Waaah take me back

i'm not depressed.

i'm not depressed.

i'm not depressed.

i just really miss greeting people with a cheery "hola!" i've started emailing photos to friends i made in spain (two puerto rican choristers, gabi and rafy, and one spaniard, maria angeles). in the past hour i've gotten three responses all starting off with hola. it's precisely those three holas that have triggered this rant.

gabi of coralia, and maria angeles from borja (no solo pics of rafy)

i miss the language and how it changed around when we moved to different parts of spain, from fast and clipped to lazy and sibilant (a.k.a. ma-laway). i miss the mental quiet that came from not understanding the language buzzing around you -- you could just tune people out and have your mind blessedly all to yourself.

i miss the challenge of choosing to focus on that language and decipher it. i miss the succession of mini-triumphs in succeeding, word by word, whether it was during a trashy afternoon talk show ("oliver quiere WHAT con dana?"), dubbed episodes of lost ("perdidos") or an opera with subtitles flashing in catalan (guess-translating catalan into spanish and then into english -- or sometimes even tagalog = major migraine).

at the liceu in barcelona, where i saw my first opera (deserves a separate post)

i just really miss the physical activity. croaking to an unexpected sedentary death in this office cubicle is a reformed sloth. we were walking all the freaking time in europe. when i wanted to save money (which was often), i would walk. even when i wanted to take any form of transportation, i had to walk a considerable distance to find it. just going for dinner in tolosa would entail five flights of stairs.

all this physical activity reached a turbocharged peak during my six-day adventure with pia and jeline (las otras chicas), when we were changing cities, rushing to buses and flights, and hauling close to 30 kilos of luggage apiece up various stairs and cobblestoned slopes on an almost-daily basis.

we nearly cried when we saw the stairs at our hostel in sevilla

in barcelona, fate threw miikka, a certified walking junkie, at me, and at his behest (unspoken, of course) i walked for nearly five hours straight on my last saturday in europe. reviewing my map that evening, i was shocked to see how much of the city we had covered on foot, and even more shocked that my feet and legs felt perfectly fine. in hindsight, i'm happy i had done things his way and not zipped around from tourist spot to tourist spot, like i would have on my own. five years ago, i never would've thought we'd be pounding barcelona pavement together

i only took public transportation twice that weekend, up to parc guell and back, and only because parc guell was on top of a mountain.

at parc guell, overlooking barcelona, montjuic and the mediterranean

and now here i am, chained to my desk, spending at least eight unhealthy hours a day sitting on my fat ass. i do intend to start boxing again next week, but there's something different about physical activity just naturally being part of your day. the unfortunate reality that manila is a pedestrian nightmare has never hit me so hard.

gosh. i miss walking so much i almost want to weep. i'm actually excited about going to singapore this weekend with acs just so i can walk. where has the old deepa gone?

i just really miss having hermetically sealed pores and great hair days, every day. marlon told me in paris that he had never seen my complexion so good before. and never before did tweezing my eyebrows cause so much pain, or the hair on my legs take so long to grow back after shaving(overshare?!). i could slather on my extra-heavy olay moisturizer plus mix it with my foundation without going all minola a few hours later.

behold my poreless beauty

and my hair! it mysteriously turned a deep red while i was in france, and it was frizz-free and had just the right amount of wave... it was just perfect, absolutely perfect!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *wails*

i just really miss all the wine. every single meal we had in spain (with the exception of breakfast) was washed down by copious amounts of free-flowing tinto, or red wine. okay, red table wine, but at 11-14% per volume and for absolutely free, you couldn't complain. especially if you know at least two people per meal are going to get plastered -- soooo much fun. besides, we did have a couple of meals with real red wine, after which all the table wine began to taste like vinegar. but hell, we drank it anyway.

"i want to be drunk forever!" shouted mark, our first-time drunk, in urretxu

i was quite surprised at myself; i did not even get so much as tipsy throughout the entire trip. i resolved to drink after our very last concert, in borja, and what happened after was, to say the least, not my idea of fun. (sir jojo mentions it here.) but it was just good to know that the wine was there if you wanted it. and now i find myself missing all the wine i didn't drink. i miss describing drunk friends as borracho or borracha.

let's drink to that

i miss a lot of things about europe (mostly about spain), and about being on tour. reality is wrenching things away from me at an alarming rate, and i find myself putting up a fight to keep them a little while longer.

but i'm not depressed. i'm not.

really.

just let me wallow a bit. and i'll be fine before you know it.

