Abide With Me

Posted on 25 April 2012 by sheg4184

Wednesday 25th April, 2012. ANZAC Day.  The 2012 Commemorative Dawn Service.

The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Heritage Park, Manila

 They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

From Laurence Binyon’s poem “For the Fallen (1914)

 I am ashamed to admit I had never attended a dawn service before last year. Until I was well into adulthood, I couldn’t even have told you the date of this annual service of remembrance.

Last year, as part of the Australia New Zealand community in Manila it was suggested I should go along. ‘Why not?’ I thought.  Manila has been full of firsts for me, this would be another one. Also, I had recently found my grandfather ‘s name in the War Memorial in Canberra, so it seemed fitting. Needless to say, two teenage boys were less then delighted to be dragged from their beds at 4.30a.m. This year there were no tantrums. I think they surprised themselves, and quite enjoyed it. Well, many of their school mates were there too, and hadn’t forgotten the ‘Gunfire Breakfast’.

God was gently turning up the dimmer on the sunlight, and a few strips of cloud were blushing the colour of a blood orange as the dignitaries made their way to the front seats. Their Exellencies, the New Zealand, Turkish and Australian Ambassadors, and the Philippine Army Chief Chaplain sat side by side in the front row. A welcoming introduction from the Master of Ceremonies was followed by a slow, rather plodding version of Abide with Me. Yet, despite the tortoise-like pace, it still made the skin on my arms tingle and my eyes water. It was the time to reflect on the meaning of so many of those oft repeated words in this emotive service.

Abide with me is a song about dying: as the sunlight seeps from the sky, so does life from the dying man. And yet he is not afraid of death if God is with him. Abide is an old Middle English word meaning to wait for; to endure without yielding; to bear patiently; to acquiesce, or to accept without objection. As so many of those young soldiers must have done, as they waited on the brink of death, a simple sacrifice for their countries’ freedom.

Sacrifice is described as the ritual killing of something precious as an offering to a deity, or the destruction or surrender of something for the sake of something else. This year it really came home to me how many young men have offered themselves up as a sacrifice for the sake of security for their families and their homelands over the centuries. And, frighteningly, how close in age my boys now are to the lads who lay down their lives in all that bloody war at the beginning of the 20th century, from which I had previously felt so far removed.

ANZAC Day began as a commemoration of the soldiers – our young Australian and New Zealand men in particular – who died on the western coast of the Gallipoli Peninsula in Turkey. That appalling loss of life was somehow justified by the utterly amazing Anzac Spirit that shone through, and the battle that marked that pivotal moment when Australia and New Zealand became independent nations, rather than British colonies.

Over the past century ANZAC Day has come to include all those who ‘lost their lives in time of war and in the cause of peace.’

In the cause of peace, those countries, once sworn enemies during the Gallipoli campaign sat together on foreign soil, while a Turkish student from ISM read Ataturk’s now famous words of reconciliation, somehow even more poignant as the majority of those gathered here this morning also stand on foreign soil.

Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives… you are now living in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours. You, the mothers, who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace, after having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.

Ataturk, 1934

These beautiful, generous-spirited words were followed by the wreath laying. I moved in for a closer view of the various groups gathering to place their wreaths at the foot of the tomb of the Unknown Soldier: a simple, graceful monument of 3 tall white marble pillars, each topped with a bronze star. Japanese, Canadian,  Filipino, Turkish, Australian, American, New Zealander, veterans, school children, waited quietly for their turn to approach the pillars, laying the symbolic sacrifice upon the altar.

The last post was accompanied by a background chorus of birds that kept up their persistant chanting throughout the service. While the odd airplane thundered overhead, there was a prevailing sense of calm stillness amongst the watchers.

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Another Gold Star for Enderun Colleges

Posted on 23 April 2012 by sheg4184

‘Enderun is committed to the highest international standards of academic excellence. Students receive professional training from leading figures in the global business and hospitality industries.’

Enderun Colleges offers undergraduate degrees in international hospitality management and business administration, as well as courses in the culinary arts. It has come a long way since it started out in rather cramped quarters in Ortigas less than a decade ago. Today, housed on McKinley Hill in beautiful Asian colonial style buildings, it is rightfully proud of its progess.

Alain Ducasse is a world renowned French chef who has earned several Michelin starts for his restaurants in Paris, London and Monte Carlo. He moved into education in 1999, establishing the Alain Ducasse Formation, a professional training programme now used in four culinary colleges in France and two partner universities in Rio de Janero and Manila.

Alain Ducasse Formation (ADF) signed a partnership with Enderun Colleges in 2007 to develop a new professional program for culinary students in the Philippines to develop culinary excellence and discover international cuisine. This program – a four year bachelor degree – was launched in June 2008.

On Thursday 19 April Enderun Colleges and Ducasse Education had a party to launch the Ducasse Institute Philippines.

It is a truly memorable milestone for Enderun, only weeks after sealing its union with Thunderbirds Business School. First there is the obvious benefit to culinary education in the Philippines, and secondly because Enderun Colleges can now proudly claim to be the first Ducasse Institute outside France and a regional hub of culinary expertise in Asia.

So the Atrium at Enderun was buzzing with excitement on Thursday night. Wine flowed freely and the seemingly endless stream of canapés was mouthwatering. Don’t ask me to describe them,  I was too busy chewing to take notes or photos! Quite simply, some of the best I have eaten at Enderun. The Atrium was dressed in its best, as were the guests. We mingled cheerfully, tasting the various French wines, sharing plates of sushi and indulging in some glamorous desserts.

