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Danton (a.k.a. Bakla sa 2010) and I took the noonday Cebu Pacific flight to Laoag. Even before the plane had taken off I was asleep; I only woke up when the plane was beginning its descent. Then I noticed that Danton, who was seated on my right, and the two gay men in the next row, would periodically, dramatically suck in their breaths like Eartha Kitt singing Boy from Ipanema (or Darth Vader climbing stairs). I asked Danton what was going on, and he puckered his lips and pointed them at the male flight attendant who was walking down the aisle. And I understood the extra oxygen requirement. The flight attendant, a tall, big-boned guy, was wearing tight pants that clung to the package. Right at eye level. That’s why the sisters were in a swoon.

Way to go, Cebu Pacific. And the flight was on time.

There was a small glitch on our return flight, this time on Philippine Airlines. Our air tickets had been purchased online and paid for with an office credit card. As we tried to check in for the return journey, we discovered that there is a PAL policy requiring passengers who bought their tickets online to present the credit card with which the ticket/s had been purchased. We did not have the credit card with us; it was in Manila. I don’t see why one has to show the actual credit card when the transaction has already been completed and the fares charged to the card. What a pain. It was the Saturday of a long weekend, and we couldn’t locate the office manager in Manila who had the credit card in question. Suppose your parents bought your tickets for you in the States and you’re not traveling together? Suppose the tickets were a gift?

Our host explained the situation to the ground crew, but they were adamant about their lousy policy, so we had to buy new tickets in order to get on the plane. The aggravation! Way to promote tourism, PAL.

So this is what lying on a private beach under the stars with the waves crashing and a bottle of wine is like. Ang daming lamok. (Lots of mosquitoes.) They don’t bite the other people, just me. Mosquitoes love me.

Nature is noisy.

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.)

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.