On Water Conservation: Ideas From The Home of Architect Avery Go

The tiny pond with "floating" steps.

If houses could speak, what stories would they tell?  In many ways, we can think of home-building as story-telling; of architects as authors; and of elements of design as pathways to the homeowner's inner mind.  So when I found out we were invited to dinner to the home of our friend, Architect Avery Go and his wife Kit, I was excited to go! I so looked forward to great conversations, with the proud new homeowners, and the home they built... yes, I planned to converse with the house, I was ready to listen to what it had to say.  And the house seemed to sense my desire to communicate - it shouted at me as our car turned the corner into their street..."psssst!!!!  I am here", it said.  You see, Avery seemed to be playing a trick on his guests. His house did not have a number displayed outside, as though on purpose. And our driver was about to pass it by... but it called out to me. So I asked him to stop. "That's the house" I said.  And so it was.

Air-con-water catch basin, with bamboo dipper.

Now this house has many things to say, but for this blog post, I will stick to sharing that one particular message that was oh so loud and clear : SAVE WATER!!, it said repeatedly.  It was a message whispered in the walls.  Literally.  All around, where ever an air-conditioning unit was installed, so too was a drain pipe built into the wall, artfully designed: accentuated with a bamboo spout, and accompanied by a huge ceramic jar serving as a catch basin.  To complete the look, a bamboo dipper rested on the rim of the jar, ready for some scooping action to wet the plants and fill the pond with water collected from air-conditioners.  It reminded me of beach resorts with indigenous-inspired design - like Pearl Farm in Davao, or Friday's Boracay. I was momentarily transported. Never before, has aircon waste made me think of beach vacations... that is, until the visit to Avery's house.

The sink-with-three-faucets.

Towards the back, behind the kitchen, in the utility area, another quiet corner had it's own story to whisper. The Sink-With-Three-Faucets was no ordinary sink. It was profoundly linked to the entire house, from top to bottom.  Nope, having three faucets did NOT strike me as redundant. It was brilliant!  SAVE WATER! the three faucets seemed to say in chorus.  Faucet one was the usual faucet, like everyone else's. It is water that is linked to a service provider, and paid for each month.  Faucet number two...and here's where I find much inspiration, is linked to the roof's drain pipes and gutter system which flow into a rain catch basin and reservoir. How wonderful it is to use water provided by mother nature! For free!  And then there's faucet number three... which is linked directly to an al fresco over-sized tub on a deck just above the Sink-With-Three-Faucets.

The custom-built, concealed, outdoor tub.

Now this outdoor tub is a lovely idea - outdoors, but concealed with vegetation - it offers both freedom to be out in the open, and privacy from prying eyes.  It is a favorite hang-out for Avery and Kit's little kids. And they have organic soap on hand, the certified-environment-friendly variety, for when they want to use the tub for a good soak.  Seeing the tub reminded me again of resorts with signature outdoor baths - places like The Farm at San Benito... and Mandala Spa and Villas in Boracay.  I usually think of huge tubs as wasteful, but not in this house.  After being used, the water is collected, and drains into the third faucet, and gets used for cleaning the floors and tiles of the patio, and the slats of the outdoor deck, and even to water plants, or fill the pond.  Now this lovely little pond, is worth another chapter! It is almost a self-sustaining little ecosystem in itself, with a thriving population of frogs and fish.  He pointed to a lily pad where an adorable little green frog was sitting regally like true blue royalty.  It was making this captivating sound, a mating call perhaps? If I wasn't already married, I would have given it a kiss! But I already have my prince, so I could no longer be tempted by an enchanting frog.

Avery, showing us his pond's resident creatures.

I loved the many ways in which this house tells the story of the need to conserve water.  The objective of harvesting water is integral to the house's design, and is incorporated into everything, from the roof's gutter system, to the water pipes embedded in the walls, to the pond running along the length of the house - everywhere, water is collected, and reused, beautifully.  The execution is clean, and subtle - whispered elegantly - and not shouted out from rooftops, like the usual oversized, super-shiny water tanks found in many Filipino homes.  

Now, I finish this post without having really shown you the lovely house of Avery and Kit - but that's really their story to tell.  I don't feel guilty sharing their great ideas about water conservation though - for if we all find inspiration from the example set by their home, and if we all find ways to catch more rain water for our daily use, instead of sucking dry Manila's  supply of fresh water through groundwater pumping - if we all listened to the story their house told, and learned a lesson... it will all be for a good cause.  If a house is a window into the homeowner's mind, let me tell you the conclusion I arrived at after seeing the architect's home:  Avery Go is green-minded. Indeed.

Thanks Avery and Kit! We had a great time!

Spain Trip Diary 3: Spain by Train with the Spain Pass

A view of Spain's vast central plains... en route to Madrid.

