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We check our bags at the airport at Incheon for the trip home. We get upgraded to business class—joy, joy. We zip through the security check, and as I’m picking up my bag the guard says, “Please open this bag. You have a Swiss knife.” Doh! I always carry a Swiss knife because you never know when you’ll need a corkscrew or have to macgyver something, but I usually leave it at home when I have to fly somewhere. This trip was so sudden, I forgot to remove it from my bag. Dingbat!

So I produce the forbidden instrument, and the guards politely shake their heads and tell me I have to check it. I go back to the counter and explain the situation to the staff. The woman is rather surly but the man is helpful. Attractive, too, though I did not see anyone in Korea who might’ve been in one of their telenovelas (I suspect that the beautiful ones are immediately conscripted for their soap operas. Rainn is on the side of many buildings). He says, “You have to put the knife in a box.” I don’t have a box. So he rummages in a pile, finds some discarded cardboard, and hands it to me with a roll of packing tape. I’m able to make a nice little box for my Swiss knife, because I have a Swiss knife! And that’s why one should always carry a Swiss knife. Loopy.

I mummify it in packing tape, check it with Miss Sungit, and I’m off. Total delay: 15 minutes. Good thing the Incheon airport is not paranoid about security, or I might still be there explaining what I need a Swiss knife for. My knife-in-a-box appeared on the carousel at NAIA with the rest of the luggage. No one had noticed it when I flew out of Manila.

The Seoul city tour bus was ten, fifteen minutes late. It was my fault. I set my phone alarm for 7am but I forgot that Korea time is an hour ahead of the Philippines. I was taking my time, having a coffee when our handler called my room looking for me. By the time I collected myself and dashed to the lobby the tour guide was all huffy. She wouldn’t speak to us. We had to pick up 17 tourists from other hotels, and each time they boarded she apologized profusely for our lateness. After the third time I wanted to wave at the new arrivals and yell, “It’s my fault!”

In every tour group you can easily spot two characters: the one you must never ask to take your picture lest foul consequences ensue, i.e. Me, and the one you must not make eye contact with lest he ask you to take his picture in front of every landmark, rock, and lamppost. The latter was a cheerful white guy, American with a vaguely Slavic accent. The second he got in the bus he jumped into the front seat and cried, “I have the best seat in the house!” The tour hadn’t even started yet and he was already taking pictures.

The tour guide welcomed everyone and remarked on what a beautiful sunny day it was despite the forecast of rain. Good thing no one else spoke Tagalog because my colleagues and I were all lacking sleep.

Pinay 1: Ang init. (It’s hot.)
Pinay 2: Buti pa sa Maynila malamig kasi may bagyo. (At least it’s cold in Manila because there’s a typhoon.)
Me: Sana umulan. (I hope it rains.)

At Gyeongbokgung Palace the guide talked about how in Korea most parents prefer sons to daughters. Her grandmother was disappointed that she, the firstborn grandchild, was female, and never got over it. She even skipped the tour guide’s wedding.

Pinay 1: Hindi ka lang nya mahal. (She just doesn’t love you.)
Pinay 2: From birth pa, hija.
Me: Hindi kultura yan, personal lang. (It’s not cultural, it’s personal.)

At the National Folk Museum you could rent a costume and pose for photos like a character from Jewel In The Palace. We watched two women taking each other’s pictures

Pinay 2: Tingnan mo, naka-pose talaga o. (She’s really into the posing.)
Pinay 1: Di pa satisfied sa kuha ng kaibigan niya, kinuhanan pa ang sarili sa cellphone. Ikaw, ayaw mong pa-picture? (Unsatisfied with her friend’s pictures, she photographs herself with her cellphone. Aren’t you having your picture taken?)
Me: Hindi magkakasya yang headdress sa ulo ko. (That headdress is too small for my giant head.)

