celebrating their birthdays. Poor Mon! We didn’t know it was his birthday, so his name wasn’t on the cake that Julia had brought.

I planned a big party for Mike’s 60^th, but he didn’t feel up to it. He had a persistent cough and a fever that wouldn’t go away. Instead, we had a quiet lunch with just his closest friends at Alfonso. Little did I know that a few months later, the big C would knock the wind off our sails.

He would have been 62 today. Too young to say good-bye to this world. How I wish I could wrap my arms around him, give him a kiss and tell him how much I love him! But in my heart of hearts, I know he knows.

Aishiteiru, Mike, forever and a day! Happy birthday in heaven!

Family, Food, Friendship, Women

The Wine Lovers Club… How Friendship Began

July 13, 2014 administrator

July 13, 2014. Friday night, I went out with my good friends, Angie Laborte, Mongsie Wulff, Miri Medalla and Marie Segura. Mongsie, a friend from my first job after AIM, is our erstwhile leader. She organizes all of our get togethers, and is always a lot of fun to be with. Angie is our social directress. A friendly person, she knows just about everyone. She is also the one who encouraged me to attend Bible Study Fellowship, to which I’ve been going for four years. A cancer survivor, she and some friends put together Project Pink to help others cope with the dreaded C. Miri is a saint. She is the kindest, gentlest person I know, and her brood of seven boys and one girl are so lucky to have her as their mom. Marie is a late joiner to the group, but beloved nevertheless. Marie together with her husband Rodrigo run a training and leadership development team. And then, there’s super banker Chloe Medalla and Dr. Mae Corvera who could not join us that night.

We get together as regularly as Mongsie can arrange, and each time is a breath of fresh air. It’s great to have girl friends to hang around with, share stories, laugh and cry with. And the fact that our husbands are all friends makes it so much easier to go out with each other (read: no need to ask permission). Also, now that both Sam and Mike are in heaven watching over Miri and me, we get to go out even more often.

We began the night at Draft, having dinner and Hoegaarden beer (yes, it was Miri’s first time to have beer, and my third), and ending it with wine and Sweet Bella dessert at our favorite watering hole: Ralphs in Molito. A lot of teasing always accompanied our get-togethers. This time, I was the target, but didn’t mind.

On the way home, I recalled how we all met seven years ago. I checked my diary. It was August 2009, and here’s what I wrote then.

“A funny thing happened Friday a week ago. It was the end of the workweek, and Mike asked me to go with him and our friend Paco Sandejas to a wine testing at Wine Depot. I turned him down and just asked him to pick me up after the event as I was determined to work late at the office to catch up on backlog. But I couldn’t find some important files I needed, so when Mike popped back into the office to check on me before he left, I changed my mind and went with him. Little did I know what was in store for me.

At Wine Depot, I bumped into neighbors Ped and Carol Pido, whom I hadn’t seen for quite awhile. I also met two elderly gentlemen, one of whom turned out to be my father’s student in law. Then, I met two interesting women, Angie Laborte and Miriam Medalla, who asked me if I was interested to join them in a cooking competition since they lacked one more person to form a team. Apparently, Paco Sandejas had told them I knew how to cook. By then, I was already a bit tipsy and very red from wine (just a few sips and my color comes out in full glory, especially when I’ve had nothing to eat) and so I gamely said yes.

Well, this turned out to be the Iron Chef competition at Palms Country Club, and the captain of our team happened to be Mongsie Wulff, a friend from when I was young, single and working at my first job after AIM. We found out later that all three of us (Mongsie, Miriam and I) had husbands who were on the Palms Social Dining Committee, and Angie was a full-fledged member of the same committee. I resolved to have fun. After all, I needed the break from all the stress related to work.

And what a break it was! After an initial discussion, we resolved to meet at Mongsie’s home in Southwoods for a practice session one evening. We exchanged recipes, cooking and laughing while drinking wine and getting to know each other. The Iron Chef was scheduled on Saturday. As the day neared, tension began to mount. None of us were professional chefs; we only cooked for our families, and some of us (ahem) just occasionally. Captain Mongsie made sure all bases were covered: faxing recipes, making plans, following up, and calling a special meeting at 1pm on D-Day (the competition was supposed to begin at 3pm).

After lunch at home, Mike and I left our village headed for Palms only to find out that both the West Service Road and SLEX were clogged. We took our chances on the service road, and what a mistake that was! As we inched our way to Palms, I get a message from Mongsie: “We meet at library. I am here with oxygen mask,” followed shortly with “Group 5 withdrew. The professional group. Rumored they were intimidated by Group 6 (that’s us).” Mongsie’s dry humor was infectious.

After donning our red kerchiefs (thank you, Miriam) and saying a short prayer (“Lord, thank you for the friendship you have given us and guide us so that we do not embarrass ourselves too much”), we were ready to cook up a storm. We signed ourselves in as “The Wine Lovers” in tribute to our first encounter, but pretty soon the emcee began calling us the Desperate Housewives team.

Six teams were competing, one of which was from Palms. We were the amateurs. We were handed our uniforms and toques (pretty nifty!) and introduced to our gentle kitchen assistant, Christian. No, he was not allowed to cook or cut, only to carry things for us and wash the dishes. Nevertheless, he was a real boon, an angel in disguise!