This is one thing I love about train travel: the window becomes one big screen through which you see your destination unfold before you, placidly.  And with high speed trains, one is offered a most enjoyable contradiction: one gets somewhere fast, unhurried.  It's something wonderful, really. When going speedily, doesn't mean rushing. For me, to be on a train is to sit still, in quiet contemplation of the scenery. There's time for a long cup of coffee, and a chance to write down thoughts in my travel journal. It's a great way to see a country, especially Spain, where tracks are lain on very scenic routes through the Iberian peninsula's variegated landscapes. Where many breathtaking ancient fortress-cities sit atop hills, and can be seen from the distance.  Spain's railway system is one of the best in the world: extensive, efficient, and exciting.  Covering the country's plains, and hugging its coasts, crossing its rivers and ravines, and cutting through cities, it is a truly rewarding experience to be on a train in Spain. So when I found out there was a new SPAIN PASS offered by RENFE, Spain's railway operator, I was absolutely thrilled. 

Our first trip with our Spain Pass, from Barcelona to Valencia.

The SPAIN PASS is a product designed exclusively for foreign tourists. One must present a passport to purchase it.  The cheapest one costs 165 Euros for 4 trips anywhere in Spain! No matter the distance! And on the nice kinds of trains too - any of them! - from the popular high speed AVE, or the sleeper-car equipped Trenhotel, or the coastal Euromed and Alaris trains.  Whether one wanted to travel from North to South from Bilbao to Sevilla; or East to West from Barcelona to Santiago de Compostela... one could do so for the price of one regular-prized trip on a high-speed train! One could choose more trips, for a higher price, ... and the ticket would be valid until the following year.

In the past, travelers to Europe relied on the EURAIL Pass for this kind of flexibility and convenience.  When my father first visited Europe in 1979, he used his EURAIL pass extensively, fully exploiting the unlimited rides by visiting 33 cities.  When he took us to Europe in the early 1990's, he bought EURAIL passes again, but by that time, there were many restrictions already: we had to apply for visas for all the countries we'd pass through, and some trains required supplemental fees.  Nowadays, with the Schengen visa, crossing borders is no longer as tedious for Filipinos touring Europe (thank God!).  We weren't planning on crossing borders though, our trip was dedicated solely to Spain, so I looked up the EURAIL SPAIN PASS and compared it with RENFE's own SPAIN PASS.  In the end, RENFE won the contest. And here's why: it was cheaper, and valid for longer, and could be bought at the train station, and it measured usage by the number of trips.  In contrast, the EURAIL SPAIN PASS cost just a little bit more, was valid for a shorter period, had to be bought overseas, and measured usage by the day.  Both options have their pros and cons, and I would still consider the EURAIL alternative when planning future trips, but for this particular trip, RENFE's Spain Pass suited our requirements best. 

Unlike in planes, they don't make you turn off your gadgets on a train :-D

In this age of budget airlines, taking the plane may be cheaper than the train, but it may involve a bit more pain... it would mean queueing up at the airport, going through check-in and boarding procedures, waiting to board, being squished into cramped seats, then traveling from the airport to the city center. Trains, on the other hand, especially in Spain, usually mean comfortable seats, and strategically located train stations in the heart of the city. And with high speed trains, the travel time has been reduced tremendously that it is comparable to flying. Train travel is really attractive, if only it wasn't so expensive! My initial search showed a plane ride from Barcelona to Madrid could cost as little as 39 Euros on Vueling airline, while the AVE train would cost 139 Euros... whoa! - that's a big difference. Good thing the Spain Pass arrived! It was released to the market days before we traveled to Spain. I was using RENFE's website to plan our trip, and I visited the site daily to study the timetables, and one day, I saw the announcement: "New!" it said, "Discover Spain with the Flexible Spain Pass". Woohoo! I felt the universe conspiring to give me a great trip :-D  

The product was so new, that when we arrived in Barcelona, the attendant at the sales counter had to ask for help from colleagues in inputing our information and preparing our pass - "It's my first time to do this" he explained.  It was the same story in Valencia where another first timer prepared our ticket and had difficulty fulfilling our request to be seated together.  "The system only allows me to book one person at a time and it chooses the seats"...he said, "but let me try to figure out how to assign you seats that are together", and he patiently worked on it, while we patiently waited. By the time we got to Madrid a few days later, the railway staff had gotten used to the Spain Pass. Our tickets were processed quickly, and we were assigned adjacent seats in a flash.  Just like that, in a span of a few days, it was no longer "new"... even the website removed the "new" label formerly attached to the Spain Pass icon.  They've ironed out the kinks, fast.  

At the train cafeteria with my cafe con leche, bocadillo, and guide books!

As soon as we boarded our Euromed train to Valencia, I just had to visit the train's cafeteria for my cafe con leche and bocadillo de jamon y queso.  I bit into my first taste of Spain in over a decade since I last left it when I turned in my MA thesis and left for home back in 2002.  As a graduate student in Spain, I've taken this train many times, and memories came flooding back as I viewed the unfolding landscape. We passed by the dry mountains of the Costa de Azahar...and I remember climbing those mountains before. Oh wow! When did I last have the energy to climb a mountain?  Then we saw endless rows of olive trees; then orange groves; and stretches of beaches and the vast blue sea.  It was all so exciting, and calming at the same time.

