Marlon’s World

As some of you know, I have always wanted to work in the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA) of the Philippines, thinking that perhaps my language skills (and of late, my interest in migrant workers welfare — I’m doing my Master’s thesis here in Spain on this topic) would prove to be valuable in this like of work. Recent developments in our foreign policy, however, have convinced me now more than ever that, as a former professor put it, our government is but an appendage of the White House.

The victory achieved by rights groups to have US soldier Daniel Smith convicted for raping a Filipina teenager in Subic was diminished by the very sly and underhanded move of the Arroyo Administration to transfer the convict from his jail to the custody of the US Embassy (Read story here). To add insult to injury, the embassy spokesman proffered that the said transfer was consistent with the Visiting Forces Agreement between the Philippines and USA.

Words fail me to express how I am so disgusted with the way things turned out. From where I am standing, it seems that the foreign policy of my government is just to sell human resources abroad and cover up for the mistakes committed by foreigners in my own country. And worse, both Philippine and US governments seem to think that they could fool everybody.

(In)Justice secretary Raul Gonzalez (yeah, him again!) has been very vocal about his support for this convicted rapist and has made insinuations before that Smith could be transfer to US custody anytime soon. The suspected rapist friends of Smith had been previously transferred to US installations in Japan posthaste after the court did not find sufficient evidence to convict them.

Add these incidents to the fact that the US, despite all the wars it has waged, places itself above the international courts created to try war crimes. I wouldn’t even venture into the larger questions in justifying this unjust war (i.e., where are the WMDs? where’s Osama? how much oil have you gotten?) 

This is the greatest tragedy of our time. Circumstances push us to surrender ourselves to slavery in foreign lands while our very own government forces us to give up our honor and pride in our country. The one thing that is worse than being raped is when those who are supposed to protect you, are clapping as they watch the brutality of the act.          

Mau Marcelo was named the first Philippine Idol last week. This was a very welcome news especially now that Philippine television is haunted by people with looks but without talent.

That Marcelo, a black and plump gal with very good voice, won the title serves to prove that Filipino viewers have grown tired of an industry that has grown to be so image-based over the years.

Nevertheless, one very important lesson that Mau Marcelo’s victory showed and that most accounts in the blogosphere seem to gloss over was the fact that we, the people, have the right to be heard. We have the power to choose and obtain what we ought to have.

Every time our basic rights are violated, every time those in the echelons of power try to decide for us what’s good and what’s not, every time any form of injustice cripples a system, WE MUST ACT COLLECTIVE TO PROTECT WHAT IS LAWFULLY OURS.

And I am so not talking just about Philippine Idol this time…

All men are created equal, but some are created more equal than others…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g7zlJx9u2E

An Iranian-American student got tasered (meaning, harassed and bullied stunned by a stun gun) by police officers at the UCLA. Then, to add insult to injury, the police officers were commanding him to stand up. Note that studies have shown that tasers can paralyze the human body for 10 minutes. The student was tasered four times.

I dread the day that this would happen in UP. Well, come to think of it, with the forced disappearances of those two UP girls…

Let’s make this short, sweet and quick. I’m stressed out to the max and I feel so helpless these days because…

1. My computer is broken… for the fifth time!!! I really am pissed now because I had it fixed for various problems and have paid around 160 euros already for all the repairs. I have spent enough time agonizing over the dough (RE: precious vacation money) so I decided to put an end to my misery. I applied for a new program for university students in Spain wherein a third of the price of the computer will be shouldered by the Provincial Government of Castilla y León and the University of Valladolid. In short, I have 450 euros payable in one year, or 37.50 euros per month.
2. Corollarily, I can’t continue writing my thesis because of technical difficulties. I have a meeting with my adviser within 10 days. I have everything swirling in my head, but — alas! — ours is a world that places more weight on what’s written rather on what’s learned.   
3. I am supposed to present my paper on historical morphology and language pedagogy in an international conference in Barcelona but after all the hooplah, I am more inclined now to just submit my study and forget about attending the meet-and-greet part. Why?, you asked. Let’s just say that of all the things I hate, it is the lack of organization that really bugs me.    

So there. I wanted to write something about the UP tuition increase (as did Florian), but I have to get my wares fixed first before I bitch big time.

My last stop in Portugal was Fatima. I could’ve chosen other more tourist-y destinations such as Oporto, Evora or Coimbra but I decided to go to Fatima for very sentimental reasons. About two years ago, my parents made a pilgrimage to Lourdes when they were in Europe on official business. My Mom wanted to include Fatima, but as they were travelling on a very tight budget, the two were only able to visit Lourdes.