After the first frenzied hour of deciding how to cook the salmon, tiger prawns and beef blade for 12 people, we hardly felt the next three hours as we worked on the task at hand. We agreed to do Miriam’s mom’s secret recipe for the salmon as appetizer, coupled with a green salad with Angie’s dressing, and a duo of Mongsie’s special beef goulash recipe, and my prawn and mushroom stuffed capsicum for the entrée.

With only two stove top burners assigned to us and both being used by Mongsie, Angie and I retired to the main kitchen to cook. What an experience! And I thought organizing international conferences was hard. Well, I now have a real appreciation for chefs!

After seeing all the dainty and pretty-as-picture dishes the other teams prepared and comparing our hefty servings (hey, we all know how much our children and husbands eat!), we were all laughing so hard tears sprung to our eyes. There’s no way we could compete presentation-wise, but since taste was 60% of the criteria, we felt we might just squeak by. So, we just decided to relax and drink after all the hard work.

Well, we didn’t bring home any of the three awards, but we all felt like winners, with husbands, children and friends cheering us on and declaring us the winners in their hearts and stomachs. What a wonderful experience it was! We all resolved to meet once a month to cook for our families and continue the beautiful friendship that began a week ago at a wine tasting event which I almost passed up.

Here’s a toast to friendship!”

It’s been seven years since that cooking competition, and I thank God for these girlfriends of mine. I look forward to getting old with them. Love them all!

Family

How I wish I had more time with him!

June 15, 2014 administrator

255759_1999084411051_7930573_n — My Daddy and me.

I never really knew my father. I was just ten years old, when he died at 47 of an aneurism, but not after having brain surgery and staying for almost a month in the hospital. This depleted our entire savings and insurance funds. We had a newly built home at the back of my grandmother’s house with a huge home loan to pay off. Mom sold off our car and took in boarders for a living since we lived in the university belt. From a cosseted life, we were suddenly poor, and had to make drastic changes in our lifestyle. To this day, I wonder how my widowed Spanish mom, just 32 years, with five young children aged 3 to 11 managed to bring us up and give us a good education. I marvel at her indomitable strength of spirit, and the sacrifices she endured far from her native land and her beloved siblings.

But this note is about my father. He was obviously loved and respected by his family, friends and colleagues. Flowers sent by well-wishers during his wake lined the walls of San Sebastian Church several feet deep. Eulogies at the jam-packed MLQ University auditorium were heartfelt and reverent. A long caravan of cars and buses accompanied his final journey to La Loma.

A romantic, I know that he loved my mom deeply. I remember listening to one of my dad’s friends as he paid his respects to my mom, assuring her he had always been faithful to her. He even wrote a book of love poems in Spanish and English for her. He met her while studying for his doctorate in law at the Universidad Central de Madrid. She was then an apprentice, learning how to sew from Dona Maria, my dad’s landlady in Madrid. He was smitten by her beauty and ended his days of bachelorhood soon after he finished his doctorate. Then 34, he took his 19-year old bride home to Manila (yes, he was a cradle snatcher!). My aunts used to say that a lot of women cried when they found out that Manila’s most eligible bachelor had gotten married.

251164_1999075970840_2930540_n — Daddy and his medals on his college graduation day.

Curious about him, I checked out his resume in Asia’s Who’s Who. Extremely intelligent, he seemed to collect honours upon honours throughout his education (i.e., grade school valedictorian at San Beda College, high school valedictorian at Far Eastern University, magna cum laude for A.A. and LL.B. at FEU, summa cum laude for A.B.at FEU, and sobresaliente for his LL.D. at the Universidad Central de Madrid). He garnered the Distinguished Alumnus Award for Legal Education and Jurisprudence at FEU, the Distinguished Alumnus Award for Education at San Beda College, and a Cultural Medal from the Republic of China, among others. No wonder, my aunts kept on urging us to study and be like our dad!

A prolific writer and a linguist (22 languages), he authored several publications in different languages, including La Telepatia Mental; Los Cuasi Contrators del Codigo Civil de Filipinas; books on Roman Law, Institute of Justinian, Legal History, a Primer of Land Registration, Legal Ethics, Pleading & Briefmaking, Rules of the Court, Primer of Jurisprudence, Simplified Bar Reviewer on Commercial Law, Aboriginal Justice in the Philippines, and many, many more. Interestingly enough, he also wrote English Grammar for Chinese Students, Eddies (Poems), Tropic Lyre (Collection of Poetry), The Lost Art(Chinese Bone Therapy) in Chinese, and The Gentle Art of Judo.

He must have had a tremendous sense of humor. Leafing through a very old school annual which he had edited, I chuckled at his witty writing, and the way he made fun of things. My mom said he had lots of friends, and would often go out with them.

253794_1999081690983_492803_n — My parents

As consul of Monaco to the Philippines, my father would attend social and diplomatic events. I would stay up excitedly watching my parents prepare to go out. Standing 6’4″, my dad cut a tall and handsome figure in his coat tails as he escorted my beautiful mother in her terno. He even had two television shows: Yoga on Channel 7 and Yoga for You on Channel 13, but since we were not allowed to watch TV while studying, I only learned about this while reading his biography.