Amongst the crowd, cousins and co-founders of Enderun Colleges, Mr. Jack Tuason and Mr. Javier Infante, Enderun Colleges’ celebrated their successful collaboration with Mr. David Saedi, CEO of Ducasse Education. Speeches were enthusiastic and impassioned, and the audience responded with delight. It was a joyous evening.

Good luck to Enderun Colleges in this new and exciting phase of its development, and congratulations on a great achievement!

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A charming little nook in the ‘burbs

Posted on 20 April 2012 by sheg4184

It was a game of hide-and-seek trying to find this quaint little café, lurking quietly amongst the tightly packed homes in Sikatuna Village, Quezon City. Weaving backwards and forwards through the narrow streets, roadworks adding a few unexpected twists and turns, we finally located the sign above the garden gate, behind which Chef Tatung has turned his own house into an intimate, homely restaurant.

I was invited to Tatung’s Garden Café by two highly focused foodie friends. The menu featured dishes from different regions across the Philippines, with particular emphasis on Chef Tatung’s Cebuano and Bicolano heritage, ‘all mixed up’ with Indian, Thai and Chinese, new fusion, old fusion and Chinoy (Chinese/Filipino fusion). This, of course led to lengthy, competitive debates on the origins of each item on the menu. Every conversational spoke I attempted to insert was either rejected as completely irrelevant, promptly deflected or sent them off at tangents. It was like putting a magnet into a bowl of ball bearings and watching them scatter.

As you can imagine, choosing the dishes we would eat took some time, but eventually decisions were made. None of which were made by me, I might add, as I obviously have no idea how to construct a properly balanced Filipino meal. As we talked through the menu, I was given instructions on what could and could not be consumed together.  Apparently, I must balance wet and dry dishes. Any of my own feeble suggestions were met with a brisk ‘no, that won’t go.’ I stirred them up a little and then simply left them to it, while I admired the paintings and local craft on the walls.

By this time my stomach was grumbling ostentatiously, and it was with relief that I watched the waiter begin to carry our order to the table, but I wasn’t allowed to start eating yet, good heaven’s no! The appearance of every dish had to be examined, admired or criticized and photographs taken.

By the time I was finally given the nod to start, I hoed into the first dish with embarrassing enthusiasm, as if I hadn’t eaten for a week. My companions were still discussing where to start as I munched, suddenly self-conscious, through the Thai inspired shrimp okoy, a bird’s nest construction with strings of green weed and baby shrimp patties, shells and all. Despite my self-consciousness, I thoroughly enjoyed the texture of this dish, crunching with avid delight through the tiny prawns.

Shrimp Okoy

The lengua adobo with green olives and roasted garlic was quite simply luscious. I forgot, until I was three lip-licking mouthfuls in, that I had planned to be a little wary of this ox tongue adobo. Rich and succulent, I would happily have licked the plate.

Seaweed (sea grapes) and salted egg salad was dressed in a vinegar that ‘should have been served on the side’. Soaking too long in the vinegar, the sea grapes had ‘melted’ and no longer gave that satisfying pop on the tongue. Nonetheless, ill-educated as I am, I thought it went particularly well with the perfectly crispy pork as a kind of pickle or salsa accompaniment.

The pork – adobo bisaya  – was slow-roasted and served with a coconut vinegar liberally mixed with garlic to cut through the fat. Such a dry dish with no sauce is typically southern I am told. I will happily head south to try more of the same.

A chicken dish, served in roasted coconut and yellow ginger sauce  with okra was, I have to say, somewhat uninspiring. For me it needed more of everything.

As it turned out, it was a highly educational lunch. I discovered that Filipinos are fiercely regional – and these Filipina ladies just as fiercely Asian-oriented – they seem almost insulted when I suggested that some aspects of Filipino cuisine seem more closely related to the Pacific islands than China.

I also learned that the oil commonly invading my nostrils at street stalls or in shopping malls here in Manila is palm oil. For me this cheap oil, often overly recycled by frugal management, has a noxious smell that renders inedible every passing hot chip or calamari ring, but my sons are sick of hearing me whinge about it. So I won’t.

Back at the table, I watched, fascinated as my friends expertly taste tested the vinegar, in much the same way I might swirl a mouthful of chardonnay, to ascertain the different flavours.

As they tasted, they instructed, and I learned that baking or roasting is not a cooking technique used in Chinese cooking. Thus very few Chinese will own an oven.

Fresh Fruit Halo Halo

Finally, dessert, and what else but the ubiquitous halo halo. This version is made from crushed ice and fruit: glacé cherries, fresh pineapple and banana, gata (first extract coconut cream), sago balls (like round Gummi bears), red mung beans, boiled peanuts, all topped with banana ice-cream. I am told it is rare to use fresh fruit in Manila, although common practice in the provinces. I find it surprisingly moreish, especially noting the yummy banana ice-cream instead of the more traditional but disconcertingly purple ube or yam ice-cream.

We also share a second dessert: a deconstruction of the common merienda or breakfast snack puto maya. It consists of three rice balls in coconut cream,  cubed mango and trails of tablea (chocolate) sauce.  Disappointed, we all agreed it was rather ordinary, despite it’s attractive appearance.

