Sunday, April 28, 2019

Under the Sea


I’ve been fascinated with the ocean and all things in it for as long as I can remember. 

Growing up, it was a good day when there was a Jacques Cousteau special on TV.  I sat, mesmerized, for the entirety of the hour (or was it more?), which was no small fete for a small child.


Which is interesting seeing as I had a hard time learning to swim.  And since I hate the feel of gritty things under my feet.  Sand is gritty.

My parents (or more specifically, my mom) were extremely cautious about me being around water since I was a sickly little child.   My sister will tell you she watched as I was pushed into the deep end of the pool at summer camp and promptly sunk straight to the bottom.   On family vacations, I was restricted to the baby pool for many, many years.

But yet – I wanted to go under the sea.  To see the fish.  And the coral.  And sea turtles – I wanted to swim with ALL the turtles!  And other sea creatures.  Except for giant squid.  Those just oob me out.  No, thank you.



I simply love everything about the ocean. 

Except jellyfish.  Jellyfish and Squid.

When Keith and I met, I learned he was a certified scuba diver.  “Get certified”, he said, “and we’ll go diving”.  It didn’t take long for me to sign up.  I eagerly anticipated fulfilling a lifelong dream.

“Before you begin (and we process your credit card payment)”, said the dive instructor, “you must swim 10 laps within a certain number of minutes.”  Now … I love swimming.  But I was not in the best shape of my life.  And the thought of failure ebbed to the front of my mind.

But the thought of swimming with sea turtles overcame my fear of failure.  Pushing myself, gasping for air, and pumping my little arms and legs as fast as they would go.  10 laps.  No problem.

For a couple of hours each night for four nights, we alternately sat in a classroom and then put our newly-learned skills to work in the pool.  While others say they think they would feel claustrophobic, I surprisingly found it to be freeing.  My heart does ramp up a bit as my head descends below sea level, but once I’m down, I’m perfectly okay.  For the most part.

I absolutely loved everything about it.  It was as if a whole new world was about to open up to me.

First lesson of diving?  Breathe.  Okay, I can actually do that!  Clearing my ears?  No problem.  Clearing (the water from) my mask?  Easy-peasy.  Maintaining my buoyancy?  Not too bad.  It was all fine and well until … class time was over. And testing began. 

The written exam finished (and passed).  Now it was time for the open water certification.  Here, we would be tested on several skills required to earn our coveted dive card.

Our destination:  Aquarena Springs in San Marcos, Tx..  For those of you unfamiliar with the area, Aquarena Springs is spring-fed, the water temperature a suitable habitat for polar bears and penguins.  Back in the day, it was home to “Ralph the Swimming Pig”, who, along with the local mermaids, would put on a show in the park’s submarine theater.

Suited up in wetsuits, we entered the (what felt like) sub-zero temperature water and made our way to the submarine theater.  The submarine, now filled with algae and gunk, sits submerged and very much abandoned.  Except for the fish.  The rings the mermaids used to swim through, now our playground.


But first there was work to do. 

Clear mask.  Check.
Maintain buoyancy.  Check.
Regulator retrieval.  Check.
Buddy breathing.  Check.
Mask removal.  Hold up now.

With my dive master facing me, he demonstrated mask removal, then placing the mask back on his face, and finally, clearing his mask.  This is a necessary skill in case you were to lose your mask while you’re under.  Now it was my turn.

I was able to get my mask off easily enough.  But could not, for the life of me, get a good seal (which would allow me to clear my mask).  My mask, continually filling with water, up to my eyeballs and then over them.  Attempt number two didn’t go much better. 

And that’s when the panic set in. 

I’m quite sure my eyes adequately registered my utter fear as I struggled to achieve this task.  The single task standing between me and my dive card.  Seeing my panic, my dive master did his best to keep me calm, even grabbing onto my BCD (inflatable vest, to which the tank is strapped) in order to ensure I did not head for the surface.  It was as if he was reading my mind.

Attempt Number Three.

Mask off.  Mask on.  Mask cleared.  Check.

I gave my dive master the sign for “let’s get the hell out of here and let me get my head (literally) above water.”  As we reached the surface, I was gasping for air, panic well-and-truly settled into my mind and my body.  If my memory serves, I was generating some pretty serious waves, what with all the thrashing around I was doing. 