Jesus I go on a trip for a weekend and the idiots gang up on Jon Stewart. What is this, Whine About Perceived Slurs Against Filipinos Week? I couldn’t care less about Desperate Housewives that bland overhyped tarted-up version of Knots Landing, but I have a personal stake in The Daily Show because it’s one of very, very few shows that recognize the existence of intelligent viewers. It is not my policy to explain things to the irony-challenged and literal-minded–they’re not my audience, and as Reret would say, Kawawa naman ang bobo. But we’re talking about Jon, my husband and the father of my children.

Regarding the segment in which hearts and “Slut” are scrawled across President Corazon Aquino’s photograph: It is a satire built on stereotypes of women. Aquino is referred to as a slut in the same way Golda Meir is called a wimp and Margaret Thatcher a stupid tramp. Any reasonably intelligent viewer knows that Meir was not a wimp, Thatcher whatever you thought of her policies was not a stupid tramp, and no one in their right mind would call Cory Aquino a slut. It is absurd to even say it, it is ridiculous. That is how The Daily Show delivers its point that stereotypes of women are ludicrous and untrue. To make it clearer, the point is delivered by the female correspondent Samantha Bee, spoofing the images of women seen on Sex and The City. That is what you call irony. It is assumed that the audience is smart enough to spot the difference between what is being said and what it really means. Sheesh, the segment is even titled “Is America ready for a female president?”–emphasizing that Israel, Great Britain, and the Philippines have had female chiefs of state ahead of the United States, the supposed champion of democracy and equality.

I hope you got that, but if you don’t it is not my problem or Jon’s. By the way, Jon is not really my husband and we do not have children. He is my mistress, and we like to bake cookies together.

In my hotel room there’s a white plastic box under the desk by the window marked “simple descending life line”. I thought it was a defibrillator until I noticed that there was a thick white cord snaking out of the box, with a clamp at the end of it attached to a hook on the wall. In case one has to rapel out of the building. Interesting exit strategy. The bathroom is too small for a tub, but it has one of those snazzy toilets with a seat warmer and wash, massage, dryer, and temperature controls. (They have these toilets in the ladies’ room at Greenbelt 4 and at Sango Burger.) I hear that some of these automated toilets even let you choose which direction the water spins as it flushes. What for? So you can stand over the toilet and cry, “I have power over the Coriolis force!”?

So I decided that, in line with my recent epiphany, on this trip I would be the opposite of me. I made no plans whatsoever. I didn’t even know what time my flight was until the night before, and I didn’t get my itinerary until I arrived at the airport. I did no research on Seoul, not even the weather forecast; I just packed enough cool-weather clothes for three days. True, I asked a couple of people what there is to do in Seoul. Ricky said, “They have a good Louis Vuitton store”, and Grace said, “Look up Daniel Henney, he’s hot.” Which would really make my trip if (a) I actually shopped LVMH and (b) I knew who Daniel Henney was. I did not pack until a few hours before the trip–usually I pack over a two-week period, in stealth, lest my cats attack my luggage with claws and urine. I didn’t even call the taxi company 12 hours ahead to order a cab to the airport. In short, I took the “Bahala na” approach, which is completely antithetical to my nature. I like to prepare a scenario in advance. Way in advance. Like an invasion. With secondary and tertiary options.

 To my complete shock everything turned out fine and now my world-view is off-kilter. My cats tried emotional blackmail, but gave up after an hour. I found a taxi in time, got to the airport without aggravation, and despite getting to the airport only two hours before my flight (Three is my usual minimum), I got through the queues with enough time to have a snack at the lounge and swipe two issues of The Economist.

We landed in Incheon, took the one-hour airport bus to Seoul, and now I’m in my room at the Hotel Ibis watching Letterman. Nothing untoward happened despite the total absence of best-laid plans. Big deal, you say, so you didn’t do the control freak stuff, that’s how I’ve always lived. How can I explain just how weird and out of character this is for me? I didn’t even bring my own shampoo and conditioner. On my planet that’s what passes for Buddhist-like resignation.