Unfortunately, with the last mouthful of halo-halo still sliding icily down my throat, I had to dash off to collect children from school, leaving my friends debating the culinary successes – or not – of our interesting repast. Thank you ladies. I thoroughly enjoyed delving into your national cuisine with you. Let’s do it again sometime.

But before I go, have you ever heard of banana ketchup? Apparently it was a 1960s invention, designed to accompany the fried chicken at one of Manila’s first restaurant chains Max’s. Made – der! – from bananas, it was then coloured with cochineal to make it look like tomato ketchup. Go figure!

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The Pinkification of the Rainbow

Posted on 14 April 2012 by sheg4184

Loving Family Dollhouse

 

Have you been into a toy shop lately? You should. Walk into any toy shop and check it out. One end will be full of Lego and action figures and guns and games. The other end will be pink. Totally pink. Barbies, accessories, bikes, games: pink, pink, pink. Have you noticed, too? Well, we are not the only ones.

 

PinkStinks

Barbie Fashionista Ultimate Limo

I recently read an article about a British campaign called PinkStinks. It was conceived in 2008 by two sisters, Abi and Emma Moore, who believe that our children – both girls and boys – are being negatively affected by what they call the ‘wholesale pinkification’ of girlhood. Their campaign  ‘targets the products, media and marketing that prescribe heavily stereotyped and limiting roles to young girls.’

Barbie Quad Roller Skates

They claim that society is going backwards, and they are impugning marketing and media for consciously obliterating the gender equality campaigns of the 1970s with ‘pernicious gender stereotyping’. Products for girls have become overwhelmingly focused on fairy tales, fashion and make up… ‘and pink has become the ubiquitous brand colour to represent modern girlhood.’

Well, they are certainly right about the tsunami of pink that has flooded the market. Here’s just one example.

Drowning in Pink

Eloise Shop, Plaza Hotel, New York

While in New York at Christmas my daughter and I visited the Plaza Hotel, home of Eloise. In case you haven’t been introduced, Eloise is the character in a children’s book from the 1940s, a six year old girl being raised by her English Nanny in a suite at the Plaza Hotel. She is neither pink nor remotely princessy, but an active, imaginative child with a penchant for getting into trouble. Yet the woman responsible for the décor in Eloise’s souvenir shop has doused everything in a truly hideous shade of lolly pink.

Horrified, and suddenly aware, we marched into bookshops, clothes shops and toy shops. Let me tell you – ‘pink for girls’ is the rule of thumb in every store.

Colour-coding our Kids

Girls Pinkalicious 12" bike

Strangely enough, pink was historically designated as a strong colour for a boy’s nursery, merely a lighter version of red, while pale blue was considered a softer, more feminine colour for girls, with connections to the Virgin Mary. Today pink is for girls, blue is for boys and never the twain shall meet.

Medical kit

Don’t get me wrong, I do realize that there will always be some gender bias in this world. We are not exactly the same, and it is natural that we should have different interests. Nonetheless, researchers claim that such blatant gender discrimination is dissuading girls from experimenting with boys toys, and vice versa. And what of the girls (like me) who loath pink, or who might prefer to dress up as Superman rather than Cinderella?

PinkStinks is keen to turn the tide on this smothering trend. It aims to raise public and corporate awareness of the detrimental effects of a purely pink world on our daughters, and to promote ‘media literacy, self-esteem, positive body image and female role models for kids’.

Conflicting views

You & Me Doll Accessories Tote Bag

To my surprise, many parents are outraged by this: firstly, by the argument that pink has negative connotations; secondly, by the inference that they are bad parents for promoting the power of pink. Emails to PinkStinks have apparently been derisive and vitriolic.

Yet others say that it is about time this issue was addressed: ‘This campaign is way overdue,’ says one journalist. ‘Pink does stink …it is the colour of the glass ceiling that traps young girls’ aspirations in a perfect pink bubble.’

But why does an innocuous colour preference have child psychologists so hot under the collar? Is the pinkification of our daughters really such a serious threat to gender equality, or is this a storm in a teacup, albeit a pink one?

Subliminal marketing

Barbie Fashion Fairytale Vanity Set

Some researchers claim there is an issue: that submerging the female psyche in pink is an insidious marketing ploy that is dividing boys and girls into ‘gender apartheid’; that such strong reinforcement of gender biases limits our children’s imaginations and their horizons by sending out subliminal messages that girls should leave the tough stuff to the boys while they sit passively in their ivory tower painting their nails and flouncing about in their fairy dresses.

 

Disney Princess Magic Wand Laptop

There is a growing fear that the subliminal message of pink will undermine ourdaughter’s chances to be independent, free-thinking, three-dimensional young women. According to research there is some evidence that this kind of sexual typecasting actually does affect the way our children think in the long-term. Colour coding is not innate (children are not born with in-built colour preferences), but nor is it necessarily evil. However, some researchers fear that our kids, exposed at an increasingly early age to such forceful stereotyping, can become hardwired by the time they are adults.

Less Pink more Personality

Personally, I am totally anti-pink and would willingly outlaw this horrendous colour in its entirety, but then I am a redhead, and when I was growing up red and pink did not go together. EVER. So I learned to avoid it, and loathe it. But despite my innate dislike of pink, I struggle to see it as a serious attack on feminism. Surely most little girls outgrow the pink princess phase before they reach their teens and learn to be individuals? And do we really want to deny them a childhood fairy tale or two?