My dive master again grabbed hold of my BCD.  His goal:  pull his best Dr. Phil and get me below the surface; I still had other skills to complete.  But first, he needed me to know why I couldn’t get a good seal.  My snorkel had lodged its way in between my face and my mask.  The ice-cold water numbing my face to the point that I couldn’t feel it.  It’s for this reason that I no longer dive with my snorkel.

Relieved, we again descended to a depth of 14 feet.  I finished whatever other skills there were (I seem to have blocked off all other memories after the trauma).    And … success!

I was officially a card-carrying open-water diver.

I consider my first few dives post-certification as my learning curve.  Except that 17 dives later, I’m still learning.  My first buddy dive with Keith (and my first post-certification dives) were taken while we were on a cruise in Cozumel and Grand Cayman.  I really enjoyed it, even if I struggled a bit.

For as excited as I was diving, I still had anxiety when I thought about the possibility of losing my mask.  The reality of it is, I don’t think it happens all that often, provided you’re not swimming through a cave or doing a shipwreck dive (where one’s mask might get caught on something).  Or swimming with sharks.

Keith did a shark dive shortly after we met and before I was certified.  Sitting on the ocean floor in the Bahamas, they threw chum around the circle of divers in order to draw the sharks in.  (Doesn’t sound like much fun to me either.)   One shark whipped up behind Keith and hit him with his tail, the force so powerful that it knocked him over and knocked off his mask.  Per the dive master’s instructions, Keith didn’t stick his hand out to break his fall, nor try and get himself back up.  Lest the sharks confuse his arm with something to snack on.  The dive master sat him back up and handed him his mask.

#1 Sharks
#2 Mask removal/loss
#3 Uh-uh.  No way.  No how.

On a different cruise (Cozumel, I believe), we pulled into port, the ship buzzing with excitement as everyone prepared for their shore excursions.  Except … it was pouring down rain.  And one-by-one, the announcements came that ‘this excursion’ or ‘that excursion’ was canceled due to weather.  I fully expected to hear a no-go for ours.  Instead, they called us to exit the ship.

Apparently, it’s perfectly safe UNDER the water during a downpour. 

The dive shop picked us up in their boat, distributed our wetsuits which we judiciously squeezed into (the rain chilling the Caribbean waters) and down we went.  It was a beautiful dive.  Serene.  Peaceful.  Calming.  In other words, something very different from what was happening above.





Another two-tank dive success.  Even if I continued to struggle a bit with my buoyancy.  The dive master adding weight in order to keep me at depth.

There was a lull in our dive trips, thanks in large part to my anxiety over having to retrieve and put my mask on.  I would lay awake at night and my heart would race, just thinking about not being able to get my mask back on.  Generating yet another bout of insomnia.

Determined to not have wasted several hundred dollars on a short-lived hobby, I enrolled in a refresher course at a local dive shop.  They asked what my primary concerns were.  We spent a lot of time during those three hours, with me trying to remove and replace my mask.  To no avail.  The dive master convinced that I was issued my dive card in error.  So we moved on to buoyancy control. 

Seriously though (because this really is a serious matter), there was some semblance of success, to the point that the dive master was satisfied.


According to my dive log, I’ve been lucky enough to see a plethora of sea life.  Of course, there are always stingrays.  I’ve held a sea cucumber (they’re squishy).  I’ve seen (and smartly steered clear of) a 6-7 foot eel and a barracuda with really big teeth.  Grouper are common in the Caribbean.  Starfish are plentiful.  And there are sea turtles, though they’ve always kept their distance.  Sadly.

There are also some strange, yet remarkable things down below.  Amoeba-like creatures that glide carelessly through the waters.  And some kind of plankton that I swam through in Honduras which created red, itchy spots on my skin and lasted for days.  Dream come true, right?


Our most recent dive trip took us to the Philippines.  You may have seen (I've Got 2 Tickets to Paradise) that I had three of my best dives ever, while there.  

