Here and there again
Here and there again
Updated 05:11am (Mla time) Nov 11, 2004
By Conrado de Quiros
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A12 of the November 11, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
A SIGN at an airport lavatory in Kuwait, or what we like to call "comfort room," says: "Huwag po nating aksayahin ang tubig. Ang tubig ay mahalaga. Ang tubig ay buhay."
Yes, it's in Tagalog. It means: "Please don't waste water. Water is vital. Water is life." The sign is in Arabic and English as well. The Tagalog obviously comes from the influence of the Filipinos in Kuwait who have become an entire community over the years. The plane I took to Italy had a good-sized crowd of overseas Filipino workers, in great part women, who hopped off at the Kuwaiti airport.
One of the fellows in our group (we were on our way to attend a media conference in Rome) wondered if we made the same plea in our toilets in this country. I said I think I've seen the same sign somewhere except for one thing: Elsewhere in the world, we put up the sign in Tagalog. Here, we put up the sign in English.
* * *
At the same airport, where we waited in a bedraggled state for what seemed like an eternity, some of us amused ourselves by looking over the DVDs in the duty-free shops. The DVDs were original and sold for a fortune. But there was something in common between those DVDs and the ones sold here, as one of us observed wryly: "Pati ba naman dito, nagbebenta ang mga Muslim ng DVD ]Even here, the Muslims sell DVDs]."
I made the mistake in Spain and I made the mistake in Italy again. I forgot to qualify my order for coffee. I just said caffé, and the result was that I was given a small cup with a syrupy liquid at the bottom of it. For Spaniards and Italians, this is coffee, the other kind, "cafe Americano," like most things American from the European viewpoint being the diluted kind, or the pale replica of the real thing.
The Italian (or Spanish) coffee isn't drunk slowly, it is taken like a shot of whisky or brandy, in one gulp. With much the same effect. You feel a rush of adrenaline in your body and your cheeks flush. If you're trying to shake off the vapors of sleep, this is the thing for you. If you're trying to avoid a heart attack, try something else. I ordered another one, and it wasn't because I was trying to commit suicide.
After a while, you do get used to the stuff. After a while you get to understand why your Italian host feels oppressed in the early morning dragging his carcass to the cafeteria while fog rolls down the hills and finding the kind of coffee you order in Starbucks, the brewed variety in metal thermos. For him that is not coffee, that is something from hell.
I myself got to taste an excellent version of the real thing in Loppiano. It was made by several youths spending time in the community for their formation years. What clinched the deal was the sweetener they put into the thick brew. It was made from the liquid left by the coffee in the pot mixed with brown sugar, or whipped up the way you make whipped cream, slowly stirred round and round until the whole thing became sticky. Teaspoonfuls of it are then put into the individual cups. The result is a glimpse of heaven. In more ways than one for diabetics.
* * *
I was about to say it's as close to a glimpse of heaven as you'll get, but that's not true at all. Not by a long mile, or vine. The Italian genius is everywhere in evidence, and much of it is to be found in their discovery of la dolce vita. A great deal of what makes their vita dolce is their wine.
For sheer plenitude and taste, their wine has few peers. Well, the French will probably debate the point, but that's another story. Where we lived in Loppiano, there was always wine on the table, made by the community itself, from grapes grown organically. It was served during lunch and dinner. The red was magnificent. The white, well, let us just say it blended well with the chicken.
The first time I partook of the red, which was at dinner at the end of a journey that took nearly a full day with its stopovers, I felt like a man espying an oasis at the end of the desert. The first sips confirmed it wasn't a mirage. I told our hosts it tasted like young wine, not unlike the Beaujolais the French serve here during their spring festival. They said it came from the harvest last year. Well, it must have been a good year. Or sometimes some young things are just as good as aged ones.
From the sheer plenitude of the wine, our hosts always kept pressing us to take home the bottles that were left unconsumed. What can I say? I am a very courteous guest and do not like to disappoint my hosts. Happily, as I write this, my royal affliction, gout, hasn't visited me yet. Maybe there's something truly miraculous about this place.
* * *
Or maybe it's the walking. We were sufficiently forewarned before we came to Italy that we would do a lot of walking. I did not need the warning, previous excursions into this part of the world had told me it would be so. I had brought along old shoes, which, as the proverbial saying goes, are God's gift to walking. Only the first day offered tribulation. I hadn't done a great deal of walking in some time (it was my favorite pastime until my royal affliction made a mess of it). But I soon rediscovered the knack for it and, despite a bad left knee, was climbing up and down the winding roads with reasonably professional ease.
There is only one problem with walking in Italy. It is that the roads are terribly narrow, leaving the sides of the road where you can walk even narrower. That would not be a problem except that Italian drivers have not discovered the concept of slowing down. I think their cars are perpetually set to fifth gear, even when negotiating sharp curves.
It's enough to make me believe that the original sin did not begin when Eve gave Adam the apple. I think it began when someone gave an Italian the steering wheel.
