December 2005 Archives

At breakfast my brother-in-law informed me that our services would not be required until 2pm, so most of the morning was spent lazing around, taking laps around the hotel lobby, catching up on email, and hanging out with the best man and groomsmen. The ladies were under strict instructions not to stray too far, given the massive amount of time it would take them to have their hair and makeup done, but us guys were free to goof off.

Around noon, the wedding planner, Teddy, showed up in Victor's room with his assistants and the photographers. Well, more like the photography CREW. Two still cameras, one video camera, and one lighting guy. Combine that with my camera, Vince's camera and the other people coming and going, and it prompted Victor to comment that it looked like a CSI crime scene with all the flashes, inspections and rearrangements. The photgraphers asked for his barong and shoes on the bed, along with other stuff like cufflinks, belt, cologne. Victor, like his sister, is asthmatic, and in a flash of inspiration - no doubt stemming from the case of jitters and hyperventilation he was no doubt suffering from - he tossed his albuterol inhaler on the bed as well. The chuckle all of us needed, I think.

Finally it was time for our pictures, and we got ready in record time for a few snaps before Mrs. Dave came back all prettied up for her starring role in the ceremony (she had been asked to read the responsorial psalm and the call to the faithful). And then it was off to the church. While we arrived way early in true American fashion, things were running late in true Filipino fashion - ours was the fourth and last wedding at that church for the day, and we got there an hour early and started half an hour late. Fortunately, that gave us time to take some pictures outside and practice our line up just inside the entrance, since we hadn't gotten much chance to rehearse the night before.

The wedding planner's crew was out in full force, directing traffic to and from the pews, to and from the podium/altar, and a minor mishap was avoided when we narrowly missed lighting the wrong candle. As part of a Filipino wedding, two secondary sponsors are supposed to light candles on-stage that the couple then uses to light their own candle together. Except due to the lack of rehearsal, we weren't sure exactly where to go or which candles to light...and we almost lit the wedding candle by mistake. As far as I know we're forgiven.

One ceremony and eight schmillion pictures later, we piled back into the shuttle fans (the happy couple got a white Benz - high style) and headed to the Maynila Ballroom for the pre-dinner cocktail hour. I had one of the strongest margaritas I've ever had - my toes AND hair were curling, my eyes rolled back in my head, and I think my tongue ran for cover in my esophagus - and we mixed and mingled with other wedding guests. Dinner came in about eighteen separate waves, giving us ample time to dance - DANCE! - and watch Mrs. Dave's cute cousins' girls play in the smoke/bubble machines. They even commandeered the microphone from the MC's podium and shared their vocal talent with the rest of us. There were slow dances, fast dances, conga lines, odd segues and remixes (including a DJ-skipped version of "YMCA" that had everyone going "down at the Y-Y-Y-Y-YMCA" - dude, don't mess with the YMCA). We ate mounds of food, danced until we were sore, and practically closed the place down. Actually, we did - we helped the caterers/organizers take some stuff down, and brought the wedding presents up to the bridal suite. My brother-in-law was now married. Welcome to the family, Imelda!

After another sumptuous breakfast at the Cafe Ilang-Ilang, the newlyweds-to-be had to go run a plethora of errands, including his first confession in ~25 years. Apparently the Hail Mary-to-sin exchange rate is also way lower here in the Philippines - he got something like five Hail Marys, five Our Fathers, etc. So Stefan, Mrs. Dave and I thought we'd hit up the local golf course, the Intramuros Club. Technically, it's not intra (inside) any muros (walls) - it runs around the outside - but it's in that area. Our cabbie dropped us off, and the soaking began.

First, he offered to wait for us at the rate of P230 an hour (about $4.50, which is cheap, but the round-trip would have cost P170). Then they foisted some caddies upon us (P250 each). Then club rental. And balls. And tees. And greens fees. And maintenance fees. By the time the cash register stopped ringing, we'd been tuned up for P4720 (about $100)! But hey, we were going to have a morning of entertainment, right. We got up to the starter's box, and our caddies disappeared for some reason. Then the starter pointed to the dress code sign we'd missed before - Stefan didn't have a collared shirt. Of course they offered to sell him one, but the whole experience was just too bizarre and irritating, and we decided to cut our losses, get our money back, and hit the driving range instead.