Everything just seemed to work right.  My dive master estimated correctly, the weight needed on my belt.  My buoyancy control was on point, as I glided close to the ocean floor without stirring up the sand, my hands cradled at my belt line, not flailing about as if I were swimming.  Managing my air supply without having to shorten the amount of time we were down.  All in all, smooth sailing.



Part of the draw of this beautiful country for my husband, is the fact that when you dive, they are extremely accommodating.  They help put your gear on (no struggling into the BCD, testing of the tanks, and struggling to stand up).  At the end of the dive, your dive master takes your equipment off while in the water, handing it to the boat crew, so that you can climb the ladder into the boat safely and without added weight or stress.  Nice!

But before we could explore the crystal-clear waters of the PI, I got a little refresher from my dive master.  Kneeling on the ocean floor, we practiced filling and then clearing our masks, breathing without our regulator in our mouths, and “throwing” and retrieving our regulator.  Thankfully, he didn’t ask us to do the mask removal exercise and I certainly didn’t offer up that this is one of the things I’m uncomfortable with.

I’ve not seen more beautiful sea life than in the Philippines.  


You’ve probably surmised I have a thing for sea turtles.  Getting to see one up-close was just about as close to a dream-come-true as I could get.  Swimming with one hand-in-hand … or … hand-in-flipper would put me absolutely over the top!

For the first time, I saw clown fish (Nemo).  Lots and lots of them.  Swimming closely near their anemones. 

On a previous dive trip there, Keith encountered these cute and (seemingly) playful fish.  Don’t believe it.  It’s a trap.  One particular fish was curious about him, swimming in front of him, looking at him, as if to say “hey!  Want to play?”  Until … it swam as fast as it’s little fins would carry it and slammed straight into Keith’s regulator.  Bubbles everywhere.

We both found it comical that on this latest trip, as I was admiring the clown fish, one swam precariously close to Keith’s face.  We laughed (as much as we could underwater) at the prospect that it might charge him.  Instead, it just stared deeply into his eyes and then swam back to his friends.

In the Philippines, both in El Nido and in Cebu, we saw several schools of fish.  Very Large Schools of Fish.  In the hundreds, maybe even in the thousands.  Yellow snapper.  Sardines.  Grouper.  And some tiny little bottom feeders.  The schools swam left, then right, then turned 180º.  Completely in sync.  

Poetry.  In.  Motion.  The folks at Disney got it right.

In Cebu, my experience was not quite as wonderful as in El Nido.  The dust (prevalent in the beach town of El Nido) finally got to me.  Slightly congested, I dove anyway.  And really shouldn’t have.  My ears were in such pain and I couldn’t make the full depth we were aiming for.  Combine it with Keith getting sick on the way up after our first dive, and it just wasn’t the best day ever.  (I think perhaps, the unlimited wine the night before might have had just a little to do with it.)  Lessons learned.

Still, a day of diving (even if it’s not the best) is better than not.

Floating underwater seemingly weightlessly (which is ironic, seeing as you have a weight belt strapped to you, which keeps you from popping back up).  Pushed along by the current (drift diving) or gently kicking with the webbed extensions fitted to your feet.  Exploring nooks and crannies, looking for creatures of the deep. 

There is a comfort here.

A peaceful silence except for the sound of your breath coursing through your regulator (which is really kinda cool) and the occasional boat passing overhead.  Bubbles rising to the surface (confirming that you’re still breathing – that’s a good thing).

An enormous world beneath the surface.  A world worthy of exploration.

I’m no Jacques Cousteau.  But I think I would make Ariel and Mr. Ray proud.


Sunday, April 21, 2019

He is Risen



For many, watching “The Ten Commandments” is part of their Holy Week tradition.  I’ve never been able to make it through a whole screening.  So instead, I suggested last night, that we watch “The Passion of the Christ”.  A movie, I was surprised to learn, my husband had never seen.

Watching this and thinking about the significance of Holy Week and in particular, these last three days, brought back sweet memories of our trip to Israel and Jerusalem in particular, which we took when my step-daughter and son-in-law were married there.


Jerusalem

It is true that a trip to the Holy Land is something special.  And if you ever get the opportunity, I highly encourage you to go.

Upon meeting a taxi driver with a Jordanian passport, we journeyed to Bethlehem, to the site of Jesus’ birth, within the bowels of the Church of the Nativity.  We were forewarned to carry our passports, but not to show them unless absolutely necessary. 