Now that I am in Europe, I had planned to pass by Fatima even for just a day once my schedule and finances permit me. This year, fortunately, I learned that the Feast of the Holy Rosary, October 7, would fall on a First Saturday. True, I could go to Fatima on the feast day of the Virgin on the 13th, but then again I figured that there would be a lot of people in Portugal by then. Besides, October 7 falling on a Saturday is an equally auspicious occasion to visit the Shrine.

The Filipino nuns here in Valladolid who have become good friends had previously given me the contact number of a cheap hostel in Fatima. They told me that the owners charge only 20 euros per night. After calling the hostel, though, I was told that they were already full as the entire Franciscan community of Portugal had scheduled their annual pilgrimage to the Shrine on the same date. This was about a month and a half before I went to Portugal. Left with no other option, I opted to book a three-star hotel 100 meters from the Sanctuary. They charged 45 euros, which was very steep for my student budget, but between having nowhere to sleep and booking the cheapest of the expensive accommodations, I’d go for the second option. Besides, it’s my first time to pay for luxury (my Paris hotel was courtesy of a family friend), so with that carpe diem mentality, I went ahead and booked a single room with all the works.

I left my Lisbon very early. The housekeeper was still asleep so I just silently found my way out of the place. I had paid my rent the night before to avoid any hassles in the morning. Originally, I had planned on taking the metro from Pombal directly to the Jardin Zoologico where the bus station to Fatima was located. Unfortunately, at 6AM, no one’s awake in Lisbon except for the bus drivers, the taxi drivers and a handful of daring tourists like me. So I was forced to take the cab from Pombal to the bus station. The funny thing was I kept on insisting to the driver to take me to the Jardin Botánico but the driver who kept on answering in Portuguese said that there’s no Jardin Botánico en Lisbon. Silly me. (A word of caution: as a general rule, Portuguese speakers can easily understand Spanish speakers but Spanish speakers cannot understand the Portuguese. The guidebook says so and I so confirm it.)

Once in the bus station, I fell in line to get my bus ticket. As this was early there was only one service counter open. Before me were a group of English- and French-speaking tourists so the waiting was very agonizing since the transaction took a longer time to be finished. When it’s finally my turn to buy the ticket, I was told that the first trip to Fatima at 7AM was already full. They offered me a place on the second trip that would depart at 8AM. So I bought the ticket, went to the toilet to freshen up a bit, got some coffee and pastry to eat and waited for the bus.

Fifteen minutes before departure, the bus to Bragança with the first stop in Fatima started calling the passengers. It’s very touching to see that bus: people like me dressed in something blue, the Virgin’s color, all taking about fulfilled prayers. In fact the man with whom I share the bus seat was a middle-age African. He was praying the rosary from Lisbon to Fatima so I am guessing that he had prayed all 20 mysteries since the trip lasted 1 1/2 hours.

When I got to Fatima, my first instict was to get a cab from the bus station to my hotel. I wanted to catch the 10 AM rosary in the Sanctuary and by the time I got all my stuff out of the bus trunk it was already 9:40 AM. My 45-euro rent worked out just fine, thank God, for the hotel was very near the Shrine. So I just dropped off my bags in the concierge, told the guy that I had a reservation in the place at 4:00 PM and that I wanted to attend the rosary and the mass in the Basilica at 10.

This sounds cheesy, but when I finally stepped on the grounds of the Shrine, there seemed to be an inexplicable peace that wafted through the whole place. Not because of any other-worldly phenomenon or ethereal manifestation. I felt peaceful at seeing people on their knees walking from the end of the gates toward the chapel of the Virgin, a good 300 meters, I would say. There were those who spent the entire rosary and mass weeping in front of the statue of the Virgin enshrined on the exact spot in Cova da Iria where she appeared for the final time in October 13.

Elsewhere, inside the Basilica, endless queues of people paid homage to the three visionaries of Fatima: Blessed Francisco at the right-hand side, and Blessed Jacinta and Sister Lucia on the left-hand side. Of the three, only Lucía reached adulthood and in fact died just two years ago. Siblings Francisco and Jacinta died early, as prophesied by the Virgin. The faithful offered candles both in the exterior candelabra and to the altar of the three visionaries. It was curious (for me, at least) that there were candles shaped like a foot, a heart, a baby, a house, a car, etc. I was told that these came from people who asked for cures, for babies, for some material comfort, and once fulfilled, they returned to Fatima to give thanks. I, on the other hand, had no particular favor to ask and I was just thankful for everything so I just offered three regular-shaped candles.

