21 July 2001 - off with my head

11 a.m. was check out time at Fielding Hotel. And at 10 a.m. front desk gave you a call to subtly tell you that you have one hour before they kick you out. Having finished packing early on, I took the rest of my time finishing the chips I bought and phoned up British Airways to make sure my flight booking was ok and that my complimentary car pick-up was arranged. By a quarter to 11, I was ambling down the stairs. I checked out and left my locked bags by the bar, planning to collect them around 5:30 p.m. to catch my 6:00 p.m. pick up down Bow Street.

With time to kill I decided to go see the Tower of London and those famed jewels within.

The queue at the ticket booth was not as kilometric as I feared it would be, considering how blue the sky was. At over 900 years old, you can’t really appreciate the Tower of London from the outside. The moat that encircled it was drained and replaced by a green bed of grass, which though pleasant to look at was not quite what you would expect to surround castle walls. The walls themselves were being repaired at some points and some windows had panels of glass missing.

As soon as I entered the gates of the Middle Tower I saw this horde of tourists walking across the bridge that spanned the moat. They were all like mice to the pied piper that was the Tudor-costumed Yeoman Warder, who were the traditional guards of the tower and now played tour guide. These guys actually live here with their families and had once been called “Beefeaters,” because in the 17th century they received rations of beef – a rarity for everyone else in England.

When I joined the crowd by the Bell Tower, he was bellowing the tale of how then Princess Elizabeth was imprisoned here and later passed through this very street to be crowned as Queen Elizabeth I. This guy was amazing, he managed to sustain the crowd’s interest by punctuating his tales with witty one-liners and used all the stand-up comic techniques of picking a face in the crowd and interacting with him directly -- and all without the use of a microphone. Costume aside though, he reminded me so much of the guy who played Gareth in the movie “Four Weddings And A Funeral.”

He guided us on to St. Thomas’s Tower. A water entrance supposedly built so the King could arrive by the river, people started to call it Traitor’s Gate because this was where they secretly brought in some of the Tower’s more famous prisoners -- like Queen Anne Boleyn and Sir Thomas More.

Ahead of this water gate was The Bloody Tower, so-called because it was traditionally believed that this was where the two young sons of King Edward IV were murdered by their uncle.


The Yeoman brought us beyond this tower and we beheld The White Tower, the oldest building here which dated back to 1066 during the time of William the Conqueror. He started explaining how the present-day castle grounds were extensions of this one structure, a construction spread over a thousand years. But at this point I was too busy finding the best angle to take photos – none of which gave justice to the structure, sadly.

I caught up with group again by Tower Green. There was a black and white timber-framed house that bent in an L-shape. This was the Queen’s House and was home to the resident Governor of the Tower. Man, working in this castle does have its perks! Probably because it’s haunted too.

There was a wedding going on somewhere here and I saw this Rolls-Royce bridal car though I didn’t see the happy couple, who were most likely in the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula. Rather morbid if you ask me, considering that this was where they buried those who died in the Tower -- just a few paces from the site where the scaffold used to be.

I headed back in the direction of The White Tower and saw a long queue in the courtyard before it. It was the line for The Crown Jewels, and I’ll be an idiot if I went all the way here and didn’t see these pricey rocks.


Despite the snaking queue, the wait wasn’t as long as I thought. Security was expectedly tight, as they inspected my bag at the gate I remembered seeing a series of witty Tower of London posters that harped on its infamy – the foiled burglary of the jewels of 1671 among them.

When you go in you start off in a room that had all the different shields (emblems? Seals? What do you call them?) of the different monarchs that ruled over England. Dragons and lions and boars and eagles and dogs. I say families should have shields again. Mine would have a T-rex.

The next room was a waiting room that replayed Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953. I thought I was jaded already, but it was truly a spectacle. I had goosebumps. It beats the finale of any musical or Disney cartoon for sheer “awww” value. Magnificent.

From here you move on to another waiting room and this one had a narration about the different crowns and jewels. I was mesmerized even though it’s only on video. They were dazzling. I never really gave a shit about jewels, but I was raring to lay my eyes on the real thing now.

And just when I was ready and raring to go, I walked into the next room and there…I saw a spoon.

It’s a friggin’ Coronation Spoon. What the?