Perhaps it was just this driving range, but one peculiarity was far too interesting not to mention. That is, other than the solid dirt platforms from which to drive. And the fact that the range was only ~175 yards long, necessitating a hundred-foot-high netting around the entire area. Or the fact that just off to the right of the driving range was the red tiled roof of the shrine to the national hero we had visited yesterday. Or even the fact that the netting had fallen halfway down, meaning everything that we sliced had a very real possibility of clonking some poor shrine visitor on the head.

No, it was that in our P85 fee per bucket (of 80 balls!) was included a "tee girl" fee. The tee girls basically sat next to the divider between tee areas, and teed up the balls before we hit them. Or at least, they were supposed to. But Stefan hadn't been golfing for about three years, and he was so fearful of rocketing a ball shooting off the poor girl's kneecaps that he pleaded with her to get out of the way lest he incapacitate her permanently. We did observe the tee girls on other tees - they would scoop together a small pile of dirt, place the ball on top, and then pick up the ball along with a small cylinder of packed earth beneath it, and set it out in the driving area. Lather, rinse, and repeat. 80 times. Kinda made my blister seem insignificant by comparison.

Since the driving range experience had lasted somewhat shorter than a round of 18 holes might have, but since it left us both with wrenched backs and sore shoulders (wimps, I know, but we were wayyyyy out of practice and probably could have just handled a bucket between the two of us), and since we had a few hours to kill, back we went to the spa in Quezon City. The bride and groom would be meeting us there since they had missed out on the previous day's festivities and didn't want to be left out completely. The groom was sporting a freshly-shaved head and the bride had just had her nails done at the salon next door, so it was really an afternoon of comfort and pampering for all of us. Stefan was interested in getting the full-body treatment but after hearing our rave reviews of the "foot reflex", he opted for that instead and was not disappointed. Mrs. Dave splurged on a foot reflex AND a facial at the same time and we left feeling refreshed and ready to...go to the rehearsal dinner. After what MAY have been 15 minutes of "rehearsal" in the ballroom's lobby - the church wasn't available to us, so we couldn't really rehearse much other than to line up - the 20 of us traipsed over to the Harbor View for the dinner itself.

Our table for 20 was out on the jetty that juts into Manila Bay - nothing like an open-air dinner on December 29th! And there we were, 20 of Victor & Imelda's closest friends and family, just enjoying life halfway around the world (well, halfway for a few of us, anyway). We got to see more fireworks - in an odd twist, Thursday's participants were the South Africa and the US! - while dining on local delicacies. The highlight of the menu - well, other than the ridiculous assortment of cakes for dessert - was the lapu-lapu, or grouper. If you could get past the fact that it was served with head and tail still attached, the meat itself was delicious - very tender with a pineapple glaze. One of the cousins informed me that lapu-lapu was actually named after the tribal chief who refused to subjugate himself to Magellan when the explorer landed in the Philippines in the late 1500s, and whose men were responsible for killing him. Sort of the first national hero, in a way.

Dinner wrapped up around 11 and we waddled our way back to the hotel, fat and happy and ready for a good night's sleep in preparation for the wedding festivities.

And now greetings from Manila (or "Maynilad", as it was originally called - Tagalog for "There are mangroves")! We're paying the thrifty sum of p175 (a little over $3) for the use of one of three machines here at the Hotel Manila's "executive services center". And since Mrs. Dave can't check her email due to this spyware-infested contraption, we decided to make a visit to the un-spyware-blocked vividgreen.net. Such is our dedication to all events blogworthy that we keep vg.net spyware-free! As spyware-free as the Philippines are bird-flu-free (picture coming later).