After the 11 AM Mass, I went out to explore the grounds. I found the official Sanctuary shop and I bought a nice rosary and an image of the Virgin to bring to the Philippines. Since the rosaries were a bit costly for my budget, I chose to buy my other gifts to the family outside the Basilica. (The day after, I saw a shop that was selling rosaries at 1.25 euros so there I bought my other souvenirs.)

Then I went rummaging for lunch. Just outside the Shrine, in an underground restaurant, I ordered Bacalhau a Casa (bacalao in Spanish) which, according to the nice waiter, was codfish breaded, fried and served with potatoes and salad. After having savored Lisbon’s gastronomy, I was sure that nothing would surprise me. I was wrong. After about two minutes of waiting, the jolly guy came out with a serving dish much very much the same as that clay receptacle placed beneath plant pots in the Philippines to avoid water from seeping to the furniture. This container, though, was glazed and handpainted with quirky designs. In it was an overflowing mound of lettuce, carrots, cucumber and olives, lightly dressed with olive oil and Balsamic vinegar. Once some of the salad was transferred onto my plate, I discovered a layer of crispy homemade potato chips flavored by the vinagrette "seepage" of the salad. But the piece de resistance was definitely the fish. It was no wimpy serving of fish. If you know how steaks are served in our restos in the Philippines, it is how they serve bacalhau in Portugal. I got two fish steaks, both 3/4 of a ruler in length and about 2 inches thick. The meat was crunchy on the outside and moist on the inside, and the best way to eat it was to re-drizzle the salad dressing onto the fish. For the first time in months, I surrendered before food.

I returned to the hotel to rest a bit. Since I was basically a stranger to tourist comforts, card keys and automatic lighting and big bath tubs and carpeted floors still amazed me. My toilet was sealed with the words "disinfected" and my sink was filled with bathsoaps, shampoo, shower caps, sewing kits, etc. The fact that the chambermaid knocked to offer me a bottle of water on a tray shocked me so much that I was tempted to take home the bottle with me as souvenir.

After a brief nap, I went to the Rua dos Pastorinhos 2 kilometers from the Shrine. This was were the three visionaries first saw the Virgin and received Holy Communion from an angel. The path was solely intended for pedestrians and the rustic feel was deftly preserved perhaps to make the pilgrims feel what it was like during the time of the apparition. Along the path, chapels dedicated to each of the 15 Stations of the Cross were erected and pilgrims could pass by each, say a prayer and continue toward the shrines.

After the 8th Station in Valinhos, a Chapel marking the spot where Mary first appeared to the children could be found. Going a little bit further, one could choose continuing the visit toward the Calvary chapel or make a detour to Loca do Anjo where an angel gave communion to the young shepherds. In this Ledge of the Angel, people usually throw a picture as a form of thanksgiving. Luckily, I had one in my passport so I threw it to the place.

In the evening, I attended the anticipated Spanish mass at 7:15 PM and the International Rosary at 9:30 PM. Since it was the First Saturday, there was a candlelight vigil and procession. The feeling was superb: everyone participated and said his Our Fathers and Hail Marys in his own language. The Glory Bes and the Hail Holy Queen (Salve Regina) were sung in Latin.

Next morning I woke up, ate breakfast and paid for my hotel. I used my debit card since I wasn’t sure if I would have extra expenses on my way to Spain. I deposited all my stuff in the concierge as I wanted to hear the 11 AM International Mass which would take about 2 hours, thus exceeding my checkout time.

The Mass was very moving since all the organized pilgrim groups who came to Fatima joined in the processional with their banners and guidons. The Virgin was then taken out of the Cova da Iria chapel and processed toward the main outdoor altar. I was lucky to have secured my seat on the steps an hour before as it was the most accessible and privileged place to hear mass for those who had no chairs. At the end of the Mass, the Virgin was processed back to her altar as a sea of white handkerchiefs waved to bid her farewell. I saw many an eye crying, people in their twilight years on wheelchairs, young couples with their kids on their shoulders, Catholic faithful from diverse backgrounds and experiences.

At about 1:30 PM I searched for a new place to eat. For some weird reason, I wanted to eat beef. I found a reasonably-priced restaurant just across my hotel and I asked the waiter if he had any beef dish good with a small portion enough for just one person (I still could remember my bacalao the day before). He said he had and it was called Jardineira. Good. And the price was indeed just half of the standard plate. So I waited for my lunch and, whaddayaknow, the waiter placed before me a smaller version of the clay receptacle but with a heaping serving of beef stew with string beans, carrots and peas.

Like a fattened pig, I half-rolled my way to the shops of Fatima to check out other curiosities. Fatima is like our Tayuman with shops upon shops of images, religious articles, etc. In one shop, in fact, saints that I never knew existed had their representation in wood or fiberglass.