Now, to be fair it was golden and is perhaps older than every other item in that room. But “Huh?” comes to mind. There were a lot of other dazzling stuff too. And when I say dazzling, I really mean the glittery, shiny stuff. There were plates and chalices and even a wine cistern that weighed over 250 kg.

When you reach the scepters you slowly get back to the whole royalty groove. Ok, starting to get it again. There were also orbs, these symbols of sovereign power that you see every king or queen holding in their paintings. If not for my sheer awe I’d say what an absolutely impractical thing they were. It’s just a paperweight for the hand if you ask me. Uh-oh, I’m going all jaded again.

Well, not for long. I don’t remember which crown I first saw, but I remember this conveyor belt that you get on as you behold this large glass encasement that I swear looked like it contained a galaxy of stars.

I remember there was another crown later on. I can’t figure out which was the Imperial State Crown or the St. Edward’s Crown or what. They all seemed to blend into each other and all I can see were jewels, jewels and more jewels. If you remember those old cartoons where Donald Duck or Bugs Bunny see jewels and they get so mesmerized that the pupils of their eyes become diamonds, where that’s what I looked like.

I have also never been surrounded by so much wealth, it’s incredible. Priceless jewels were all around me, and everything else was gold. If anybody ever entered that place wearing cheap jewelry, I think alarms would go off because all those on display would get insulted. Yeah, it felt that snotty too.

As soon as I headed out, I made a resolve to get a postcards, books or anything with a picture of these treasures. Hey, it’s the next best thing.


A bit of a stroll and then I decided to enter The White Tower, which now housed an exhibition from the Royal Armouries.

The interior of the building was a bit overwhelming. All I could think of was that I was in an honest-too-goodness Lego style castle. Now if only there was still a throne room or some grand hall or something.

Instead I saw the garderobes – the lavatories. A bit too much reality for my liking.

At the first floor was the Chapel of St. John the Evangelist. Lovely little chapel that was so simple it didn’t even have an elaborate altar. It just had a cross and the rest of the magnificence was just the sun shining through the windows, through the pillars, casting a quiet golden light into the room. Apparently there used to be stained glass windows here too.

I moved on to the armouries exhibits and yup, there was enough metal in there to drive a magnet crazy. It takes me forever to get dressed as it is, let alone put these things on when I’m supposed rushing off to battle (on second thought, maybe it’s for procrastination as well). I can’t remember which king wore what, but there was one full-body armour that had a peculiarly large, er, encasement for the wearer’s privates. Which brings me to the question of how the hell do they manage going to the garderobes?

Spears, maces, shields, swords, jousting lances, weapons of torture, you name it, they’ve got it. It’s S&M heaven. There were also guns here, shelves and shelves of them -- those really antique ones you see in movies like The Patriot or Glory.

There was a detached feeling the whole time I was there. Perhaps because it wasn’t my history, being from a country where the closest thing we had to castles were fortresses that our colonizers had our forefathers build to protect them against other colonizers. But you do realize how lucky you are. True, that time was romantic and the stuff of fairy tales. But look at history and see how many princes and princesses lived happily ever after. We actually stand a better chance of having it now.

I tried to go and do the “Wall Walk” that the guidebook suggested. I went up the Salt Tower, continued on to the Broad Arrow Tower, to the Constable Tower and finally to the Martin Tower – all on the east wall. I pretty much rushed through this walk though. Not much of interest except that the towers were actually big enough to house residents of high rank – and later, of course, like everything else here in the Tower of London, important prisoners. There was a queue entering the Martin Tower so I went down the next staircase and found myself facing the White Tower again.

It was 3:30 p.m. and I think I’ve seen enough medieval history.


Exiting the Tower of London I went by the Wharf to get a last look at Tower Bridge. There were vendors selling little trinkets along with some artists. This old lady was decorating some sort of boat and this teenage tourist was helping him. I overheard bits of their conversation and saw what they were doing, which was quite interesting. I would have joined in if I had time and if I wasn’t too shy.

I took my photos of Tower Bridge, the last two snapshots of the entire trip. There was something poetic about being here on my last day, I can’t explain. Reluctantly I turned away and headed back for the Underground.