Dad was vice president of Rico Life Insurance. Early on, he practiced law as a partner in his own firm with a dear friend, Emil Tuazon. He stopped practicing and turned to teaching, when a client who had run over a little girl reneged on a promise to take care of her financially after my dad successfully defended him in court. His heart was no longer in it.

An educator, dad taught law and arts at MLQ, FEU, San Beda College, Ateneo, and the Asian Social Institute. Despite his being strict, his students loved him. One of the people who serve at our parish studied under my father, and would regale me with stories of how my dad would teach with his eyes closed while delivering verbatim statutes and legal decisions. He was teaching in class when he had his stroke.

Aside from law, he also taught subjects in philosophy, letters and business. His interests were far-ranging, as he also taught mnemonics, Hatha-Yoga, judo, weightlifting, tumbling, acupuncture & cautery, Chinese bone therapy, muscle control, and hypnotism. He dabbled in painting and poetry.

He was also dean of the graduate school at MLQ, and a bar reviewer. As a young child, I thought my dad was quite the drunkard because whenever I would ask my mom where he was, she would say he was at the bar review. Little did I know that this meant reviewing law students for their board examination.

254489_1999083491028_2031399_n — Our last family photo together.

I remember a gentle giant who would talk in his deep voice to my mom at the dinner table. One who would bring us Sunday mornings to mass then to Luneta where we would run in the grass, ride the double-decked bus, licking our Dairy Queen ice cream and holding on to our balloons. One who would bring us to Chinatown to the barbershop (yes, I had my hair cut at the barbershop, together with my brothers) and who would hold me by the neck (I guess, he was tall and I was short) while crossing the street. One who patiently taught me how to use chopsticks so I could demonstrate this in my Show and Tell session in grade school. One who would sing “Lemon Tree” and “Que sera, sera” with gusto in the mornings while dressing for work. One who would tell us not to bother him while he practiced his yoga at the forbidden third floor. One whose strong yet gentle hands would give us healing massages whenever we were sick (there was a famous action movie star who cried like a baby in our living room while my father set his broken bones; dad gently chastised him saying his own children never cried when they were massaged). One who never spanked me even when I was being naughty. One who always made me feel secure and loved whenever he was around.

Truth is, no matter how famous or accomplished one’s father is, what a child treasures are the special moments spent together. Oh, how I wish we had more time together! I love you, Daddy!

Faith, Family, Uncategorized

On Grief and Soldiering On

April 18, 2014 administrator 5 Comments

Last weekend, I finally opened the Mass cards we received when Mike died a year ago. Three huge bags filled with Mass cards lay for a year on my dining room cabinet, unopened, calling out to me silently, each passing day a guilty reminder to send thank you notes to those who reached out. Truth to tell, I could not bear to open them. It hurt too much.

For Mike’s first year death anniversary, we compiled some of the testimonials friends and family shared along with pictures and prepared an e-book tribute to Mike. I spent the weekend sending them out to friends and family. As many of our friends are in Facebook, I tried posting the e-book but learned that it was not possible to do with a pdf file. Converting it to jpg took a while as Mike was not there to teach me. He was always my knight in shining armour when it came to technology.

We hurriedly printed black and white copies which we distributed to those who joined the masses at St. Therese Columbarium and at St. Pauls in Alfonso the weekend of March 9. Not a few shed tears reading them. I still do each time. Several came forward and told me they felt the love we had. He was a good man. Nay, he was a great man. And he was my man. My husband. My partner. My lover. My children’s father. My best friend.

His clothes hung in our walk in closet, a silent reminder. A fervent, desperate wish that perhaps, he may just walk in and put them on. I could not bear to put them away. When natural disasters struck and people needed help, I gave away his everyday clothes. I kept his favourite shirts, the ones he would use to lounge around the house or Alfonso, watch movies or write. I used to tease him about certain well-worn shirts that were old and tattered, but which he loved to wear because they were comfortable. I threatened to throw them away, and would buy him new shirts to wear, but still he continued to wear the old ones. At night, I would wear them, just to feel him close to me, embracing me.

Mike’s suits, barongs and formal shirts stayed on. I urged his sons to take what they wanted, but Mike being a big man, there was not much that would fit them. Who could I give them to? Friends would advise me to hold a second hand sale of his clothes. What a terrible thought! I would much prefer to give them to friends who would treasure them, or to those in need.

Just before she left for Boracay to take on a sous chef position at a resort, Cara found Mike’s iPod. It had long been missing. When Mike took ill, he stopped listening to it. I was overjoyed when Cara gave it to me! I could now listen to Mike’s music. I plugged it into my computer to charge it, unknowingly erasing all its contents in the process as it synced to my empty music list. I felt as if I had been punched. I had so looked forward to having something of Mike in my life again, but it was gone. Forever, I thought. Inconsolable, I cried myself to sleep that night. I woke up with a puffy face, unrecognizable. Just as I looked each morning for months after Mike’s death.