Cupcake Fairy Halloween Costume

One less fiery journalist refers to this prevailing fashion for pink as the ‘ghettoization of pink’, and asks simply why girlhood should be so monochromatic. ‘It’s not that pink is intrinsically bad,’ she says,’ it’s just a tiny slice of the rainbow… but ‘it fuses girls’ identity to appearance’. As Abi Moore comments: ‘There’s more than one way to be a girl’ but media and marketing are seriously narrowing that definition, failing dismally to provide our daughters with any other choices. And truly, for those of our little girs without ambition to be Pink Princesses, what an unimaginative, two dimensional, lolly-pink world we are creating for them.

*all the toys and costumes come from the Toys ‘r’ Us catalogue for 3-4 year olds.

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Life’s A Beach

Posted on 6 April 2012 by sheg4184

‘The eye can observe nature and the mind describe it, but it is truly experienced in the soul.’

~ Jill Murch (words and photo)

 

Earlier this year, I escaped to the beach for a few days R&R with my parents and my daughter. Robe is a small, sleepy fishing village on the Limestone Coast between Adelaide and Melbourne. It’s neither Borocay nor the Sunshine Coast, so eliminate all thoughts of theme parks or five star resorts. Robe has even – so far – remained undiscovered by McDonalds. It is the perfect destination for an old fashioned beach holiday with the family.

Grab a map and I’ll show you…

Robe is in the south east corner of South Australia, a comfortable three and a half hour drive from Adelaide, or six hours west of Melbourne – a hop, skip and a jump for most Aussies. From Adelaide CBD the road will take you through the hills, over the Murray River and along the Coorong (remember Storm Boy?). Meningie, on the edge of Lake Albert, has a lovely picnic spot for coffee or a lunch break.

From Melbourne, head west to Ballarat, skirt the Grampians and cross the border near Penola. Then make a quick detour to the Coonawarra for a bottle of wine or two (Di Giorgio’s, Hollick’s, Bowen Estate, Zema’s) before rolling on to Robe.

French explorer Nicholas Baudin discovered and named Guichen Bay in 1802 after a French Admiral of the same name. The town itself was named for the fourth Governor of South Australia, Major Frederick Robe, who chose the site and proclaimed it a port in 1847. It is one of the oldest towns in South Australia.

By the 1850s, Robe was one of the state’s busiest, wealthiest ports. Bullock teams transported wool and wheat from the local farms to the jetty, and horses were shipped out to the Indian Army. During the Gold Rush, thousands of Chinese landed at Robe to gatecrash the Victorian goldfields. It meant walking 200 miles to Ballarat or Bendigo, but it was worth the hike to dodge the Victorian landing tax.

Eventually competition from Port MacDonnell, Beachport and Kingston began to undermine this thriving port. When the railway was built, it did not reach down the coast to Robe. Rising transportation costs caused further economic decline.

Isolated from the railway and the main highway between Adelaide and Melbourne, Robe has nonetheless become a popular seaside town, with enough trade and industry to allow it to survive and thrive into the twenty first century. It still maintains a fleet of fishing boats and is relies heavily on the local crayfishing.

There are several beautiful beaches around Robe, all boasting the finest white sand and crystal clear, deep turquoise water. The front beach is perfect for paddling and sandcastles, with rocky outcrops for aspiring mountain goats. At the back end of town, West Beach as rock pools and huge, rolling sand dunes. This beach is not recommended for swimming. The surf is fierce, as several shipwrecks will testify, but it is a stunning sweep of steep, empty, windblown beach, perfect to blow away the cobwebs and appreciate the grandeur of nature. A similar beach can be found at Nora Creina Bay, if you are prepared for a bumpy ride down rutted dirt tracks to the Little Dip Conservation Park.  At the north end of Robe you can even drive along the aptly named Long Beach that runs up the coast for seventeen kilometres.

Over the years I have watched Robe expand and evolve. When we were teenagers, Robe consisted of a couple of pubs, a small supermarket, a petrol station and a fish and chip shop. Today a growing number of cafés, restaurants and boutiques adorn the main street, and an array of carefully preserved heritage buildings add charm and character to this peaceful coastal town.

When our children were small, there was only one café, The Wild Mulberry Café . An old stone building on the main street, it also provided a wide lawn where the kids could play, while we relaxed in the shade with coffee and raisin toast. Today there are plenty more choices. Restaurants such as Sails and The Providore, The Union Café and Vic Street Pizzeria. A new favourite of mine is The Whistling Fish, a bookshop-cum-coffee-shop, housed in a heritage listed wool shed. In winter there are small, cosy tables inside by the fire, amongst the books. In summer there is seating in the pretty, overgrown garden.

Townies from Adelaide and Melbourne, and farmers from the South East have snapped up many of the older shacks or stone cottages to convert into beach houses. Others have built modern designer homes that can sleep entire armies of family and friends. There are rentals available for every budget, a campsite on the dunes above front beach, several motels and the nineteenth century Caledonian Inn.

For the wine lover, there is also a broad selection of Limestone Coast and Coonawarra wineries within easy driving distance.

Sporting enthusiasts can play golf, squash or tennis. They can learn to surf and sail, or water ski on Lake Fellmongery.  Others head for the skate park or try their hand at fishing, either from the beach or off the jetty, or they can even charter a fishing boat.