At around 3:30 PM I asked the concierge to call a taxi to take me to the train station. It was a good thing that I paid the hotel with my card since when I was about a third of the way from the hotel and the meter already registering 5 euros, I realized that I forgot the Virgin statue I purchased the day before in the hotel and had to go back to get it. All in all, I paid the taxi guy 32 euros instead of the normal 22 (the train station is about 22 kilometers from the center of town). From there, at 5:30 PM, I took the train and reached Valladolid at 1:30 AM. I was worn-out, sunburnt and cash-strapped, but I was happy. This was my first international trip alone and I was glad that I did it in Portugal.

So after eating dinner, I dragged myself to my hostel at the other end of the Avenida da Liberdade, which was like 30 minutes away from the Praça de Rossio.

If there’s one thing that should be said about lodgings in Europe, it’s the fact that most — if not all — command a higher rent for the location and not for the facilities. Meaning, a dinghy hostel with bedbugs and whatnot may have a bigger asking price than, say, a posh place 30 minutes away from the main city square.

My hostel, Residencial Dom José, is a family-run lodging near the Praça do Marques de Pombal. Both exteriors and interiors were old but the rooms were clean, water ran 24 hours, there’s cable TV and the staff members were really kind and accommodating. Besides, the age of the place added a quaint, old-world feel to the hostel.

The minus points, though, were the location and the lack of elevators. Besides the Praça de Pombal and the Botanical Garden, there’s basically no other tourist site within a 200-meter radius. And when you come from Spain stressed out with your maleta and a camera the size of a baul, climbing three flights of stairs wouldn’t really relax the nerves. However, as I am a perpetual travel whore, I rather spend less on lodgings and spend more on entering museums, buying souvenirs and eating. (My main requirements for any hostel, from the most to the least important: private bedroom, round-the-clock running water, private bathroom, fresh linens, free breakfast.) It’s a good thing a metro station is just 50 meters away, thus making up for the otherwise horrible location.       

October 6: I woke up early in the morning as I had everything planned out for the day and I couldn’t afford to miss an early train from the other side of town. As I have written in my previous post, fare in public transport in Lisbon is considerably less than those in other European capitals. So, after grabbing a quick breakfast of custard pie (Portugal is famous for its pastries) and a big cup of strong coffee, I took the metro from Pombal station toward Cais de Sodré, and then the fast train toward Belém.

Belém, a Lisboan zone along the coasts of the Tagus, is the Portuguese translation of Betlehem. It was established during the time when Portugal was competing against Spain as the maritime superpower of the Age of Discovery. Spain had the financial resources but Portugal had the manpower and the seas. The monarchs of Portugal named the zone after the birthplace of Christ to firmly cement the Crown’s ambition of being the new epicenter of mercantilism.

First, the freebies. I spent the first few minutes watching the Portuguese sunrise from one of the Lisboan docks. After that, I walked toward the Pradao do Descobrimentos, a monument shaped like a caravel overlooking the Tagus River. It was built in the 50s in honor of Prince Henry the Navigator, who financed many expeditions to unknown lands. Vasco da Gama, who instituted the trade route from Portugal to India, and Fernao Magalhaes, who first crossed the Pacific and introduced the Philippines to Europe, shared the limelight with Henry.

Then, walking a few more meters, I reached the Torre de Belém, a Manueline-styled building that served as lighthouse and first line of defense during the Age of Discovery. At that point, several German and Japenese tourists were arriving so I had one kind German guy take my picture since it was difficult to estimate the subject height and perspective with just my tripod. (Ever since Archie returned to the Philippines, I had to content myself with taking my own shots. As they say in Spain, Como Juan Palomo, yo me lo guiso, yo me lo como.)

At around 9:20 AM, I began walking toward the other side of the street toward the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos. I wanted to be there when it opens at 10 so as to avoid the long queues. The Jeronimite Monastery is a singular piece of architecture and is perhaps the most emblematic building of Lisbon. In fact, it is listed in many travel magazines in Europe as one of the 50 top destinations for tourists all over the world, an honor it shares with the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids of Egypt, the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the Kyoto Gardens, the Great Barrier Reef, the Swiss Alps, the cities of Rome and Venice, and the Spanish Alhambra.

So, it was understandable that I had great expectations, and the Mosteiro did not disappoint. It’s official name is Mosteiro dos Jerónimos a Santa María de Belém (Jeronimite Monastery of Holy Mary of Betlehem) in consonance with the philosophy of the Portuguese monarchs on establishing a new Betlehem.

