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Ferragamo retrospective, Shanghai 2008, originally uploaded by 160507.

It never really gets dark in Shanghai. The night sky is awash in the glow of a million electric lights—11pm looks like early dawn or dusk, depending on how much you’ve indulged in the city’s famous party scene. With an annual growth rate in double-digits since 1992, Shanghai can afford to leave the lights on. In the daytime there’s another indicator of progress: Dust. The construction boom of the last decade—bridges, tunnels, flyovers, expressways, subways, international airport, deep water port, office buildings—has covered the city in a fine layer of concrete dust. Brand-new Bentleys and Aston-Martins drive by with dusty roofs. Five thousand families and a bridge were relocated to make a site for Expo 2010, now under construction.

Shanghai in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

I don’t check my bag at airports, but insist on lugging it with me on the plane. I travel light anyway—one benefit of a) not following fashion, and b) being regarded as a kind of weirdo/eccentric—and upon landing I get out of the airport faster. Sounds very practical, no? but this is just a side-effect of paranoia. I have this fear that my luggage will be lost forever, and I’ll be wandering a foreign country without a change of clothes and my stuffed leopard Guga.

This fear is not unfounded. I once took a connecting flight from Paris to Rome. In Rome I stood at the carousel and waited for my suitcase. I watched the bags go round and round on the conveyor, to be seized and taken away by the other passengers. I saw a lot of bags, I waited, I counted the good-looking guys getting their luggage (the percentage is higher in Italy) and waited. Finally I looked up and I was the only person in the arrivals hall, there was one sad suitcase left turning, and it wasn’t mine.

The airline rep was very reassuring—apparently my suitcase had been spotted sipping a kir in a cafe on Saint Germain—but you know how it is when people are lying to you, and you know they’re lying to you but you want to believe them, and they know you know they’re lying to you, but they don’t know what else to do and they actually start believing in what they’re saying? Yes, like a relationship. It took me several hundred calls to Alitalia to retrieve my suitcase, but four days later it followed me to a town near the Austrian border. This is a happy ending as lost luggage stories go—you should hear Ige’s lost luggage epic/operas—but now I can’t let my suitcase out of my sight.

I remember seeing a CNN feature about a warehouse in Arizona (or another US city) where lost luggage ends up.  There’s a plot for a novel: Imagine what they’ve got in there. Apparently the stuff is sold off, so if you’ve ever lost a suitcase in transit, rest assured that total strangers have pawed over your underwear.

So I have this paranoia. But I also have these episodes of what-the-hellness in which I  figure, What’s the worst that could happen? If it happens, then you have nothing left to be afraid of. Embrace randomness. I took the shuttle to Kowloon station, where they check your baggage even before you get to the airport, and I thought, What the hell?

At NAIA I watched the carousel with mounting dread, certain that my suitcase had vanished without a trace. Or worse, that it was visiting St. Petersburg or Budapest without me.  Then my bag materialized on the conveyor belt and everything was fine. (Of course for the true pessimist, this is an omen that a whammy is about to hit.) Does this mean I’m going to check my bags from now on? No.

Speaking of Italy, the Italian football team narrowly avoided elimination at Euro 2008, scraping past France 2-0.  Luca Toni must’ve had a dozen attempts, but no score. On one hand it’s terrible that the reigning world champions were so close to an exit; on the other hand, we get drama.

In the early days of globalization, before Amazon and Google, we acquired our books on trips or relied on friends abroad to get them for us. To personally step inside Swindon was to have a bookgasm. Peter Greenaway saw the connection between bookstores and sex and used Swindon (or a bookshop that looked like it) as the location of his pretentious movie The Pillow Book, now remembered mostly for Ewan MacGregor’s naughty bits.

I hadn’t been to HK in years, and as luck would have it my hotel is three blocks from Swindon. From outside the bookshop looks the same, surrounded by retailers on Lock Road. Inside it seems smaller, or maybe it just looms large in the memory. Near the door is a table full of current bestsellers. It’s when you go to the shelves that you see where the years have taken their toll. Most of the books are old, the pages turning brown. These were probably the same books I didn’t buy the last time I was here. And despite having older titles in stock, they did not have a single one of John Le Carre’s Smiley books. Nor did they have John Burdett’s new Bangkok novels. The store itself has a slightly shabby air. It has been beaten by the megastore chains and the Internet, but it continues to exist like a beacon to the brain.