I decided that I would heed Lizzie’s advice two out of three. I already saw the National Gallery and she was right, I did love it. I have no interest in going to Madame Tussaud’s. So instead, let me check out Top Shop.

I got off at Oxford’s Circus and almost turned back immediately after seeing the crowd. It was like I emerged in Hong Kong.

It was the nightmare mix of tourists and window shoppers and people who love walking 5-abreast in an already slow moving sidewalk. Every time I exhaled, I was saying “Excuse me.” I hate slow moving people who hog the sidewalk with no regard for those who have tight schedules – particularly those with a flight to catch in a couple of hours. I was all stressed again by the time I reached Top Shop.

Five minutes and I was out of Top Shop. Yeah, well, it was a shop. Nice shop. But no thanks, get me out of here.

I walked down to Berwick St. because I heard that there are a few used-CD shops here. Indeed I saw a couple, one of which had a whole basement full of dirt-cheap (literally cheap and dusty) CDs and vinyl. But for some reason I wasn’t motivated to patiently sift through each box to find some rare gems. One thing I did note was that London, despite being one of the top cities in the world, is one of the few places I’ve been to where I can still buy cassettes. Vinyl’s cool, but cassettes, man!

A quarter to 5 and I was trying to elbow my way back toward the Underground, somewhat proud of the fact that I didn’t buy anything.


I emerged at Covent Garden station for the last time and was greeted by the delicious scent of hotdogs being cooked. I decided I was hungry so I bought one, got something to drink and walked toward the statue by Fielding Hotel and sat there among the locals. What a life.

Took my time, munching on my meal – which smelled better than it tasted. And I just sat there people-watching for a bit. Still a bit of time left, so I went for a stroll around the block. I was getting a bit emotional about leaving London now. I don’t know why. I felt the same when I left San Francisco. Maybe it’s because I just got to a point when I knew my way around and how the system works.

6:00 p.m. came and I took my bags out of the hotel and the car pick up arrived.

The chauffeur was this friendly guy from Nigeria and we had a nice chat on the way to the airport. We discussed the weather, the Underground, London in general, the Philippines, even how airplanes fly. He just said, “Tell me something, how can something so big with so many people and luggage in it, get off the ground, eh?” The guy had this sincerity and innocence, you can’t help but smiling the whole time.


The sky was a light blue when I entered Heathrow. Pity that I have to leave and waste such a beautiful day.

Funny that I never really wanted to go to London before. And ironic how the start of my stay here confirmed why I didn’t like this place. But I must say that it grew on me. Like a bad TV show that you watch three episodes of and now can’t stop tuning in for.

I boarded British Airways again half expecting my luggage not to arrive in Hong Kong with me. I half-expected that the in-flight movies would be crap and the service awful. I was already thinking of all the work that needed to be done and how this whole Europe trip was just a fluke and could never happen again in such a grand scale.

If there’s one thing London reaffirmed, it’s that lowering expectations is the key to happiness. And with that, I pulled up my blanket and reclined the business class seat that stretched into a bed.

At my uncle's in Algeciras - 13-15 July 2001

On my first trip to Madrid, my first trip to Europe, I knew that I just had to swing by my uncle's in Algeciras at the south of Spain. It's a fair way to go just out of duty - a plane ride from Madrid to Malaga and a 2-hour drive from there. But he's also my godfather and I haven't seen him or his family much of my life. And I admit, the idea of straying away from the tourist-y path has always appealed to me.

I landed in Malaga feeling all guilty that my uncle and cousins had to drive all the way here to pick me up and drive back. My uncle was my mother’s brother, his children my first cousins. I never had the chance to get close to them. For over three decades, their family has lived in Algeciras, in the province of Cadiz in the Andalucian region, south of Spain. My uncle and aunt moved to Manila for a while and brought their youngest daughter, about four years my senior, to study high school there. Then that daughter moved back here and soon so did her parents.

Until they went to Manila for the holidays last year, I haven’t seen nor spoken to them, especially the other siblings. So you can imagine that despite my mother’s assurances that it’s ok and I am indeed welcome, I felt that I was imposing too much with them picking me up at the airport, letting me stay over and showing me around.

“On a clear day you can see Africa from here,” according to my uncle.

