Salon Wanderlust | Helen of Troy is in my taxi

[Salon Wanderlust: Travel with a passion]

T A B L E_T A L K
Offer your tips to a Table Talker who plans to spend Easter in Paris with his son

___________________
Read more about the Philippines at barnesandnoble.com
___________________

R E C E N T L Y
'Don't shoot -- we're Americans!'
By Daniel Becker
A hike across the Macedonia-Albania border goes wrong
(03/18/99)
Original sin
By Janis Cooke Newman
A culinary pilgrim in Italy succumbs to temptations far more wicked than ripe produce
(03/17/99)
Where the wild things are
By John Fox
An archaeologist explores the Galapagos on an expedition run by school kids
(03/16/99)
Going native
By Chris Colin
For American college students living abroad, the question is: How local can you get?
(03/15/99)
Family sanity
By Phaedra Hise
A mother reveals her secret on how to travel with children -- and still feel like you're on vacation
(03/12/99)

Browse the
Wanderlust Feature archives

Wanderlust's Official
Travel Book Partner

HELEN OF TROY IS IN MY TAXI | PAGE 1, 2
- - - - - - - - - -
The next day, I elected to walk the two miles from Feunte Osmena to downtown Cebu City. Though crowded and urban, Cebu is a remarkably slow-paced city of crumbling buildings, peeling paint, thatch huts, pollution, friendly strangers, worn-down cathedrals, jeepneys, free-roaming chickens and cats without tails. Every bank and business of any size had uniformed guards with pump shotguns patrolling the front doors. Every square-inch of outdoor wall-space was covered with Catholic images or political posters. I made my way into the Carbon Market -- which on the tourist map looks like a quaint place to barter, but in reality is a dank, filthy conglomeration of rotting fruit, garbage, insects and rickety vending stands. I ultimately gave up looking for picnic supplies amid the swarms of flies and stocked up on food at a convenience store. I proceeded to Independence Plaza, cleared out a picnic space under a tree and waited for Rosalia to show up.
And waited.
After an hour of sitting and peering at everyone who walked past, I had received countless propositions of friendship, discount offers on shell jewelry and chances to meet "beautiful girls" -- but no sign of Rosalia. I went to a phone booth and called her number. Her brother Luis answered.
"Rosalia says she is sorry she cannot meet you," he said.
"Why? What happened?"
"She had to go and talk to Joseph. But she says you are very handsome and kind."
"Can she meet me later?" I asked, wondering who this Joseph character was.
"Are you a rich man?"
The question seemed irrelevant, but -- not up for explaining the social intricacies of the American middle class -- I decided to keep things simple and lie. "Of course."
"Well then, why do you want to meet Rosalia at the Plaza Independencia? That place is for poor people."
I made a mental note to burn my tourist map of Cebu once I got a free moment. "What place is better?"
"Many places are better. Where is your hotel?"
"Near the Fuente Osmena."
"Rich people don't stay near the Fuente Osmena."
This was getting me nowhere, so I decided to press the issue before Luis asked me to fax him a bank statement. "Does Rosalia want to meet me later?"
"Of course. You are very handsome and kind. And rich. She said she wants to meet you tomorrow."
I ate the entire picnic lunch by myself, spent a couple of uninspired tourist hours downtown, then headed back to my pension house. As I was letting myself into my room, a Canadian in his 40s who introduced himself as Dale informed me that there was a sky-lounge on the roof of the pension house. "It's where everyone goes to get oiled up before they hit the bars," he said.
Dale was plenty oiled by the time I'd showered and gone up to join him in the sky-lounge. "Why do they always say, 'Hey Joe?'" he demanded of me, alluding to the Philippine tradition of informally calling all white men "Joe." "Don't they know there's more Aussies and Norwegians coming here than Americans? This country needs to get its white people straight."