Upon entering the Chapel, one is welcomed by two of the most famous Portuguese of all time: at the left side is the tomb of Vasco da Gama and at the right is that of Luis de Camoes, Father of Portuguese Literature and the author of the epic poetry Os Lusíadas (The Lusiads). The chapel is protected by an intricately-ornamented ceiling whose crisscrossing geometric design rested on columns on whose surface were carved a variety of floral, biblical and mythological patterns (no two columns were alike). In both wings of the chapel nearest the altar, the remains of King Manuel and his queen consort, his heir and his heir´s consort are to be found interred in marble sarcophagi. The sarcophagi, in turn, are placed on the backs of four marble elephants (two for each wing), a testament on how important India was to Imperial Portugual.

After the free chapel tour, I found my way to the celebrated cloisters of the monastery. I paid a reduced entrance fee of 2.40 euros for being less than 25 years old (A tip to young travelers: to get freebies in Europe as well as in any other tourist spot, you either have to brandish your age or your student ID.) The cloister was marvelous. The modest grass lawn is framed by a two-storey quad-shaped cloister that had the same Manueline style that the Belém tower and the chapel have. Not to be missed are the choir balcony that guards a centuries-old image of a moribund Christ and the lion fountain on the grounds that symbolizes St. Jerome, the patron of the order and probably the foremost intellectual of the Catholic Church as he was the translator of the Latin Vulgate.

An hour later, I came out ravenous so I took the opportunity to pass by Lisbon’s oldest and most famous pastry shop, the Antiga Pastería de Belém, that has been baking the original and well-known Portuguese custard pie pasteis de Belém since the 1870s. The pie costs 0.40 euros and is served with a sprinkling of confectioner’s sugar and cinammon. Since I was pressed for time, I ordered three pies to go and continued my trip to the nearest train station.

I reached Rossio just in time for lunch so I went to the same restaurant where I ate lunch the day before. The waiter suggested a pork dish, and since I was so hungry from all the walking and since this restaurant had offered very good deals, I just said yes to whatever he was offering. Again, I wasn’t disappointed. On the now familiar clay dish as big as a lasagna Pyrex were 10 slices of tender pork cooked in what I would describe as pineapple and cinnamon marinade (like our asado in the Philippines). The slices were drizzled with a cinnamon reduction and accompanied by a big serving of lettuce and cucumber salad and crispy potatoes. The usual accoutrements of soda or water, coffee and dessert came with my lunch. 

When I was fully satiated, I decided to look for the Barrio Alto. Since the day before I had been looking for this barrio and had passed through the area indicated on the map.  I couldn’t find it. It turns out that the Barrio Alto could only be reached by taking a city elevator! Named the Elevador de Santa Justa, the elevator dates back to the 19th century and is a proud structure that dominates the Lisboan skyline (Lisboa’s answer to the Parisian Eiffel, says the guidebook). If you’re not a Portuguese citizen, you have to buy an up-and-down single trip pass worth 2.50 euros. I did, and when I finally reached the top, the one adjective to describe me was "mesmerized": the view was the best, and the whole idea of having a city elevator to go up a barrio on top of a hill was priceless!

Just outside the street that connects the Elevador to the main part of the village was the Mosteiro do Carmo that used to be Lisbon’s biggest church during the Medieval period. It now houses the Archeological Museum of Lisbon.

The Barrio Alto, for its part, is a very quaint, idyllic and tranquil spot overlooking Portugal. The aristocracy of Imperial Portugal preferred Alto, while the proletariat labored in the Barrio Chiado below.

After buying some postcards, I headed towards the Praça do Comercio. It is the square that welcomes visitors who go to Lisbon on boats. The huge Arch of Triumph presides over the entire plaza and at the center the Monument of José I proudly greets dreamy-eyed tourists. The Rua do Comercio, that street behind the Praça is like Madrid’s Gran Via or New York’s 5th Avenue. All posh shops as well as endless lines of street painters selling their art are to be found there.   

I decided next to head to the Santa Apolonia train station to arrange my train itinerary. My train route was supposed to be Valladolid-Lisboa-Valladolid but it turned out that this same train passes through Fatima, my next stop, so I thought of asking them if I could take the train in Fatima instead of Lisboa to avoid hassles. After my tiring and boring walk to Santa Apolonia, I found out that the Alfama is very near the place so I might as well ignore my aching feet and walk a bit more.

Alfama is the oldest area of the Portuguese capital. The working class congregated here when the bourgeoisie left for the Barrio Alto out of fear of a possible earthquake. Ironically, when the Lisbon earthquake occurred a few years later, Alfama was the only area that remained intact. The best pictures here could be taken from the small alleys adorned by buntings and cutouts.