In that two-hour drive, we talked about everything from family to Philippine politics to Spanish politics to terrorists to how stupid I am with math (I made a miscalculation in converting Spanish pesetas to Hong Kong dollar.) And in between all that, he was giving me the primer on Malaga, Cadiz and Algeciras -- among the many beauties of which was that it was right next to Gibraltar and across the Strait from the coast of Morocco.

We were driving at a high elevation, and he pointed to a mountain looming high in the distance – massive and solemn in the cloudless sky. “See, there it is – Africa.” I can’t describe how in awe I was at that moment.



I was staying at my uncle and aunt’s apartment – a cozy four bedroom unit which used to be the family home until the three children married and had families of their own.

It was around 10:00 p.m. or so. I had about 20 minutes of chat time with my uncle and aunt. I dropped off my stuff, my aunt took what laundry I needed to do and insisted that she do it for me – an offer that took me an embarrassingly long while to accept. I freshened up and was out the door again to go with their youngest daughter, Irma, and her husband, Antonio, and their two sons who reminded me so much of my own nephews back in Manila. Indeed the night was young. So young, the sun was still high in the sky.

Irma lived barely five minutes away from my uncle. Unfortunately I couldn’t talk to Antonio or the two boys, Antonino and Andres, because they spoke very little English – and I spoke very basic Spanish, most of which I got from watching Sesame Street.

When we reached the house, Irma gave me the full tour. Apparently, Antonio is quite the handyman. He actually custom-made most of the interiors by hand, and by himself – knocking down walls, building cabinets and staircases, painting walls, laying tiles. It was amazing. Irma kept saying their house was quite small, but I thought it was the perfect size. It wasn’t a mansion, but it comfortably fit a family of four, and it was indeed beautiful. (Beautiful is a word I found myself using again and again that weekend.)

I tried my best to communicate with Antonino and Andres. Pointing at the toys, clowned around with the fish in their aquarium, standard goofball uncle antics – and I wasn’t going to let language stop me. Irma told me that Antonino was looking forward to playing chess with me. I was a bit weirded out because though I like playing chess, I haven’t played in years. Apparently when Irma was back in Manila, her memory of me was of this nerdy, bespectacled boy who played chess with her a lot. I honestly can’t recall this at all. Maybe I’ve been that successful in blocking out my nerdy past.

It was already dark when the family and I went for dinner – which, of course, is so late it’s more like what we would call a midnight snack. We drove around the quiet town center and walked around trying to find a restaurant that could spare a table. I realized that the Spanish are much like Filipinos – customers can take forever occupying a table because everyone just goes on chit-chatting, oblivious to the fact that the actual meal was finished an hour ago.

Had a nice dinner eventually – eating deep fried octopus and tapas and eggplant – stuff I was surprised to enjoy (heaven knows I’m more the hamburgers and hotdogs type). We were seated right next to a gypsy couple with a baby and Irma and Antonio were soon conversing with them. What a friendly atmosphere this place has. It’s all the charm you’d expect from a small town.

While walking, the 6-year old son, Andres, kept on talking to me in Spanish, at one point telling me about his school, which we passed. I just smiled, laughed, gave one-word replies like “Really?” and “Wow!” hoping they would be appropriate. To my surprise he gave me a hug at one point and held my hand for a length of the walk – while he tried to balance on a ledge.

After dinner, Andres fell asleep and so we dropped off the two boys at my uncle’s house – much to the reluctance of the 9-year old Antonino who wanted to go out with us still.

Irma went up with the boys and left me with Antonio waiting at the car. Very awkward conversation with Antonio talking to me in Spanish and me trying to reply with my bizarre Span-glish. Must have been how it was at the Tower of Babel. It was just comments about how hot the weather was, what Hong Kong is like, and how much more of life you can enjoy here compared to Hong Kong. It was a good chat nonetheless and I found myself less awkward with Antonio after that.


We walked around the town plaza which Irma said would be so busy during the day, but tonight it was deserted. I took note of this centuries-old church and the town hall that I wanted to go back to the next day.

There were these ruins in the middle of the street where apparently, the government decided to extend the road. But when they demolished this building, they found these ruins of an old Arabic fortress underneath. The name “Algeciras” actually came from an Arabic name – as with most names that start with “Al” in this region of Spain.