Valencia's charming Estacio de Nord, right next to the bullring.

We just came from a long haul flight from Singapore, and we've been traveling for nearly 24 hours straight since we left our house in Manila, and I was neither tired nor energized - I was in that confusing zone between wanting to move and wanting to rest, too excited to sleep, but too tired to run... and for this ambivalent state of mind, being on a train was perfect. I was moving, while standing still (or should I say, gently swaying) in the train's cafeteria.  I was traveling - by looking out the window, but also resting, retreating into silence, free from the obligation to talk.  I was looking out, and looking in, reconciling past and present, I was both cooling down from the flight, and warming up for the days of traveling ahead. A train ride, is like an incubator of sorts, a place to extend gestation for a bit longer, after already being delivered into the world.   A trip, like an idea, can benefit a lot from a period of incubation.  Plans can develop and mature appropriately in situ, and no amount of pre-planning can compare to being there at the destination, at that very moment. Then, and only then can you tell how many layers of clothing will be sufficient for the current temperature; and how much money you'd willingly spend for a good meal. Guide books and on-line fora can provide advice, but only you can gauge for yourself, your personal threshold of comfort.  All these qualitative assessments can happen only in context, when you arrive. A train ride, after a plane ride, is a perfect occasion for such  musings.

And in Spain, some train stations are destinations in themselves.  Valencia's Estacio de Nord, for instance, greets visitors with proud displays of the region's locally produced ceramic tiles. The ornate old mosaics on the walls and ceilings are often accompanied by contemporary art installations and exhibits, making the train station a museum-gallery of sorts.  In Madrid, the Atocha train station is like an indoor garden, an oasis of sorts, teeming with plants from rain forests.  The shops and restaurants under the grand garden atrium give a taste of the bustling scene outside.  We lunched at Samar Kanda, an elegant restaurant on a terrace overlooking the train station's tropical garden.  Like a secret little place, the restaurant was shielded from view, and located far from the busy corridors of the huge train station.  We "incubated" for a moment, hatching our plan of attack for taking on Madrid.  The restaurant gave us a sense of being outdoors on the street, without the biting cold, and fear of pickpockets. We felt warm and safe, and after a good meal, we felt ready for our adventure.

At Samar Kanda Restaurant in Madrid's Atocha Train Station.

When I traveled with my mother in Spain back in 2000, we took the train and she mentioned how she used to take the train from Manila to Bicol.  "I took you when you were a baby, you were in a bassinet on my lap, and I held you throughout the ride, lifting you when the train swayed and jumped, so you wouldn't wake up".  Wow. I could imagine my mom, my indefatigable, self-sacrificing, nurturing and tender mom, not being able to sleep so I wouldn't wake up.  That's the kind of mother she was.  And maybe that's why I feel happy in trains, reminded of my mother, and how she lulls me to sleep, swaying me from side to side when I was a baby, the way she does with my children now.

I can't wait to take my children on train rides, so we can see the world unfolding, together. I find myself now, echoing the dream once made by my father when he first went to Europe: "someday, I'll bring my children here".

Spain Diary 2: Our Roast Suckling Pig Story in Toledo

My hefty serving of cochinillo, at Restaurante Don Diego, Toledo, Spain.

You are what you eat. And we found out in Spain, just how Filipino we were, when we bit into the crispy skin of their famed cochinillo, or roast suckling pig, and all we could think of were pork dishes from home.   We were in historic Toledo, which has the reputation of being that one city that best offers a window into the Spanish soul.   It is a common saying that if one has only a day to spend in Spain, one should spend it in Toledo.   And we were told that cochinillo was a specialty of the region.  So we we trained our eyes on our culinary goal - to find a good restaurant where we could get a taste of this famed dish.  Thus began an epic journey, a laborious search for good pork.  We felt like knights in search of the holy grail. Seriously.

Behind me, the historic walled city of Toledo, Spain's old capital.

When my husband Oliver purchased a sword from one of Toledo's shops (for they are well known for sword craft as well), we asked the shop owner to recommend a good restaurant. We mentioned cochinillo and they started to swoon - "es muy rico" they kept saying, repeatedly, and with appropriate gestures to match.  They gave us the name of a restaurant, and the name of the person to look for, and directions that didn't really help. We got lost.  Toledo's medieval paths are bound to play tricks on the mind. It is like entering a maze.  And with hunger comes poor judgement.  The cobblestone steps and the hilly terrain didn't help ease our pain. We were tired, confused, and desperate.  I asked for directions at another shop, and mentioned the magic word cochinillo, and the shop owner swooned again, and said "es muy rico!", and proudly pointed us to another restaurant, with a business card this time, and she wrote her name on the piece of paper to show the waiter, so he'd treat us like her guests.  We showed this card to locals, and we were directed up and down, and on and on, through more winding streets, until at last, we walked through the entry arch of a walled compound, and found a restaurant tucked in a corner of an inner courtyard... a secret place frequented by locals.