There is plenty to do if you want activity, but it is also the perfect place to exhale: lazing on the beach; meandering down the coastal walking trails, or reading on the lawns along the seafront. The regional food is highly acclaimed, there are excellent local wines, and so much fresh air your lungs may go into shock. Picnic spots abound and the scenery is uniquely South Australia: saltbush scrub and dusty yellow paddocks line the back roads; the coast line is starkly, wildly beautiful. The magpies will wake you in the morning. The Milky Way frosts the sky at night.

So leave time and all worldly pursuits behind to relax and enjoy the solitude and the natural beauty of Robe.

See the official website: http://robe.com.au

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It’s only semantics!

Posted on 2 April 2012 by sheg4184

I am a trailing spouse. I don’t find it the most flattering of titles, it makes me feel like Virginia Creeper, ivy or a loose thread on his coat tails, with a definite inference that I am dragging on his heels. But it is better than some: to come behind; to follow; to pursue; to lag, or to be at heel. And then there’s that lovely expression ‘to blaze the trail.’

Dependent spouse has been about for a while, but seems childlike or servile, and has suggestions of being an encumbrance. The thesaurus provides a long list of related words with negative connotations like: burden; millstone; impedimenta and albatross around the neck! I like it even less than housewife, which sounds positively mediaeval. And yet when I look up housewife, it is there in the same category as manager, director, governing body, kingmaker …and circus manager!

Travelling spouse was one I really liked until I discovered that it is apparently preserved for those expatriate employees away on mission.

My husband suggested supporting spouse, and I have decided I rather liked that – it hints at a participating  role in the decision to choose a nomadic lifestyle, and it gives credit for the hard work we do packing up old homes and setting up new ones.  A supporter may be a follower, but she also strengthens, endorses and vindicates.  A supporting actor even wins Oscars and is often the strength behind the star.

I think I can finally can get past the semantics after twenty odd years of trail blazing! We, the dependent spouses, choose to support our partner’s job choices – giving up our own jobs, career plans, homes and extended family so that our partners can chase interesting career opportunities in other cities, other countries. Once upon a time this would have had a different impact: families left at home to await the return of the main bread winner; or else boarding schools and childless homes in remote postings. These days, thanks to the proliferation of international schools, the kids’ roots are with us. “Home is where my pillow is” as someone told me the other day.

My husband and I have always had a very equal partnership, despite my general lack of financial contribution, and our preference for expat living has been a mutual decision that has given us a wonderful life. It has had its ups and downs, but the adventures have been worth any short-term issues.

We do it together. Our roles may be different but they work in tandem. To conclude, I quote from that iconic movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, and that wonderful line from Mrs. Portokalos: ‘The man is the head, but the woman is the neck, and she can turn the head any way she wants.’

And let’s face it,  sometimes it’s far less scary to provide the back-up rather than leaping headlong into the battle!

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Love at First Bite

Posted on 27 March 2012 by sheg4184

[As published in ANZA News this month]

A cliché is defined as a hackneyed, trite or commonplace phrase.  As in:

New York New York, so nice they named it twice

I HEART NY

The Big Apple

Love at First Sight

I had very few expectations of falling for these platitudes, or for this over-subscribed city, but I did. Hook, line and sinker. Despite the clichés – which presumably become clichés for a reason – New York has a real vibe. It is:

energizing, enlivening, exciting, galvanizing, invigorating, stimulating; absorbing, engaging, engrossing, gripping, interesting, intriguing, involving; atypical, extraordinary, strange, unaccustomed… and unpredictable.

Yes, I copied this list straight from my thesaurus (except the last one) because every word applies. As for unpredictable, well, I certainly never meant to fall in love…

 Last year I came across New York writer Helene Hanff in a second hand bookshop in Sydney.  Apple of My Eye (1977) is her idiosyncratic guide to New York City.  Although it was written more than thirty years ago, it was the first book to spark any real interest in me – well timed too, as we were planning a family trip to New York for Christmas.

Ms. Hanff had been given a dream assignment: to write copy for a book of photographs of New York City. As a life-long resident of Manhattan Island, she believed she was an expert on all things New Yorkish. Surprisingly, she was wrong.  Making a check list of all the main tourist sites, she realized she had visited very few and set off to explore every one with her best friend Patsy.

With my usual perversity, I did the opposite. While my sister-in-law spent months compiling her own list of ‘must-sees,’ I refused to participate. To my poor husband’s never-ending frustration, I simply wouldn’t play. And if anyone else told me how much I would love New York, I was going to spit.

We arrived at JFK airport in mid-December (ever notice how everything is an acronym in the USA?). The trees were bare, the sky was grey, and weatherboard houses lined the highway with barely a sprinkle of Christmas. Then we disappeared down a tunnel and reappeared in Wonderland.

My husband had booked us into a block of old brownstone apartments in East Village. Our temporary home was a little cosy for six, sublet by Ukrainians with a taste for naked women on their walls and orange velour bedsheets, but it had everything we needed, except wine glasses. Shot glasses were prolific though: the local wine shop was wall-to-wall ‘Wodka‘. I love that!

Day One was short: we reached the apartment at 4pm. It was already dark. While the kids settled in, my husband and I headed out the door in our walking boots, (he was wearing shorts, but surprisingly no one batted an eye), and for two weeks we barely stopped moving.

