Travels And Reflection

Saigon 2006 - Journal Entries

ericroa — Wed, 12 Sep 2007 09:51:00 GMT

December 23, 2006

The waves beat on the shore outside in a rhythmic pulse and I am pitifully trying to think of a bad metaphor between the ocean and life. I guess the obvious corniness of this exercise I'm subjecting myself to is just meant to get the old writing ball rolling.

Pathetic.

It's our second and last night out here at the beaches of Muy Ne and at last, I find the time to write. Not that I've been wanting to, really; we've been having a grand old time and really enjoying ourselves. I think it's just because we're terribly exhausted from all the swimming and eating we've subjected ourselves to for the past two days that tonight everyone hit the sack before 10.

Well, everyone except for me, that is.

I'm still so very much awake mainly due to several glasses of café sua da consumed and also, maybe, just a tinge of longing. After all, this is a beach and I'm sure that Dulce, being such the water nut that she was, undoubtedly would have loved it here. Although, I do admit that the ocean with all its sights, sounds, and smells does get me to think a lot about her, I am quite sure that it's really just the abusive amount of coffee that's keeping me awake tonight. I would like to think that after more than two years, I have somehow finally found peace with my memories of her instead of still having them keep me awake.

So, if this is the peace that Dustin and I deserve, then why am I not happy? Is this really it? Our fate? It's so ironically simple to just make myself believe that thls is the hand that was dealt to Dustin and myself and that we should simply just go on. Accepting the fact that Dulce was dying of cancer was quite easy, there was medical science backing it up. The reason why it had to happen, though, is still a sad and frustrating mystery. There are times that I've hoped for a sign from Dulce herself to explain to me the real reason for why Dustin and I have to deal with life this way - a life, painfully, without her. I realized though that this wasn't the way the answers to the mysteries of life are revealed to us; maybe, in this case, answers aren't relevant and really aren't needed at all.

I'll end this day with the thought that the answer to whatever mysteries or puzzles life has for us will forever remain in the dark depths of this ocean of existence we all swim in with hope and faith keeping us afloat.

Excuse the metaphor.

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December 26, 2006

The whole family had lunch together at Juice, a small pseudo-hip resto/juice bar, located just a block away from the Sheraton. We had actually been there once before during our last visit to Ho Chi Minh and I still remember its colorful walls and furniture that reminded me of a irritatingly bright summer day: mango green walls with watermelon red accents, plus the prevalent painted representations of the cross section of a dragonfruit - just exactly the way we left it, well, except for the addition of a third floor lounge. I figured that the place turned to a bar in the evening.

While we all had our sandwiches and fruit juice, Dustin told me that he wanted to go around the area after lunch. Of course, this could only have meant the purchase of a toy or a book. I figured that since he had been spending time holed up with his cousin, David, in the apartment playing video games all day eversince we got back from the beach, boredom had finally taken hold of him.

I gave in without putting up much of a fight or even an iota of resistance because I felt a bit guilty for not having enough q-time with him on this trip. So, after dropping David off with my cousin, Adrienne, at the flat, Dustin and I proceeded to walk to a nearby department store to check out the toy section.

As to be expected, Dustin went directly to the Pokemon section and chose a couple of figurines for his collection back home. He then asked me if he could pick out a little something for David. It then hits me that this unexpected request from Dustin shows that he might be turning out to be a thoughtful kid after all.

The spirit of Christmas seems to have worked its magic on him.

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December 29, 2006

It's 6 in the evening and I'm back in Mojo, my new hangout. I like it not just because it's, conveniently, an elevator ride away and that my old favorite, Java Café, was closed due to renovation work. I like Mojo because it's not that I'm not the adventurous type - I can easily choose to sip my beer down the street at the Café Latin sports bar or any similar dive right across town for that matter - but I seem to have found my comfort zone here. Truth is, really, I think that all this “comfort zone” baloney translates to plain laziness in anyone's book.

Yeah, whatever.

Mojo is a charming little establishment with modern interiors done in delightful earth tones and I am just helplessly drawn to its lounge-y atmosphere. If memory serves me right, this exact place used to be the service entrance for the hotel's kitchen. Now, where a loading ramp was, plush chaises and armchairs in a striped textured fabric and deep brown leather upholstery now exist and are cleverly arranged in such a way that there exists a sense of privacy between the wood, steel, and glass tables, despite how full it gets. Hanging from the main ceiling, like a Zen-inspired mothership, is a large elliptical object formed by curved wood planks in a dark walnut varnish. Though the cool chill-out music is barely audible above the patrons' lively conversation, it still manages to set the laid back mood of the place.