Updated 05:11am (Mla time) Nov 11, 2004
By Conrado de Quiros
Inquirer News Service
Editor's Note: Published on page A12 of the November 11, 2004 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer
A SIGN at an airport lavatory in Kuwait, or what we like to call "comfort room," says: "Huwag po nating aksayahin ang tubig. Ang tubig ay mahalaga. Ang tubig ay buhay."
Yes, it's in Tagalog. It means: "Please don't waste water. Water is vital. Water is life." The sign is in Arabic and English as well. The Tagalog obviously comes from the influence of the Filipinos in Kuwait who have become an entire community over the years. The plane I took to Italy had a good-sized crowd of overseas Filipino workers, in great part women, who hopped off at the Kuwaiti airport.
One of the fellows in our group (we were on our way to attend a media conference in Rome) wondered if we made the same plea in our toilets in this country. I said I think I've seen the same sign somewhere except for one thing: Elsewhere in the world, we put up the sign in Tagalog. Here, we put up the sign in English.
* * *
At the same airport, where we waited in a bedraggled state for what seemed like an eternity, some of us amused ourselves by looking over the DVDs in the duty-free shops. The DVDs were original and sold for a fortune. But there was something in common between those DVDs and the ones sold here, as one of us observed wryly: "Pati ba naman dito, nagbebenta ang mga Muslim ng DVD ]Even here, the Muslims sell DVDs]."
I made the mistake in Spain and I made the mistake in Italy again. I forgot to qualify my order for coffee. I just said caffé, and the result was that I was given a small cup with a syrupy liquid at the bottom of it. For Spaniards and Italians, this is coffee, the other kind, "cafe Americano," like most things American from the European viewpoint being the diluted kind, or the pale replica of the real thing.
The Italian (or Spanish) coffee isn't drunk slowly, it is taken like a shot of whisky or brandy, in one gulp. With much the same effect. You feel a rush of adrenaline in your body and your cheeks flush. If you're trying to shake off the vapors of sleep, this is the thing for you. If you're trying to avoid a heart attack, try something else. I ordered another one, and it wasn't because I was trying to commit suicide.
After a while, you do get used to the stuff. After a while you get to understand why your Italian host feels oppressed in the early morning dragging his carcass to the cafeteria while fog rolls down the hills and finding the kind of coffee you order in Starbucks, the brewed variety in metal thermos. For him that is not coffee, that is something from hell.
I myself got to taste an excellent version of the real thing in Loppiano. It was made by several youths spending time in the community for their formation years. What clinched the deal was the sweetener they put into the thick brew. It was made from the liquid left by the coffee in the pot mixed with brown sugar, or whipped up the way you make whipped cream, slowly stirred round and round until the whole thing became sticky. Teaspoonfuls of it are then put into the individual cups. The result is a glimpse of heaven. In more ways than one for diabetics.
* * *
I was about to say it's as close to a glimpse of heaven as you'll get, but that's not true at all. Not by a long mile, or vine. The Italian genius is everywhere in evidence, and much of it is to be found in their discovery of la dolce vita. A great deal of what makes their vita dolce is their wine.
For sheer plenitude and taste, their wine has few peers. Well, the French will probably debate the point, but that's another story. Where we lived in Loppiano, there was always wine on the table, made by the community itself, from grapes grown organically. It was served during lunch and dinner. The red was magnificent. The white, well, let us just say it blended well with the chicken.
The first time I partook of the red, which was at dinner at the end of a journey that took nearly a full day with its stopovers, I felt like a man espying an oasis at the end of the desert. The first sips confirmed it wasn't a mirage. I told our hosts it tasted like young wine, not unlike the Beaujolais the French serve here during their spring festival. They said it came from the harvest last year. Well, it must have been a good year. Or sometimes some young things are just as good as aged ones.
From the sheer plenitude of the wine, our hosts always kept pressing us to take home the bottles that were left unconsumed. What can I say? I am a very courteous guest and do not like to disappoint my hosts. Happily, as I write this, my royal affliction, gout, hasn't visited me yet. Maybe there's something truly miraculous about this place.
* * *
Or maybe it's the walking. We were sufficiently forewarned before we came to Italy that we would do a lot of walking. I did not need the warning, previous excursions into this part of the world had told me it would be so. I had brought along old shoes, which, as the proverbial saying goes, are God's gift to walking. Only the first day offered tribulation. I hadn't done a great deal of walking in some time (it was my favorite pastime until my royal affliction made a mess of it). But I soon rediscovered the knack for it and, despite a bad left knee, was climbing up and down the winding roads with reasonably professional ease.
There is only one problem with walking in Italy. It is that the roads are terribly narrow, leaving the sides of the road where you can walk even narrower. That would not be a problem except that Italian drivers have not discovered the concept of slowing down. I think their cars are perpetually set to fifth gear, even when negotiating sharp curves.
It's enough to make me believe that the original sin did not begin when Eve gave Adam the apple. I think it began when someone gave an Italian the steering wheel.
posted by Dante at 11:49 PM
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