Most of the bars were closed for summer – whereas during winter Irma said they’d be packed. So we headed to the beach.

It was midnight and yet the carpark was full, the beachfront was abuzz with activity and I think 80% of the population of Algeciras was there. If this was a teaser to Ibiza, then I can understand now how that island became the premier European party place.

Teenagers were all over the place, hanging out, going in this bar or that – I felt like I was at one of those MTV parties seeing so many gorgeous young people about. But at the same time, there were old folks (among them, Antonio’s grade school teachers!) and even kids younger than Antonino or Andres.

Irma and Antonio apparently used to go on dates here a lot. And I can imagine that if anybody ever brought a date here and proposed, he’s sure to get a “yes” with a matching embrace and passionate kiss.

We walked from one end of the beach to the other. By 1:30 a.m. or so we headed back. Irma was a bit worried about the kids. And it was about time I ended this day – which began with many a misadventure in Madrid about 16 hours ago.




Saturday, 14 July 2001

Up at 8:45 a.m. because the phone rang in the room I slept in. Roberto, the eldest of my uncle’s children, was going to drop by in 30 minutes to pick me up and take me around. No time to even yawn.

Roberto moved to Spain when he was a child and didn’t go back to Manila until Christmas last year – the only time I met him and his wife, Maria Carmen. He couldn’t speak Filipino, and Maria Carmen was only learning to study English. Again, I was with a couple and I felt bad that I could only communicate with one of them.

Our day began at the Roberto’s office. He was an architect like his dad (like my dad, brother, sister, and almost me – if fate hadn’t intervened and landed me in the wrong college.) My uncle told me to go to his office after telling him about the Picasso I saw in Madrid. There in Roberto’s office was a truly glorious replica of Guernica.

We went on to the wet market, where Maria Carmen bought ingredients for the paella she was making for lunch. It wasn’t the most tourist-y place to go, but despite the smell of fish and raw meat, I actually had a great time just soaking up the atmosphere. Again, the friendliness of this town shone through – the pace wasn’t frenetic, none of the vendors seemed desperate to attract customers, and everything was relaxed. I didn’t feel like anybody here would give you a bad deal.

Maria Carmen wanted to get something for me to bring back to my sister, who showed her around in Manila. We went to this shop that sold items from Morocco. The couple bought an antique looking silver teapot for their house and a leather cushion for my sister (which I was surprised could fit easily into my backpack). I fell in love with these Moorish brass platters and so I broke the rule I set for myself that I would take only photographs and postcards. (Well, not that it’s the first time I broke this stupid rule anyway.)


Roberto and Maria Carmen’s house was a bit farther from my uncle’s house than Irma’s. It was in a subdivision and reminded me very much of subdivisions in Manila where rich people lived.

Indeed, it was quite a house. Upon entering the gates I quickly fell in love with it. It had white walls and seemed to be the kind of house I’d imagine in the Mediterranean. It had a roundabout driveway lined with a garden with a variety of trees. The front door led you to a open-air patio walled by a glass door that led to the living room and dining on one side, the door to the kitchen on another, and a side door that led to a garden and a swimming pool at the back. The house itself was two stories tall and quite spacious inside -- but didn’t appear massive because of it was well proportioned to the rather huge lot.

I told Roberto that it reminded me so much of one of the houses his father built and lived in when they stayed in Manila. Ironic that Roberto never saw that house himself.


Leaving Maria Carmen to prepare her paella, Roberto changed cars to drive me to Gibraltar.

I must say, that this Rock of Gibraltar is indeed quite a rock. It sits at the tip of what is otherwise a flat peninsula, and rises to God-knows what elevation like some gigantic shark fin.

I took my photos and walked around. There was a really long queue of vehicles at the border gates. Gibraltar was to Spain what Hong Kong was to China – only it wasn’t the shopping mecca that HK is and it wasn’t going to be handed over to Spain in the near future. It seemed like a very small colony, really.

Roberto suggested we try to go in, since I had my passport and had a multiple entry visa to the UK. But when we got there, the border police told me that I can get in with my UK visa, no problem. However, my Schengen visa for Spain was single entry – so if I go in, I can’t go back! Hahaha, no thanks, I’m staying on Spanish soil then.