From the top of the pension house I could see the sun setting in shades of orange over the rooftops of Cebu. Tiny lizards raced around on the sky-lounge walls. Dale took a bottle of Tanduay from a sports bag and filled up half a tall glass with the purplish rum. "I'm the bartender up here, and you look like a strong young guy who doesn't need to be sober right now." Dale pushed the glass over toward me. "What brings you to Cebu?"
"A woman."
"Just one?" he laughed. "About a thousand women brought me here." Dale looked down at my rum, then over at my notebook. "Why aren't you drinking? You doing homework or something?"
"No, this is my journal. I write down things that happen to me."
Dale swayed in his chair and grabbed me by the arm. "I want you to write about me. Do it now!"
I opened my journal.
"Say I made good money. Say that ambition isn't worth the trouble because the only thing that happens is you get successful at something nobody else cares about."
I started to write this down.
"No, shut up!" Dale yelled. "Don't write about me. I'm drunk. Write down that we need a war, so everyone can have jobs."
I wrote this down.
"Do you know Anna?" he asked. "Because she's hot."
"I don't live here. I've only been here for a day."
"Do you know Laura? She doesn't live here, either. She's hot."
"I don't think I know her."
"You don't want to; she's a bitch." Dale leaned in toward me. "Women want to be lied to. That makes them feel good, because they'd rather feel good than know the truth. Then they find out the truth -- and it isn't a problem that you lied because they just get mad, and that makes them feel good, too. They don't care what they feel as long as they feel something."
Dale left the table to make the rounds among the other expatriates in the sky-lounge. None of them looked younger than 40, and they all talked about their impending trip to the neighborhood go-go bars. Still under the transcendent spell of my Manila taxi ride, I declined the offer to join them and went to bed early for the second night in a row.
The following morning, I took a jeepney to Mactan Island, where Ferdinand Magellan met his death in 1521 at the hands of a Cebuano chieftain. Still smarting from my own credulous assessment of the locals, I spent a good part of the day scouring the beach-side avenues for something that looked upscale. At dusk, I settled for a swanky hotel lounge near the airport. After drinking a $3 cup of instant coffee, I gathered up my courage and went to the phone booths. Luis answered again.
"Rosalia will meet you later," he said.
"How much later?"
"After she is done talking to Joseph."
I decided to clarify. "Who's this Joseph?"
"He is the man that Rosalia will marry." I must have been silent for a full 10 beats before Luis spoke again. "He is very rich, but he is not handsome."
Two hours later, I found myself back up on the roof of my pension house. Dale was just as drunk as the night before, only this time he was sitting with a gray-haired fellow who wore a mesh ballcap and flip-flop sandals. "Leo here is from Texas," Dale told me. "He's 67 years old, and he's here in the Philippines waiting to die."
Leo guffawed and slugged Dale in the shoulder. "We'll see who's dead when I kick your Canuck ass from here to breakfast, and you have to call my room in the morning to talk to your girlfriend."
"Leo spends all his time at the bars," Dale said. "The only thing he knows about Filipino culture is how to take a miniskirt off a bar girl. The old bastard may as well be living in Texas."
"What's wrong with Texas?!" Leo exclaimed.
After an hour of this, I felt like I, too, was waiting there to die.
I was on the first plane for Boracay the next day.
SALON | March 19, 1999
Rolf Potts is a frequent contributor to Salon Wanderlust.