The morning after

on my first morning as an engaged woman, i had four really wonderful things.

the wonderful experience of getting lost in paris. i'm not sarcastic when i say it was wonderful. marlon and i began our morning ramble as a search for breakfast, with no particular plan for after breakfast, and we continued to ramble as we had difficulty finding something that was open on sunday morning... EXCEPT

the most divine lemon tart ever created. okay, i'm getting ahead of myself. the tart wasn't what we found open, but a bakery with a sign in front of it. on this sign was printed an unintelligible rush of french with only one word i recognized from my visits to market manila and dessert comes first: artisane. "marketman and lori seem to regularly rhapsodize about artisanal this and that," i thought to myself. "there must be good reason." so i dragged marlon inside, and soon we were aswirl in choices upon choices of delicious-looking breakfast goodies. heck, even the pizzas-on-baguettes looked heavenly.

wonder if you can guess which one i went for

a blissful breakfast in a quiet park with my fiance. since we had found ourselves a rather astounding (if you know how much i hate walking) distance from everything else except the sacre coeur, we decided to head for a small park we had located on the map, near the cadet metro.

it was a nice neighborhood park: a small pocket of green-turning-yellow-orange with no tourists or monuments, just parents with their toddlers, and little kids biking and running around, and autumn leaves littering the ground. it was here that marlon and i plunked down on a bench, too pleased to mind the cold, and unwrapped our respective artisanal breakfasts. his was a salmon quiche, i think, and mine was the aforementioned divine tarte citron.

you sinful little tart you

it was love at first bite, and pure unadulterated lust when i sank my teeth into the slice of candied lemon on top. all throughout my stay in france, i sought to regain the bliss of the first bite of this particular lemon tart, but it never happened. ahh well. it was good while it lasted.

a gorgeous view of paris from the sacre coeur. we went to grab a coffee and a hot chocolate at a nearby cafe before heading on the metro to abbesses, where we would elbow our way through hordes of tourists and sunday-morning picnickers to reach the sacre coeur.

thus begins my "ring in ________" series

we plunked ourselves on a grassy slope to try and call our parents with our big news, which proved utterly impossible. so we just enjoyed the rest of the warm, sunny morning with each other, and lit a candle inside the church for us, and for each other.

then we had to rush literally across paris for my first official acs engagement, and i was totally late and got 10 euros docked from my pocket money, but that's another story. just know that it was a blissful morning after. ;-)

(yes, i know, i said "gorgeous view". i'll update with more photos when i've got them all sorted out. which is soon. i hope.)

--

back to the present for a bit: slowly getting out of zombie mode at work, after almost crying myself to sleep at 6am yesterday. why was i almost crying? because it was 6am and i was still awake. if i'm still a creature of the night by the end of the week, i may just be desperate enough to try sleeping pills.

i had almost forgotten what late nights at the office were like. then again, i'd also forgotten that siopao during late nights in the office make them seem soooo much better.

Homecoming

it was my last night in europe. i was in a touristy tapas bar on las ramblas in barcelona having dinner at a characteristically spanish hour: midnight. over sangria, chorizo, sauteed mushrooms and albondigas with miikka, my misgivings (or were they anxieties? or just feelings?) about going home began to seep into our conversation.

miikka listened quite attentively (that's one nice thing about people for whom talking is like pulling teeth) as "seeping in" turned into "mini tirade". "but," he ventured, "don't you also want to go home so you can start putting the entire trip behind you?"

i stared at him for what felt like a very long moment. i may have been incredulous. put the trip behind me? why on earth would i want to do that?

thirty straight hours of traveling, two full workdays, one comfort meal of spanish-style century tuna and rice and one happy acs reunion-rehearsal later, i'm still in that frame of mind. it's almost as if i'm in a permanent, private fog, and i don't want it to clear just yet.

my first commute to work, a mere eight hours after landing on philippine soil, was a complete blur. around me was manila in all its smoky, noisy, dusty, insane glory, but i barely saw it; my mind was still walking the streets of barcelona.

my mind and body are joining forces to hold on to europe with all their might. i have never suffered from jetlag; now i'm up all night, putting in a token two to three hours of sleep before shuffling to the office so i can be groggy and sleepy at my desk the whole day. in the wee hours of the morning, i look at my tour photos and sort them into neat folders per stop; at the office, i turn up my speakers so that my newly acquired, endlessly looped finnish vocal music (club for five, whom we met at polyfollia, and two new rajaton albums) can envelop me all day and block out the rest of the world.

i'm not cranky or sad (i know the diff -- i went through a really bad depression after my first tour in 2000). i feel i'm still me, just... displaced. i'm neither here nor there, which is okay with me -- because it means i'm still kind of there.

besides, there's no reason to be sad: coming home isn't an ending, but a beginning. because now, the process of discovering what the trip has done to me, how it has changed me, how it has made me and my life better, truly begins.