I sat at the cafe's outdoor portion, on the chairs done in a dark plastic weave, lit up a cigarette, and began leafing through a book I really meant to finish on this trip. However, I had to put the book down after a while because the street, in the muted light of dusk, was beginning to come to life. The various small and charming souvenir boutiques across the street have begun turning their lights on. The strings of Christmas lights that wrap the trees lining the streets magically glow like oversized lightning bugs on a summer night and teams of scooters recklessly whiz by like unstoppable schools of mackerel, without giving a damn on who or what gets in their way.

It really is livelier out here with the wide array of people walking by and about, taking in the cool early evening breeze. It's funny the way the tourists seem to dress alike with their sun hats, bermuda shorts, and belt bags and almost always with plastic bags of shopping finds dangling from their hands. The locals are so surprisingly stylish and modern in their garb that one forgets that one is in a communist country, really. I'm actually reminded of Paris but without the annoying peskiness of the French. In fact, Saigon was actually a French colony so I guess the spirit of effortless stylishness has been thankfully and remarkably unfazed by Communist dogma.

What I find upsetting though is, that compared to my previous visits, the local women seemed to have stopped wearing the traditional ao dai, that body-fitting long-sleeved overblouse and pants combo. It has been replaced, unceremoniously and quite disappointingly, by the now commonplace low rider jeans and spaghetti strap blouse look. I guess that this is one of the small prices a growing economy has to pay.

I find myself, after a couple of beers quite uncontrollably, watching the cafe's denizens. There is a group of French tourists in the table next to mine and a group of Vietnamese yuppies behind me. I find myself pleasantly lost in the diversity of the languages I hear. A young Aussie couple at another table was the only English-speaking group in this place and judging from the conversation I couldn't help but overhear, were also people-watching; actually, everyone else in the café was, too. This is so evident in the way the café customers would just suddenly stop talking and then whisper to one another when an attractive person walks in.

I must admit though that however boring and somewhat perverted this interest in watching other people sounds, I find this cheap thrill of mine strangely relaxing. It actually makes me feel less self-conscious even if I know that I myself was being watched or, at worst, judged.

Give My Regards To Bloomfield

ericroa — Sun, 9 Sep 2007 02:17:00 GMT

Bloomfield, New Jersey, 2006

I thought I would be able to write while in the east coast. However, that wasn't the case. After a week of going to suppliers and meetings with my client back in SFO, I thought that the free time from work the following week would give me just that: "free" time to write. I never realized that my NY/NJ nights would be more hectic. Come to think of it, I spent more time going out in NY/NJ than in SFO, but I enjoyed every second of it.

This, despite a crummy leg cramp.

While walking up a small hill on my way back to the car after a morning browsing at Home Depot, I suddenly had a terrible cramp on my right calf. It felt like someone threw a large rock at it. The past few days of long tiresome walks in SFO and Manhattan have painfully caught up with me that Tuesday morning in Bloomfield, NJ. Nevertheless, I didn't let some silly old leg cramp, well, "cramp" my schedule. I was too excited about NYC to let it bother me. After a great massage from my cousin, JP, and a Biofreeze rub, I was back in fighting form. There's this old wives' tale that came to mind regarding leg cramps: "Just take it out for a walk."

That same night, I did just that. JP and I were able to watch The Lion King at the New Amsterdam theater in W42nd Street. We got off the bus at the Port Authority and took a short walk to the Amsterdam. The 42nd Street Beaux-Arts entrance opens into one of the finest examples of Art Nouveau I have ever seen. The carved and painted plaster, the carved stone and wood, the fantastic murals and tiles — all of these combined made me feel that I was going to the theater in the early 1900s. I was so enthralled at the place that JP and myself walked up, with leg cramp and all, several flights of stairs to our seats. I then find out later on that there's an elevator. Nevertheless, the show was great! Everything was top-notch: the acting, the songs, the costumes, and of course, the set design. I actually forgot the pain in my leg that evening.

The rest of the week saw me going to museums, restaurants, churches (it was Lent), and even a concert with my aunt. I also did some tax-free clothes shopping in NJ and some cd browsing at Tower with her. I really got to know her and my uncle well during my stay and we sort of bonded because of our love of music and also because of our being parents. While listening to 70's smooth jazz or classical, we traded parenting tips and advised each other in parenting. I never expected we'd bond and it is a good thing that we did.

On The BART

ericroa — Fri, 7 Sep 2007 08:51:00 GMT

April 7, 2006, on the BART going to SFO from Pleasanton, Ca
It's fascinating to feel the true pulse of any city when one takes the commuter train. It is a quiet ride, though, given that the morning rush to the city is over and there is no feeling at all of claustrophobia or intrusion since the train car is just a quarter full. Along with this universal silence, everyone in the car seems to be calm and relaxed. In the background, the white noise of the train moving along is rhythmic and quite hypnotic.

