What makes a good vacation?

Last weekend when I went to Baguio with my sister Alma and book geek friends Czar and Marie, I found out that the answer doesn't necessarily include sight-seeing. You can download pictures of scenic views, browse through magazines that show all the famous tourist destinations and read volumes about an author's description of his favorite vacation spots. Here's my list of vacation essentials:

Good friends. I can't imagine spending 3 days in a hotel room with people I don't like. Separate rooms can be a solution, but that's not fun; and if we had been left with no choice but to stay at Teachers Camp, that would have been cause for a heart attack. The interminable bus ride, the cab rides along zigzag roads--- all of which were an exercise in inertia and a test of bonamine's potency--- were bearable only because I enjoyed hearing Czar's rhythmic (of heavy metal persuasion) snoring and Ate Alma's persistent teasing that I would lose my lunch at the next bend. Missing the 7 a.m. bus and having to wait 2 hours for the next one, Marie scalding her tongue on piping hot sinigang during a stopover and having to intermittently change places with Czar while walking in single file to avoid being downwind when he, uhm, passed gas became laughable when they would have been otherwise irritating, pitiful and revolting. Friendships lend cheer to distressing situations; comfort in a shared and common lot.

Good food, or a general fancy for all things edible. The nippy Baguio weather was made more cozy with steaming arroz caldo sprinkled generously with kasuba and endless bowlfuls of pancit molo soup. The heavy downpour on Saturday afternoon was renderred inconsequential because we were stuffing ourselves silly with pasta primadonna, talong parmigiana, anak ng puttanesca and Oh My Gulay salad. The muddy market footpaths weren't such a nuisance as we waited in line at Garcia's, savoring whiff after whiff of delicious barako, Benguet, Italian espresso and various other coffee bean smells. Burdened with plastic bags from the market and Good Shepherd, we strolled along happily still, knowing that among our encumbrances were jars of rich Tantamco's ube, sinful chocolate flakes, snowballs that melt in your mouth and sweet caramel alfajors. Tired from all the day's activities, we recuperated with slices of O Mai Khan's cold calamansi pie. It achieved the perfect balance: tart enough to awaken the senses and to refresh the palate, but sweet enough to temper the luxuriant bitterness of the coffee with which it marries so harmoniously.

A sense of adventure. No one could have been less prepared for a visit to Tam-Awan Village then the 4 of us. Had we known what we were about to face, we would have worn shoes that maintained traction on slippery cement, muddy trails and jagged rock instead of high havaianas, flimsy ipanemas, unresilient mojos and white slip-ons. Still, we ploughed through--- slipping, sliding, getting our hair tangled in the lush vegetation, mumbling a litany of our wide expletive vocabulary as we gasped for breath. It was also our sense of adventure that pushed us forward at 11:40 p.m., uphill to Starbucks, crossing our fingers that we'd get there by midnight which was when they took the last orders. We were in our bedclothes, made decent for public scrutiny by jackets we didn't need as we were hyperventilating after the 10-minute run-gasp-brisk-walk-gasp-slow-walk-gasp-crawl--- conveying our orders through sign language to the barista, because our lungs had exploded on the way and we were out of breath. It was also this same temerity that made me try isaw, even when there was an abundance of other pulutan (french fries, barbecued chicken, grilled tuna, buttered and heavily battered chicken...), as I was in the company of fellow gormandizers.

A sense of humor. It was funny when Czar, waiting to catch my quadragenarian sister as she took precarious steps down a slippery slope at Tam-Awan, exclaimed "Wow, kaya pa!!!" as she landed ungracefully in front of him. It was funny when Marie, who was usually poised, unfazed and walked with a regal air, turned around and we saw that both her arms and her blouse were stained at the back like she'd been rolling around in soot. Ate Alma tried to clean her up with wet tissue, stopping at the elbows, teasing Marie that it would take her at least a year to get the dirt off those. Turning back at a particularly difficult trail to see the elusive Dream Catcher (which was probably just a crummy wind chime anyway...), we passed another group of vacationers. One of them asked "anong meron dun?" They thought it was hilarious when, without batting an eyelash and fueled by exhaustion, I answered "WALA!!!" And it was really funny when Ate Alma honestly thought that the show on the Disney channel was entitled "Shonda Sheep", betraying her jologs upbringing.

