Updates

First off, after a few weeks of nail-biting and self-doubt, I'd like to declare that we finally have our Indian visas! Woo-hoo!

I haven't managed to write that in here because I'm very bad with time management these days. Haven't even finished writing about the trip in Provence. With one month left before we go, there are a couple of property issues we have to settle before flying off to Whoknowswhere.

To explain, we've been a little worried because the process for Indian visas is a bit strange. The embassy doesn't accept applications, a third party British company takes care of that. They have an online system that I heard has made the process a lot faster compared to a few years ago, when people could wait half a day in queue before the visa officers give them the time of day.

So we did this online thing, filled-in the form electronically, printed everything out nice and orderly-like so when we go to the visa office all we have to do is pay. When you get there you also have to get your picture taken, special Indian Visa style that only they can make, so you can't do it on the cheap by taking a picture of yourself and cropping it at home. So we did that, pasted it on the forms as prescribed, everything neat and orderly-like. And in fifteen minutes from coming in, we were called to the counter and we showed my form first and the woman tells me I can't get the number of months I'm asking for and I can't go back and forth from Nepal to India because I'm a journalist, plus that means I have to sign some special forms saying I can't be writing while I'm in India as a tourist. Whutda?

Well, we reason that I'm not a journalist, I'm a writer, that's different. I'm a writer of the mundane. And she said India does not make a distinction, and those are the rules. The company says all writers are journalists and therefore cannot stay longer than 3 months and have to sign a journalist's waiver. What have you got against writers?! But, ok, it's their country and I'm just asking to be let in. So, to get it over with, we decided to say I'm a housewife. H photocopied the form stuck to the wall, we paid for that too, no free forms here. I filled up the new form, H was again his stressed-out self, and I submitted my hand-written form, H surrendered his internet application. The new guy at the counter asked H why his was computer-generated and mine was not, but we paid for the visa applications anyway and then we went home. But on the way home, doubt was gnawing on H because they might trace my application and find out I wrote "writer" and that mightn't help my case and we might have just thrown away our money if my application is not approved for suspected fraud. Oh lord.

But thank heavens they were happier to let me in than to nitpick. I paid a little extra too, because I have a Philippine passport. They were supposed to call us when our passports are ready for pickup, but they didn't. We found out online. Blessings of the internet age. After a week and 3 days, I got my passport back in time to go to the Philippine Embassy to get something processed. That day was action-packed too.

I wanted the be at the embassy in the afternoon so I made some adobo flakes that take a long time to prepare - but maaaaan, it was good. I don't know why I never thought of making it in the first place. I know it has to do with the dry adobo disaster I served to H's friends who came for dinner two Saturdays ago. My failure inspired me, so to speak.

Anyway, so I'd planned to go to the Musee d'Art Moderne after filing the paper I needed processed at the embassy, because they are on the same Metro line. I scurried around the house thinking of the things I needed: camera, map, guidebook, passport, re-printing the papers that need signing because I realized the bottom was cropped wrong when I printed two nights before (we were watching Breaking Bad so, no attention to detail at all)... plus I had to remember to photocopy the last page of my passport for the embassy requirement, and drop off two letters for H at the mailbox.

Of course, knowing me, I would forget something as important as getting the photocopies done before I get on the Metro. Well, when I got to the embassy it was 15 minutes before closing time and I had to rush out and find a photocopier because, of course, our embassy doesn't have a photocopier. So I get to La Poste, a guy with dreads is there, he keeps pushing the button and nothing comes out. Now I'm worried that the machine is broken. So this happens for about five - eight minutes until he decides to ask for help, and he tells me to go ahead and try. I try it, it works. Turns out, he thought the copies were ten cents, but it was plainly written on the machine that it's 20 cents. Go figure. But I still thank him for letting me go ahead. I get back to the embassy on time, I get it done, POW, it's closing time. I always make it by closing time.

After that, I went for a walk along the Seine at Ave. New York, in front of the Eiffel Tower. It was the long way to Palais de Tokyo, home of the Musee d'Art Moderne, where I took a time out from my suddenly hectic life. After we got back from the trip, I thought we could relax in Paris; but I was running all around, seeing friends, partying, cooking, writing, seeing other friends, doing errands, dancing, seeing to the needs of drunk strangers in our house. You know, Saturday night.

When I got home, H hadn't moved from the couch. He was playing the new Assasin's Creed and finishing the adobo flakes. Smh.