In this particular ride to SFO, I am with my hostess and cousin Tina and my niece, Ela, who is on summer vacation. The rain let up this morning so we decided to spend the day in the city. They are currently seated on the row in front of me giggling like schoolgirls at something or whatever. I choose not to join them because I discover that this is a good time as any to write about my past few days here. I am writing (or is it fumbling) on a Dell X50v pocket PC that Tina passed on to me since she recently got a new Palm.

Ela and I arrived Saturday, April 1, at around 8:30pm in SFO. I caught the weather report just before flying here and found out that it had been raining quite a bit for quite some tine on the west coast so a slight drizzle greeted us when we got out of SFO International. The first thing we did was eat. The flight made us quite hungry and it had been an unwritten law in our family that we must partake of good ol' American suburban delicacies right away upon landing, and for us it has always been the delectable Chez In and Out. After a long flight, I'd eat anything, really.

I must end now. We are getting off at the next stop: the Embarcadero. More later.

Flight Of Fancy

ericroa — Thu, 6 Sep 2007 02:04:00 GMT

Song Flight 2020, April 8, somewhere over Illinois

I'm currently on a Song flight from SFO to NYC. I am currently fighting sleep while Hilary Hahn's Bach Violin Concertos is playing away through the headset on the plane's great entertainment system. This is my first time on an American domestic flight so I can't compare it to Jet Blue and the others. This is a "budget" flight, meaning you have to pay for your meal if you choose to eat or for a movie, if you choose to watch. All Coca-Cola products and coffee are complimentary, though. Also free are the wide music selection and the sattelite TV. It's a good thing I ordered a club sandwich to go back at the SFO airport and it seems that the flight attendants don't mind my chomping away at it. I hope they don't charge me for corkage.

There is an attractive woman seated next to the window. She looks a bit like Sandra Bullock but a bit more exotic. I guess her smoldering dark eyes got to me. She did not sound American when she thanked me earlier for standing up to let her pass. Beside her and separating us is this sweet old lady who I obligingly helped with the entertainment system earlier. Actually, I was seriously tempted to offer the older lady my club sandwich for a seat exchange. Alas, I decided not to because I knew I wouldn't have the guts to talk to the Sandra B. lookalike.

I think I am out of the game. The boy-meets-girl game, to be more precise. Aside from this flight, there was another occasion on my trip here where I found myself tongue-tied in front of a woman. My cousin, Tina, invited a co-worker of hers to join us for dinner in SFO a couple of nights ago. Tina had mentioned a few months back that she would set me up with this particular girl. Actually, she, S, turned out to be attractive and so eerily reminded me of Dulce because of her Oriental looks. I tried to just be myself that night and attempted to make conversation with S but there wasn't a topic that would stick. It was worse than teflon, really. I then resigned myself to the fact that she just might not be interested.

I am desperately trying to keep myself awake on this flight. I've been channel surfing on the free sattelite TV trying to find a show interesting enough. However, there is none. I might as well just watch a $5 movie just to stop me from snoozing away.

Postscript

Later on, I actually get to speak to "Sandra." Well, not one-on-one, though. About an hour before reaching NYC, the three of us in our row, probably out of sheer boredom, started talking with each other. The lady beside me was from SFO and was on her way to Lebanon to visit her relatives and "Sandra" is actually an accountant on her way home to Israel and to her husband and kids. Shucks.

Saigon 2005 - Journal Entries

ericroa — Wed, 5 Sep 2007 08:52:00 GMT

Day1 (December 23, 2005)
We began our journey by taking a two hour flight westward to HCMC (Ho Chi Minh City). This meant we'd be in a different time zone (minus one hour from Manila) and also that there'd be no jet lag. I find the idea that I'd be an hour "younger" after the flight is amusing. I settled down on my seat and read the first part of my book/gift to self.

My parents, who were also with us, either casually read the newspaper or just slept for most of the flight. I am very happy for the both of them , really, because this trip meant a lot to them, because this is the only time that the family - our family - is complete. They are already into that level in life where somehow material objects are not the ways to happiness anymore.

Dustin knows how to keep himself occupied while travelling on a plane: he just needs the in-flight music channels to make his trip less boring (I discover that he still likes Green Day but he seems to be also going for techno). When the playlist already looped, he brought out his I Spy book and we gingerly searched for hidden objects until we touch down.

After less than an hour of going through immigration, baggage, and customs, we were met by my sister, Lyn, and my nephew, David, at the Arrivals gate. Since this wasn't our first time here, I spotted familiar places on the van ride to my sister's place and its surprising the number of cars seemed to increase (ahh, progress). We then spent the rest of the day catching up on stories from home with glasses of refreshing Cafe Sua Da (Vietnamese Iced Coffee) and doughnuts.

