The Journey

Some of you may have deducted that I have found the most amazing man… One who prioritizes his family more than his own needs. A man who is steadfast, one who loves his wife and son more than his life. But, lemme tell you, he aint perfect. There are two things I dislike most about my husband; his laziness around the house and his being a manic driver. Meaning simply that on long distance trips, he would almost always refuse to stop for anything. I remember enduring long hours without food twice on the road with him. The first time was during a 10 hour drive to the Swiss Alps and the second, on the way to Dijon for a big millennium party. Thank God I now have a son to do the complaining for me otherwise; every road trip would be a little piece of hell. Oh yes, David could be the biggest pain in the ass when in control of the wheels. On that particular day however, I knew quite well that the urgency was real. We needed to reach our destination an hour early, at the least. With this in mind, I decided to do whatever I can to make a possible non-stop trip to Spain comfortable for everybody.

I have woken up so early from a sleepless night on that day, the 10th of June 2005. I boiled a dozen eggs and emptied two jars of the butcher’s homemade mayonnaise (the only mayo in the whole south of France, which taste almost like Kraft. The one they sell in the supermarket has mustard in it.) on them. I didn’t even bother to buy the famed French baguette for I know that this type of spread tastes best on a white sliced American bread. No sentiments from me only to realize later that it is, however inappropriate, can only be compared to not buying an image of the Virgin Mary on a trip to the Vatican. It was all business for me, no time for fuss and important gourmet decisions. My main concern was to arrive in Barcelona as soon as possible. As soon as we empty the truck, Pierre was returning to France. On the way to Spain though, he was just a passenger so I didn’t feel too guilty.

David’s Audi was already in Barcelona, my Mini Cooper I sold a month ago. We found ourselves crammed in the front seat of the rented moving van. “Baby boy, when we see a cop, we may have to ask you to hide”, was daddy’s briefing to our 4 year old. I know, it’s terrible but we didn’t have a choice. As I’ve said, we were living on the edge. Nicholas as usual was a champ, not once did he complain. Pierre was a total sweetheart, he joked around all the way to Spain stopping only when an important landmark comes into view then, he turns into an experienced tourist guide. David just met him that morning but he took an instant liking to the guy. He offered him free accommodations if he decides to take his family to Barcelona for a holiday. I have to tell you, it is very unlike him.

It was turning out to be a wonderful road trip but I couldn’t get Madame Corlay’s teary adieu out of my head. By the time Le Rhone came into view, I could feel a lump in my throat. I was still okay when we passed the sprawling vineyards of the Camargue region but when I saw the mimosa trees in full bloom while passing through Arles, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I just let go of the tears. I cried because it was slowly dawning on me that a big part of me would be staying in this country. The tears flowed for my untried recipe for Vin d’ orange. I cried for those numerous nights when the Corlays knocked on our door with a bottle of pastis for that proper French aperitif. I cried for my lavender plant that I couldn’t make myself uproot. I continued on for an hour until I realized that my son was silently crying with me.

I knew in my heart that leaving that beautiful country was just a start of a new journey for us. The chemo sessions may be over but now comes new priorities, new challenges. From where I was sitting in that van, I could see a better reality ahead of us. After 3 years of the world revolving around me, it was time to give my dear husband a chance to take care of his desires. To work in a real job that he loves while being surrounded by friends. He unselfishly took a big step back from himself all the time we were in France. He gave up a lot so he can take care of his family in our darkest hour. I am forever grateful to him and I vowed on that trip that I would not hold him back any more. It is now his turn to be taken care of. Our journey continues…

...and Leaving is not The End

Eversince that first accidental visit to France, I noticed that I chose to come back around the same time. It was always a delight to walk around Paris during this time, the scent of the years bloom seemed to stick everywhere; on my clothes, my skin, my brain. Fifteen years after that virgin visit, I was lucky enough to find myself living in St. Cezaire, a small village in the south of France, 15 kilometers from Grasse, the perfume capital of France. No need to wonder why big perfume companies chose to base their factories around that area; at springtime, the main reason for this blooms in so many different colors, in all sizes. Ah spring, it is by far my favorite season. With all this said, imagine my despair when I was told that I was to leave this country in the middle of it.