In our younger and more vulnerable days, the nearest outpost of civilization to Manila was Swindon bookstore in Hong Kong, a temple where you could inhale the scent of printer’s ink on new paper and get your brain high. First time I ever went to HK thirteen years ago, Jedi master sent me on a quest.

- To Swindon go you must.

- Where is that exactly?

- The street name I forget, but to that department store near it is.

- Um, Hong Kong is full of department stores.

- Ah! Joan Crawford it is.

- Mommy Dearest? Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?

- Talking about what are you?

- You said Joan Crawford.

- Padawan not listening. Lane Crawford I meant.

When my shoulder bag emerged from the X-ray machine the tech said, “What have you got in there, books?” Apparently carrying books is suspicious behavior. No wonder people have always feared me; I thought it was the misaligned eyebrows (one permanently higher). In fact I am carrying corrosive material: I’m rereading The Best Of Saki on this trip.

PAL 318 to Hong Kong was rocked by turbulence for most of the flight. I passed on the lunch and had the salad and a glass of wine, which due to the buffeting of the plane settled in my esophagus. Hong Kong cloudy, scattered rainstorms, cooler than I’d expected. Heavy floods in the past week–just found out that in HK they have a storm signal number 8. The taxi drivers all seem to be auditioning for Formula One, or else they fear that the cab will explode if they drive under 50.

I’m in Room 910 of the Marco Polo Hotel, which is literally in a mall. The hotel’s old but well-maintained, and walking distance to the new bookstores Ted my Jedi master told me about. In true Jedi fashion he couldn’t remember the names of the bookstores, the streets they’re on, or the buildings they’re in. But this has never been a problem for those on a quest for books.

Pattaya drag show, originally uploaded by 160507.

In Pattaya we took in a show at El Alcazar, a theatre featuring transvestite performers. The show was sold-out, the audience composed mainly of Indian and Russian tourists. The revue was brisk and professional—elaborate sets including a replica of a museum, fabulous costumes, and attractive performers. The choreography was on the conservative side, and as for the “girls”, they might as well have been natural-born females—very demure and lady-like. Not campy. The overall effect was not comic or racy, but genteel. Three performers lipsynched to “Dreamgirls”. In Manila, this would be a prelude to a duel in which each performer attempts the funniest, most outrageous version of “And I am Telling You I’m Not Going”. In Pattaya it is the show itself. El Alcazar sticks with impersonation; in Manila the showgirls are not merely playing, say, Diana Ross, but making fun of her, of themselves, and of the audience.

Then again, Manila is more postmodern than most cities.

Thailand. What’s not to like? in Emotional Weather Report, today in the Star.

Bangkok 2, originally uploaded by 160507.

From the Suan Lum night market in Bangkok, 160 baht (about 220 pesos). I didn’t haggle. Dammit why are their graphic tees wittier and cheaper than the stuff sold in  Manila? Why is Thailand clean? Why are their roads wide and smooth? Why does Bangkok work? And why, when you return to Manila and emerge at the airport, do you immediately feel a depression coming on?

I’m in Room 1826 at the Amari Watergate on Petchburi Road in Bangkok, a 5-star hotel surrounded by shopping malls, furnished with a huge bed, a flatscreen TV, and a bathtub with three rubber duckies. Very nice, but I have a strange feeling I’m being bugged so I whisper “I am not a crook” into the orchids, which are everywhere.

As luck would have it, nearly all the Muppets are in Bangkok for work-related stuff. I just missed Bert, but Ernie and I met up last night and Cookie Monster and Telly are arriving on Friday. At 11 all the hotel restaurants were closed except for Henry Bean’s American Bar and Grill, where Ernie had to explain what an extra-thick milkshake is, but they got it right.

A band took the stage, and the big shock was that it was not Pinoy. Their first song was Achy Breaky Heart, and I immediately had the urge to confess that I ordered the wiretaps. The male vocalist pronounced it “Eight-chee breaky heart”. The female vocalist was from what we call the Teena Marie school of singing: she skips most of the consonants. For example, the Alicia Keys song If I Ain’t Got You goes like this: “Sapeeyowaaneeooh/Baaahdowannaeeeaaooooh”. The male vocalist sang a song that sounded oddly familiar, but as he stressed odd syllables, only towards the end did I recognize it as something by R.E.M.