On the drive, a large wall to our left, and our driver, David Koresh (I kid you not – that was his name) says, “that’s the West Bank” and suddenly, I wondered if this is the best idea.

Bethlehem
The church itself, felt like a dark, dank space.  One you would not think would be associated with a King.  We climbed the steep stone steps into the space of our Lord and Savior’s birth. 




In Israel, it is believed that the manger was actually inside a cave.  Which, according to what Keith experienced on a previous visit to Israel, makes sense; on that trip, he witnessed cows bedded down inside of caves along a mountain path. 

In this, the tiniest of spaces, we contemplated what a tiny baby would come to mean to Christians around the world.

Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem


In our opinion, it was worth the risk.  Even if it was a bit on the illegal side in the eyes of the Israeli government.


JerusalemWe prayed again at the Western Wall, also known as the Wailing Wall.  Covering my head respectfully, I carefully tucked into the cracks of the wall, my stated intentions.  For friends, for family.



JerusalemIn Jerusalem, we visited the Mount of Olives, the Church of Nations, and Gethsemane, the garden where Jesus was found praying when arrested the night before his crucifixion.

Jerusalem
We walked Via Dolorosa, or the Stations of the Cross. 





Placing our hands on the spot where it is said Jesus braced himself to keep from falling.  The Fifth Station, “Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus carry His cross”.  Too solemn a place, we couldn’t bring ourselves to smile.


Via Dolorosa, Jerusalem
 








But it is within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where this visit, this pilgrimage, holds the most meaningful experience of my life.


The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the site of the last four Stations, X – XIV.

Jerusalem
Calvary, the site of the Crucifixion, and the 11th Station.  It was extremely crowded in this part of the church.  And thus, difficult to stand before it and admire the beauty, in such a sorrowful place.


It was at Station XIII, Jesus was taken down from the cross, where lives a memory that is forever etched in my mind, my heart, my soul. 

The slab where it is said Jesus’ body was laid and cleansed before being placed in the tomb stands at the entrance to the Church.  Believers kneel under the candles, placing their hands on the stone.  Some bring religious articles, touching the stone, and praying over them.

Here, I knelt, I placed my hand on the stone.  As I did so, a most incredible feeling coursed through my body, starting at the arm which was placed on the stone, into my shoulders, up into my head, through my body, and down to my feet. 


Jerusalem


I can’t describe it other than to say it was as if the Holy Spirit had entered my body.  And my heart.

To this day, when I think about that moment, or re-tell the story, my body is overcome with goosebumps.  The familiar feeling of the Holy Spirit returning to me.

The final Station, Jesus’ tomb, is a large black structure.  It is a small space, allowing only 3-4 visitors inside at a time.  It is, much to my surprise, rather unremarkable, given its significance.  Within this tiny enclosure is a piece of stone said to be a part of the stone which covered the tomb and the tomb itself. 
Jerusalem


Now empty, physically.  But filled, spiritually.

He is Risen.






Saturday, April 13, 2019

I've Got 2 Tickets to Paradise



My husband has long-loved going to the Philippines.  His first visit, while on TDY during his military career.  And there were many thereafter.  For almost 10 years, he’s talked about the PI, and all the things he loves about it.  And for as long as I’ve been a certified scuba diver, he’s talked of taking me there.

When we landed a sweet air fare to Cebu (thank you Scott’s Cheap Flights!), the time had come for him to introduce me to all the fish in the ocean and all the lumpia my little heart (and stomach) desired.

It’s no small task to get to the Philippines.  Our flight over included a 16.5 hour hop, a 1-hour layover in Taipei which was reduced to 40 minutes thanks to a delayed departure (our ruck training came in very useful!), and finally a 2.5 hour hop to Cebu. 

So what does one do on a 16.5-hour flight?  Well … there is sleep, of course.  I normally can’t sleep on planes – I think it’s that second X chromosome because my husband has absolutely no trouble in sawing precious logs.  Pretty much anywhere.  But thanks to some tasty Melatonin gummies and the fact that we never saw the sun during the entirety of those 16.5 hours, I was able to sleep. 