I was standing under my favorite fig tree, marking those juicy purple fruits before picking them, when my husband called from Spain. His best friend found a house for us just outside Barcelona and David was on his way to see it. I was very skeptical; men in my book have absolutely no clue when it comes to the subject of house hunting. Their job is to provide the money to pay for it and to paint it once a year but, I had no choice, I conceded for I had failed in this task a month before. I remember telling him my two small demands: a bath and a separate toilet for the guests and not because I am squeamish but because I am known to "bogart" a restroom so it's better for everybody if I have my own. If these were met, I gave him the go signal to take the house. About an hour later, David was once again on the phone this time though, he sounded very elated his voice almost shouting, "Eureka! I have found gold!". He told me that the house was perfect but was a bit too expensive for our budget. He said he would negotiate and if they agreed, we would move as soon as possible.

I was given 2 weeks to pack. How meager our belongings were, it was just the same a task specially, there was a small problem of boxes being unavailable. 4 days passed and still nothing resembling a cube was knocking on my door, I decided to attack the groceries early in the morning to partake of their unwanted boxes after the morning delivery. I filled my small, very old mini Cooper with all sorts, packed our clothes, books, toys, and knickknacks, padded my antique dining table all by myself. When David arrived 10 days after, we were all set to go except that we realized how much stuff we accumulated those 3 and a half years, that it was simply impossible to fit them all in our car. David was not hired as an expat by his new employers so we were, basically, left to our own devices. Cash was low and hiring a professional moving company was out of the question. It felt like we were a race car, running on fumes on a big race day. David thought that the only solution was for us to rent a moving van. As soon as we had emptied it in Spain, he would drive back to return it (apparently, moving vans rented from France can’t be returned to their branches in Spain, it has to be driven back to its place of origin). Any good wife would disagree with this idea and any good wife would find another solution so, I did.

The ancient fortified village of St. Cézaire sits on a mountain ledge high above the Siagne River, the population is just over 3,000 so everybody knows each other. If you find yourself needing a plumber in the middle of the night, all you need to do to find one, is to ask your neighbor where the village plumber lives. As for me, I needed a driver to come with us to Spain and drive the van back on the same day to minimize the cost of rent. I didn't just knock on Madame Corlays house, I went to the village café and ran my eyes over every single person there looking for a face resembling a driver. Two weeks before, I found a buyer for my car at this very place. Jean Claudes bar, "La Fontaine", was my own business center and I was feeling confident I would find the person I was looking for. On the terrace table, I saw Didier, the village all-around handyman having pastis with Stephane, the village gardener extraordinaire. I saw Fifi flirting with Christelle and then I saw my favorite Algerian mason drinking beer with a friend. I kissed Jean Claudes wife, Marie, ordered a cup of tea and invited myself to sit with Maurice the Algerian but only after I gave him the customary kiss on both cheeks. I found this man to be very nice to me so after a few pleasantries, I went on with my inquiry. "J'ai besoin d'un conducteur, vous connaissez quelqu'un?", I also told him that I would be willing to pay 200 Euro plus other costs for the man to drive the van back to the rent-a-car company. What do you know, the man beside him was a truck driver! It was once again business as usual for the good wife. I arranged for David and Pierre to meet at that bar 2 days after at 8 am...I was feeling awfully proud of myself it was almost sinful. After buying them 2 beers, I bid my adieu but only after I had kissed both their cheeks to seal the deal. Oh France, sometimes you can be so nice.

My first visit may have been accidental but there's nothing coincidental about it. God has always put me in the right place at the right time, He has always surrounded me with the right people. The French may be rude but it was among them when I found myself, when I was healed from all sorts of sickness...their rudeness still serve as a reminder to me that I should be more appreciative of others, this abhorable character of the French humbled me. We left France 2 days after I met Pierre but I chose to remain a resident of this country, I would always come back for their medical expertise, an excuse to be with my beloved again.

INTERMISSION: How to Cook Leg of Lamb the French Way

Gigot de agneu as the French call it is my husband's comfort food. I cook it whenever I feel that he needs more than just your traditional loving. I cook it when he is stressed out at work and when he's feeling a bit down. David would rather eat this than turkey on thanksgiving day and Christmas. I cook it so well that I can do it with my eyes closed. I want to share my recipe with you. Our ex-landlady in France taught me how to do it the French way. Please take note, you need to use fresh thyme on your lamb for better flavor.