My account of STPWW in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

Afterwards we scour the mall for cross-training shoes for Ricky, who has just enrolled at a gym. Another friend, Juan, joins us, and it’s like shopping with The Furies:

CARLO: When I buy a pair of shoes, I compute how often I have to wear them so the price comes to five pesos a day. Then they’re worth it.
JUAN: Where do you put all the stuff you buy? How much closet space do you have? This is just conspicuous consumption.
JESSICA: Here’s a revolutionary idea: Wear something to the gym that you already own.
RICKY: Shut up! I’ll buy the shoes when I’m alone!

What’s happened since then: The cosmos’s sense of humor positively rollicking. Still penniless, but going to Seoul, Korea this afternoon on assignment. Back Monday. Will blog and try to sample live baby octopus. If you’re in Seoul, buy me a drink.

This is what Greil Marcus wrote in his original Rolling Stone review of Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run. “What is new is the majesty Springsteen and his band have brought to this story. Springsteen’s singing, his words and the band’s music have turned the dreams and failures two generations have dropped along the road into an epic–an epic that began when that car went over the cliff in Rebel Without a Cause. One feels that all it ever meant, all it ever had to say, is on this album, brought forth with a determination one would have thought was burnt out years ago.”

That was written in 1975, and every word of it is still true. Springsteen and the E Street Band are now touring in support of their new album Magic. I have to see The Boss. Now how do you intend to do that in your present circumstances? I have no idea, but I know I am going to catch that tour. Last night I realized that I have Springsteen’s VH1 Storyteller episode on my iPod, and I saw it for the first time. Bruce opens with Devils and Dust, a song about American soldiers in Iraq, he explains how he wrote it, and he’s insightful, passionate, and funny. Then he moves on to Blinded By The Light, his only number one song (in the Manfred Mann version, not his), and it makes me want to listen to the entire Springsteen discography.

The thing about Springsteen is, we’re so used to him being brilliant, we tend to take the work for granted. Oh right, glowing reviews, critics falling at his feet, what else is new. But in our constant search for the Next Big Thing, the cool trends and cheap thrills, we overlook the amazing that is here now. Okay, I sound like those melodramas where the middle-aged guy leaves his middle-aged wife for some younger woman, but there is nothing middle-aged or cliche about The Boss. Springsteen is eternal and essential.

Did you know that it was Support The Penniless Writer Weekend? I didn’t, until I felt a breeze go through my wallet and the ATM laughed at me. So I declared it STPWW. Every time friends asked me to join them, I explained that I was broke and that they would have to buy me brunch, lunch, coffee, or dinner. (I could’ve hung out at my sister’s, but since family members are legally compelled to look after you, it wouldn’t have been the same. Your friends have to feed you of their own free will.) Fortunately lots of friends dragged me out on Saturday and Sunday, and I had an excellent time living off them. Thank you Carlo, Ricky, Juan, Bob, and Mike. Not only was my weekend a blast, but I also got a column out of it.

Note: Do not declare Support The Penniless Writer (or Artist, Physicist, Meteorologist, etc) Weekend more than once every other month, or your friends will notice that you’re a freeloader.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

“Viewed from the front when clothed, the subject resembles a burst horsehair sofa cushion or (in the opinion of one of us) a condom hastily stuffed with an old sock. The side perspective is that of an avocado pear and, on certain mornings, an avocado pear that retains nothing of nutritious value but its tinge of alligator green. . .”

Christopher Hitchens On the Limits of Self-Improvement in Vanity Fair.

In the same issue, The Man In The Irony Mask, a profile of Stephen Colbert. I love him.

At the bookstore cafe I run into Noel the filmmaker with the dented head (got run over by a truck, lived), whom I hadn’t seen since the turn of the century, and the first thing he says is, “You ran my Lapu-Lapu story without acknowledging me!” I say, “Yes I did, I attributed it to a filmmaker.” He says, “In Newsweek yes, but not in Twisted 7.” I say, “I said it was a theory.” He says, “But not my theory.”

So for the record, the story about Magellan being eaten by a giant fish (Lapu-Lapu) was conjured up by Noel Lim. There.

In other bits: Whom did Martin Scorsese anoint as the next Martin Scorsese? Unexpected answer.