Later that evening, Andy, my brother-in-law, joined us for a simple supper in one of the food courts. Eventhough dinner was fast-food, it was Vietnamese fast food, so it was also something new but affordable. We walked back to burn some calories and admired Christmas storewindow displays.

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Day 2 (December 24, 2005)
One thing great about this trip is that we get to stay in one of the best hotels in HCMC -the Sheraton- and not pay a cent. Let me explain: the hotel has two towers, one serves as the hotel part and the other as a residential tower where the expat employees live along with other expats who are executives here. A definite good thing is that the residents still get some of the basic housekeeping services the hotel provides like room cleanup and free laundry. Lyn and her brood live in a large two bedroom unit on the 7th floor which has a great vantage point because of the sweeping view of the city (well, part of it) and of the busy street below.

Today, I did nothing. I just vegged out and watched DVDs with Dad. Lyn picked out some films that we haven't seen yet from her collection. So, while she and my Mom went out to do some shopping, Dad and I stayed home with the kids.

Dustin, meanwhile, was already playing with David, and at their age, they really didn't need that much supervision. I am, so far, satisfied that they haven't argued yet. Could it be because they are big boys now or is it because they are up to something again?

Lyn tells me that Andrew, the head chef of the hotel, has prepared Christmas dinner exclusively for us. It consisted of turkey with the works, salmon, some kind of vegetable, and the fantastic chocolate dessert that was soo good.

We were joined for dinner by the good-natured and friendly Penny, Andrew's wife and Lyn's best friend. The kids, after eating, proceeded to open their Christmas presents and had a grand time. Of course, I helped in putting together the toys that needed assembling. We then capped the evening taking turns on everyone's favorite household appliance: the Magic Sing.

Despite my horribly shameless energy to keep on singing, we had to hit the sack esrly because we were off to the sunny beaches of Muy Ne in the morning.

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Day 3 (December 25, 2005)
It is around 10:00 in the evening and I can't sleep. This is probably because of the coffee I had after dinner. I figured if I did some writing I would eventually feel the weight of my eyelids increase. So, I am doing this "old school" on the resort stationery while sitting on the day bed.

We left at 9:30 this morning and went to Muy Ne, a 3-hour drive to the north of HCMC. In the van were our driver, Mom and Dad, Lyn's brood, and Dustin and myself. Most of us slept during the trip because the previous night's celebration. I couldn't sleep, though, so I just listened to cd's and watched a VCD during the journey. We bought some sandwiches before we left to serve as our lunch. A stopover at a petrol station/ restaurant/ fruit market gave us the opportunity to stretch our legs and take a leak. The girls and the kids milled around the fruit stands while the men had some iced coffee at the restaurant.

We arrived at the Seahorse Beach Resort right before 1pm. I was instantly attracted to its architecture: simple lines and forms accented with Asian details. I admire the seemingly random arrangement of the plants and trees, thus giving a feeling that the resort was built to adapt to environment and not the opposite. Upon seeing the bed, I instantly wanted to sleep given last night's singing spectacle. Although, I opted instead to read a book on the terrace for the rest of the afternoon while the rest of them explored the place. I joined them at around 4 by the pool to have some fruit juice and ice cream. The two little boys were already noisily splashing about but we had to let them stop and dry off a little later because the wind was getting chilly and Dustin's lips were beginning to blacken due to the cold.

We had a hearty dinner at a nearby resort that specialized in the obvious: seafood. One could detect the French influence in the cuisine especially in the clams that were smothered in a rich cream with onions. Dustin, as usual, was picky in what he wanted to eat and it took quite a bit of coaxing and empty threats to make him finish his dinner. David, on the other hand, has no problem in choosing and finishing his food.

Now, we come full circle to this moment that I am sitting here writing to get myself sleepy. Actually, I felt a bit down after dinner tonight when we got back to the resort. No, not because of the food; the food was fine. It's just that when the beach reminds you of somebody you know couldn't, by any way humanly possible, be there with you to enjoy it and that anything that has got to do with beaches reminds you of that person, you can't help not to notice that big gaping void inside you. I mean, Dulce and I have always been going to beaches when she was still alive and this is my first time to be in next to the ocean without her. It isn't a torturing feeling though, I now discover, but it is still a sad one. The good thing is that Dustin seems to be enjoying every moment of his stay here. With that, I can be happy.

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I put my sad thoughts at the back of my mind for a while and enjoyed the remaining days we had on the beach with family. I am truly grateful that Andy and Lyn took time out from work and took us out there. So sis, bro, if you're reading this, I think I haven't thanked you guys enough for the memorable time we had.

The following is my last entry in my travel log. I wish I could have written more like the day I spent with D visiting video arcades, braving a lunch of Kentucky Fried Chicken, mom's new fascination for cinema, the New Year's Eve party, etc. but I just got lazy and the rest of the nights there were devoted to DVD marathons.