And then there were movies to watch (might I suggest “Beautiful Boy”?  Timothee Chalamet gives a superb performance!). 

And there are the trips to the lavatory and laps around the cabin to make.  My ankles are usually comparable to that of an elephant when I make long-haul flights, even when I wear compression socks.  Getting up and moving around after every movie aided in ensuring my ankles were their natural svelte selves upon landing.

We spent less than 24 hours in Cebu City.  Enough time to spend an hour in traffic, making our way to our hotel which was 8 miles away, introduce Filipino Barbequed Chicken and rice (always rice!) into our diets, enjoy a Happy Hour massage for a cost of $6 each (and no, it was not “that kind” of happy hour!) and walk off some of the jet-lag. 

When we travel, we always attempt to get on local time as quickly as possible.  This time we weren’t so successful, falling comatose around 6:30 and waking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 3:00 a.m. 

Our adventure truly began when we made our way to El Nido on the island of Palawan (pronounced pa-la-WUN).  Another hour-long taxi ride to the airport and we arrived in time to be assessed a heavy luggage fee (for being over 20 kgs, or 40 lbs., each) and to have our flight delayed.  And then delayed again. 

Palawan
But then … we were treated to a 2-hour long breathtaking view below as we flew over the crystal clear, aquamarine water and about 100 of the thousands of islands that make up the Philippines (or, PI).  And the realization that our adventure was shortened by almost two hours just faded away.

Jeepney

Whereas in Cebu, where people cram into rather small busses called Jeepneys, in El Nido, the preferred method of transportation is called a Trike.  Our luggage strapped precariously to the back, we folded ourselves into the metal shell (which barely sat the two of us, and not all-together comfortably), while the driver navigated El Nido’s finest potholes using his Evil Knievel-like skills.  


Trike
Twenty minutes of bump-bump-bump and we arrived at our hotel in El Nido proper.  Despite all of that, Trikes became our favorite most-used mode of transportation.  Even though the 1-mile walk from our hotel into town was doable, you definitely don’t want to be caught on foot at night (without the benefit of sidewalks) with those crazy-ass drivers!  Still … for $1, it’s not a bad bargain.

Whether you’re seeking adventure or relaxing on the beach with some kind of fruity, alcohol-filled concoction, El Nido’s got you covered. 

Itching to get this adventure started, we began with an island-hopping tour.  There are four different tours to choose from, allowing you to see almost half of El Nido’s 45 islands.  We opted for Tour A and enjoyed a day hopping from the Small Lagoon (I guess size is relative – it didn’t seem that small to me), the Big Lagoon (really … there’s just one?), the (not-so) Secret Lagoon, Shimizu Island (Shimi-what?), and 7 Commando Beach (it’s really not what you might think – there are neither nude sun-bathers or militant-types roaming the beach). 

El Nido

We swam.  We snorkeled.  We lunched.  Heartily.  We swam some more – this time with jellyfish (honestly, the stinging wasn’t all that bad).  We kayaked.  And we climbed through a rock formation to see the Secret Lagoon, comprised of 50% sunscreen and 100% tourists.  All in all, the islands that we did see, combined with the smooth, white sand and water that is reminiscent of Bora Bora, proved that one island hopping tour satisfied all of our island-hopping needs.

More adventure?  You bet!  There was a jungle to hike and waterfalls to swim under.  






El NidoThere were cliffs to climb.  Well … not really in the rock-climbing sense of the word.   There were stairs and bridges to cross, leading you to the most incredible overlook facing Bacuit Bay.  
And there was diving.

Clown FishI’ve been a certified scuba diver for roughly 10 years.  In all of my now 17 dives (that’s a post for a different day), I’ve not seen such beauty as in El Nido.   There were huge schools of fish, the crystal-clear water offering incredible views of the sea life.  Seeing a sea turtle up close was just-about a dream-come-true.  I also saw clown fish (Nemo) for the first time here and just about wet myself with excitement.  Okay – I didn’t just about wet myself.  That just happens naturally when you’re diving in cold water.  TMI?

 

There was shopping to do (or at least exploring town on foot).  Yes, that CAN be adventurous.