We drove along Sotogrande, a land that my uncle first started to develop in the 60s and was now where his son Roberto spent most of his working time. The land was lush with trees and apparently hidden amongst the foliage are mansions – most of which were summer residences of people who live up north.

Past that, we continued driving through what I can only describe as classic European scenery. A railroad crossing here and there, a narrow road, land that was a rich green and ended with mountains in the distance, reaching up to a clear blue sky. This could be a countryside in France, Italy or Germany for all I know. If I was driving alone, I’d pull up and just savor everything.

Roberto pointed to a hill at the top of which nestled what seemed to be a town surrounding an old fortress. “There, I think this is the best view of the castle you can get.”


Castellar de la Frontera dated between 12th-15th century and according to the brochure I got was “typical of the Muslim military conquests.” I’m not sure what that meant. It wasn’t a castle in the English tradition with moats and drawbridges. Rather, it loomed high and massive as a fortress.

As we entered through the main arch, I couldn’t help but admire the view you behold as soon as you step inside. In a hazy blue shade was the Rock of Gibraltar, and further away were the mountains of Morocco. I gazed at it through my camera lens and tried in vain to take a photo. But no photo can capture the sense of travelling back in time – as if I was a 12th century sentry, scanning the rolling green land that surrounded the castle.

What made the town of Castellar interesting for me was that most of it was actually built inside the castle itself.

If you ever read the last book of Tolkien’s “The Lord of the Rings,” there is a description of a walled city that seemed to double as protection for the castle at it’s heart. I don’t know why but this reminded me of it. People still lived in it. “Mostly Germans,” according to Roberto. It seems that more than a few hippies found refuge in this rather secluded town. And indeed I spotted a bearded man puffing a cigarette, oblivious to the world or time.

We walked down the narrow streets within, bordered on both sides by white houses built into the walls. Again it was surreal. There were flowering plants on the windowsills. And every now and then, we passed a little tavern or an inn (there is actually a hotel where people can stay here, and that’s where I got the brochure I quoted from earlier.)

Most of the town was deserted, maybe also because it was past noon and nearing siesta time. There was a construction going on and one of the guys working was stripped down to the waist and I think if there were girls with us, they would’ve swooned. You may go now, Lucky Vanous. Indeed, we can film a “Diet Coke” commercial here with a local cast.

One of the places Roberto and I found intriguing enough to enter was an artists gallery called “Capitan Luis” or something to that effect. Truly marvelous oil paintings. Wish I could buy one – especially since my sister asked me to keep an eye out for art that she could display in her new house in Manila -- but the best ones were full-canvas. Roberto spent some time chatting with the artist himself, while I feasted my eyes on his work. Apparently the artist has lived in Castellar for 15 years. It seems to be the perfect nest for him and his work, but one of his complaints was how it gets flooded during the rains. The streets rise and fall, but unfortunately slopes down to pour rainwater into his door and into his house.

We took a bit of a stroll around the castle, until we wound up at the entrance again. Too bad you couldn’t enter the main towers. I wanted to savor the view of the hills some more but we were already late for lunch.

My uncle’s entire family were there at Roberto’s by the time we arrived. Here I finally saw Imelda, the other daughter. I thought it was the first time I was meeting her too since she lived in Spain most of her life. But apparently she went to Manila for a month or so in 1980, and said she remembers meeting the then 8-year old me. I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t recall. It seems that I played chess with her too.

Jose Manuel, Imelda’s husband was there, along with the youngest of their two daughters. Imelda’s family actually lived in Seville but drove down for the weekend. My uncle joked, “see what a special guest you are!” I could only blush.

For starters, we had gazpacho (I think that’s what it’s called), this cold Spanish soup. It was refreshing on such a hot day. My uncle commented that not only was it perfect for summer, it was also one of the healthiest drinks ever – its ingredients being assorted vegetables. I laughed that my mom should hear about this because she always scolded me for not eating my veggies.