Manhattan Island is approximately 2 miles wide by twelve miles long, and it is very accessible to pedestrians.  We were also incredibly lucky with the weather as it was remarkably mild for December. Particularly lucky, as the boys had refused to o bring coats, and survived the whole trip in their hoodies.

New York is thrumming with life from dusk to dusk. It is totally intoxicating. There is a positive energy in the air that is invigorating and makes you walk down the street with a big grin on your face, even though it’s freezing cold and your ears hurt. I love that.

People won’t catch your eye any more than they would in London or Sydney, but if you stop and speak to them, they will greet you with friendly smiles and polite responses. I love that. One kind gentleman, holding his big black umbrella over my head, advised that New York taxi cabs will not stop for you in a torrential downpour at rush hour on Fifth Avenue, and that I should run for the nearest hotel. I loved him too.

Another cliché: New York is the city that never sleeps. The sirens, horns, jack hammers and garbage trucks caused an endless cacophony of sound outside our window from midnight to 5am: a true New York welcome that made us roll over and smile, despite the ruckus. I loved it.

My mentor, Helene Hanff, advised me that I wouldn’t see New York from the subway. Instead, I must take the bus. I spurned her advice and took to the sidewalks. Dodging many of the Must-See-Sights, I walked for hours through all the names on the map. It was the best way to meet New York.

Catching the subway to Brooklyn, we walked back across the Brooklyn Bridge with hundreds of other pilgrims. We booked a Foodies tour through the winding streets of China Town and Little Italy, walking into Italian cake shops and Chinese noodle shops. I loved it all, the food, the narrow streets, the tenements, the history.

We walked back from the Staten Island Ferry Terminal where these amazing street dancers performed for us. Past Wall Street (surprisingly short – like 10 Downing Street), and the oldest church in Manhattan, St Paul’s Chapel that once overlooked the Twin Towers and which has been touchingly and tastefully enshrined with all the global messages of love and support that poured in after that heart-stopping event of 9/11.

We strolled down Broadway, winding through the tree-lined streets of Greenwich Village (although ‘Friends’ was actually filmed on a lot in California, to my great disappointment), pausing at ‘our’ coffee shop on the corner of 4th Avenue and 12th Street, where the artistic gay barista welcomed us each morning as he redesigned the chalk board by the door. I loved him too.

Another day we strode up Fifth Avenue, grabbing woolly hats from a kerbside stall as our ears froze, past the splendour of the city library and the mile long queues beside the skating rink at the Rockerfeller Centre, where we watched someone bravely proposing on bended knee, in the middle of the empty ice rink! We ducked into Tiffany’s and gasping at the glorious Christmas windows at Bergdorf’s. We skibbled in to see Eloise at the Plaza, all fraightfully pink and girly (not my idea of Eloise) and then traipsed on over the road into the deepening dusk of Central Park, to see the zoo lit up like a Christmas tree in reams of fairy lights. I love that!

On Christmas Day we headed north up Park Avenue, past all the beautiful apartment blocks with Christmas trees in the foyer and doormen stomping their feet on the pavement, and onwards around the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir with  frozen noses and stunning views of the Uptown skyline framing the park, then wind-blown and frost-bitten past Alice-in-Wonderland-in-bronze, and over several twee bridges back to the Central Park ice rink swarming with skating enthusiasts, more enthusiastic than skilled.

Wandering down Madison Avenue, we passed bumper-to-bumper ‘Sex in the City’ designer shops, desperate for a coffee shop not chock-a-block with designer-dressed-locals, and then over to the Met, austere and overflowing with tourists even in mid-winter. I was freezing, but I didn’t care. I was in love.

We trudged up Broadway to have ‘dinner in a diner’ and trekked through Times Square to munch on the best empanada I’ve ever tasted from a street vendor, but we decided not to hang about on New Year’s Eve for the ball dropping – a tradition not our own that still seems just plain weird!

Then we dashed over to the Lincoln Centre on Boxing Day (I don’t think they have Boxing Day in New York, just the-day-after-Christmas) for a spot of The Nutcracker ballet up in the gods, and the opportunity to eyeball Toni Colette at the coat check.

An early morning walk took us along the length of 14th Street from Union Square to the Meatpackers District (now a popular night club area), and up onto the state-of-the-art linear walk that floats blithely above the busy streets… on and on and on, feeling as if I am walking the New York Monopoly Board. I loved it!

It was great fun linking together all the areas that we knew in piecemeal from movies, musicals and novels. Apparently there is a tour of movie hot spots, but we had soon created our own. I still need to catch the subway to the end of the line and find Coney Island (Sandra Bullock, Two Weeks’ Notice), but maybe that can wait till next time…

…along with riding to the top of the Rockefeller Centre and the Empire State Building, visiting the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island, Ground Zero  and the United Nations, the art galleries and the museums and the famous department stores, and all those ‘must-dos’ that I didn’t… this time. But I will return soon, singing silly love songs.

 

* with thanks to Enzo for his photography. I love him too!

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A Japanese Tea Ceremony

Posted on 25 March 2012 by sheg4184

This week I witnessed a Japanese Tea Ceremony hosted by the Urasenke Manila Association at the Filipino Heritage Library. It was a fascinating, absorbing occasion, and one I felt honoured to attend.

Tea first arrived in Japan from China in approximately 500 AD, since when the tea ceremony has gradually evolved. Today it is a solemn ritual steeped in centuries of tradition.