After a long search, at last! We found this restaurant.

  

Meson Restaurante Corral de Don Diego, it was called.  And the waiter swooned and responded with "es muy rico" as soon as we said the magic word.  Like a prayer, the word cochinillo, when uttered, got a reverent response. You could tell the locals were very proud of this dish.  It will take some time to prepare, we were told. And though we were starving, we said we could wait. We've walked this far and waited this long, surely, we won't quit now? So while waiting for our food, we took the time to appreciate the restaurant's interiors.  We chatted with the owner, who introduced us to a local painter, seated at the bar with what could have been his nth drink for the day.  He painted the murals on the walls of the dining hall, which looked like a mini shrine for the worship of meat.  There were legs of ham hanging from the rafters, and deer antlers displayed on the walls.  It was quaint and cozy, warm and oh so charming. It was a tough choice deciding whether we'd sit indoors, or out in the courtyard.  We later decided to sit outdoors to take in more of Toledo's sights and sounds.

The restaurant's charming interiors.

While waiting for our main course, we started our meal with a lovely spread of vegetables: fresh tomatoes, and grilled asparagus with sea salt, and mushrooms with bacon bits drizzled with olive oil. Oh that was so good.  These are not the usual vegetables we find in the Philippines... not the same size, and not the same texture.  We also ordered a plate of piping hot paella with tasty langoustines.  We were properly primed for the main course. We were so ready for the cochinillo, we summoned the waiter and asked if it was ready...and it was! 

And so it came.  In a plate so huge it felt like a platter, it came. Each of us had a daunting serving of cochinillo that looked like a quarter of a piglet.  My husband, a true meat lover, looked so excited as he started to dig in.  We took our first bites. Then there was silence.  Then we started to chuckle. One can't control the direction one's thoughts would take. A bite of succulent pork will trigger instant associations, unfiltered, uncontrolled.  For Oliver, it was Mang Tomas lechon sauce.  Wala bang sarsa? he asked playfully.   For me, the sauceless roast pork reminded me of lechon Cebu! I was in Toledo, Spain but I was doing a mind trip to Toledo, Cebu!!!  Or more precisely, to Toledo's neighboring town of Carcar, and its wet market where lechon is bought by the kilo, and where Oliver and I had our last pork feast early this year.  Mama was reminded of pritchon, the deep fried suckling pig, especially the one served at our wedding, the one our guests continued to rave about long after Oliver and I exchanged vows.  We were unanimous in thinking this cochinillo is not the best roast pork we've ever had... not that it wasn't any good. It was good. It was worthy of the "es mur rico" phrase the locals described it with. It was rich.  But our palates were proudly Filipino, and completely decolonized. 

My husband, ever the meat lover, excited to dig in.

Of course there's a part of me (and my husband shares this too, I think) that aspires for some degree of cosmopolitan culinary connoisseurship. There's a part of me that wishes for my taste buds a kind of world citizenship.  We wish to savor global cuisine and to appreciate authentic dishes in their own terms, as they are intended by local chefs for their local audience.  Oliver praised the cochinillo's subtle flavors which offered an opportunity to better taste the meat, in its purity, without being masked by too many condiments.  I tried to enjoy the cochinillo's crispy skin as it crackled between my teeth.  "Es muy rico", indeed (although Mama stands by her assessment: "no tiene sabor"). Much as we enjoyed our meal, with our bottle of bubbly, comparisons to our versions of roast pork were inevitable, and a sort of gustatory nationalism surfaced.  Just as the numerous works of masters at Museo del Prado made us want to revisit Juan Luna's "Spolarium" at our National Museum, so too did our cochinillo adventure make us want to have some of our own Pinoy-style lechon.

As luck would have it, my sister was in Cebu while we were in Spain. And she bought a few kilos of lechon Cebu to bring home to Manila.  How fortuitous it was, that she arrived at our house bearing gifts of pork, on the very evening we arrived from the airport.  The lechon we craved was right at our table. It was one warm welcome of the splendid kind. Truly, there's no place like home.  

Spain Trip Diary 1: Return To Castellon and Benicassim

Castellon's Cathedral and Tower, in the town center.

If you were pressed for time and had an entire country full of wonderful sights to visit, would you choose to spend a day retracing steps and visiting old friends? Or would you save precious travel time for new places you haven't seen before?  This was a choice I had to make a few weeks ago, while planning our trip to Spain.  My sense of history took over. I decided to make a stop in Castellon de la Plana, where I completed my MA in Peace and Development Studies exactly 10 years ago. So much has changed in ten years, with the city, and with me. But so much has remained the same - there are things that don't change: the medieval cathedral and the tower beside it; the central market just across the square, the fountain in the middle, the cobblestone steps, and tiny streets with their tiny shops that close for siesta. And my memories of the place - those too are unchanging.  I will always feel forever 21 when I walk Castellon's streets.  