At this I decided it was time to indeed call my mom as I promised. “Hi Mom, I took the wrong plane…I’m actually in China….really….but look who I bumped into….” I passed the phone to my uncle, and they had a long conversation as I proceeded to sample some of Maria Carmen’s paella. Afterwards, I passed the phone to my aunt. She later passed it back to me. My mom passed the phone to my sister. I let my sister talk to Irma, who I think passed it to Imelda and Roberto. And about an hour later, I got my phone back to say goodbye. Everyone was telling me I’d have a huge phone bill, but I was just happy to have brought somebody else from my family closer to my uncle’s.

I felt bad that I ate up more time to phone work and check on a shoot. Bad because I learned that they were waiting for me to go to the beach.

I told them I’d love to go but I don’t swim, but Roberto lent me some swimming shorts just in case I would decide to wade in a bit. I actually remembered a scene from “Meet the Parents” where Ben Stiller had to wear these really skimpy Speedo trunks that were lent to him as a joke by his host. Fortunately what I got were loose and long shorts – quite comfy too.


At around 4:30 p.m., we drove around the tip of the Iberian Peninsula to reach a beach near Tarifa. On the way, we drove so close to the African continent that it seemed we were heading for Morocco.

We were driving around mountains that slid down into the Strait of Gibraltar on one side, and on the other climbed up to a row of giant white fans – a kind of modern day windmill for harvesting wind-energy or whatever it’s called. Someone told me they were actually experimental. But there were loads of them. Like giant white flowers spinning along the ridge.


The beach was amazing. Here I was, from a tropical country with picture perfect beaches, and yet this beach in Europe that had the cold blue waters of the Atlantic got me in awe.

It was a busy beach too – popular for windsurfing because of the strong wind blowing from the Atlantic and squeezing into the Mediterranean. A lot of surfers who drove from all over Europe. Quite a number of Italians, according to Imelda. Tall, dark and handsome guys and bikini clad girls – quite a few of whom were topless. And a number of families.

I spent some time just sitting on my towel and chatting with Imelda and Jose Manuel, learning more about them than I know of some of the cousins I actually lived closer to all my life.

I noticed some people caked in mud walking back from a bend behind some rocks. Imelda explained that in that area of the beach, people get this clay that was supposed to do wonders for cleansing the pores your skin – sort of like a mud bath. I always found it funny how you had to get dirty to become clean.

As we walked along the shore, Imelda pointed out a wreck of a small boat. Every night hundreds of illegal immigrants from Africa try to cross the Strait into Europe. They cram families into these small boats and most of them are either caught or perish in the perilous 10-kilometer body of water. Jose Manuel pointed out that just as I am enthralled by the idea of Africa being so close, so are those people there who see this bountiful continent from where they live.


It was about 6:30 p.m. when we left the beach trying to shake off as much sand from our feet as we could before boarding the van again.

We headed for the town of Tarifa for afternoon tea – the sun warranted it, though my watch would call it dinner.

From the beach I saw the town in the distance as a cluster of white buildings shining that seemed to jut into the waters, barely touching Africa. Tarifa is at the very tip of Europe, and this was where the ferries board for Morocco.

Driving into the town, the main road ended with a massive wall that contained a small arched entrance, Puerta de Jerez. On it was an inscription that bore the date “September 21, 1292." To the left of it, the wall continued on, every now and then broken or hidden by modern day buildings – which were all white.

With such a location, I can imagine how tumultuous this city’s history is – presumably the scene of many wars.

Walking down its small roads, we passed the town’s colossal church and the throngs of tourists it had welcome from all over Europe. Truly the place was overwhelmed by tourists. Shops were abuzz, signs for hotels were everywhere. In the narrow street passed an assortment of vehicles that ranged from SUVs to hippie vans to motorcycle gangs. Young travelers in flip-flops and linen shirts were strolling about jeering and cheering while greeting each other from opposite ends of the road, living out their coolest summer ever. I have to agree with them. If I had the chance I would spend a weekend here and experience their life.

Imelda, Jose Manuel and Maria Carmen went to this pastry shop and I sampled eclairs and some of the sweets while we sipped coffee from a roadside café. They were heavenly. We would have finished them all if not for the two barbecues that both Roberto and Irma were having that night.



10:00 p.m. and I was fanning a steak in a barbecue grill at Roberto’s.