It's quite seasonable here. Apparently it's the tail end of their summer season (though there's really only two seasons here - dry and wet) and the forecast is hot and sunny, low to mid-80's all week. I got a bit pinkish walking around Intramuros yesterday (the old walled fortress area of Manila).

We got in at 12 midnight on Tuesday night, and spent 45 minutes in line at immigration, another 45 minutes waiting to be picked up, and by the time we got to the hotel it was 2am! I managed to sleep all of two hours on the JFK-Hong Kong flight and only about three hours Tuesday night Wednesday morning, then had a huge breakfast with the soon-to-be-weds, Mrs. Dave's mom and Victor's best man Stefan. I am currently in Tevas, shorts and a polo shirt, trying not to look too pasty, but in a land of short-statured brown people, I can't help but stand out. Though Stefan is taller than I am. We jokingly refer to ourselves as Victor's security detail.

Yesterday we saw the Casa Manila, a typical 1800's-era house where rich folk lived, complete with harp and piano imported from good old Boston, MA. Nothing like a taste of home (not counting, of course, the three Dunkin' Donuts we saw on our way back to the hotel last night). Then we walked to Fort Santiago, home of a museum dedicated to the Philippine national hero, Jose Rizal. He was the main driving force in national independence from Spain and the US, but was put to death by firing squad before the country was liberated. We saw the cell he was held in, and are actually staying at a hotel in front of the pavilion where he was executed. Very thought-provoking.

After a brief snack of Cokes and some halo-halo (a traditional desert that literally means "mix-mix" - it's a mixture of shaved ice, milk, fruit, ice cream, jello and other random stuff) it was off to Quezon City with our tour guide Peter (my wife's cousin) for a stop at a spa. This place is absolutely crawling with cars and crazy drivers - there's really no point even putting stripes on the roads, as taxi and jeepney drivers (a jeepney is basically a pimped-out, chrome-riddled stretch Jeep with a roof and benches in the back, we got some great pictures) pretty much drive on a space-available basis. 30 harrowing minutes later we were in QC at a local spa, where the three of us got the most extensive foot massages we'd ever gotten. For the low low price of P384 (about seven bucks), we had a foot massage that began with a foot bath, then proceeded to a head, shoulders, and back massage before some serious foot attention and then a legs and thighs massage. Oh, and this lasted a solid hour... truly ridiculous. We came back to change and then went for a walk on the Baywalk - a strip of open-air restaurants along Manila Bay - while we listened to local cover bands (there was an all-female band doing a disco medley, and they were damn good!) and watched fireworks (the first annual Pyro Olympics were being held on the other side of the bay) before hitting up The Aristocrat for some local food. By then it was 10pm and I was exhausted - apparently upon getting back to the hotel I fell asleep before my wife, probably the first time in years...

Sometimes it pays to be four hours early for your flight. Or to have a ticket clerk who is easily swayed by women in tight shirts. And sometimes it pays to have both.

Thanks to a generous ticket agent, a wife with the aforementioned tight shirt, and the inclination on both her part and mine to accept what amounts to a thousand-dollar upgrade, per ticket, for the two of us AND her mother, today's edition of D&V's Excellent Filipino Adventure comes to you, live, from the British Airways/Cathay Pacific business lounge. An excellent way to kick off what will be the interminably lengthy leg of our cross-Pacific voyage.

I wonder what the common folk are doing right now. (insert snooty laugh)

We're on our way to scenic Manila to attend the wedding of Weird Brother-In-Law and Mysterious Fiancée (so named because our side of the family has yet to meet her). It began with a quick jaunt in a puddlejumper from Boston to JFK, and then a walk from Terminal 9 to the "Air Train" that was longer than our trip on the Air Train to Terminal 7, and arguably longer than our flight from Boston. We then met Mrs. Dave's mother at checkin, and a little dip, wink and smile later, here we are in the plush confines of JFK's finest.