Calle Enmedio, the street of my old school - and the Mango store in the corner.

I was 21 when I received my scholarship to study in Spain, and I moved away from home for the first time. It was my initiation into adulthood, my first taste of life without my parents' protection and support. I learned a lot of painful lessons: for the first time I felt hunger when all shops were closed for holidays and I couldn't feed on the cash in my pockets.  I just had to wait it out, and sleep with an empty stomach, and a lonely heart, in the cold of winter, thousands of miles away from the warmth of family.  That's the thing about Spain. It shuts down when it feels the need to: for siesta and fiesta, for a general strike, or even for an epic football match.  Once, my sister and I waited at a railway station, for a train that didn't come as we made our way home from a day of teaching English in the mountains of Vall d'Uixo.  We decided to finally leave, and we walked across deserted fields in the fading light, encountering no one for too long in the tiny town of Xilxes/Chilches, just outside Valencia.  I couldn't shake off the feeling of isolation I felt then.  

The plaza I passed by daily, for a stop at the Cathedral, and Central Market.

And even now, ten years later, in the deserted plaza of Castellon at siesta time... it all came coming back to me, the loneliness and alienation I once felt here.  Coming from the heat and the hustle, the chaos and color of Manila's streets, Castellon was cold and quiet on most days (unless of course at fiesta time called "Magdalena" when the streets reverberate with bangs and booms of the loudest firecrackers known to man). The loneliness of regular days is probably the reason why I learned to party hard here, to dance and drink until morning came, so I could load up on momentary happiness to fortify me for the long stretches of sadness ahead.  But it wasn't really the parties and people that gave me the most comfort and solace while I was here. It was really the lessons I learned in class - I did learn a lot with my MA, life-changing lessons that fundamentally shook me to the core and left me with new frameworks for seeing the world and my place in it.   My mind opened up here, and learned countless lessons not only from books, but also from conversations with teachers and classmates from all over the world, and also from Spain's streets and the way of life of its people.  Being a Filipino in Spain is an intellectually rewarding experience - one sees so much to reflect on - everywhere - as though every moment offers a means of discovering an antecedent, a cultural root of sorts, an old link in a chain that spans across the ages, and the seas, and leads back home.   

Casa Ana, my favorite cafe for studying, where I learned about Focault, Derrida, Said etc.

I walked past Casa Ana, a cafe I used to frequent.  It was here that I pored over my course readers in philosophy and learned about Focault and Derrida, and Feminism, and Orientalism, among many other "isms" which I came to understand with the help of countless cups of cafe con leche.  It is still here. MY merienda place.  I am happy to see it hasn't changed much - that it is still in the same spot, serving the same food. It takes me back in time, as though I were visiting 2002.  I walked past the Post Office, passing under the arched entryway in front that says Correos y Telegrafos. It is a beautiful brick building with a lovely interior to match. I used to come here to fill up boxes with Spanish goodies to send to my parents, to give them pieces of my life. I always loved this building, and how it linked me to my loved ones.   

Castellon's Correos y Telegrafos, the post office where I sent off boxes headed for home.

Then it was time to meet with old friends who call Castellon home.  "I can't believe you're here! I've missed you!"my good old friend Penny squealed when she saw me. And I wanted to cry.  It's like the distant past collapses with the present.  It is peculiarly disconcerting, how our conversation was so clear, despite the confused time frames.  To hear her voice again, and the distinct way she spoke, it was just like yesterday. "You haven't changed a bit!" she told me. And I couldn't believe what she said. We both changed, of course, profoundly! - but in a way, she was right. It didn't feel like ten years had passed.  She was as I knew her, and perhaps I was, in her presence, how she knew me - even if I am a mother now, and no longer the center of my world as I used to be. It was fun! It was great, great fun to be having tapas in Spain with my Spanish friend. 

Penny at a Tapas Bar in Castellon's La Salera Mall.

Penny drove me to Benicassim, the beach resort town where  students of the Masters Program used to live, where we had many barbecues and brunches, volleyball games on the beach, and parties that drove the neighbors mad... where we cooked dinners for one another, and made family out of strangers... where we laughed and cried, and learned life's lessons, good and bad.  It's a place of love and heartache... which seemed like big, big things back then, when we were in our early twenties.  Now in our thirties, haha... we know better now.   

The entrance to Orange Park, my old apartment complex in Benicassim.

Orange Park hadn't changed at all! It looked exactly the same. The same whitewashed low fence, the same orange sign, the same plants in the same spots. Wow. De ja vu.  I felt like I had walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone.  It was as though I'd see my old dog Sandy, running towards me any moment. I felt like grabbing my rollerblades and gliding down the street.  