	T A B L E_T A L K Offer your tips to a Table Talker who plans to spend Easter in Paris with his son ___________________ Read more about the Philippines at barnesandnoble.com ___________________ R E C E N T L Y 'Don't shoot -- we're Americans!' By Daniel Becker A hike across the Macedonia-Albania border goes wrong (03/18/99) Original sin By Janis Cooke Newman A culinary pilgrim in Italy succumbs to temptations far more wicked than ripe produce (03/17/99) Where the wild things are By John Fox An archaeologist explores the Galapagos on an expedition run by school kids (03/16/99) Going native By Chris Colin For American college students living abroad, the question is: How local can you get? (03/15/99) Family sanity By Phaedra Hise A mother reveals her secret on how to travel with children -- and still feel like you're on vacation (03/12/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		HELEN OF TROY IS IN MY TAXI \| PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - The next day, I elected to walk the two miles from Feunte Osmena to downtown Cebu City. Though crowded and urban, Cebu is a remarkably slow-paced city of crumbling buildings, peeling paint, thatch huts, pollution, friendly strangers, worn-down cathedrals, jeepneys, free-roaming chickens and cats without tails. Every bank and business of any size had uniformed guards with pump shotguns patrolling the front doors. Every square-inch of outdoor wall-space was covered with Catholic images or political posters. I made my way into the Carbon Market -- which on the tourist map looks like a quaint place to barter, but in reality is a dank, filthy conglomeration of rotting fruit, garbage, insects and rickety vending stands. I ultimately gave up looking for picnic supplies amid the swarms of flies and stocked up on food at a convenience store. I proceeded to Independence Plaza, cleared out a picnic space under a tree and waited for Rosalia to show up. And waited. After an hour of sitting and peering at everyone who walked past, I had received countless propositions of friendship, discount offers on shell jewelry and chances to meet "beautiful girls" -- but no sign of Rosalia. I went to a phone booth and called her number. Her brother Luis answered. "Rosalia says she is sorry she cannot meet you," he said. "Why? What happened?" "She had to go and talk to Joseph. But she says you are very handsome and kind." "Can she meet me later?" I asked, wondering who this Joseph character was. "Are you a rich man?" The question seemed irrelevant, but -- not up for explaining the social intricacies of the American middle class -- I decided to keep things simple and lie. "Of course." "Well then, why do you want to meet Rosalia at the Plaza Independencia? That place is for poor people." I made a mental note to burn my tourist map of Cebu once I got a free moment. "What place is better?" "Many places are better. Where is your hotel?" "Near the Fuente Osmena." "Rich people don't stay near the Fuente Osmena." This was getting me nowhere, so I decided to press the issue before Luis asked me to fax him a bank statement. "Does Rosalia want to meet me later?" "Of course. You are very handsome and kind. And rich. She said she wants to meet you tomorrow." I ate the entire picnic lunch by myself, spent a couple of uninspired tourist hours downtown, then headed back to my pension house. As I was letting myself into my room, a Canadian in his 40s who introduced himself as Dale informed me that there was a sky-lounge on the roof of the pension house. "It's where everyone goes to get oiled up before they hit the bars," he said. Dale was plenty oiled by the time I'd showered and gone up to join him in the sky-lounge. "Why do they always say, 'Hey Joe?'" he demanded of me, alluding to the Philippine tradition of informally calling all white men "Joe." "Don't they know there's more Aussies and Norwegians coming here than Americans? This country needs to get its white people straight." From the top of the pension house I could see the sun setting in shades of orange over the rooftops of Cebu. Tiny lizards raced around on the sky-lounge walls. Dale took a bottle of Tanduay from a sports bag and filled up half a tall glass with the purplish rum. "I'm the bartender up here, and you look like a strong young guy who doesn't need to be sober right now." Dale pushed the glass over toward me. "What brings you to Cebu?" "A woman." "Just one?" he laughed. "About a thousand women brought me here." Dale looked down at my rum, then over at my notebook. "Why aren't you drinking? You doing homework or something?" "No, this is my journal. I write down things that happen to me." Dale swayed in his chair and grabbed me by the arm. "I want you to write about me. Do it now!" I opened my journal. "Say I made good money. Say that ambition isn't worth the trouble because the only thing that happens is you get successful at something nobody else cares about." I started to write this down. "No, shut up!" Dale yelled. "Don't write about me. I'm drunk. Write down that we need a war, so everyone can have jobs." I wrote this down. "Do you know Anna?" he asked. "Because she's hot." "I don't live here. I've only been here for a day." "Do you know Laura? She doesn't live here, either. She's hot." "I don't think I know her." "You don't want to; she's a bitch." Dale leaned in toward me. "Women want to be lied to. That makes them feel good, because they'd rather feel good than know the truth. Then they find out the truth -- and it isn't a problem that you lied because they just get mad, and that makes them feel good, too. They don't care what they feel as long as they feel something." Dale left the table to make the rounds among the other expatriates in the sky-lounge. None of them looked younger than 40, and they all talked about their impending trip to the neighborhood go-go bars. Still under the transcendent spell of my Manila taxi ride, I declined the offer to join them and went to bed early for the second night in a row. The following morning, I took a jeepney to Mactan Island, where Ferdinand Magellan met his death in 1521 at the hands of a Cebuano chieftain. Still smarting from my own credulous assessment of the locals, I spent a good part of the day scouring the beach-side avenues for something that looked upscale. At dusk, I settled for a swanky hotel lounge near the airport. After drinking a $3 cup of instant coffee, I gathered up my courage and went to the phone booths. Luis answered again. "Rosalia will meet you later," he said. "How much later?" "After she is done talking to Joseph." I decided to clarify. "Who's this Joseph?" "He is the man that Rosalia will marry." I must have been silent for a full 10 beats before Luis spoke again. "He is very rich, but he is not handsome." Two hours later, I found myself back up on the roof of my pension house. Dale was just as drunk as the night before, only this time he was sitting with a gray-haired fellow who wore a mesh ballcap and flip-flop sandals. "Leo here is from Texas," Dale told me. "He's 67 years old, and he's here in the Philippines waiting to die." Leo guffawed and slugged Dale in the shoulder. "We'll see who's dead when I kick your Canuck ass from here to breakfast, and you have to call my room in the morning to talk to your girlfriend." "Leo spends all his time at the bars," Dale said. "The only thing he knows about Filipino culture is how to take a miniskirt off a bar girl. The old bastard may as well be living in Texas." "What's wrong with Texas?!" Leo exclaimed. After an hour of this, I felt like I, too, was waiting there to die. I was on the first plane for Boracay the next day. SALON \| March 19, 1999 Rolf Potts is a frequent contributor to Salon Wanderlust.