Within the zone is the austere Metropolitan Cathedral of Lisboa, the so-called la Sé. After seeing the Notre Dame of Paris, the Almudena of Madrid and the Basilica of St Peter in Rome, I have to confess that la Sé was a bit of a letdown. However, the real treasure of this church is the archaeological site within its cloisters.

From la Sé, I forced myself some more to climb another hill toward the Castelo Sao Jorge (the Castle of St George). The best way to climb the hill was through a tranvía, but all tranvías passing through la Sé were already jampacked and I had no interest in going down the Alfama again to get a vacant one.

The Castelo Sao Jorge is a fortress constructed by King Manuel and intended to be the bastion of defense for the Portuguese armada. The canons that line the walls of the Castelo and are directed toward the Tagus serve as witnesses to the feudal past of Portugal.

Now, centuries hence, the Castelo is perhaps the best site from where a picture of Lisbon and its coast could be taken. For a weary traveler who started his day by watching the sunrise along the Tagus River, watching the sunset from the hill of St. George is a welcome respite and a fitting end to a journey in one of Europe’s warmest capitals, both literally and figuratively.            

(To be continued…)

Just got back from Portugal. My room in Valladolid is still a mess; I have so many things to unpack and fix and keep and throw away. I still feel tired. I spent all my four days walking and running and prancing down Lisbon’s paved avenues and Fatima’s nature trail. The weather was extremely nice, lotsa sunshine and just enough sea breeze to keep things cool. I have to say that my original plan was just to see the Western-most point of Europe and attend the First Saturday devotion in Fatima. But after seeing Portugal, I think that the country has a lot of beautiful things to offer. Here’s a brief account of that escapade:

October 4: I represented Asia and the Agencia Española in the General Assembly for the international student body in Valladolid. (I will post a copy of the speech ASAP.) I thought all the while that it was just an informal gathering from what I  gathered two weeks ago from the Office of International Relations, but after I received the invitation two days before the program, I realized that the Rector and other top honchos of the University would be present, so I had to prepare something decent.

I did fairly well, I guess, and the Vice Rector for International Affairs came to congratulate me after the program (which was nice, right?). After the assembly, I was cornered by mediamen asking for an interview and a copy of the speech. After that, I was cornered by some professors and student-leaders. I was able to evade other interviewers ages later and proceeded to party with other students. I drank so much that evening, hahaha. At about 11:30 PM, I returned to the dorm to do some last-minute packing. My train to Portugal would leave at 2:30 AM and I would have to go to Lisbon with a hangover.

October 5: I thought I could get rid of the hangover by sleeping in my cabin but it turns out that it was already full when the train passed by Valladolid. The cabin was good for eight people, but if you’re travelling seven hours with all the luggage, the train ride would surely be hellish. There were four Englishmen and three Portuguese. I was the only Asian, the youngest and — to make things worse — the only one who could translate for the whole group. Therefore, the English guys (they’re around my age) would ask me to ask the Portuguese for directions in Lisboa. I would speak in Spanish, the Portuguese would answer in Spanish and Portuguese and I would translate it to English. So, in short, I arrived at Lisboa at 11:30 AM nearly insane, sleepy and with a terrible hangover.

It’s a good thing Lisboa is a friendly city. The Portuguese are famous for being happy and accommodating; they seem very talkative to Spaniards, I was told, but to a Filipino whose culture is very much like that of the Portuguese, such warmth after a grueling seven-hour travel is comforting.

Everything in Portugal is relatively cheaper: a taxi ride that would have cost 20 euros in Paris was just 5 euros in Lisboa (tip included!). So I took a cab to my hostel and it turns out that I couldn’t check in until 2PM, so I was told to take a walk while waiting. Which is exactly what I did after eating lunch.

I walked from my hostel to the Avenida da Liberdade, Lisboa’s main avenue, that leads to the Praça de Rossio, the city’s main square. There I found a nice open-air seafood restaurant that had a very interesting menu. I have to say at this point that the Portuguese eat very well at a very affordable price. My first meal in Lisboa was bacalhau omelet. I was expecting three dinky patties to be served, given the price in the menu (as a rule, my meal should not exceed 10 euros) but when the waiter placed the clay plate on the table, I just couldn’t believe it! I have an omelet half the size of a football, mounds of crispy potatoes and a hefty serving of garden-fresh salad! The clay dish where the meal was serve was as big as a Pyrex lasagna dish and was hand-painted with the emblems of Lisboa and the restaurant. The meal came with water or soda, leche flan and a demitasse of Brazilian coffee. The omelet tasted heavenly: there’s authentic codfish fillet, cream, potato bits, pepper, onions and garlic in it. It’s fried in such a way that that outer layer was crispy, the middle layer, chewy and the innermost layer, creamy.