My grief over losing Mike was very physical. It manifested itself in hives, and I would wake up with a swollen face and rashes all over every morning. I could hardly walk from pain. I suffered a slipped disc as a result of an accident in early February. The doctors told me not to bend or carry anything heavy, while going through therapy. But Mike was ill and needed me to help him up, dress him, fix the easy chair, and so on. I didn’t listen to the doctors, and so my back problems went from bad to worse.

After Mike died, I had to wear a back brace and walk with a cane. It was agonizing to stand or sit or lie down. My friend Evelyn got me a walker to help me get up and move around in the mornings. Travel required wheelchairs. For several months, I was popping all sorts of pills for the hives, to sleep, to ease the pain. But nothing worked. It was the pain inside, which I refused to face, that kept me from getting well.

Guilt was eating me up. I felt guilty that I was not there every moment that Mike needed me when he was ill. I told myself I had to continue working, running TeamAsia, and delivering on client commitments. Bea was away at graduate school, Cara at work in Boracay, and Niccolo finishing up high school. As soon as work ended, I would rush home to be with Mike. We stopped having dinners in the lanai, near his beloved koi pond. We stopped going to our weekend retreat in Alfonso. Instead, we would have dinner in the entertainment room upstairs so Mike need not go up and down the stairs. Bugsy would sit at his feet. Bugsy was an even better companion than I was.

Because of my work schedule, Mike went alone to chemo or stem cell sessions, accompanied by one of our maids, or our driver. Sometimes, a friend or a son would stay with him. Whenever I could I would go with him, but most of the time I was able to escape work only to get to the hospital in time to talk to the doctor, pay the bill and bring him home.

My life had revolved around Mike. He was the centre of my family life and my work life. We loved each other deeply, raised a family, worked together and lived together. I hardly ever went out without him. It was thus a big change working alone and living alone. Emptiness was my new companion. I felt like I was on a raft out in deep water, buffeted by the wind and waves, without a shore in sight.

I continued to attend my Bible studies and go to church. But more often than not, I ended up with tears welling up and brimming over, questioning what had happened. I was so angry at Mike. He had promised we would be together forever, but he left me. I wanted to be with him, to leave everything behind, and wished it over and over again. I knew I was spiralling into deep depression, but seemed unable to stop it.

One day, a friend brought someone to the farm who said she could communicate with dead people, and that Mike wanted to talk to me. Alone, we “conversed” and Mike’s message was that he was at peace with God, that there was so much love where he was, that Jesus was the only way to salvation. He told me he loved me and the children, but that I had to stay behind for now, and accomplish what I had been sent here to do. Through her, he recounted the moment he died and left his body, when he was calling out to me but that I could not hear as I was crying, how an angel came to fetch him and urge him to go through pitch darkness, how he resisted because he was afraid, but after going through a deep and long dark tunnel, he reached the blinding light of heaven where Jesus welcomed him.

I was crying as I listened to her tell me this, but at the back of my mind, there was the nagging thought that she was making this all up. Until, she laughed and shared that Mike had told her that his favourite past time was to watch movies on DVD (true), and when she told him that they shared the same past time, he told her they were different because he only watched genuine DVDs and not pirated ones (how very true!). This banished any doubt I had that it was really Mike I was talking to. Pirated movies were banned in our home as Mike fervently believed in Intellectual Property and would only watch genuine DVDs. Now, how would this person have known that?

A week later, a staff member asked if she could talk to me. When I asked her why, she said she had dreamt of Mike. He was happy in heaven, and he was with Jesus, and he wanted to tell me I would be alright. This comforted me. Later, I remembered that over the years, when Mike and I would talk about our faith, we promised each other that whoever went ahead would tell the other if heaven was true. You see, Mike’s faith was always much stronger and deeper than mine, and he brought me closer to God.

In November, I went to Barcelona for a conference, and then to Italy to meet up with Cara. I needed that break, as it took me out of my usual environment, met new people, had different experiences. I also reconnected with two of my favourite angels on this earth, Dada Conchi and my sister Pinky. I took to writing (finally!), started a blog, and began painting once again.

Slowly, slowly, I felt like I was coming up for air. And learning to smile again. Through all these months, my beautiful children were there, taking care of me while struggling to come to terms with their own pain of losing a father. They say time heals. I say, it numbs the pain, taking off the razor-sharp pangs of despair and softening the jagged edges of sorrow, like balm on a red hot burn.

Early yesterday mo 10250044_10202686611740732_7386478685050585125_n rning at the Retreat, I went to the gazebo armed with my box of coloured pencils and laptop. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, with time on my hands. The mahogany trees have grown so tall, their leaves obscuring the mountain side. I put on Mike’s music, and basked in the peace around me. I ended up painting Mike, as I remembered him, smiling kindly at me, his eyes a startling blue. Oh, how I miss him!

Communication, Family, Technology, Work

On Close Calls and Being a Mobile Phone Junkie

Image March 28, 2014 administrator

For several hours yesterday, I was off the communication grid, and I felt terrible! Now, I understand how attached we all get to our mobile phones, that not having a working one in your hand is like a life sentence. This meant though that I was incommunicado.