As we entered the library, three ladies in kimonos were setting up a table at the front of the room. Small china bowls and a cast iron pot of boiling water were placed just so. A bamboo whisk, a cross between an egg whisk and a shaving brush, stood beside a black lacquer tea caddy. A wooden screen bore a cornucopia-shaped basket of seasonal leaves and flowers.

Yuko Yamahura stood to give us a running commentary, as we watched a short film of a teenage girl attending her first tea ceremony with her mother in a real tea house. Following a peaceful path through the garden they reach the tiny house amongst the trees. Here, they left dignity on the doorstep to clamber – somehow gracefully –  through a small window-like opening into the tea house. Kneeling on the traditional matting, they are greeted by their host, and the rest of the ceremony is conducted in silence.

While I could not expect to comprehend all the intricacies of this ritualistic tea party after only one morning, I am in awe of the level of quiet self-control and calmly orchestrated ceremony. Each step is performed with gentle deliberation and measured movements. Somehow the winged sleeves of the kimono do not trail through the tea, nothing is spilled, and the bowls of tea are handed out to guests with calm assurance.

Apparently such discipline and harmony is at the core of the ceremony. The Way of Tea was developed in Japan by Sen Rikyuu (1522-1591). The tea ceremony is known as Sadou, which indicates spiritual and mental discipline, harmony and tranquility, and respectful communication. Ichigo Ichie means one encounter, one opportunity to share these principles with guests.

Our hostesses then began the ceremony, while one of them talked us quietly through each step.

A gong will announce that it is time for tea. Part one is more formal. A thick tea –  koicha – is served in respectful silence to guests, preceded by a light meal – kaiseki – something sweet to balance the bitter tea. This tea is deep pea green and the consistency of potato soup, with a somewhat grassy flavour. Guests share this bowl, turning it slowly each time it moves on to the next person, to politely avoid sharing the same part of the bowl’s lip.

Later, the bowl of thick tea is replaced by individual bowls of lighter tea. We watched one lady perform the ceremony of making tea at a small lacquered table. (It is usually made and served from a mat on the floor, everyone kneeling for up to four hours, but our more western knees were accommodated on chairs.)

A deep, cup-sized bowl was wiped clean in a slow, circular motion with a clean cloth. Once polished, a scoop of green tea powder was taken from the black lacquered caddy and placed gently into the bowl. Then, carefully removing the hot lid of the kettle with another cloth, neatly folded, the steaming hot water was gently poured onto the tea with a small bamboo ladle. The bamboo whisk was then taken up to stir the tea in controlled circular motions, no doubt a pre-designated number of times.

Another beautifully dressed hostess then carried the cup slowly to the first guest. (I doubt it would be possible to walk swiftly in traditional Japanese footwear.) The guest thanked her, remarked to the other guests that she has received her tea first and would drink it now, and proceeded to turn the cup again. This time the cup is turned, not because it will be shared, but because each cup has an individual beauty spot that becomes a point of focus during the ceremony. This spot will face the guest when it is handed to her. The guest must admire it, and then turn it respectfully away to drink from the less precious side of the cup.

And the ceremony continues until all the guests have their tea. This part of the ceremony is less formal though, and general conversation may accompany it.

In my own life, this formality compares a little to the Christian ritual of Holy Communion. As with all rituals there is an element of meditation through the solemnity of pre-ordained process, protocol and repetition.

I came away feeling almost serene, not a natural state for me, I hasten to add. I found myself walking slowly, opening doors carefully, not rushing. Yet at the same time, such contained movements made me feel claustrophobic, almost as if I hadn’t breathed for the entire ceremony.  It was an extraordinary feeling of juxtaposition: calm and contained frustration in one body.

I am inclined to practice such control at home, to save all those broken dishes and bruises accumulated on my usual dash through life, but it will probably take years of perseverance and self-discipline, and I suspect it will be like watching paint dry. I may just have to leave it to the experts…

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Imelda: Rumour Has It…

Posted on 20 March 2012 by sheg4184

Much enamoured of Carlos Celdran’s Intramuros tour last year, I finally got my act together and booked a place on his long-running tour of the Cultural Centre of the Philippine complex: ‘Livin’ La Vida Imelda’. Unfortunately it turned out to be a little disappointing. Carlos was late, his microphone wasn’t working and the tour was wildly oversubscribed, so we struggled to hear him, or even see him (he’s not very tall and was practically mobbed by the tour group).

However, the same cannot be said of the show he put on at the Silverlens Gallery on Friday night. We loved it. Staged in the gallery with a supporting chorus of eight, Carlos delivered his spiel with slick humour, transporting his walking tour to the stage with real panache.

The choice of venue was interesting and effective. The space was small and intimate, the gallery walls decorated with black on white line drawings of Imelda’s Manila Bay constructions effectively created with black electrical tape. Personally I am not a fan of the monstrous 70s architecture that now dominates the reclaimed shoreline of Manila Bay, but according to this script, all credit goes to Imelda for putting the Philippines on the map with the Cultural Centre Complex.

For almost two hours, Celdran delivered an entertaining and fascinating exposé of the rise and fall and the Phoenix-like rise again of Imelda Marcos, intertwining pop culture with the vagaries of post-colonial identity issues, Hollywood indoctrination, the oxymoron of a democratic dictatorship, and the problematic reign of a bipolar first lady.