So the next time I plan to go on vacation, I'm stuffing Czar, Marie and Ate Alma in my bag so I can be assured of an adventure teeming with good food and where every conversation is punctuated with laughter.

Foodfest in Baguio

I went to Baguio last Friday with my sister Alma and 2 friends from our book club, Czar and Marie--- all gormandizers. Not even an hour after getting off the bus, we went in search of merienda. We had lumpiang shanghai, each roll the size of a baby's forearm, steaming bowls of arroz caldo with big chunks of chicken, a tureen of pancit molo soup, plates of tokwa't baboy, laing and rice to quell our ravenous cravings. Green tea flavored melon seeds sustained us until our next modest meal of chapati and hummus, downed with cups of strong coffee. Looking back, it seemed that all our thoughts were of food. We made plans for the next day: breakfast somewhere close to the hotel, lunch at Oh My Gulay along Session Road, merienda at O' Mai Khan across Burnham Park and, anticipating that we'd still be full come dinnertime, beer at Chill Out Bar later in the evening, where we can order rice if the pulutan did not suffice. Having decided on those, we mapped out our itinerary and arranged trips to Tam-Awan Village, the strawberry fields, the Good Shepherd convent and the market around the foodfests, figuring out the least circuitous routes. Later in the evening, we headed for Chill Out Bar earlier than we had planned, because we were all hungry so soon. We ended up with two platters of delicious isaw, barbecue, french fries, grilled tuna, half a buttered chicken and two buckets of beer. Gluttony got the better of us, causing us to forget that we were there primarily to drink and we had to--- short of physically--- restrain Czar from guzzling up all the vinegar (the pulutan, after all, tasted infinitely better with vinegar than beer) on the table and point out to him the right bottle to hit. Satiated rather than drunk, sloshed with cholesterol rather than alcohol, we went back to the hotel only to emerge minutes later craving for coffee. It was Czar's bright idea to make a dash for it at 11:40 p.m. because Starbucks, though it was within walking distance, took last orders at midnight. And dash we did, at least for the first minute; we discovered that we couldn't keep up the pace, and definitely not uphill. We egged Marie on, because she had the longest pair of legs in the group, and we theorized that what ground she could cover in a single stride took us three. Fortunately, she made it in time but, not knowing our coffee preferences, had to stall the barista until we came in. I got there next, sweating profusely despite the chilly night air, gripping the counter for balance because I didn't trust my knees. Ate Alma followed, dragging in a breathless Czar who had attached himself to her bag. Luckily, the baristas had exemplary communication skills--- they were fluent in the local dialect, Filipino, English as well as sign language--- the latter being the only manner by which we could place our orders. We spent the first few minutes at our table waiting for our lungs to regenerate. Czar broke the silence by commenting that Ate Alma turns a pretty shade of pink when exhausted, to which she replied succinctly, breathlessly and laced with disdain: "High blood." I think it was all that isaw...

Oh My Gulay

Walking down Session Road, I was distracted from the items on display at the ukay-ukay stalls that seem to proliferate in Baguio by an interesting work of art at my feet. The length of the side walk was made up of rows and columns of tiny squares the color of old clay pots chafed by pedestrian activity and soused in the early afternoon rain. Right at the heart of it was a mosaic made conspicuous because the pieces were slick, almost liquid, amid the drab clay-pot tiles. My friends and I entered the building that claimed it, passing over the restaurants and other businesses that seemed incongruent to the artwork out front. I climbed up until my knees threatened to give out, and came face-to-face with a gallery/restaurant that promised even more brilliant creations than the heart of the sidewalk. Although I was expecting a name with more drama than "Oh My Gulay"--- it struck me as being too tacky--- I concede that at the very least it is appropriate, because the restaurant served no meat. Despite being a meat-eater, I was excited to see what the menu could offer that would satisfy my hunger. There weren't too many choices--- a few appetizers, pasta dishes, sandwiches and desserts--- but it was still difficult to choose because they all sounded (the pictures were not appetizing in the least) delicious. Well, maybe with the exception of the OMG salad which was described as having "assorted market vegetables".