Of course, Mrs. Dave has been wheeling and dealing from the start - she managed to wheel and deal her way into getting us a ride to the airport from a carless co-worker of mine (long story, but basically, he's in the US from Mexico for a couple of months, and instead of renting a place for two months, he's living in my boss' basement. As a result, he's also at the complete and utter caprice of her comings and goings (not to mention the object/target of Anklebiters both Jr. and Sr. - he's rousted every morning by squealings of ¡Tío Cliff! ¡Tío Cliff!). So Mrs. Dave casually appealed to his sense of independence, offering up the use of our car to him during our week's absence. One gear slowly turned another, and he, of his own volition (though not exactly without forethought on Mrs. Dave's part) offered to be available at 6:30 to accompany us to the airport for this morning's 9am departure. And so it was that we again availed ourselves of the generosity of others.

At the moment, I am blogging on one of a dozen free computers, while my wife lunches upon a sumptuous cup of Maruchan's finest shrimp ramen (an essential part of this prelude to our impending Asian odyssey). My mother-in-law is contemplating a vacuum-wrapped apple, having polished off a few pieces of crustless mystery meat sandwich and a Coke. The gentleman across from me is struggling with a packet of individually wrapped raisins, while another is reposing on a leather easy chair. There is a fountain 50 yards away below the sign for the "pre-flight supper", large paintings on the walls, decorative vases, model galleons, and, hidden from view at the moment, a satellite TV room. I'm guessing the jacuzzi is downstairs, right next to the chauffeur's quarters and down the hall from the private bowling lanes.

I can only hope that if we get a female ticket agent on the way home, that my charms work to equal effect.

The holiday season has been an ongoing affair at my parents' place - they have adjusted well to only having Mr. and Mrs. Dave every other Christmas by inviting half of the Western world to their abode in our absence. Last year there was an open house where everyone sang carols, my mother's best friend and neighbor Gail played fiddle, my mother played piano, served hot hors d'oeuvres, and got maybe five minutes of socializing time betwixt all the running around. Not much fun for her, but she does love a full house, so this year she did it again. Only this time, she served cold hors d'oeuvres, invited even MORE people, and we were able to attend.

This year's gathering had a bit of a poignant (but triumphant) theme - Gail, after having been diagnosed with cancer, had managed to defeat it with a steady regimen of chemotherapy. So rather than having a neighborhood/friends open house, my mother and Gail instead extended an invitation to anyone who had helped her out during her recovery, no matter how small. People who had brought her food, sent her encouraging letters of support, come to visit, shared stories, laughs, or tears - about 80 people were invited in all.

For those of you who remember our wedding, we had maybe 100 people at the house that day, but unless you were directly related to the bride, groom, or hosts, or were part of the wedding party, you simply weren't allowed inside. So perhaps the last time the house had been put to such a strenuous test was my father's 50th birthday party, and even that had a smaller guest list than this gathering. There was, of course, room for two more, and after a fall that saw us seeing my family only sparingly (a combination of concerts, weekends on duty, travel requirements and visits to Mrs. Dave's family), we were glad to make the commitment for two consecutive weekends. And so we drove the familiar 95 miles north to my parents' place, arriving Saturday afternoon, some gifts in hand, the rest of the gifts purchased (a record for me, finishing a week early, though that was offset by my brother Matt not having even STARTED his shopping - as my mother would later quip, he must thrive on the pressure, or really enjoy other people's company).

After a sedate Saturday evening, Sunday was a flurry of activity - Gail was in and out of the house all morning and afternoon, bringing approximately sixteen bajillion cookies over, filling one punch bowl with eggnog, another with punch, and a third with mini water bottles. The bottles were a story in and of themselves - after having struck out in their quest for bottles at Shaw's and the IGA, my parents called to request 48 of them from our local store. I went out, procured the bottles, realized they were fluoridated (or, as the receipt said, "floridated" - treated with orange juice?!), took them back, passed them off to my parents during a quickie dinner visit...and then Gail mentioned that they were available at Hannaford's.

