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 54th 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 58th 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 60th, 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!
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!
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 morning 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!
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?
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.
Detail of saints above basilica door
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.
The basilica filling up with pilgrims.
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!
The Black Madonna, at last!
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.
At Sagrada FamiliaColor bursts in through the windows to light up the interiorsAnd seems to capture the starsTo 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 palatePaella marinara, naturalmente!
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.
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.
Beaujolais Villages
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.
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.
Ink drawing
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.
Alicia del Olmo Fernandez
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