My friends and I finally decided on anak ng puttanesca, pasta prima donna, talong parmigiana and the OMG salad. Of the four, my hands-down favorite would be the talong parmigiana. It's an open-faced sandwich served in a big, shallow bowl, with perfectly-grilled slices of eggplant on top of crusty bread, bathed in sweet tomato sauce and a sprinkling of herbs and cheese. It was a generous enough serving, filling in spite of the absence of meat and my customary cup (or two) of rice. The "assorted market vegetables" of the salad were crisp and cool to the palate; the mustard and herb vinaigrette in tart contrast to the subtle sweetness of the fresh salad greens. Though the pasta prima donna was served in meager portions, it looked delicious and tasted even better. The pasta was the color of sunshine, clean and pure with a liberal dusting of parmesan and tossed with golden young corn, cauliflower, baguio beans, bell peppers, onions and, I'm guessing, some parsley.

We tackled our food with implacable relish, coming up for air only to marvel at the breathtaking view of Baguio in a shroud of rain and to glance, surprised, at various sculptures throughout that were hardly noticeable because they seemed to blend homogeneously with the interior. We walked around the gallery after lunch, but the room which housed the pieces that were supposedly for sale was empty. There were steps made of thick, asymmetrical slabs of wood that led from one mezzanine level to another, with the longest flight connecting the topmost level to the ground floor in a serpentine fashion. All the levels were designed to have a good view of the stage on the first floor, where musicians were setting up their instruments presumably to give customers a treat later in the day. Adjacent to the stage was a small pond with a bridge traversing its breadth. There were plants surrounding it, providing a softer, more natural-looking niche for a pond that, in different circumstances, would have looked out of place in a building of hard rock and aged wood.

On the whole, the spectacular view from the terrace, the whimsical design of the interior, the ambrosial menu offerings complemented by the chilly air and laid-back charm that is the city's trademark are compelling reasons to pack your bags and take that 6-hour trip up to Baguio for a little taste of heaven.

Labor Day: The Pseudo-Sagada Adventure

Taking advantage of the recent long weekend, some of my book club book-geek-friends trekked to Sagada. They've returned since --- cluttering various social networking sites with a melange of pictures and blogs about their food binges, stopovers, museum visits and spelunking adventures (and misadventures). I'm not jealous. Even after looking at every single picture capturing breathtaking sunrises, of what looked like a rock face littered with coffins, a small waterfall at the side of the road, of colorful and inspiring local art. Even after reading every line about how they crawled, climbed, swam, slipped and tumbled their way through their 7-hour spelunking trip and how they reached what, from their re-telling, seemed like nirvana as they gasped for air in the cool darkness of their ancient surroundings. I wasn't even a tad envious. Really. After all, I had a mind-blowing weekend myself.

L, another book club book-geek-friend who didn't go to Sagada either, my husband D and I explored the wonders of a new store that opened at the Robinson's Galleria: (insert drumroll here) Saizen! L had read about it in one of the blogs she subscribes to and the three of us convinced ourselves it would be a comparable pseudo-Sagada. Saizen is located at the corner of the West Wing (or was it the East? I could never depend on my sense of direction... it wouldn't have helped me if I went spelunking guided only by the feeble light of a kerosene lamp, would it?). It's like Japan Home and Daiso, only better. The store has everything you can ever want --- kitchen items, school and office supplies, gardening tools, plasticware, ceramics, kids' toys and costumes, gift wrappers, zipper freezer bags, accessories, toilet paper and art materials. The place is so big it even has space for things you will most definitely have no use for in this lifetime like intricately designed ear picks, tiny aluminum pails that can hold 2 ounces of water, a monocle-and-mustache face sticker and bile-green glitter nail polish. We combed every aisle, every shelf, every item. We would squeal with delight at our discoveries (although D would never admit it) --- L at those glass stickers she plans to adorn her office cubicle with and I at the rolls of felt I don't know what I'll do with but I'm sure I'll think of something. D drooled at the dividers meant only for lilliputian houses, probably mentally furnishing his Yoville unit on facebook, but ended up buying more earphones than he has ears for.

The blogger who wrote about Saizen claims that it would take an hour to scour the entire store. He/She lied. It took us a couple of hours at least, and we had to stop because I was getting extremely low on caffeine. And we were way over budget.

So we're not sour-graping that we weren't able to join our other friends in Sagada. We had good food, good company, good conversation and a good hike around the mall, in cool artificial climate, just the way I like it. And there wasn't a drop of bat shit anywhere.

The whole glorious experience taught us two invaluable life lessons: never, ever take for granted the benefits of EPS, and choosing the right footwear is a skill that will sustain one through life, uncallused.