Like many tourist destinations, El Nido boasts many street vendors.  All selling the same things:  dry bags (a necessity in a beach town), those little pouches you can put your phone in and wear around your neck, jewelry, and swim socks. 

But there was one such gentleman who was selling something a little different from the rest.  Let’s just say Keith and I were absolutely gob-smacked when a man approached us and asked if we wanted to buy A BABY.  After we were able to speak, Keith uttered, “Cute baby, but no thank you.”  I mean, really … what else can you say?  

Need a break from adventuring?  There’s at least one massage parlor on every block.  And for $12, you can enjoy a one-hour Swedish/Shiatsu combination massage.  Heaven.  On.  Earth.

And then, there were the sunsets.  I’ve seen some pretty spectacular sunsets right here in San Antonio.  But there’s something special about watching the sun dip into the ocean (or behind the shadow of an island), with the spidery outriggers known as bangkas dotting the bay.  God’s artwork on full display.  With the light turning from orange to red to blue to purple to yellow then back to orange again before it makes its way to the other side of the planet.  

Sunset


It’s even better when you’re enjoying a local brew (something Keith and I try to do in every locale that we visit).  And here … the brew did not disappoint.


We alternated between the smoother, more mellow San Miguel and the “Extra Strong” (it says so right on the front of the bottle!) Red Horse.  How much “Extra” is a Red Horse, exactly?  Let’s just say that we had one helluva good time one evening over 2 liters of the stuff accompanied by shrimp lumpia, then the most delicious Hawaiian pizza.


But pizza isn’t the only thing on the menu in El Nido.  I mean … the pizza was very, very good, but our pants might not forgive us if we didn’t experience other local flavors.  Given the number of fishing bangkas around the islands, it’s not surprising that there is an abundance of fresh seafood available.  Pick your lobster.  Or snapper.  Or octopus.  Or crab.  Or prawns.  Or mussels.  They have it all.

And you can have it all – in the form of a divine seafood pasta, complete with a light tomato sauce and the most scrumptious of spices (your mouth is watering, isn’t it?)


Tired of seafood?  There’s always chicken.  Fried chicken with rice.  Chicken adobo with rice.  Barbequed chicken with rice.  Grilled chicken with rice.  We even found a quaint little Greek restaurant with the most phenomenal view of the bay.  On offer were ... chicken schwarma and chicken gyros.  And rice.  At least there was a FANTASTIC view.


Philippines


Want something other than beer?  There are the fresh fruit shakes (but without the ice cream) offered on every corner and in every restaurant.  Banana.  Pineapple.  Kiwi.  Strawberry.  Mango.  All of the above mixed into one. One word:  yummo!

I am fastidious when it comes to having clean hands.  When eating finger foods or licking my fingers when even one ounce of deliciousness is too much to waste, I wipe my hands with every bite.  This is one of the ways my OCD presents itself.  Imagine how out of sorts I was when there were no napkins available and when asked, we were given a couple of Kleenex.  The horror. 

And yet … their toilet paper was 52-ply.  I guess there’s something to be said for having a clean bum.

Our credit cards were, for the most part, useless in El Nido.  There were very few places in this dusty little town with spotty electricity and even spottier internet, where credit cards were accepted.  The preferred form of currency in El Nido is the Philippine Peso (yes, just like in Mexico, which makes sense because their number system is in Spanish!).  We were caught on more than one occasion without sufficient cash for the day when the electricity went out and thus, so did the ATMs.  Bank holiday?  ATMs took a holiday too.

We were lucky enough to find a shop owner who exchanged money for us at a fair rate.  He was but one of the many friendly faces we found.  In fact, almost all the locals we came into contact with were incredibly polite and friendly. 

Maybe because we were unique in that there were very few Americans in El Nido.  Plenty of Europeans, Australians, Japanese and Russians too.  But very few visitors from the U.S..  From the lovely lady who we sat next to on the flight from Taipei to Cebu to the guy who sold us a Coke after our hike through the jungle.  Everywhere we went, people asked where we were from and then, if Keith was military.  They seemed to be especially intrigued when they found out he had been. 