I wanted to write about the museum trip too but I only got 4 hours of sleep last night, working on something computer-y that's also annoying me, because I just found out there's something wrong with my Adobe InDesign. Well, to reset it, even online, I have to have the installation CD apparently, the installation CD that's IN THE PHILIPPINES, dammit! That's why I'm trying to repair it online, stupid Adobe-eating numbskulls! Whooo. Breathe in. Breathe out. So I try to download a trial version on H's PC, it takes 5 hours, by the time it finishes, a day of free trial is gone. Yay. So I have to work fast. I can't sleep. Coffee, coffee, coffee. I know what I'm doing is worth all the headache anyway. I hope I could tell you what it is now. But it's awesome. It's gonna be awesome.

I pray for the end of technical glitches NOW NA!

Food Break

I've been really busy around the kitchen recently.

Rice to the occasion.

My cousin gave me a bag of bibingka (rice cake) mix that I poured into my muffin pan. H is now a fan.

Shining, simmering, splendid.

Then I made my first ratatouille ever, with a set of instructions from a French cookbook. I didn't really know what I was doing, and I fretted the whole time if I was doing it right, but apparently I did. I put in 2 sprigs of thyme from the in-laws' yard. The Frenchman is amazed at my first attempt, putting it at the level of a great cook we both know.

So fond of fondant.

For dessert, a fondant with hot, slushy chocolate inside and a spoon of pistachio and nougat ice cream that the neighbor gave us about a month ago (*gasp*).

Margherita 1. Good for 2.

Then I got bread flour and made my very first pizza dough. Chopped some tomatoes, onions and garlic and let it boil for 2 hours to make homemade passata, then picked basil from the balcony and put them on top.

Because I had a lot of passata and mozzarella left, I made a ginormous pizza to finish everything off.

Margherita 2. Good for 2 also!
Our Snow White tray is the only thing that can carry it.

Bella Italia 3: Dante, Verona, atbp.

Unlike other people, to me the name Verona doesn't conjure up the harrowing story of young love ending in death. It reminds me more of that 80s superstar, the king of death-defying stunts: Dante Varona. And when I say his name I don't just say Dante Varona as if it were just a name, I have to go Danteeeeeeee VARONA! Because dude, he's the bomb. And maybe there's still a little residue of his old movie jingle latching on hard in the dusty cobwebs littering my brain that holds a Pavlovian kind of power over me... Probably that.

But fair Verona was home to another Dante, the man whose visions of The Inferno inspired artists (my favorite is this Bouguereau from Musee d'Orsay), and led many a Christian to fear sin - or pay the church handsomely to avoid hell. He was a native of beautiful Florence; and banished for his political leanings, he ended up in Verona. During exile, he was inspired to write The Divine Comedy.

Today he still stands over Signori Square, pensively surveying the souls that mill around Palazio Cangrande, his sanctuary in Verona. His patron, Cangrande della Scala (Latin for ladder) was immortalized in Paradiso, thus:

Thine earliest refuge and thine earliest inn
Shall be the mighty Lombard's courtesy,
Who on the Ladder bears the holy bird
(Paradiso, XVII, v. 70) 

The church of Santa Maria Antica

The equestrian statue of Cangrande, ruler of Verona in the 14th century, still graces many monuments here. He was a leader of such authority (some say too much, actually) and wisdom that the Veronese still look upon him for protection.

 

In front of the della Scala palace Castelvecchio, at the peak of tourist season, tourists look more for souvenirs instead.

Also mentioned in Dante's Divine Comedy were two prominent families, from whose fatal loins sprung forth two star-cross'd lovers who would later figure in numerous Italian plays - only to reach true immortality in the hands of an English bard.

Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti,
Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man!
Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!
(Purgatorio VI, vv.106-108) 

The legend of Giulietta e Romeo was already famous before Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet turned their cautionary tale into the most famous love story on earth. The houses of the Montecchi and Cappelletti (anglicized to Montague and Capulet) still stand seven centuries after Mercutio cursed their families to ruin.

The Capulet home is a lovers' mecca. Pilgrims write their names on the walls of the entrance in hopes that their love would be as enduring; though perhaps not necessarily as fatal.

Luckily, I had a pen with me so H scribbled our names in, too. If you ever go to Verona, you might want to look for us under all the graffiti.

This pastiche of colors is a collaborative artwork...

Made of chewing gum.

Wriggling our way through the crowd that was permanently fixed along the entryway, we finally made it to the courtyard to behold Juliet's famed balcony.