INGREDIENTS:
1 small leg of lamb, weighing 2.25 kg(5lb)
2 heads of garlic
500 g shallots
5-7 sprigs of fresh thyme
30 ml. (2 tbsp.) olive oil
salt and pepper
125 ml.(4 fl. oz.) water, more if needed
125 ml. dry white wine
250 ml. beef or veal stock

I. PREPARE THE INGREDIENTS

1. Heat the oven to 230 C degrees. Using the bone knife, trim all but a thin layer of fat from the lamb. A thin layer of fat adds flavor and helps keep the lamb moist while it is cooking.

2. With the heel of your hand, press sharply down on the heads of garlic to loosen the cloves. Separate the cloves, discard any loose skin.

3. With a small knife, trim the tops and roots from the shallots but do not peel them.

4. Strips the thyme leaves from half of the sprigs, and reserve the remaining sprigs for garnish.

II. ROAST THE LAMB AND VEGETABLES

1. Put the lamb into the roasting tin and spoon over the oil. Sprinkle the lamb with the thyme leaves and salt and pepper. Roast in the heated oven until browned, 10-15 minutes.

2. Lower the oven temperature to 180 C. Add the garlic cloves and shallots to the roasting tin with the 125 ml. water, stir to mix with the pan juices.

3. Continue cooking the lamb, basting often, adding more water if necessary 1-1 and 15 min. for rare meat and 1 and 30 min. for medium done.

4. When the lamb is cooked to your taste, remove it from the tin, cover with foil and keep warm. Let the lamb stand 10-15 minutes before carving.

5. Meanwhile, make the gravy: discard the fat from the tin. Add the wine and bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve the pan juices. Simmer, stirring, 3-5 minutes. Stir in the stock and continue simmering until the gravy is well flavoured 2-3 minutes longer. Taste for seasoning.

NOTE: The garlic and shallots should be tender when pierced with the metal skewer. If necessary, continue cooking them 5-10 minutes longer.

Serve with potatoes and flageolets(kidney beans). Shiraz or Syrah is the best wine to drink with this meat.

enjoy!!!!

The Beginning of A Love Affair

I remember oh so well the very first time I laid my eyes on gay Paris, it was in 1991 and I was on my way to the Miss Globe contest in Turkey. I was ready, able and beautiful but nothing could have prepared me for the chain of events that followed the planes take-off from then Manila International Airport.

My Air France plane was airborne when supposedly barren Mt. Pinatubo exploded its wrath on Pampanga and the towns surrounding it, somehow, it managed to affect the course of my flight, of my life. I awoke from a surprisingly deep sleep while the plane was doing an emergency landing in New Delhi. I wasn't scared at that moment because I didn't really know what was happening, it was after all, the very first time I had ever flown in my life, I was 18 and totally clueless. There were a lot of confusions, I was completely lost. We were told that the next flight to my next scheduled stop was fully booked and my plane was no way near able to fly again that night. I must have looked very pitiful, sitting on the floor not even knowing the right questions to ask nor the people to ask them from. A kind looking man approached me, took my ticket and put it at the bottom of a bundle of tickets belonging to a group of people on a package tour to France. Originally, my itinerary stated that I was to have a 3 hour stopover in Paris then I would board another plane to Turkey (I wasn't just flying coach, I was also flying on a very cheap ticket hence, the turnaround) but, I had missed my connecting flight and the next one would be in 3 days. To make matters worse for this beauty queen, the baggages were still on the plane back in India; the contents: Filipiniana costume, 2 evening gowns, cocktail dresses, casual dresses, shoes, accessories and underwear. This could be the worst, most traumatic experience for anyone but hey, if Air France will always put me up in a hotel in Paris, provide me a tourist visa and give me free food coupons for 3 days, I'll lose my baggage anytime and twice on Sunday. I was game on for some serious adventures after all, I was just 18. I ran out of minutes on my card while talking with the Miss Asia Pacific secretariat when a very handsome man handed me his 200 French Franc phonecard.......but that's another story.