Day 6 (December 28, 2005)

Lyn suggested that I try Java Cafe, which is just a stone's throw away from the hotel. So here I am, drinking my cold Cafe Sua Da and munching my club sandwich after a morning of walking around the vicinity. I visited Saigon Square, a shopping area near the old U.S. Embassy, to buy some DVDs. Video piracy, like in other Asian cities, is also prevalent here and I won't be a hypocrite and be all so goody-goody about the matter.

I am a bad critic of interiors. There would be always something, a bad element or detail that I notice and it would, strangely enough, be its saving grace. Actually, Java's interiors are nice and cozy despite the modern lines. Warm and earthy colors blend well with the modern Asian furniture. I even appreciate the tacky Christmas decor that stands out like a zit on a supermodel's face. This, for me, adds to the cafe's character. See what I mean?

The music here is nice: light jazz standards. I asked the waitress if I could get the title of the CD they were playing. The artist turns out to be Steve Tyrell and the album's title is This Guy's In Love. Excellent, now I will have to look out for that back home.

Now, all this music is making me think about being in love. Dang it! The thing is, I thought I was a few months ago and, actually, I almost started to dive into it but it turned out to be a bunch of misdirected feelings coiled up inside me. I realized due to a chat message my son had with his cousin (yes, I am a shameless spy), that it still wasn't time and I still have Dustin as my priority. If ever I do have a girlfriend in the future, she'd have to accept the fact that she has to take the backseat. I know I'd pity her for getting her into a mess she'd regret getting into and we'd both end up being depressed. I decided that I'd rather not complicate my life or anybody else's, not just yet.

I am running out of paper space. I'll be off and will be resuming my great DVD safari.

Check please!

Rome 2002: Moonlight

ericroa — Wed, 5 Sep 2007 00:40:00 GMT

The moon shone incredibly bright outside the hotel window as Dulce and I sat, lights out, watching Italian MTV and munching on triscuits with gournay cheese. The bottle of wine we bought earlier, from a wine store run by a charming old couple, was already history and we, instead, settled for cans of cold soda from the mini-bar (which were replaced with cans of the same brand we bought outside, of course). That was our boringly pathetic dinner on our last night in Rome, and I still lovingly remember each and every detail of what transpired that day.

I remember the incredibly fascinating antiquity. Dulce and I had spent the whole day commuting from one architectural treasure to another - taking the bus or walking long distances. The stuff we studied in school came to life that sunny Roman day. Temples, churches, fountains - all were mesmerizing. We joked around in the Vatican, quietly commenting on how terribly exhausting it must have been to do the marble cutting-list.

I remember our first authentic gelato. Those generous scoops of pitaschio-flavored goodness in hand-rolled sugar wafer cones cooled us as we sat on the Spanish Steps, haplessly preventing drops from falling on our clothes; we had somehow forgotten to ask for napkins. The image of Dulce's immaculately white blouse spattered with light green gelato stains still is vivid in my mind like it was yesterday.

I remember the bags. Down the street from our hotel was a small leather goods shop that made and sold their own bags; it was, proudly, Dulce's secret find and she instantly fell in love with the hand-tooled suede shoulder bags which were dyed in beautiful spring and autumn colors.

I remember us, after packing that night, despite the exhausting day, and unforgivably drunk, kissing passionately on the cold tiled hotel room floor. We, later, between sips of cold soda, told each other hopeful stories as we gazed at the moon, bathing in the invisible magic of its light.

Bangkok 2002 - A Memorable Day

ericroa — Tue, 4 Sep 2007 21:20:00 GMT

We spent March, 02 in Bangkok and one morning, we decided to go to the floating market to try spend the day experiencing a slice of traditional Thai life and culture. We hired a small outrigger paddled by a polite young man who knew a spattering of English, which was good enough just as long the message got through between him and us. That morning was a treat for the senses as we took in the richness of the colors and sounds of everyday Thai life.

Eventually, lunch time came around and we asked our paddler/guide if he could take us to some good Thai food in the market before we went back to the hotel. Actually, he did not understand the words "lunch" or "food;" so I had to do resort to the universal mode of communication: sign language. Once he understood our request, he paddled up beside another boat that sold steaming hot spicy Thai noodle soup with beef slices and all those fresh vegetables served in a big soup bowl. We could already actually smell the distinct aroma of Thai food from a distance and M and I were happy that we were, at last, going to sample some authentic Thai food and not something from a fancy restaurant. The dish was actually very tasty and we laughed at each other as we loudly slurped the noodles.

As Dulce and I left the lunch boat and headed for the shore, we sat back and leaned sleepily into each other, full of the gastronomic goodness we just had. Dulce then slowly glanced back at the lunch boat to take a farewell look and saw the lady smiling and waving back at her as she washed the bowls we used by immersing them in the murky river water.