On my way to a tourism promotions committee meeting yesterday, I was charging my phone in the car and browsing email at the same time, when the phone suddenly felt so hot I almost dropped it. I smelled burning, looked at the car charger and saw smoke coming out. Quickly, I removed the car charger from the charging port (and burnt my fingertips in the process). Turns out the lightning to USB cable exterior had melted and the wires exposed. Mama mia! That was a close call!

This meant though that I was incommunicado. All afternoon, I kept reaching out to my phone to check messages, only to be reminded that it was out of battery. I even asked those attending the meeting if they had a charger I could borrow. Unfortunately, no one had the model I needed. It dawned on me that this was why smokers would ask friends or even strangers for a stick of cigarette when they were out. Shudder! What a “junkie” I’ve become with all of these new technologies!

Why, oh, why, can’t iPhone batteries last long enough so constant charging is unnecessary and you don’t need to bring along a slew of accessories and back-up chargers, and a large bag to carry everything in? My Blackberry would last me all day before, while I’m lucky if my iPhone charge would last three hours.

It’s a throwback to my early motherhood days, when bringing my babies out of the house meant lugging around a large bag full of diapers, towels, milk bottles, extra change of clothes, and what have you. Now the baby has been replaced by a mobile phone.

As soon as the meeting ended, I rushed back to Alabang from Roxas Boulevard, intent on getting to the malls before they closed to buy a new cable. Without a phone in hand to check messages or FB, I suffered as we inched our way through heavy rush hour traffic, narrow roads, potholes and road repairs. And when a traffic enforcer stopped my driver for turning right from Roxas instead of from the service road, all hope of getting to ATC in time plummetted and my stress levels zoomed.

It was then that another realization hit me: I had been using my mobile phone as a baby sitter to distract me from travel stress. But then again, I argued, doesn’t it allow me to be more efficient? I can respond to client and work-related requests right away, check on my children, connect with friends on Facebook, Linkedin, Google+ and more. Relax, I told myself, and enjoy the moment.

Luckily, I did make it on time, thanks to the Skyway. And, my now grown-up daughters were at ATC, so they accompanied me to the store. I decided to get not just a cable but a Boostcase as well as another back-up option for when I run out of power.

So, here’s my challenge to the inventors out there. Design a phone that gets charged simply by holding it. Takers, anyone?

Architecture, Art, Faith, Food, Travel

Discovering Barcelona, Experiencing Montserrat

January 3, 2014 administrator 6 Comments

November 26, 2013. Barcelona, here I come! Celia arrived early to accompany me to the train station for the bullet train to Barcelona. While waiting at the station, we spied a little pond with turtles. How quaint, I thought! Is this a reminder to take things slow, just before taking the high speed train to Barcelona?

After bidding Celia goodbye, I lugged my two suitcases onto the train, and settled in. The ride was smooth and the passing landscape interesting, but I spent the time writing.

In Barcelona, I took the taxi to Hotel Melia Sky and met up with Jeannie Javelosa, another speaker from the Philippines attending Casa Asia’s Conference. As we were the only two Filipinas, we agreed to explore Barcelona together. After a quick lunch at Tapas Bar 24, we walked along Via Gracia until we reached Casa Battlo.

Who can resist Gaudi's Casa Battlo? — Who can resist Gaudi’s Casa Battlo?

Casa Battlo is an amazing structure, something like Disneyland meets the Brothers Grimm and Roman mythology. I could imagine Hansel and Gretel being mesmerized by the house and entering it to see what marvels lie inside. There was an event that night so we could not get in, but we enjoyed the magnificent view from outside.

Candy Ortol, Celia’s friend, picked us up and drove us around to see Barcelona’s streets light up. Candy is such an interesting person, an outspoken Filipina who married a Spaniard and settled in Barcelona, raised three children and set up and grew a thriving real estate business. A widow herself, Candy shared her story with us. We had much to talk about. Candy showed us her impressive Christmas decor with a Filipiniana theme, which she had worked on for many months, and talked about the Assumption Christmas reunion that she would be hosting soon. She then brought us to the train station to buy tickets for some tours, after which she drove us around the commercial center of Barcelona to view the festive Christmas lights. Each street had its own design, and it was captivating to watch. We all laughed when someone observed that Torre Agbar, which housed Barcelona’s water authority, appeared like a gigantic blinking suppository.

Torre Agbar, the third tallest building in Barcelona, resplendent in lights.

November 27, 2013. Early in the morning, Jeannie and I took the tour to Montserrat. This was one of the reasons I had readily accepted the invitation to participate in Casa Asia’s conference in Barcelona. I have long wanted to see the Shrine of Our Lady of Montserrat, after which I was named by my parents. More importantly, I wanted to pray to Our Lady of Montserrat, or the Black Madonna, as she is fondly called. The image of the Black Madonna sits on a chair, with the Child Jesus perched on her lap holding the globe in his hand. I learned that she was not always black, but that the smoke from candles through the centuries have blackened the image.

A view of the craggy mountains that gave Montserrat its name.

As the bus drove up higher and higher up the mountain, it got colder and colder. The greenery around us gave way to craggy stone, revealing the serrated profile of the mountain peak, like a deadly hunting knife with its sharp edges pointing to the sky. It seemed that we could almost touch the heavens. The ancient monastery appeared to be almost carved from the mountain. The view was spectacular.