Once the tables were filled, the house started filling as well - guests arrived even before the official 5pm start time, partook generously of the punch (but not the eggnog), wolfed down an impressive quantity of cookies, and pretty much destroyed the cheese platter and basil torte. When it came time for carol singing, everyone crowded into the living room - the tree in one corner, my mother at my grandfather's piano in the other, Gail and her fiddle in the middle, and fifty people carrying a tune all around. Even my father, who's not a big singer and not a big Christian (i.e., he's Jewish), was leaning on the piano and half-singing, half-smiling at everyone. And it wasn't exactly like being back at my grandparents' house with Gram and Grampa, or Mom and Grampa, or Uncle Peter and Grampa at the piano... but it all reminded me that what we do have is still something pretty special.

Anklebiter, Sr. has a new toy - a miniature archaeological dig in a box. Basically a large brick of compressed sand with fake bones "buried" in the middle of them. His grandmother thought it would be a great idea to set him up in one of the cubicles here with his new toy, and a-digging he shall go. So he's been wearing goggles and happily chipping away at the thing with his miniature chisel and hammer, despite the fact that his two-inch windup is really not putting his eyes in any danger whatsoever. And since the second he got here this afternoon it's been

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For the equivalent noise, imagine someone wearing a ring and tapping it against a Snapple bottle.

For twenty minutes straight.

In what GALAXY is this deemed to be acceptable parenting behavior?!

I so cannot fucking WAIT for my own office. One week and counting.

Over the weekend we took a little jaunt to Jersey; Mrs. Dave had yet another work event. While she was doing her thing at some random hotel in the middle of nowhere, I thought I'd get a little Christmas shopping done, so I headed out to a local mall to brave the crowds.

Once there, I popped into Restoration Hardware to get some stocking-stuffers, and while browsing around, my eyes landed on an auto-loading screwdriver. It was out of its box as an example sitting on top of a pile of cordless screwdrivers. Now, there's a little button on the handle of this thing, which I figured was the power button. I pressed it, and nothing happened. Turned the thing over a few times, didn't see any obvious place for the battery, so I figured it must be inside the handle somehow. There is a clear magazine that pops up and rotates so you can choose which screwdriver bit you want to use (there are three sizes of flathead and three sizes of Philips head bits). Unfortunately, it only pulls out so far, and still, no battery.

Hmm.

Then I spied a little black tab you could press in to disengage the magazine from the rest of the body. Aha! Eureka! Success! I thought. I pressed the tab, pulled the magazine up, and...a noisy clatter all around me as I'm showered with a hail of screwdriver bits that come raining out of the magazine. And then I noticed another pile of boxes NEXT to the cordless screwdriver pile...for the auto-loading screwdriver I'd actually picked up.

I must have stood there for 5 minutes fumbling with the damn thing, trying to get it back together without being noticed by the roaming RH clerks. I finally gave up, shoved the bits back in the magazine, and left the poor thing's carcass sitting there, guts spilling out everywhere, while I purchased a fully-assembled cordless screwdriver and sneaked out back into the mall.

Dad better like this damn thing.

News item #1: Grady Little hired as new manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles.

News item #2: Bill Mueller is also considering playing for the Los Angeles Dodgers of Los Angeles.

The chance to hear Grady once again utter his unique way of saying the third baseman's name. Those of you who remember Grady's Boston press conferences, say it with me: "billehmilleh".

We're doing a low-budget Secret Santa where I live, and yesterday my Secret Santa left me a fuzzy green stuffed moose with red and white striped antlers, holding a little plastic bag of peppermint candies. I perched the little dude on our counter to lend a bit of festive decoration to our kitchen area.

I woke up this morning to the disturbing sight of my little stuffed moosey friend face-down in a partially-water-filled brownie pan, still clutching that plastic bag. Apparently it can be used as a flotation device. Fortunately, after a little mouth-to-antler resuscitation I was able to revive him, and have resolved not to place him quite as close to the edge of the counter as I did last night.

Methinks the cats are a little jealous that he's allowed on the counter.