The one advantage of having been an American colony: Our cover bands could rule the bars of the world. (As Ernie put it, “Kayang-kaya yan nung banda sa Binalot.”) Or even take over established bands–look at Journey. I shall add this to my plan for World Domination.

The first part of this Bacolod travelogue appears in my column Emotional Weather Report today in the Star. Read that first.

The next morning I had breakfast at the hotel, checked out, and gave my talk at La Salle. It went well, I think, at least no one fell into a coma of boredom. Then we all had a humongous lunch at Aboy’s with Mark’s friends. (There were artistas at the next table, in town for a mall tour.) We had laing, scallops, tuna belly, talaba, liempo, sinigang na bangus, and durian ice cream (7 people, P2,000). I tore myself from the table before I imploded.

For pasalubong shopping Mark brought us to Bong Bong’s, where I got piaya (P37 a pack, different flavors) and barquirones (barquillos with milk powder, P37), mascobado rocks (evil candy, P49 a jar) and the napoleones of world domination (P130 for a box of 12)–you eat them, the sugar high makes you start thinking you’re Napoleon, you try to conquer the world. Then we looked at local crafts at the Negros Showroom–you can never have enough crocheted drinking glass holders–and had just enough time for an espresso at Cafe Uma before it was time to go to the airport. (Ige stayed on, to eat his way across Negros.)

The PAL flight to Manila was two hours late. Two hours I would’ve spent eating. I stuck around the airport and watched three episodes of Fawlty Towers on my iPod.

When I arrived from Bacolod last night I skipped dinner, and then at brunch I just had a salad. I don’t like vegetables, I’m a devout meatatarian, but after 36 hours in Bacolod I need some blandness. Mike was right. Before I left I asked him what Bacolod was like. He said, “Lafang. It’s all eating, eating, eating. You sit down to an enormous lunch, and halfway through, your companions are already discussing what you should have for dinner.”

I gave a talk at the La Sallian campus writers’ conference. I asked some participants why the term for La Salle student was changed from “La Sallite” to “La Sallian”. They said all their schools worldwide use the latter.  Thanks to my very generous hosts, the staff of the Spectrum, esp. the editor whose head I lopped off because he called before 8am.

After mass consumption of sweets I am now piaya (in different flavors). And napoleones. And barquillos. I didn’t even go near the dulce gatas, and I’m not into self-denial.

P.S. Sign in a beauty salon in Silay City, near El Ideal bakery: Haircut and blu dry, P40.

Eastern Carpets, originally uploaded by 160507.

I stood in the sun waiting for a taxi for three minutes yesterday and got a pounding headache for the rest of the day. Anyone needs more proof of global warming, go out at noon. Must’ve been a hundred degrees. Then it occurred to me to check the weather forecast for Islamabad in early June, when I plan to visit. Average temperature: 100 degrees Fahrenheit! Temperature range: 82 to 114 degrees! Maybe I should rethink my travel plans. Antarctica sounds good.

Bad news, good news. The bad news is that my basic plan for world domination—send out Pinay maids to raise the next generation as Pinoys—will not work in China. The Chinese government frowns upon the “importation” of Filipino domestic helpers and nannies, as this takes employment away from the local nannies called ayis. Smart move. It’s not just to protect local labor, I think; they know the importance of being raised in one’s own culture. I mean, they don’t have a culture that’s thrived thousands of years for nothing. There are some Pinay maids working in China, but most of them are employed by expats.

The good news is that the bestselling line of snacks in China is Oishi, a Filipino brand. Oishi is manufactured by Liwayway Co., which began in Manila in 1946 as Liwayway Gawgaw. According to my source, Oishi has 10 percent of the huge Chinese snack food market; given the competition, this is enough to take the number one ranking. According to an extremely cheerful Chinese volunteer, Oishi snacks were handed out free at her school, so everyone became habituated to the chips and whatnot. There are Oishi products that aren’t even available in the Philippines yet, such as the grilled mushroom, the sweet and spicy, and the tomato ketchup-flavored potato chips in cans. (Although it must be noted that the truly Pinoy flavor would be banana ketchup.) As my sister, who consumed mass quantities of Bread Pan during her pregnancy, will attest, Oishi snacks can be quite addictive. Perhaps addictive enough to compensate for the absence of Pinay domestics in China. . .