At the train station near the top, we let off passengers who had paid to take the funicular up to Montserrat. We stayed on the bus until it reached the monastery. Upon alighting and meeting up with those who took the funicular in front of the coffee/memento shop, our guide handed us our own maps and tickets, recommending that we visit the sanctuary, check out the museum and the audio visual room, sample the wine at the gift shop, and listen to the boys’ choir perform two songs. Our guide told us that he would meet us at 1pm, in a little less than two hours, and that if we were late, we would be left behind and we could stay at the hotel on the mountain overnight. He warned us that all the shops closed by 5pm, and that it would be a good experience to live the monasterial life. I would have opted for that if we didn’t have the conference coming up, and a Sagrada Familia tour scheduled at 4pm.

Palm, cypress, olive, and laurel trees symbolic of suffering, eternity, peace and glory.

At the big open courtyard in front of the monastery, our guide pointed out four trees that had been planted: palm for suffering, cypress for eternity, olive tree for peace, and laurel for glory. Upon entering the monastery, we were ushered into a courtyard in front of the basilica. Here, our guide said he would leave us. On the right side of the courtyard, I saw a very long line of people waiting in front of a closed door. More and more people joined the line. I asked him what that line was for, and he said those were the pilgrims who wanted to see the Black Madonna. He cautioned that it would probably take about 45 minutes before we could reach the Madonna, and the door wasn’t even due to open for another 10 to 15 minutest! I was crestfallen! The whole reason I came was to see the Black Madonna up close, and now it seemed impossible. Seeing that I was about to cry, he quickly said we could still enter the church and see the Madonna from afar, and that I could light a candle in the room to the left of the church.

Resigned, Jeannie and I entered the church. I knelt down on the front pew and prayed, asking God for guidance and protection, and laying my troubles at His feet. I asked Him to lead me on the right path that I may accomplish what I was sent here to do, and to please heal the pain of losing Mike. I thanked Him for the many blessings He has given me, the people He had sent my way: my mom and dad, my children, my grandparents and aunts, my siblings, my teachers, my friends, my family in TeamAsia, our clients and partners. And most of all, I thanked Him for the wonderful life and love that Mike and I had shared, and ended with the prayer that our children have a long, happy, healthy, prosperous, and meaningful life, and that they find partners who will love and take care of them.

After praying, I tried taking photos of the Black Madonna who was way up in the main altar. She was so far away that I could not snap a clear picture of her. Behind the grills to the right of the main altar, I saw the line of pilgrims waiting to go up behind the altarpiece to see the Black Madonna. If only I had lined up earlier, I thought.

I walked around and noticed that a mass was ongoing in one of the side chapels. The chapel was small and simple, stark and barren almost, stripped of the resplendent gold of the basilica. Behind the altar was a large piece of wood, carved with a face and two pierced hands, symbolic of the crucified Christ. There were about ten of us attending mass, and it was solemn and beautiful. I felt so blessed and at peace. After mass, I tried taking photos of the wooden Christ, but no matter what I did, the face would not come out, just a blazing light where the face of Christ was.

After the magnificence of the gilded basilica, the austere simplicity of the chapel calls to the heart.

I exited the basilica to light a candle and pray before the image of the Brown Madonna painted on the wall. Jeannie was there and she reminded me to enter the church as the choir would soon sing. As there was still some time, I explored the church some more and noticed a confessional box to the side of the basilica. A light was on, indicating that a priest was waiting inside. I entered, and asked the elderly priest if he spoke English. He shook his head. I told him my Spanish was not very fluent, and that I could say the prayers in English. The kindly priest nodded and invited me to start. When I did, the words in Spanish flowed smoothly without any hesitation. I unburdened myself, throwing away the yoke of guilt feelings and worries. When I had finished, the kindly priest blessed me. I know not where those words came from. It was as if a fountain had been opened, and everything washed clean. I was at peace.

Coming out of the confessional box, I noticed that the once empty basilica was now full of people, waiting for the choir to begin. Going to the rear of the church for a quick getaway, I saw Jeannie once more. While videotaping the first song, I looked to the right and noticed that the snake of people lining up to see the Brown Madonna was gone. They must have closed the doors again because of the choir, I surmised. Jeannie nudged me and said she was going ahead. I followed her to the courtyard.

When I looked to where the pilgrims had lined up earlier, I noticed that the door was still open. I approached it and saw that there was no one lined up. I took a chance and entered, walking straight up the length of the basilica to the steps leading to the Black Madonna. I climbed the steep stairs where a few pilgrim stragglers were still praying. I could not believe my luck! Here I was, in front of the Black Madonna, with the choir singing in such beautiful voices! I stood in front of her, praying, crying, and kissed her hand. A pilgrim was behind me and I asked if she could take my picture which she kindly did. Oh, what a glorious feeling it was!

I realized that the second song had ended, and so I quickly ran down the stairs, through the courtyard and open patio, and to the place where the guide had told us we would meet. There was no on one from my group yet, so I thought they may still be walking slowly from the church. I entered the memento shop and bought a small image of the Black Madonna. Walking out of the shop, I still did not spy any of my group. Looking at my watch, it was already time! I tried calling Jeannie and when there was no answer, I decided to run for the parking area where the bus was. Half way there, my phone rang. It was Jeannie asking me where I was. I could hear the guide asking where the other Filipina was. Good thing the bus waited for me, and I entered huffing and puffing!