Jose Manuel was telling me about mad cow disease. He said he used to be so cautious about beef until he learned that there were only 10 cases of the disease. So he started feasting on beef again for two reasons: 1) the stricter check on cow feed helped not just make the beef cleaner, it was also tastier, and 2) statistically you had much, much less chances of dying from mad cow than you would from driving your car. The man is wise, and the steak was great.


It was past 11, when we drove to Irma’s house. Irma had a pre-arranged barbecue for Antonio’s family – but since she can’t join us at Roberto’s we decided to go visit her. There wasn’t much food left, but we were so stuffed from our steaks anyway.

I was a bit tired but came here for two reasons. The first was I wanted to see Irma again and say goodbye. The second was because I promised Antonino I’d play chess with him.


So after I chatted with everyone – and failed to try to participate in a full Spanish conversation with Maria Carmen, Antonio and Antonio’s brothers and sisters –
Antonino finally laid down his chess set and I played chess for the first time in almost five years.

Now, the boy is only 9 years old. I decided early on that I should lose. Well, in truth, it was highly likely that I will lose anyway because I was so crap at the game. But given the choice, it’s better that I did.

I did love playing chess, but I never took it seriously. It was just a game, and it’s nerve-wracking playing it as it is. People who put too much at stake in it are missing the point. I betray my lack of forward planning when I play chess. I go with every move, thinking only a step or two ahead. Zero strategy.

One of Antonino’s uncles on his father’s side sat beside him. He said he was only there to observe and maybe arbitrate. But he didn’t realize that I can actually understand some Spanish, and was only acting like I didn’t know he was doing some bit of coaching that the boy actually didn’t really need.

Twenty minutes later, I said, “uhm….check?” Antonino looked at my queen which was breathing down his king while covered by my bishop five steps away. The uncle had his hand in his forehead for not seeing this coming.

“Mate?” the uncle said.

“Oh, yes…yeah, it is, isn’t it?” I actually didn’t realize it!

We all applauded a good game. The uncle commented to Irma that I was winning without knowing I was winning – which is very true. I told Antonino that he played well and that he should never forget that it is just a game, and that it should always be fun. I was worried that he had a disappointed smile, and not knowing how to communicate I just put my hand on his head and ruffled his hair in a very fatherly way. I hope that at the least he gets inspired to keep playing the game if only in preparation for the day we meet again, play chess and beat me. And I’m sure he will.


Close to 1 a.m. and goodnights had to be goodbyes. I was saddened saying farewell to these cousins who only a day before were complete strangers to me. I thanked them in all superlatives for packing my very short stay with so many memories. I look forward to seeing them again, either back here in Algeciras or in Manila.

Then I went to my uncle’s house, packed my stuff, went to bed at 2:30 a.m. so I can be up in five hours and leave Algeciras by 8:30 a.m.



Sunday, 15 July 2001

The sun rose at about 7:00 a.m. and I was already up. Apparently, they get double Daylight Saving Time in Spain – they already adjusted the clock ahead of GMT, and for summer they added 1 hour more.

It was a cloudy morning when my uncle and aunt drove me to Malaga. I wished there was a bus that I could just catch to get to the airport myself, but my uncle would hear nothing of it.

The drive was pleasant and the sky slowly cleared as the day progressed. My uncle told me that the winds from the east always bring clouds, when the winds change the sky clears.

My uncle teased my aunt a couple of times for not being a “good navigator.” My aunt was quite a homebody, and was telling me that things have changed so much through the years. My uncle teased her that they could take a wrong turn so she better pay attention to her navigating. It was quite heartening seeing this kind of endearment in them at their age.


My flight to Madrid was at 12:30 p.m. but because of the situation with Iberian Airlines, I heeded my uncle’s advice to get to the airport early. I checked in and the ground staff told me my bags would be checked to London so I don’t have to worry about it for my connection in Madrid. I had a bad feeling about this but I had no choice but to ask them to be absolutely sure my bags won’t be lost. My aunt asked me if I packed a day’s worth of clothes in my hand-carry, I said I used to, but this time I didn’t because I didn’t have space. If you read a few blogs down on what happened to me in London, you will see this is all so prophetic.

My uncle and aunt stayed with me for a while and joined me as I had breakfast. Then before long, I had to say my farewell and thank you to them too, and continued on to see more of Europe for the first time in my life.