It was hardly as Franco Zeffirelli had envisaged, but I'm sure it served its purpose well.

Under it, a crowd had also gathered around the statue of Juliet, whose breasts were noticeably shinier from the constant rubbing of visitors. There were a lot of people waiting their turn for a picture with her, and we waited along with the rest of the good-natured crowd. But there was a Pinay who popped in front of me, pulling her three children together and instructing them to jump on the statue as soon as the Japanese teens stepped off. I just hate when Pinoys lose their manners - I hold us to a higher standard! So I told her in Tagalog that she could go ahead of me because I'm cool with that - just to maybe make her realize she was rude to someone whom she didn't think understood what she was saying. But just as she opened her mouth to either gape or reply, I heard H calling me over. He was already holding on to Juliet's bronze breast.

Maybe I should have reminded him Juliet was 13 going on 14 when she married Romeo.

The Capulet courtyard can be booked for weddings too, now that the blood feuds have ended. (It would be messy if guys with swords started showing up at the ceremony, no?) And I heard you could write to Juliet too, though I'm not sure how she could write back since she's busy being groped all day.

Verona is indeed romantic. In contrast with Milan, which is just as old, Verona did not turn in its past for the affectations of modernity. It reminded of Venice, in some respects. In fact our old friend from the water-logged city - St. Mark's lion - spreads its wings here too, just like in Venice.

And just like some quarters of Venice might come off as a bit kitschy, the streets of Verona that are overrun by tourists can seem a little tawdry - but the parts that are not have a spirit of authenticity.

And even though there were a lot of people, I didn't mind so much because I just had to look up, and they would conveniently disappear.

A fresco al fresco.

If I remember my history right - Romulus and Remus, I reckon?
For years, those names meant to me a sleazy massage place along EDSA.

Owl be watching you.

The Roman ampitheater

While examining the facade of the Sta. Anastasia and crossing under the suspended sarcophagus of Guglielmo da Castelbarco (another powerful figure in Dante's time) to the left of the church, we heard an angelic voice hovering from above.

But the deceptively otherworldly voice was human after all. It was a woman singing Verdi, her voice floating from one of the rooms overlooking the square. 

After a while, our wandering brought us to more peaceful segments of the city. Here, along the banks of the Adige river, was the Teatro Romano. Built in 1AD, it was the site of more refined entertainment -- while the larger amphitheater staged the more popular and accessible gladiatorial combats.

All that walking fed our imaginations, but when the time came to feed our tummies we had wandered too far from the center. By luck, we found this old osteria off the beaten track.

Their handwritten menu boasted of very few things, just a handful of traditional Italian fare, which is actually a good sign if you've seen at least one episode of Kitchen Nightmares.

It was here that we had the best lasagna of our lives.

I later found out that we dined in the best of the osterias in the medieval Sottoriva arcade -- which turned out to be among the most popular places to eat in Verona. (So much for off the beaten track!)

We were bursting from lunch, but we had one more mission to fulfill. While doing some pre-travel research on Verona, we found out this city had the best gelato in Italy. We were not about to leave without deciding for ourselves.

I guess the pictures speak for themselves.

Even while trying to sneak a pose with the gladiatrix and Xena, H couldn't put his cone down. That's commitment, y'all.

It was with a heavy heart that I left Verona, because I felt there was more for me to discover and more for me to love. The Bard was waiting at the gates with a sad reminder, that there is no world outside Verona's walls save for hell and torture... Although the whole schtick about death is a tad overreaching.

Hopefully, Verona's walls would open for me once again someday.

Up Next: O, Eto Pisa 

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Bella Italia 2: Lago na U, Lapit na Me

The real highlight of going to Milan was being close to the famed northern lake district. Lago di Como, Lago Maggiore and Lago di Lugano are considered some of the most beautiful places on earth and were therefore a must-visit.

With us this time was my cousin Alden, who gamely said yes to camping with us at Lake Maggiore (the big lake) without really realizing what he was getting into. But more on that later.

The day started pretty well, it wasn't sunny but it wasn't raining either, so we were optimistic when we left the apartment. But when we got to Stresa, H realized he dropped something on the way to the lake (nothing vital like a cellphone or a license) so he got stressed and went back and forth from the car and the dock - where Alden and I were waiting, taking pictures, making light of H's own "Stresa Festival."

H having a slow breakdown.