Later that afternoon, Jeannie and I went for our Sagrada Familia tour. It is unbelievably beautiful, and to think that it is still unfinished after a hundred and forty years. The guide told us that the work is continued by private citizens. In fact, many renowned engineers, architects, artisans, sculptors, and artists have offered their services for free to continue to work began by Gaudi and to be part of this massive project.

Color bursts in through the windows to light up the interiors

To transport one into a different dimension

Gaudi must have descended from the gods to have come up with such a brilliant structure that is not just a strikingly beautiful work of art dedicated to glorify our Almighty Creator, but a marvel of mathematical engineering. Seeing the play of lights cast on the church’s walls and floor by the dying sun’s rays through the stained glass, I caught my breath with wonder at the genius of this man. And yet, nothing man has created can match the beauty of God’s handiwork. What a humbling thought!

Hungry we were after the two tours, and so we went in search of a restaurant that was frequented by locals, rather than tourists. A nice sales lady advised us where to go, and so we took a cab to the street she mentioned. There we walked and asked the proprietor of a bookstore which restaurant he recommended. We found it, only to learn from the Filipino waiter inside that they would not open until 9:30pm. It was only 7:30pm and we were ravenous! He suggested another place nearby that was open early, and so we went. Good decision!

We had a plate of escargots baked in a tin, a plate of pimientos padron, and paella marinera with vino tinto. Jeannie was little hesitant to eat the pimientos padron because I had warned her that some of them may be spicy, so I was relegated to taste a bit of each to ensure that they were safe. After she had tasted some, Jeannie was hooked and went for it! Oh la la!

Escargots baked in a tin. Oh, so many delicious bites!

Pimientos Padron - Russian roulette for the palate — Pimientos Padron – Russian roulette for the palate

November 28, 2013. We had signed up for a walking tour of the Gothic district. We were up early, ready for the cold. It was interesting walking through the little cobbled streets lined with interesting shops, and learning about the life of the Jews during the medieval times. Gargoyles looked down on us from the ramparts of the buildings, some menacing, others outright funny. One gargoyle was supposed to represent an elephant but since the artist had never seen one and only heard about it from someone else, it turned out to be vastly different from the usual. More like a boar with tusks and a very long nose.

We saw what remained of the Roman walls in certain places, though most of the remaining Roman walls had been swallowed up by the buildings that were constructed in later years. Our guide took us to a little patio which had three Roman columns surrounded by modern day apartments. He kept saying that there were only four remaining Roman columns in the entire city, but no matter how many times we counted, there were only three. And we still hadn’t taken any sip of wine that day. Hah!

St. George was a recurring figure wherever we went. He was in paintings, frescoes, sculptures, churches, and castles. Another saint was Catalina who apparently was a young virgin saint. Along one street, we stopped at what had once been the headquarters of the Inquisition. Jeannie told me later that shivers had run up and down her spine.

Lunch was at a little nook of a restaurant in the gothic district, recommended by the sales lady at the pharmacy where Jeannie bought some lotion. Jeannie wanted to have some more paella, and the proprietor of the restaurant told us to return in an hour. To kill time, we walked to the seafarers’ church, Our Lady of the Seas, and saw many more interesting shops on the way.

After lunch, we headed for Picasso’s Museum. Jeannie had taught art and so was quite familiar with Picasso’s many paintings. I especially liked his blue period. It was interesting listening to Jeannie explain the progression of Picasso’s genius. Jeannie was intent on observing how museums and their gift shops were set up as she was planning on setting up the museum for her partner, Ed Castrillo’s life work. I am so looking forward to that.

The next day was our conference, and so we decided to retire early, but not before we went to the hotel’s club lounge to connect to the Internet and have a glass of wine.

Food, Travel

Beaujolais Villages

December 17, 2013 administrator

November 23, 2013. Beaujolais Villages. That was the wine we served at our wedding at the Peak 18 years ago. I had not seen it since, but there it was at the airport lounge in Seoul, Korea. What a remarkable coincidence! Surely, a sign that Mike would be with me during this trip.

I met a very interesting person named Dr. Cornelius “Kees” Hoefnagel. He is a 65-year old nuclear medicine doctor, and he was in the Philippines attending a medical convention at Sofitel. We were both interested in taking the free tour in Seoul, as I had a 7-hour layover enroute to Spain while his was an 8-hour layover to Amsterdam. We missed the free tour by five minutes. Being a frequent flyer, Kees kindly offered to have me as his guest at the airport lounge. And there it was, the Beaujolais Village. Resplendent. Inviting.

Kees was recently appointed dean of the Society of Warmth World Association of Radio Pharmaceutical Therapy. It was a welcome change after being forcibly retired from the hospital where he was head of the nuclear medicine department. It was interesting listening to him explain how nuclear medicine is used to detect and cure cancer. He had developed a procedure called MIBG which helps relieve pain from cancer. I wish I had known about this when Mike fell ill with the dreaded C.