Paris 2002, Part 4 - More Than This

ericroa — Mon, 3 Sep 2007 18:41:00 GMT

It was the start of a beautiful spring day in Paris. The sun was out but the wind still had a slight chill. Every day seemed perfect for both Dulce and I. We had spent the past two days since our arrival taking in whatever the City Of Light had to offer. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre Museum, and the Notre Dame Cathedral were some of the places we had enjoyed. From the onset, we really intended to see Paris on foot instead of taking the bus tours because we wanted to explore the city without any of the pressures of time and of other people waiting for us. We wanted to see Paris the way a child would see and discover something for the first time.

We, well Dulce, had made plans for us to go shopping that day and she had already mapped out the area surrounding our hotel. It was as if by instinct that she knew which shop or store we would visit that day – all represented by little red dots on our tour map. It was always something that had caught her eye during our previous walks and she had, in her mind, noted everything down to the last detail. Apparently, shopping really is something short of a military operation for her. That day though, as much as we wanted to go out early, we decided to stay indoors a bit longer – the exhaustion of the past two days had eventually caught up with us.

We were lying in bed that bright early morning leaning into each other’s head. We were right in the middle of our comfort zone taking our time to gracefully snap ourselves out of it. After almost six years of marriage and four years of being together prior, we had learned how to effectively communicate without saying a word. Every slight movement of the body communicated volumes between us. It was sign language broken down to the smallest muscle spasm. So when my head felt her jaw subtly move a muscle, I knew something was up.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

I knew well enough that “nothing” meant something. It always did. So, I just remained patient and waited for Dulce to share her thoughts. She always eventually would. That was how she was, in shopping and in other things as well, always pondering things out carefully and thoroughly before taking any action. I turned my head to lightly plant a kiss of reassurance on Dulce’s head. I wanted her to know that it was, as always, OK for her to take her time.

I took a long affectionate whiff of her hair while we remained in bed. I was thankful that they had grown back well; although, it no longer had the chestnut brown shade that I fell in love with; it was now a deep black. This color change was due to the iron pills she had to take everyday since her last chemotherapy session. Dulce had been suffering from a rare form of cancer that was detected in her vulva. After a radical procedure, cobalt treatment, chemotherapy, and cocktail upon cocktail of various medicines, the cancer still remained and had slowly crept its way into her liver and lungs. Actually, I didn’t care what color her hair was, I was just happy that it was back and she was starting to have her normal life back, too. A few months earlier, Dulce had been advised to try a new series of medicine for her next chemotherapy session. Sadly, the first batch of meds did not work as much as we had hoped and prayed that they would. Her doctor told her that there was a big chance that this second cocktail of newer drugs would have a greater chance of working. She said that she couldn't decide and that she would have to think about it first. We had discussed and argued about her options at some length. I already had made known previously my stand on this – I was optimistic that a second time around, with the new drugs, would work. The first time had strongly affected her a lot not only physically but also emotionally.

Then, Dulce finally broke her silence.

“Baby, remember what the doctor told us?”

“About?”

“My taking chemo again.”

“Uh-huh.”

I then froze to wonder what she might be trying to reveal to me. We had not talked about her cancer since we arrived and I thought we’d be forgetting about it even for just a few days.

“On our first night here, I prayed to God to guide me in helping me decide on this. I asked for a sign. I said if that if I were to see white flowers during our trip, it would mean that I would not continue with chemo.”

I just kept quiet and firmly held her hand. Dulce instantly knew I was anxious and worried.

“Eric, remember when we were on our way down to the Metro station yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Remember that delivery guy who suddenly appeared and blocked our path as he ran past us?”

I just heaved a heavy sigh and nodded.

“He had such a beautiful bouquet of the largest white roses I’ve ever seen.”

Dulce knew - flowers or no flowers - she would not go through chemo hell again. She needed a sign not to reassure herself but to reassure me – to hopefully make me agree. She figured that nothing is permanent in life and that she should make the best of it. She knew that, all along, she had been on the right track and making the best of life by taking care of our son, Dustin.

More Than This
by Charlie Hunter Quartet feat. Norah Jones

I could feel at the time
There was no way of knowing
Fallen leaves in the night
Who can say where they´re blowing
As free as the wind
And hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning

More than this
There is nothing
Oh more than this
You tell me one thing
More than this
You know there's nothing

It was fun for a while
There was no way of knowing
Like a dream in the night
Who can say where we´re going
No care in the world
And maybe I´m learning
Why the sea on the tide
It has no way of turning

More than this
You know there is nothing
Oh more than this
You tell me one thing
More than this
There is nothing
Nothing

More than this
You know there is nothing
Much more than this
You tell me one thing
More than this
There is nothing
More than...