The chorus provided a very entertaining backdrop to Celdran’s slick monologue. The characters of Ferdinand Marcos and Imelda in lolly pink ballgown with the ubiquitous butterfly sleeves had the audience laughing aloud as they posed in perfect imitation of the originals, who were projected onto a screen to one side of the performance area. And the supporting dancers echoed the Celdran sense of irony to perfection, accompanied by the glories of 70s disco music.

With humour and incorrigible irreverence, Celdran created a gossip-laden, ironic perspective on the life and times of the Philippines’ iconic first lady Imelda Marcos, that often made the locals in the audience gasp at his audacity. Like Princess Diana and Princess Grace, but without the right to a tiara, Imelda was the People’s Princess. Despite her penchant for spending taxpayers money intended for infrastructure and education on a building binge that infamously extruded several large and ugly monuments to Filipino culture, her ‘Hollywood icon’ image was popular with the lesser mortals of the Philippines, even while she was rejected by the aristocracy.

Just like his renowned Intramuros tour, ’Walk This Way’ Celdran’s off-beat, unorthodox monologue is both engaging and cringeworthy, as he exposes the darker side of Imelda’s Hollywood image. And yet, as he admits towards the end of the show, almost everything he had recounted is based on rumour and gossip.  Amusing, but largely apocryphal – or not? We will perhaps never know.

And I am still left trying to ascertain whether Celdran is an ardent admirer or a diabolical detractor of the reigning Queen of Shoes, Imelda Marcos.

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5 Things I Love about the Philippines

Posted on 18 March 2012 by sheg4184

A moment of reflection on a quiet Sunday afternoon led to five things I love about the Philippines…

1. Security

In the malls, hotels, schools and apartment buildings of Manila, I love being met by security guards who scan under the car with a mirror, and glance into the boot or under the bonnet for those bombs we regularly store there (!), or know, just by passing their magic wands over my handbag, whether or not I am carrying a gun with my purse.  I once found a stall in Divisoria that sells those magic wands for a few pesos but they don’t work for me – I obviously don’t have the touch.

What amuses me most is that they are more worried about what I might be carrying into the mall or department store than what I might be carrying out! Luckily I am no Winona Ryder, so they are safe, but I often imagine how easy it would be to scoop up a bag full of products and wander out with a smile and a wave…

And yet, while we laugh, those smiling security guards do make me feel a little more secure.

2. Road Rules are simply ‘A Suggestion’

A Filipino friend described this well-known phenomenon not long after I arrived in the Philippines, and I still giggle about it, and will continue to do so until someone actually hits my car.

‘Indicators?’

‘What are they for exactly?’

‘Lane markings?’

‘Where?’

‘Stop signs?’ – In Manila these actually mean ‘Slow-down-and-drift-into-the-middle-of-the-intersection-and pray-someone-will-see-you-coming’.

I have yet to see a speed limit, except for the bus drivers, high on Red Bull, who abide by the ‘as-fast-as-possible’ rule and mow down anyone in their way while leaning heavily on the horn.

I laughingly relayed the story to our driver, and he grinned appreciatively – and promptly turned left at the next intersection bearing a ‘no left hand turn’ sign.

Coming from Australia, where it becomes more like a nanny state on the roads every day,  and you are more likely to have an accident because you are too busy checking your speedometer than watching out for the kids on the pedestrian crossing, this less-than-strict adherence to driving regulations is all rather refreshing. At least while I am in the passenger seat!

3. Love of food

I am living in a whole country full of foodies! It’s amazing – and such an easy and highly satisfactory way to make new friends in a new country. I am always meeting people who are happy to update me on the best places to eat, and share the intimate details of Filipino cuisine. I now have such a dauntingly long list of restaurants and food tours and cafes and markets, that I will have to stay in Manila until we retire.

4. Mall trawling

I have never known people wander so slowly through malls, often five or six in a row, pottering gently, dam-like, oblivious of the crowds building up behind them. And I have never seen anyone walking up or down the escalator who wasn’t related to me. Everyone else stands still.

Once you get used to it, it’s actually very relaxing, and gives you time to look about, or as the locals do, send a text message. (This from someone who generally dashes through malls as fast as she can.) A word of advice:  don’t try it in Sydney – you’ll get mown down by the Filipino bus driver types.

5.Staff

OK now I am going to sound like an expat princess, but I have never had home help in Australia or the UK, so I am absolutely loving the luxury of not having to iron or mop floors or clean the CR (Comfort Room: toilet/lavatory/bathroom) is bliss, and should never be under-estimated. I LOVE Phoebe, my very own house elf, and the fact that my house is always spotlessly clean and tidy when I get home on the days she works. The fact that she constantly turns off my husband’s clock-radio to save electricity is a small price to pay for the wonder of leaving the washing up in the sink on Sunday night and finding the kitchen clean as a new pin before I wander in for a cup of tea.

As for Gerry, our wonderful driver, he really is magic. He just seems to know when I am ready to leave and appears out the front of the restaurant or our apartment building within seconds. He knows where to get rugs clean, curtains made, mobile phones and computers mended… not to mention the blessing of not having to drive myself through Manila traffic. That is too huge a luxury to calculate! Although I may have to remember to breath when he is playing chicken with the buses…

 

*with thanks to Victoria Gill for sharing her photos of Anilao.

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