Dr. Cornelius "Kees" Hoefnagel showing me his wife's website. — Dr. Cornelius “Kees” Hoefnagel showing me his wife’s website.

Extremely proud of his wife, Kees regaled me with stories of his wife Marian Hoefnagel who set up a foundation ten years ago to help young people overcome their reading difficulties. A teacher for deaf children, Marian noticed that they hardly read books from the library. Digging deeper into the problem, she realized that the books were not only difficult to read, they were uninteresting. So, Marian started writing books using simple sentences. Her books focused on issues that confronted the young: bulimia, teenage pregnancy, depression, harassment, and the like. Her students were smitten with the books, and now, 50 books later, she is a celebrity in Amsterdam with an ardent following of readers.

Surprisingly, the Korean Air flight to Spain was comfortable. Being claustrophobic, I was afraid that I would not be able to stand the travel, but it went well on both legs (Manila to Seoul, and Seoul to Madrid). And on both legs, I tried out Bibimbap. It was soooo good! Korean Air even had directions on how to prepare it. Unfortunately, I only got the directions on the second leg, so my first taste of this Korean national dish was eaten a la carte.

Landing in Spain after a 13-hour sleepless flight, I was picked up by my good friend Celia Teves who accompanied me to my aunt Conchi’s home at Paseo de la Castellana. I so love Celia! She is the kindest, nicest person I know, so much that she stood as godmother at both my girls’ Confirmation. She came prepared to help me cope with the cold, lending me two hats to keep my head warm, and a thick scarf to protect my neck. At all costs, keep your neck covered, she warned. She then left with the promise to see me the next day.

It was a coming home for me. Thirty years ago, I stayed with Tita Conchi for four months. It was a difficult time for me then; I had just broken up with my first boyfriend, Alboy, and was being courted by Mari, a classmate from AIM. I was conflicted, and so my mother sent me to Spain to get away from it all.

The four months I spent in Madrid with my aunt and uncle, Tita Conchi and Tito Mariano, was pure bliss. I had recently graduated from the Asian Institute of Management with a master in business management degree, finishing with distinction, and I already had two years of work as head of personnel and yet, in Madrid, I let go of my professional self and let my creative side surface. Not having children of their own, my aunt and uncle treated me like a daughter. I was babied and protected from all harm. It was thus I felt safe back in Tita Conchi’s home.

Tita Conchi is a talented painter, especially with watercolours and oils, and she taught me how to use them. We would go to El Prado, the art museum which fascinated me completely. Enthralled, I would spend hours admiring and studying the paintings of the great European masters. I was inspired to paint, and that I did during the day while Tita Conchi and her husband Tito Mariano were both at work.

I remembered the paintings and sketches I had done while there. Tita Conchi still had some of them proudly displayed on her walls. The first day, I was so tired that after noonday mass and a sumptuous lunch of arroz a la plancha in the restaurant near her house, I fell asleep only to be awoken at 8pm. Tita Conchi urged me to go out and see Madrid by night. We took the bus and walked along Puerta del Sol. I was shivering from the cold, and was thankful for the bonnet Celia lent me.

Tita Conchi did not subscribe to new technology. She said she was too old to learn new tricks. No matter how much pleading I did, she would not agree to learn how to use the ordenador (laptop). Her mobile phone was left unused. Without Internet connection at her home, I felt cut out from the world so I searched for a place that had wifi, but was not successful. Starbucks was the only place that had wifi, but it was packed full of people. I finally bit the bullet and signed up first for a one-day promo, and then with a five-day promo of Globe Telecom with Movistar to get connected and do some research for my Casa Asia conference on gender and tourism in Barcelona.

The next morning, Tia Conchi and I went to Celia’s parish, San Martin de Tours to hear Sunday mass.

Celia, Tita Conchi and me, replete after a fantastic lunch of steak grilled on a stone.

We then went for lunch at a popular Spanish restaurant where Real Madrid would celebrate each time they won a match. We had salad and steak grilled on a stone. The steak was so good, it seemed like butter melting in my mouth! Celia knew Antonio, the handsome maître d who was very gracious.

After bidding goodbye to Celia, Tia Conchi and I left to visit my cousin Maripepa Villarubia and my mom’s eldest sister, Tia Pepa. They live on a picturesque street near El Prado where famous writers had lived at the turn of the century. I was so sleepy I kept falling asleep on the couch.

We then rushed to have dinner at the home of Tia Carmela, my aunt’s best friend. I used to teach Alicia, her eldest daughter, how to speak English, while Alicia taught me how to speak Spanish. I was happy to meet Alicia who is now a doctor, and her husband, and they gave me tips about what to see in Barcelona.

All of next day I spent working and researching in the little room I called my studio all those years ago. It was here I had painted each day, learning how to use oils on tiles, on wood, and on canvas, while listening to Julio Iglesias sing love songs, and wondering what my life will be. And now, many years later, here I was again, now a widow, yearning for my beloved Mike. Madrid was a crossroads then, as it is now. What lies ahead, I wonder?

TeamAsia founder and president, trainer, event organizer, food and art lover. President, Philippine Association of Convention/Exhibition Organizers and Supplier Philippines · teamasia.com