After stuffing myself to bursting, I decided not to return to the hostel. I took the next train from the Cais do Sodré to Cascais (pronounced as Cash-ca-eesh), a coastal town an hour away from the capital. Three stops from Cascais is Estoril, probably the most famous beach of Lisboa. The beach is free and anyone can go there to sunbathe, swim or people-watch. Me, I just took pictures.

Upon reaching Cascais, I took the 403 bus that goes to Cabo da Roca. Cabo da Roca is famous for being the Western-most point of continental Europe. There aren’t a lot of tourists that go there, since one must be brave enough to take public transport that passes through the dangerous ravines of Lisboa. Besides, when you have a hangover, going to a mountain isn’t exactly what the doctor ordered.  

But all worries evaporated when I reached Cabo da Roca. It’s an exquisite cliff covered by green grass and yellowish succulents. The rocky terrain is punctuated with the azure Portuguese sky above and the gorgeous blue and blue-green hues of the Atlantic Ocean below. Europeans during the Middle Ages thought that it was in this place that the Earth ended and the boundless ocean began (so says the official certificate that the local tourism office issues to tourists who reach the spot). So there I was, on the secluded part of the cliff, talking like a madman to the Atlantic and shounting Thank you, I love you, This is it, and other things that seemed apt at the moment.

Having achieved my immediate goal in Portugal, I took the bus and the train to Lisboa. Since I really couldn’t bear my aching head and feet by then, I was ready to call it a day. I went to the Praça de Rossio, ordered a big platter of soupy rice with seafood, a big mug of beer, strong black coffee, bread with butter and sardine fillet, and a bottle of cold water. The Brazilian waiter was very kind, so kind in fact that he began to tell me his life story. Every now and then, he would pause and invite tourists to sample the menu.

In another universe I would have kicked the daylights out of him, to be honest, but on the cobbled streets of Lisboa illumined by lights, lanterns and buntings, the cool breeze blowing from the Tagus River, and the melancholic sound of the fado, the typical song of yearning among Portuguese, heard from a solitary accordion, hearing the autobiography of a Brazilian immigrant over a plate of glutinous rice seemed to make perfect sense.     

To be continued…

Kumusta na ba ang Guimaras? Ang daming naperwisyo ng oil tanker ng Petron. Ang masakit, parang walang pakialam ang maraming Pilipino.

Mga taga-Guimaras, napanood niyo ba ang pelikulang Erin Brokovich ni Julia Roberts? Puwedeng-puwede kayong mag-file ng lawsuit against those who raped your natural resources. Make them pay dearly.   

And most importantly, BOYCOTT PETRON! An oil company that’s always fast at raising oil prices but is slow to clean up its mess is evil, greedy and unjust.

This is hodgepodge Marlon at its rawest, so please bear with me. It’s 11:30 PM now in Valladolid. Everyone is quiet. Well, it’s a Sunday. Sundays are quiet, except for the seldom banter of new residents outside my room. Tomorrow’s gonna be the first day of classes in the University, so there are new people coming to the dorm. I think I’m one of the veteran dormers here. We’re only a handful. About 10, I guess. People know me here as either "the Asian," "the Filipino," "the One who Speaks English," or "the Noisy Guy on the Third Floor." I prefer the fourth one.

I can’t sleep. I’ve just finished translating a manuscript for a film and I’m nearly (just nearly) insane now. Earlier this month I was translating quite a number of texts for a hospital website. Last Saturday, my 14-year-old tutee, Alberto, came to the dorm for his weekend English classes. He comes in for two hours once a week and we talk about the X-men, Green Day and world languages.

All those things done, I still have to prepare now a 5-minute talk for Wednesday. I’ll represent AECI in the foreign students welcome party (which is just a fancy term for extolling Valladolid and its International Relations Office which, with all due fairness, is an efficient center). I can’t think of anything to say except that the mensualidad during the summer months arrive late.

And, yes, ladies and gentlemen, everything is gratis et amore. Carmen, our dorm receptionist, has been telling that there’s a thin line between charity and stupidity. Well, yeah. I totally agree. With the way people think nowadays, everything done in good faith could be considered charity. It seems that people now think that service always requires some form of personal benefit. Which is sad and absurd, since it wouldn’t be service in the first place when you demand something in return. It’s just a cold and heartless transaction. Then again, in an age when people can change partners with a blink of an eye and justify almost anything with relativism, cold and heartless transactions make a lot of sense.