Paris 2002, Part 3 - An Early Paris Morning

ericroa — Mon, 3 Sep 2007 18:31:00 GMT

Dulce and I decided to take the Metro instead of a taxi to visit the Eiffel Tower. We quickly departed after having our free breakfast at the hotel cafe. In our excitement, we forgot to ask the concierge as to where the Metro station was and at which station we should emerge. We were already a couple of blocks from the hotel and Dulce wanted to go back and ask. I told her that there really was no need to and that we should just be adventurous and just look for the nearest station and just take it from there. Dulce looked at me with an expression that I instantly recognized - one of futility.

I told her to just "...trust where destiny would lead us."

"Yeah," she said, "to a cab."

After a few minutes of following a crowd of people rushing to work up the Bd. Madeleine, we reached the Opera where the entry to the subway was. Dulce took note of a landmark: the big Zara store. I guess I should explain: whenever we're on holiday, our landmarks weren't the traditional statue or historic structure but they rather would be whatever retail store we passed. We would always know our way back to the hotel by just looking at the shop signs. Of course, each sign represented a store we would visit one by one on our way back.

We went down the stairs and browsed around the small shops that sold magazines, candy, and trinkets. I asked an elderly French man who ran the trinket shop which station the Eiffel Tower was but the language barrier was so thick that it was just futile. Although, when he was talking to my wife, the words beautiful and very cheap were all the English he spoke. Dulce whispered to me if the old guy knew what bullshit meant.

The exotic and magical looking ticket lady in beaded cornrows, who spoke English in a West Indian accent, advised us to take the M8 and get out at the Ecole Militaire station because the other line that would take us to the closest station closest to the tower from the Invalides station was closed for repairs. We thanked the lady though we obviously did not know which station was from the other. We just crossed our fingers and blindly took her advice. I guess it was her gentle and motherly way of talking that somehow made us trust her.

Strangely, given that it was still the rush hour, the train wasn't crowded. Almost everyone was seated save alone maybe around four who stood. We quietly held hands while we were seated. The only sound that could be heard was the heartbeat-like rhythm of the train's wheels going over the tracks. Dulce noticed it, too, and whispered to me that she could feel the city's pulse underneath. I complimented her on her observation. She then leaned her still sleepy head on my shoulder and tapped her finger on my hand in time with the tracks' rhythm - her usual quiet thank you.

When we got off and emerged onto the sidewalk, we expected to see the tower at once but we just found ourselves on a quiet street flanked by rows of beautiful well-preserved old apartments. While we stood around for a while to get our bearings, Dulce took pictures of the detailing of some of the old buildings. She said that if she were French, she would be very proud of her heritage and that uncontrolled progress destroys a country's sense of culture.

I took her hand and said that I sincerely agreed with her and said that I now figured out the way to the Eiffel Tower. She gripped my hand tightly and smiled as we started to walk on down to the Place de l'Ecole Militaire.

A large modern monument largely made of gigantic panes of tempered glass with long lines of cursive text etched across them greeted us at the edge of the Champs de Mars right across the Ecole Militaire. Looming in the background was the elegant Eiffel Tower. Dulce remarked of how the mix of past and present seemed perfectly planned and executed everywhere in this city and that however glaringly obvious the contrast was, there was still a subtle sense of harmony about them.

The manicured trees lining the walks were starting to wake up from their winter’s sleep with new sets of leaves as Dulce and I trod up the wide gravel pathway towards the famous tower. Dulce wondered why they had to have the tops of the trees trimmed flat. I told that the reason might be to show off the charming old apartments flanking the park. These ancient buildings exuded a silent grandeur as they bathed in the bright spring morning sunshine and for a moment actually felt like they were smiling proudly.

We would stop and sit from time to time, sharing an Orangina.

“Pinch me, Eric” Dulce suddenly told me while we rested beside each other on one of the park benches, “and tell me that this is all a dream.”

I looked straight into her eyes and tweaked her nose.

“It’s not a dream.”

She laughed and retaliated with a tickle to my side.

The tower opened at 9am and we had around thirty minutes. We mulled around the base of the tower, taking pictures of the colorful flower beds. A line had already started but we decided not to hurry to get in it. There really was no hurry. We were on an open schedule and we had the whole day. We just sat comfortably and, as usual, watched the tourists.

We played games like who in the crowd looked the most effortlessly stylish and who could identify a Filipino first. The former was de rigueur and effortless - we always would engage in it wherever we went. The latter though was a challenge because it required a bit more on the observation department; even without hearing them speak, although there were particular gestures that are unique to Filipinos (a certain gait or a facial twitch), we still had a horribly difficult time seeing them, even in a totally alien environment where we knew these traits would stand out.