Add caption

I missed my sister who shared this time in Spain with me... she should have retraced these steps with me too!  Oh well, that's a plan in the making. We can keep returning to Spain at various points in our lives, until we're old and retired. But that's way off in the far, far future. In the near future though, I could imagine returning to Castellon again soon, with my husband and kids.  So I could tell my daughter and son where mommy used to live and study.  Before turning in at the end of my day in Castellon, I stopped by the lovely shop called "Imaginarium" where I picked out Spanish children's books for my kids to read, so they can have a piece of Spain.  

With Sidi, Sophia, and Dori, at the Graduate Building, Universidad Jaume I.

The next morning, I visited the new building in Universitat Jaume I, where the Masters Program now holds its classes.  In a way, I am not "retracing steps" because it is in an entirely new location.  But I got to see familiar faces, of Sophia and Dori who worked with the program back then, a decade ago, and my old classmate Sidi, who is now a doctorado himself, and teaches new batches of students of Peace.

I had no regrets about taking the time to retrace my steps in Castellon and Benicassim.  Yes, there are many cities with great sights to visit all over Spain, but what Castellon and Benicassim have to offer, I cannot find anywhere else. They offer me a chance to revisit friends, re-tell stories, refresh memories, retrace steps, and re-live my personal history - even if only for a moment.  It was good to be back.

Child-Friendly Weekend in the Heart of Manila: Loving Lucky Chinatown Mall

The squeaky clean facade of the new Lucky Chinatown Mall.

I guess we're just lucky.  Oliver and I love going to the heart of Manila, in bustling Chinatown, where there's a vibrant pulse, and an infectious frenetic pace; where a dizzying spread of goods on offer are stupefyingly cheap.  Divisoria is legendary for being crazy crowded, and its not well-known for being child-friendly.  But we're lucky.  Chinatown is the newest child-friendly destination on Manila's Map, thanks to the conveniences provided by the new Lucky Chinatown Mall.  It's a spanking new mall that sits dead smack in the center of Binondo. 

Above:Binondo Church, en route to Lucky Chinatown Mall.

Dragon-adorned gate/archway signaling our entry into Chinatown proper.

It almost sneaks up on you without warning.  Driving there, we pass through the usual landmarks: Spanish-era Binondo church, old Manila buildings, and dragon-adorned entrance arches welcoming us to Chinatown.  Parking used to be a problem, in the narrow and congested streets.  Just the thought of finding parking was enough to put me off in the past.  But not anymore. Lucky Chinatown Mall comes with several levels of parking.  While a shiny new mall may stick out like a sore thumb in the historic quarter, I for one, welcome it as an idea whose time has come.  The mall isn't there to displace Divisoria's distinct shopping scene - rather - it is there to supplement it.  I can imagine a symbiotic relationship between the sanitized experience offered by Lucky Chinatown Mall, and the grittier bargaining mecca just outside. 

The glass panels above the mall's main entrance.

"Let a Hundred Flowers Blossom.  Weed Through the Old To Bring Forth the New" so says a decorative decal posted on the grand glass panels above the Mall's main entrance.  It's a fitting Chinese saying, appropriate for this part of Manila, an area with the (unverified) distinction of being the oldest Chinatown in the world - established in the 1590s by the Spanish colonizers.  Don't get me wrong. I'm not in favor of huge malls popping up everywhere (a hundred malls blossoming in the city is a scary thought for me, specially from an environmental standpoint!) And I find it lamentable when a huge mall opens up and kills smaller businesses - those independent family-run stores that have more character and are more in tune with local culture.

The Mall's Main Entrance.

But something tells me this won't be the case in Binondo.  Lucky Chinatown Mall's target market, and the kinds of stuff they sell do not compete with the stuff sold in Divisoria. To begin with, their food and merchandise tend to be pricey upmarket brands (think: Apple Store, Bread Talk, Crocs, UCC, to name a few).  They certainly have a steady supply of buyers from the locale - rich Chinese who own businesses in the area. 

 A "street performer" stationed in air-conditioned comfort at the mall's main atrium.

For Oliver and I, the mall itself is not the final destination.  It is a jump-off point, a base camp of sorts, where we'd park our car (and our kids!), before running off to bargain country next door. Oliver would weave his way through the fruit stalls on the streets, and buy several kilos of ultra-juicy Sagada oranges, a heavy load he'd deposit in our parked car.  Our kids are happy at Lucky Chinatown Mall, and have plenty of things to do while waiting for us to return from our mad dash outside. At the main atrium by the entrance, there were entertaining "street" performers - you know those types that station themselves in plazas and busy boulevards abroad - decked in costumes and pretending to be statues, still and unmoving, until some money is dropped onto their buckets/hats/tip boxes to trigger some movement.  There's a section of the mall with stores for children's fashion, and they can also spend time at the toy store and bookstore.  There's also a very nice, new cinema; a gaming arcade;  and plenty of places to eat at (there are even promos for kids to eat for free on weekends at some restaurants).  

 Narra and Guijo enjoying their noodle soup.

Salmon Roe - Nido Soup.