I spent the last few days of spring 1991 in that beautiful country but since I didn't have a lot of money, I opted for a little more than just a bit of walking. When my feet were tired, I would look for a park, sit on a bench and just let myself be mesmerized by the beauty around me. In spite of the confusions at 2 airports, in spite of the nagging thought that maybe I was going to miss the competition I worked so hard for, I couldn't resist to stop and smell the flowers, to enjoy the view. I couldn't resist to be at peace. Despite the chaos of the past 36 hours, I found tranquility in Rue Botzaris, Butte Chaumont and started an affair with France.

I didn't place in the Miss Globe contest but what I brought home with me was something more valuable than a trophy, I brought home a goody bag full of experiences that I have stored in my heart. I went back to the Philippines more fearless than ever, more sure of my footing, I went home knowing how to say bonjour sans accent. I didn’t stop traveling since then, have lost my baggage two more times but my perspective in life completely changed. I was no longer the provincial babe who thought that the world is far too big to be enjoyed...I had become this person who could survive anything, who could adjust to any situation, anywhere. That trip molded me and had, in a way, prepared me for the uncertainties of the future that is now the present.

A Sort-of Holiday

For the first 3 months, his employers paid for David’s lodging. They put him in one of their company apartments right in the dead center of Barcelona. When he described it to me, I imagined the worst and I felt a sudden surge of panic so severe I couldn't breathe. I thought, "here I am in Alpes Maritime, with its spectacular countryside, the roof of my terrace dangling with ready-to-harvest grapes(I’m not kidding); soon, I will be living in a place where instead of the chirping of the birds to wake me up in the morning, I will be listening to drunkards shouting obscenities at each other." Oh yes, it sure looks like the end of paradise. But still, I packed our bags to go to Barcelona, to house-hunt.

Nicholas and I paid for our couchettes(beds on the train), took the train from Cannes and slept 9 out of the 10 hours train ride to Spain. We arrived at Passeig de Gracias an hour late but ready to face whatever shocking experience we may have, then, I saw my husbands smiling face. For a minute there, nothing else mattered, we are together and I couldn't be happier. As I was feeling proud of myself that I have not made a single complaint, Rambla de Catalunya came into view. After spending so much time in a small village up in the mountain, the Rambla was like a completely new experience. Rambla de Catalunya is this very big, very long road but instead of cars, it is filled with people. On each side of it are these 2 small roads where all sorts of transport can pass, including horse carriage. La Rambla was also filled with all kinds of vendors. There are artists selling their services if you want a quick charcoal painting of yourself. There are stalls bursting with birds, turtles and even snakes. There are also a lot of flower and plant vendors, there are even those old-fashion shoe-shine men. It was an array of life and I could feel my blood starting to wake up. When I saw the first of the hundred live statues along that road, I knew I have come home. Just like that, I have become me again and not the village girl I pretended to be. The best part of it was yet to come though, further on, I saw coffee shops and on each side of the small roads, I saw restaurants, tapa bars, hundreds of them! It was bustling in the middle of April. In less than 24 hours of being away from my nook, I knew that I was not going to miss the country and its inhabitants. This is where I belong and this is where I will stay. Imagine my delight when just a street away from our apartment, prostitutes lined up in their best shoes selling their ware. The life in this city is intoxicating and I couldn't get enough of it! We were supposed to stay for a week, we ended up staying a month. Half of it I spent standing outside on our small terrace just feeding off the hustle and bustle, just watching what I have missed the last four years.

We didn't find the house we wanted but I was no longer in panic for I knew this place has something for me, I knew that somewhere in Catalunya this perfect house is waiting. And I’m sure they sell grapes in the local mercado.