The first half of our adventure complete, it was time to grab a Trike and make our way to the airport.  Our luggage, weighing only slightly more it did when we arrived in El Nido (a pair of water socks and a windchime were added), again considered heavy.  “Sorry Ma’am.  But your luggage is over 10 kgs.”  Hmmm … 20 kg allowance going to El Nido, but only 10 kgs going back.  I smell a scam. 

Maybe they’re not so polite after all.

As we lifted off, my ear buds in, John Denver’s “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane” playing as we circled Bacuit Bay and El Nido’s 45 islands one last time.

Back in Cebu, the people were just as friendly.  Not only those in the service industry, but even the people we passed on the street.  We were regularly greeted with “Good morning, Sir”, “Hello Ma’am”, “Good evening, Sir.”  It was actually very nice.

And the kids. 

I tend to think our grandchildren are the most beautiful kids on the face of the planet, but the kids in the Philippines are just … I’m sorry.   Words fail.  The one word I can think of in describing them, is “bright”.  It’s their smiles.  And their eyes.  It’s the joy on their faces.




If El Nido was meant for adventuring, our time in Cebu was meant for relaxing.  Except for the one day we dove. 

It wasn’t quite the mesmerizing experience as our dive day in El Nido.  It was exceptional in that we had the boat and the dive master to ourselves.  And that the boat crew were incredibly helpful, getting us suited up for our dive and even offering a hand when we were going in; and by “offering a hand", I mean they pushed us!  They even took off our gear (weight belt, BCD [inflatable vest onto which your tank is harnessed], and fins) before we climbed back into the boat. 

The fish in Cebu were plentiful, but the water a bit cloudy.  Combine that with me not being able to clear my ears (thanks to my allergies) and Keith getting sick because we came up too fast on our first dive, and it just wasn’t the most perfect of days.  That said, a day of diving is still better than no diving at all.

Now back to the relaxing part.  We spent a couple of days just laying around at the resort, swimming and snorkeling, reading and maybe drinking.  Just a little.

And watching some very old dudes being very inappropriate with some very young Filipino girls.  There was one such couple on our flight home.  She go to States.

We found Cebu to be a relatively poor city.  People living in hovels.  People hustling and doing anything just to earn a buck; selling water and snacks on the street or selling home-cooked food from a make-shift store-front. 

And in the middle of all of this, there was a beautiful shopping mall that would rival the Mall of the Americas.  I kid you not! 

Certainly, shopping is one of MY favorite ways to relax.  And Keith enjoys seeing me happy.  Shopping makes me happy.  So off we went.  When we travel, we don’t just shop for souvenirs (though we do try to pick up a piece of art at each destination).  We shop for things that I think may be a little different than your average tourist – unique clothing items, shoes, and distinct handbags are among the favorites.  At the end of our shopping day in Cebu, clothes and shoes added to the weight of my luggage.

And we had ice cream.  From Dairy Queen!

Not surprisingly, there was a massage parlor within walking distance from our resort, the theming of which was Japanese.  I say this because what I experienced there was a little different than the others and I can only surmise that what happened might be normal with a Japanese massage. 

My Swedish/Shiatsu combined massage cost $15 here.  It was extremely relaxing, what with the scent of flowers filling the air, some light Japanese music playing softly.  At the mid-way point of the massage, she has me turn over on my back.  She places a softly-scented towel over my eyes and my body sinks into the table, my mind, floating into the clouds.

Until … she rubs her hands down my sternum and all around my breasts.  She giggled when I nearly came off the table.  Certainly, wasn’t expecting that.

In preparation for the long flight home, Keith and I returned to the same massage parlor (I was fully prepared to have my sternum massaged) on our last day in Cebu.  And for $37, we enjoyed a 2-hour body massage and a 30-minute foot massage.  Sounds like heaven, don’t you agree?  Well … it was.

Until … she straddled my butt and proceeded to move up and down my spine, pressing her knees into either side of my vertebrae.

In the end, they poured both of us off our respective massage tables and we agreed it was $37 well-spent.

Our two-week journey over, we were ready to return to our furbabies.  The long-haul flight broken up by an 8-hour layover in Taipei (thank goodness it’s a sizeable airport with plenty of room to roam). 

A short 13.5 hour flight to Houston (the tradewinds were kind) and we were back on US soil.

Catch you later, bai, PI.