There was this beautifully ornate carousel nearby and the sight made us wonder about how Dustin was and what he was doing at the moment. We actually felt a tinge of guilt for not bringing him along but we had to be practical. Dustin was still five at the time and we figured that he was still too young to appreciate the Paris experience. We decided to return to Paris with Dustin when he was old enough.

We finally got in line when the crowd thinned and the opening ruckus settled down to something less stressful. Even looking up at the tower from the bottom was already an overwhelming experience.

"Man, I never expected this thing to be so enormous," I remarked.

"Yes, I had the same feeling when I married you."

"Really?" I replied in a proud macho voice.

"Of course!" she replied as she stared wide-eyed at my gut. "...Fat ass."

When we got to the top, we were relieved that there wasn’t a huge crowd; the initial batch of tourists was already beginning to descend. The view alone deserved a moment of silent respect. Dulce held my hand tight as we peered through a viewing window. I felt her excitement and awe as she smiled and pointed out to the vast expanse of the city. I knew that feeling because I, too, felt it.

"It's beautiful, Eric."

"Still think it's a dream?"

"Definitely feels like one."

We turned to each other and kissed.

This was the exact precise moment, atop Gustav's folly, looking down at the world, that we both fell in love again with each other and, of course, with our hostess, the beautiful Paris. I guess it's quite obvious that the city, with her romantic charm and ageless beauty (not to mention effortless style), had left us, as she had done to countless others, enthralled and falling in love.

Paris 2002, Part 2 - The Teahouse Of Babel

ericroa — Mon, 3 Sep 2007 18:04:00 GMT

Dulce and I had an early lunch in one of the Chinese teahouses that commonly found around Paris. We were on a tight budget so we planned to have our meals at the cheapest places we could find. This particular teahouse, the first of many that we would regularly eat in, was run by a young Chinese couple who greeted us in French but soon switched to English when we told them that we were tourists.

Dulce and I were discussing in our native tongue about which of the not-so-wide array of dimsum delights we would purchase. At the same time, the couple were also conversing in their native tongue. I could just imagine what one would remark when he or she would suddenly enter the tea house at that moment: Sacre bleu! Je suis dans la Tour de Babel!

During the course of our meal, I suddenly asked Dulce, just for the fun of it and because she could understand Mandarin but could not speak it, to translate what the couple were talking about. We just stopped talking then focused our ears on them while munching on our lunch of pork dumplings and "fresh" spring rolls. Then she told me in our language every detail of their conversation. Actually, there was nothing juicy to report: all business related stuff like delivery schedules and such. Then as we were beginning to laugh at the shallowness of our exercise, they suddenly just stopped talking and kept quiet.

We looked up slowly and saw that they were staring directly at us.

I think our whispering coupled with our stolen stares at them gave us away. Dulce told me that they knew we were listening in. We just played it cool. We then quietly and quickly finished our lunch then washed it all down with warm tea (hot turns to warm quite quickly in the Paris springtime), and with much shame, got the hell out of there. We laughingly vowed to ourselves never to return and to be less conspicuous next time.

Paris 2002, Part 1

ericroa — Mon, 3 Sep 2007 17:49:00 GMT

When Dulce and I reached Paris, France, we didn't know what to expect. Sure, the obligatory visits to the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre were to be...obligatory, but we wanted a very personal exerience, no guided tours; just walks across that wonderful and mysterious city.

We touched down at sunrise on a spring day at Charles DeGaulle 2 or CDG Deux as it is affectionally called. We have always marvelled at this wonderful piece of architecture by Paul Andreu from books and magazines and now we were taking it all in first hand. It was simply beautiful. This was true 20th Century architecture. The immense vaulted ceiling made my heart skip a beat. Dulce was speechless. It, the ceiling, looked lightweight and had the impression that it was floating on air.(Note: On May, 2004, a section of this terminal collapsed due to fissures in the heads of the posts supporting the main vaulted ceiling and resulting in the deaths of four)

We took a cab and crawled to the city through the morning rush hour. It reminded us of home. Our driver was a Portugese immigrant who, with limited english, tried to explain the traffic situation and was very apologetic about it. I told him that we were used to the traffic in our country and he did not need to apologize. What we weren't used to though was being hungry and sleepy that early in the morning.

We reached the Hotel Ascot Opera at the rue Monsigny. It is very near the Opera, near the big department stores, and a short walk to the Louvre. Dulce had already taken note of the different stores near the hotel while we were in the cab. Nothing escaped her almond eyes when it came to shopping. The hotel elevator was an amusing two-passenger model where you had to open the door manually. The room was small but it was clean and so was the bathroom. When we opened the windows, we realized that we were on the top floor and had a great view of the street; perfect for people watching. I suggested we go down and grab some chow but when I looked back at her from the window, she had already fallen asleep. I can still remember the way she looked that early spring morning: exhausted but beautiful.