A Train Ticket and a Rented Car

There was one time when David decided not to come home one weekend because the following Thursday was a public holiday in all Europe. He had it all planned. He would take the train on Wednesday night and we would spend a long weekend together. Before his scheduled departure at 7 pm, he had a couple of drinks with his mates at Hard Rock Cafe, it was during this time when I texted him my own plans...It was all very explicit you see and apparently, all his friends read it. He said, they were over his shoulder when he received my message...I say, it's bullshit! I know for a fact that men will always show off their sexual conquests even if it's already their wives. Anyway, his friends worked him up even more not knowing that the cake was going to be left uneaten for a longer period of time. At 6:30, he called me to say that he's on his way down the train station. I was very excited. After that call, I remembered trying on several clothes as if I was preparing for a very special date. At around 8, once again the phone rang, it was David wailing like a baby, screaming at the top of his lungs in the middle of the biggest train station in all of Catalunya, surrounded by strangers. "The train is fucking on strike, I can’t go home"! I was amazed at how calm I was when I thought it was me who was keener about this homecoming. I guess, that's how partnerships should be, when the other half is in distress the other one should be Zen. I called every bus station in Barcelona, he called everybody he knew. The flights from Barcelona to the south of France were all fully booked. It really looked like the much-awaited weekend was not going to happen. He ended up meeting his friends at this girl’s birthday party. Later, I learned that my husband ruined that celebration because he was very emotional and everybody he knew there ended up on their telephones trying to find a way for him to get home. His oldest friend from Amsterdam, who happens to be half-Catalan and in Barcelona at that time, suggested that he rent a car from Avis to take to France. Now, if you're in other countries this would seriously dent your wallet but because this part of Spain is just 600 km. from Cote de Azur, you can actually return the car to their branch in France. My husband spent 150 Euro on the rented car, by dinnertime on Thursday, he was eating my gigot de agneau(leg of lamb) and drinking his 1989 St. Emilion while cursing the spoiled French railway workers. He was also making clear his demands in life, "this is over, I won’t let this happen again, you're coming to Barcelona as soon as I find a house"! That night I reached a different kind of heaven. I also realized that however beautiful your surrounding is, it is colorless if you don’t have the love of your life beside you to point out that other shade of green. And however delicious the cuisine, it is tasteless without that person to tell you that it is missing in salt.

INTRODUCTION:

A friend of mine once told me that major changes in your state of life happen every seven years: every cell in our body change; lifestyles may go through a turnaround for the better or worse; the love that we feel for another person may lessen or intensify. But, what if, the changes in your life happen every fortnight? Does it mean then that we purposely made it happen...that these are not meant? Does life re-align itself on schedule after we mess it up? Is life better if we just sit and watch it pass us by, no stress? Or, maybe the mess that we make give these changes more meaning? When you think back on your life, did you live it up or did you just let it take its course?


The Transition

When my husband told me that we might have to move to Barcelona, my initial response was that of refusal; kinda like a kid saying no to a lollipop because it might give him a toothache. I was just so comfortable living 500 meters up the mountain in the center of the French Riviera, 35 minutes from a ski resort and 25 minutes away from the nearest happening beach. My French stone villa was surrounded by more than 200 olive trees, my neighbor a good 2 km. from my doorstep. My doctors were just a car ride down the mountain and a bus ride to Nice, just in case. I was so happy there never mind, that I didn't have any friends, never mind, that the French are naturally born rude. All I cared about was being part of this beauty that is France, all I cared about is the cuisine that is French. I have never felt so content and relax. When the decision from the Spanish office finally came, that David had been accepted for the job, the struggle from me was surprising even to myself. So, we decided that I stay in France and David would come home every weekend. At first, everything was honky dory. I would wake up at 7 am, take Nicholas to school and then I would do a little housework, a little net surfing then it's time to pick Nicholas up. We would wait for his dad's call, have dinner and he's off to bed at 8. I had all the time to read, watch movies. At 11, I was asleep. The novelty of actually being alone without a man suited me fine at first and then, came the usual problems with its usual suspects. French railway employees going on strike, more on public holidays. It was all very frustrating specially, David was counting on them to take him home. But it was during these times when the love of my husband for his family was revealed to me.

My Life so Far...

From the time I was born on the 19th of June the year 1972 until I was diagnosed with cancer on October the 12th 2002, I was only half-alive. For 30 years I floated through life like it was just a mere necessity, it truly felt like I was forced to live it. For a good 22 years, I thought I was being punished. Don’t get me wrong, I had an amazing run as a teenager. I was dub as one of the most beautiful in the Philippines at the age of 18, the most talented, the sexiest and I have a crown, scepter, trophies and pictures to prove it. By the time I was 21, I was on fire! But, it was then that I deemed my life the weakest. I knew there was something missing.

This blog will take you on a journey with me. God truly works in mysterious ways...... My life on earth started 6 years ago, in France. My name is Shawnaleh.