The Chinese food at King Chef (second floor above the entrance) is fast becoming our favorite.  Narra and Guijo were so excited with their noodle soup they were standing on their seats - every bite was executed with flourish - strands were pulled off the bowl with a fork, and slurped inch by inch from end to end (for Guijo this is accompanied with clapping and foot stomping, and happy baby babbling).  Narra also loves fishing out quail eggs from the salmon-roe-nido soup.  She's also a fan of prawns so we ordered some for her, and when they arrived, they looked particularly appetizing! They lay on a bed of tea leaves, ensconced in a striking basket-like-wrap woven "solihiya style".  It was a gastronomic feast and a cultural experience.

Prawns  on a bed of cooked tea leaves, ensconced in a solihiya-weave cone.

After our satisfying lunch, the adults in the group (that's Oliver, myself, and his sister Rina with her personal assistant in tow) parted ways with Lola Mama and the children who stayed in the mall supervised by their yayas.  We strolled - or should I say sprinted - outside.  I couldn't help but appreciate the juxtaposition between old and new.  I saw the  real estate developments towering over the usual river of colorful umbrellas. As soon as we turned the corner - the salty-sweet-sour stench of grimy streets assaulted my nostrils. The cacophony of sounds accompanying the chaotic hustle of a classic Divisoria weekend unfolded before our eyes.  And that made me glad.  Manila is alive and kicking, and we are at its heart, and it beats to its own rhythm.  I felt like a tourist, visiting my country (even if I was just here recently).

Salted prawns on a bed of crunchy tea leaves.

One can tell the area is on the cusp of an urban development facelift.  "Welcome to Chinatown Walk" it says on a huge window. And already, the facades of newer buildings can be seen though they have yet to open their doors to the public.  Here's my hope: that we do not turn the Philippines into Singapore. I've lived in Singapore long enough to respect it, and admire it for all the things it has achieved as a country in such a short time, but I found myself missing the Philippines while I was there - I missed our vibe, our rhythm, our chaos - those things that slipped out of control - the small enterprises that sprout  from the ground and blossom in all corners... I missed those real things that develop on their own - unplanned - those entrepreneural expressions that are organic rather than organized.  It's not the new mall per se that excites me, but the fact that it is here, amidst all this!  This mall has made the gem that is Divisoria ever more accessible.  The mall is there, for a measure of sanity - and sanitized toilets; but it is not there to take the place of the real reason one goes to this part of town to begin with. 

A view from a back street:Lucky Chinatown Mall's Upper Parking floors.

So here's our plan: We will come to Lucky Chinatown Mall with our kids.  We will patronize the mall, by paying for parking, and doing our groceries there, and eating at their restaurants, and watching in their cinemas, and buying stuff we need from their stores - but we will also always venture outside, for those things they do not offer - those things sold wholesale by the dozen, for fruits and other merchandise that do not find their way to grocery stores.  

The new Chinatown Walk in the heart of Manila.

When my father first saw Manila, he was 6, it was 1950, his father took him on a long bus ride from Nueva Ecija, and he was enthralled with the stately old buildings in Sta. Cruz, as he walked by his father's side, wide-eyed.  Now, it is 2012, and I get to bring my young kids here - it's only a short ride away, and we land on a stroller-friendly air-conditioned mall. But just outside, one gets a whiff of the same spirit of commerce my father saw in 1950 - it's that indefatigable spirit that remains alive from centuries past, from the Chinese trading post the Spanish colonizers established in 1590.  Who knew a new mall can make one think of history?  

So friends and family in Manila, if you haven't visited yet - Chinatown beckons anew! Go! 

A Pleasant Drive to Animal Island

Cavite-Manila Expressway all to ourselves.

Sometimes, it's the journey that counts more than the destination.  This was the case a couple of weekends ago when we ventured a bit further down Roxas boulevard, and continued on to Cavite to visit Animal Island.  It was our first time to travel on the Manila-Cavite Expressway or CAVITEX.  Creatures of habit that we are, we tend to frequent only our usual stretch of Roxas, without any inclination to see what's beyond.  Sometimes, the nearer it is, the weaker the motivation to explore. I was glad  though, that on that particular Saturday we decided to try a new route. As soon as we were on CAVITEX  I was amazed at how quickly the scenery changed!  From urban pollution and congestion to wide-open space in a matter of minutes!  It felt surreal.  Ours was the only vehicle on the expressway.  It felt as though Manila Bay was unfurling its beauty for us, and us alone.   On one side of the road was the majestic horizon, where Manila bay flows into the wide open sea.  On the other side, was a stretch of water, where indigenous houses on stilts lined the coast.  The image of the fishing village triggered recollections from childhood.

Dwellings of fisher folk along CAVITEX.