It took 30 minutes to calm him down; that was also the amount of time it took to wait for the ferry that was going to take us island hopping in the lake. Between the towns of Stresa and Verbania are the Borromean Islands, and the most beautiful of these little islands is Isola Bella.

Isola Bella as seen from Isola dei Pescatori

We had an hour to spend on each island, and a window of 5 minutes to catch the ferry going to the next island or back to Stresa.

Photo by H

Isola dei Pescatori as seen from Isola Bella

The Palazo Borromeo in Isola Bella reminded me of the Von Trapp house in The Sound of Music. I was singing "Favorite Things" under my breath, half hoping to hear Fraulein Maria join my weak soprano.

Photo by H

Photo by Alden

When the sun came out, we became more hopeful that the rain forecast was inaccurate.

Celebrating prematurely

By midday my right shoe had given up and I needed a rubber band to keep it together. Dang.

Happy feet (as in smile ang mga suelas)

We found a camping spot next to Lake Maggiore and went swimming. Actually, I preferred to wade near the shore until the two joined forces and splashed cold water all over me. Fuh. Nee.

The swimming session was cut short because it was almost 7pm and we hadn't bought dinner yet. So after a quick shower, we went back in the car, got slices of different Italian hams and cheeses, some bread and pasta, and some bottles of beer, coke and wine.

Then we continued on our tour, and visited the other minor lakes around camp. We passed a swamp under a canopy of trees that was half covered in fog, very eerie, very Apocalypse Now. But there were cars behind us so we couldn't stop and take pictures. Just take my word for it: it was beautiful. Spectacularly and ethereally beautiful.

We were able to stop a few kilometers away, at the next town that was also slowly being covered by a mantle of fog.

And then the rain fell, and I felt like I was in the tropics again. Alden said the rain in Italy usually lasts just a few minutes, but this felt like a typhoon. On our way back the rain started to pour heavier and heavier, until we got stuck in traffic and we remembered the tents, and the towels we'd hung to dry.

At the campsite, Alden's tent was still hunky-dory but a rain-soaked towel had pushed mine and H's tent down. H ran out to save our tent from punishment, and rescue the swimsuits that had fallen from the clothesline. When he got back, we had beer, Boy Bawang, cheese and slices of ham inside the car. We also opened a bottle of pinakurat - a kind of vinegar, stinky beyond belief - to go with the vegetarian chicharon (deep fried pork skin... yes, vegetarian deep fried pork skin). If H's mom only knew what smells had been unleashed inside her car!

When the rain stopped, we cleaned our swimsuits and towels and put out a picnic spread in front of the tent for dinner.

Coaching H through laundry

Cultural exchange

That other effect of wine: bad poses.

More rain was to be had in the night, though. H said he felt like we were floating in the lake because a puddle had formed overnight under our tent, making our air mattress buoyant. And while it was not necessarily warm inside our tent, I had no idea Alden had been freezing because he didn't have a proper mattress. I though he was doing great because I could hear him singing to Bruno Mars all night and then again when I woke up in the morning. Erm... at least it was waterproof?

Raindrops falling on my tent nonetheless, I had a great sleep. I went out early in the morning when the rain stopped and saw the town across the river slowly waking up, the fog lifting and the street lights softly twinkling. The only thing that bothered me that morning was that I had to throw my old rubber shoes away. All I had left were my sandals, and we hadn't finished with the Alps yet.

We dismantled camp and went back on the road - this time crossing the border to Switzerland.

Lugano is in the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland, whose early inhabitants included Stone Age men.

After getting our fill of the lakeside town, we coasted on along and finally saw Lake Como.

A place so pretty, George Clooney bought a villa here - according to Alden.

When we started getting hungry, H was adamant that we find a nice place to stop and cook - this time, I was happy that I waited because we got the loveliest lake view ever. And it wasn't even a major lake.

The chef, caught with his hand in the Boy Bawang

Washing the dishes (with an eco-friendly product!)

For cooking and doing the dishes.

We explored the little towns next to the Como after lunch.

And found pleasant surprises.

With tired feet and weak limbs, we went back to Milan that early evening thinking, "We have to eat good this evening!" H was the most motivated to go out, but he was also the most exhausted. My excuse was I was too worn out, so Alden and I decided to do something about the leftover cheese and ham from our soggy sojourn at the lakes.

With a flourish he learned from watching "The Baker King"

We didn't have tomato sauce or pizza bread, but by some miracle, we were able to make this -

And although I know H would have rather had an authentic Italian dinner, he did wolf down the slices he got.

Up Next: Dante - Verona

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