Working is my morphine, I guess, since last week is undoubtedly my septimana horribilis so it’s better to drown myself with work rather than think about my worries. (No, wait, let me correct that. Slacking off is my morphine; working is just the chaser.)

In brief, my laptop crashed and I had to take it to a service shop for repair. They recovered my thesis and my pics but everything else I lost. Bummer.

Then two good people died under different — albeit equally devastating — circumstances. One was Lorelei Estores from high school; the other one was our family doctor and friend, Ildefonso Martinez. Both died unexpectedly and very sadly. I’d spare you the details and let these two gentle souls rest in peace, but let me just say that this is one of those times when you wish some other useless lunatic died instead of these two genuinely good people.

And then came typhoon Milenyo to Manila with all his wrath and fury (Milenyo is a boy, I insist). I feel thankful that (1) I’m in Spain, safe and sound, (2) my family is safe and sound, (3) they still have a roof over their heads, and (4) the power resumed immediately in Bulacan. But then again, there are a lot of people affected in other areas. It is so unnerving to be relatively okay when everyone else is not.    

On the brighter side of things, though, I’m off to Portugal on Thursday. I didn’t take any summer break so I’m kinda excited now. Besides, I think I’ll like Portugal since it’s not as touristy as Paris or as imposing as Rome. Let’s wait and see.

By the way, last night I bought a plane tickets to Belgium for just 0.99 euros. As in, 99 cents! Of course, there were additional airport fees and taxes so all in all I had to pay 20 euros. But hey, a round-trip plane ticket from Valladolid to Charleroi for 20? Not bad at all. I scheduled it for next year, right when all my pending obligations would have been finished.

Well, that’s about it for my post. I wanted to write a scathing entry on one of the inanest articles I’ve read, but I’d rather not spend my neurons on commenting on a stupidity. (Tell you what. I’d recover my forces in Portugal and you’d have your seething commentary next week. Deal?)   

Conceptually, I am in favor of federalism. I would like to streamline the Philippine bureaucracy and see a more direct representation of the people in parliament. However, the way José de Venecia and his cohorts are modeling the federal government reeks of opportunism and self-serving ideals.

And why, you ask? Let me count the reasons:

1. I am happy that writer Conrado de Quiros has pointed this out in a previous column. We have no true party system in the Philippines. All parties (Liberal, Lakas, Laban, PRP, NPC, en saecula saecolorum) are but permutations of the same mass of people who just want to be voted to office. A party needs to differ in program and platform, not in personalities and publicity. If one would go through the rhetoric during past elections, the fact that all parties have the same safe stance toward issues is enough to prove that they don’t constitute a party at all. When asked about population control, everyone would say he would do the best to answer the problem. When asked about economic nationalization, everyone would say he would do the best to answer the problem. When asked about healthcare, everyone would say he would do the best to answer the problem. Issues become parenthetical and the decision boils down to who has better campaign materials.
2. Corollarily, alternative parties are still not allowed in mainstream politics. For many, having a Communist Party or a Socialist Party in Congress in unthinkable. But this is clearly the essence of federalism: all thoughts must be represented and heard. Many an academic has commented before that the word communism has taken on so much negative meaning that people shun it automatically as being an evil concept. Which surprises me even more, since in Spain, for example, I’ve met a lot of people who publicly declares their being communists. Up until communists and socialists are slaughtered in the Philippines, no true federalism can stand. Communism and socialism are political thoughts, not moral regimen, and those who readily avoid it almost always just fear criticism.
3. We don’t have a mature voting public yet. Federalism can only be done in an ambit of political maturity, as the right to elect the Head of State is surrendered by the sovereign people to their representatives. Hence, the necessary first step to federalism is to educate the voting public. When we have a public that votes for a provincemate, or a friend from high school, or for a candidate that promises P500 easy money, federalism still has a long way to go.
4. We need to see the commitment to political change before we shift to federalism. If the essence of federalism is to reduce public spending, then those who support it should show their conviction and REDUCE PUBLIC SPENDING NOW SANS FEDERALISM. I dare those politicians who campaign for a federal Philippines to begin by reducing their pork barrel funds and by reducing their staff now. I also dare them and their families, if and when federalism has been carelessly adopted, not to run for public office for the first federal term, thus showing us that the change of the form of government stems from a need to overhaul the system, and not from the greed to stay in power.
5. Change the form of government through the people, and not through representatives. De Venecia and his cohorts fail in this test, for they apparently want to change the form of government as fast as they could without the broadest representation of the sovereign people. We, citizens, ought to be very afraid since if these politicians can and do things according to their own caprices even before a federal government is instituted, then just imagine how they would maneuver the government during federalism.