Throughout the 1980's, we frequently passed through the old Coastal Road en route to Sangley Point in Cavite where my father was then the commander of the Naval Air Group.  When the Armed Forces was on Red Alert - which was often in those tumultuous times of frequent coup d'etats - my dad couldn't leave the military base, and we'd had to drive from Manila to visit him on weekends.  I remember the ride, done in still non-aircon vehicles, with the scent (or stench) of the sea serving as olfactory signposts along the way. Seeing this fishing village now, decades later, is quite comforting.  It is good to know that new developments further up the road - like the massive Mall of Asia Complex, among others, haven't completely displaced resilient pockets of older ways of life.  Beneath the massive electric lines, and billboards that dominate the skyline, these houses on bamboo stilts are visible expressions of our island Southeast Asian culture, a culture that tends to be overshadowed by the prevalence in Manila's streets of perhaps too many a fast-food franchise.   It felt good to be driving no more than 5 minutes from Manila, and not seeing a Macdonald's or Starbuck's at every turn (although the huge Jollibee billboard in the background was a a reminder that we're still just on the edge of city limits).  We were headed to Island Cove, to check out the zoo within the premises, called Animal Island.  To tour the place, visitors could either use their own vehicles, or ride the shuttle, or hire a horse-drawn carriage. Given that it was a hot day, we chose to use our own car.

At Animal Island: Guijo and Yaya Jen looking at an ostrich.

We drove by an aviary but decided not to stop.  We could have parked the car and walked around a bit if we wanted to see the birds up close, but we decided to continue driving around.  Animals like ostrich, sheep, and wild boar, were in confined in huge enclosures made of see-through wire fences.  Our kids enjoyed pointing at the animals from the comforts of our car.  At one point, Yaya Gigi, our new nanny, asked "Totoo ba yan?" (is that real?).  She was referring to a poker faced ostrich, with head held still, mouth closed, unmoving, staring straight at our car.    When we passed by the wild boar, and sheep, she didn't ask the question again. They were more obviously alive - munching away and flicking their tails.

The wild boar exhibit.

We finally rode up to Animal Island's Crocodile Farm at the far end.  We parked the car and walked up to the visitor's center, a spacious bungalow with a high ceiling and a thatched roof. It's walls are made of logs of wood - so it feels very rustic. There's a small store inside, sari-sari store like, with snacks and cold drinks for sale.  There's also a comfort room, that's on the shabby and neglected side.  To be sure, Animal Island is not pristine, and is overgrown in parts, and run-down in others.  It isn't going to land on the "Pride of the Philippines" list.  But it meets the objective of giving the public a space for observing animals.  Narra and Guijo were oblivious to the things I was looking at. They were looking only at the animals, and the fun stuff to play with.  While I was being a no-fun adult, looking at details.

The visitor's center for entering the Crocodile Farm at Animal Island.

There was a modest exhibit in the bungalow, and  there were also picture taking opportunities with a tiny croc (with it's jaw taped shut for safety), and a large snake (too big for comfort to carry near my babies).  There were a few wooden standees and a rocking horse made of wood that Narra enjoyed playing and posing with. 

Narra, my little butterfly.

Guijo, meanwhile, had no fear of touching the croc on display.  And he was likewise enthralled with the Iguana inside an aquarium.  Again, Yaya Gigi asked "Totoo ba yan?" (Is that real?).   It seemed to me to be a stuffed Iguana, the handiwork of a really god taxidermist.  Alive or dead I didn't like seeing him get too near it.  My fears intensified further when we proceeded to the crocodile pens.  I had this irrational fear that my kids may somehow fall into the water.

Guijo, the tiny Croc, and the stuffed Iguana.

It didn't help that many of the crocs were sunning themselves with their jaws wide open, with their sharp teeth displayed in full glory.  On the other side of the croc pens, is a little "island", more like a piece of land surrounded by a ring of water, called "Monkey Island".  It houses a few free-roaming monkeys.  I can't help imagine the scene in my head of monkeys being plucked by crocs jumping out of the water.  To be honest, this exposure trip to Animal Island was not boring. For me, it was unnerving. A certain mother's instinct kicked in, and I felt the sensation of protectiveness swelling from within me. I was on edge. Alert. Not relaxed, at all. I had my doubts about the safety features in the premises.  I was worried ostrich would spit, monkeys would scratch faces, horses would kick, crocs' jaws would snap, and dead iguanas would thrust their tongues out. 

When it was time to go, I felt relieved. On our way out of Animal Island, we saw this view of Manila's skyline.  We were on the opposite side of Manila Bay, and we could see our side of the city in the horizon.  It's hard to believe I live so near the bay, just a block down from the water!!  It is a daily fact I tend to forget when I'm negotiating lanes with buses and jeepneys.  We lingered a bit, on the intersection, to take in the view of our home from a whole new vantage point.  I could imagine how astronauts feel when they see the earth from space.  Haha - ok, it's no comparison. But it was a cool feeling, to see theshore from the angle of the sea, when one's used to seeing things from the angle of the shore.  So back we went to Manila via CAVITEX again.  We drove by the sea, in the wind, with the sunroof open. And had a pleasant drive. 

A view of Manila on the horizon. From the other side of Manila Bay.