Of bedtime stories, shoes and 4 looong hours at a mall
Yesterday, I had several errands to do - go to the bank, pay bills (why does this task never seem to end?) and get the invites I won (see post below) somewhere in the Makati area. By the time I was done, I figured I might as well head over to Glorieta. I could have gone home first after all it was only 4 PM. But if I did, I won't go out again. I'm the type of person who once I'm out of the house, I prefer to squeeze in everything I need to accomplish for that day. I guess I need to work on being spontaneous. Try to be the person who runs out for some errand, returns home then later in the evening, s/he would venture out again for perhaps, the last showing of a movie. But I'm not like that so just deal with it.

There I was at the mall with 4 hours to kill before my sister (who was out herself attending press conferences and such) would meet me to watch 'a bedtime story'.
Of course, for any normal human being of the female variety, the mall would signify hours of shopping, pampering treatments and more shopping.
But I, on the other hand am NOT a shopaholic, never was.
So what did I do to while away the time?
I ate. Yes, I told you I am a glutton.
I had a Hungarian sausage sandwich at Delifrance.
Next, I had my Chocolate Frost at Figaro.
A few minutes later I satisfied my cheesecake craving.
For an early dinner, I gobbled on a piping hot ramen at that little Japanese restaurant (I forgot the name) right beside Cheesecake, Inc.

Oh but I did buy a pair of shoes. The only non edible item on my credit card, yesterday. Anyone who knows how tiny my feet are would also understand my frustration in finding appropriate shoes in my size without going to the kids shoes department store. So it was a miracle I found these pair of shoes which fit me perfectly.

Now about the M. Night Shyamalan movie, let me just say don't judge a movie by its preview/trailer.
If you truly appreciate the abundantly ingenious talent of Manosh (as I fondly call the director), watch it.
If you don't believe in 'meaningful' fairy tales, don't watch it.
But if like me, your primary reason to see movies is to find some hidden meaning to life. As well as try to figure out how that implication can in some way or the other may or may not shape my life as an individual then by all means, watch "The Lady in the Water". You will definitely savor this film in the deep recesses of your psyche.
Now if you don't get what Manosh was trying to tell you through this bedtime story because you are a total dumbass then please be do me a favor and shoot yourself in the head, ok?
Yes I am referring to you, the jerk seated beside me who kept laughing whenever Paul Giamatti stuttered in the film. You just didn't get it, did you? You are the only person who ruined my really long day of stuffing myself, buying shoes and watching a bedtime story unfold.

*Sighs*

Uyyy I Won!
I was pleasantly surprised when I got this email, yesterday at around 4:10 PM. Aside from the rare times when I get 4 numbers correct in the Lottery or the occasional T-shirts at raffle draws, these tickets has got me a certified film buff, simply giddy with joy, excitement and total ecstasy. =)

Congratulations Daphne **********!

You have won for yourself a "Lady in the Water" advance screening tickets for two in Glorietta 4, THX Cinema 3 on July 18, 2006 (Tuesday) 7:30 PM

Please claim your prize from July 17 to July 18, 2006 (not later than 5:00 PM) at: ********

Please bring a valid ID and copy of the email notification letter upon claiming your prize.

Funny ha ha
Yes, I do have a sense of humor, you know.
Even if my sister will give you several pieces of evidence to refute the above statement. I admit I got really 'pikon' (what's pikon in English?) whenever she would lambast my favorite football player about that head butting incident. We've argued endlessly well into the night about it. I invoked all the excuses in the whole wide world to justify his actions. She would irritate me by taunting that he does not deserve the best player of the Tournament award.

While I was reading about various topics ( movies, sports news, the invasion of Lebanon, other people's secrets) on different websites, I came across this cartoon on Time Magazine's website in their cartoons of the week section.



Hilarious!

Holy Shmolly
Not one but two of my favorite foreign bands are coming to perform in Manila on August 15 and September 4, respectively.

BUT.


I'm terribly broke.

Bummer!

A challenge
Last week, fellow blogger Toni of Wifely Steps wrote a "Getting to know each other" post.
I participated so she wrote this about me:

Daphne :
1. You are very well-traveled.
2. I challenge you to write about your first love.
3. Orange. Funky, bright.
4. I like your travel posts!
5. Posts on French cinema.
6. A butterfly. Sociable!

Now I'm supposed to write about my first love.
Hmm that is quite a challenge, indeed.
For the simple reason that I've always made a clear distinction between the guys I love(d) and the guys I've fallen in love with.

I'd rather post about the first guy I loved.
This was way back in 1980.
I was a shy 12 year old girl with low self esteem and an inferiority complex. I had thick eyeglasses, long wiry hair and I was thin as a rake - in short I was an ugly duckling. At that age, I was more into Nancy Drew pocketbooks, eating Marks and Spencer scones while listening to the music of Claude Francois, Michel Sardou and Dalida.

His name was John F. A fair skinned, freckled face boy with a JFK, Jr type of haircut of auburn color. He was a Belgian kid of Irish descent who spoke only a few words of English. John was my grade school classmate at L'Ecole de Saint Joseph (St Joseph school) in Brussels, Belgium.

Back then I was the ONLY Asian in my class. But I was a studious kid so I was always a honor student. I had classmates with names like Valerie, Sabine and Jean Pierre. Yet, I was isolated most of the time. I don't mean to imply that my classmates were racists but certainly there was a thick invisible wall that separated the Belgian kids from the children of immigrants like Moroccans, Africans and me, the only Asian.

But John was different. He was a kind hearted, good natured boy. He would call me up at home whenever I was absent from school to check up on me. He'd come over to our house to bring my homework from school. He would even tutor me when I didn't understand my lessons. A sweet and courteous boy with a staid sense of humor.
My mother, the gracious wife of a diplomat that she was would always feed him snacks which John would eat with gusto. In fact, I think he clicked more with my mother than he did with me. Doesn't it always work that way?

Anyways, you see back then at the young age of 12, I wasn't into boys, yet.
I was an awkward bookworm, geeky kid who was extremely shy. All I did was study really hard so I could get good grades. So for someone like John to shower me with attention and show genuine interest in my personality and my culture, I felt special and grew quite fond of the guy. We got to hang out together a lot, mostly in school or at my house. He would be my seatmate in class and would tease me a lot about being too serious and studious all the time. It didn't really develop into a relationship. I guess it was more of a mutual special friendship but I can honestly say he was my first love.
Well now that I am way much older, I can look back at those years with a nostalgic smile and access the situation as the first time I felt loved and I loved in return. Frankly, back then what the heck did I know about LOVE? Nothing at all.

But as most of my 'love' stories go, the moment we moved to another country, John didn't keep in touch much. Sure, there were a few letters exchanged for a couple of months but eventually it just faded into the dark abyss of oblivion. It has to be told though that If I had my way, I would still be in constant touch with all of my exes but for some strange reason beyond my comprehension, none of them have kept in touch with me after the 'disconnect' began. Oh well.

As for the first guy I fell in love with ... Well that is another sob story complete with tears soaked pillows and a lot of Kleenex tissues stained with what else but my salty tears. So I rather just let bygones be bygones and bury that sob story deep in the recesses of my memory warehouse.

I end with one of my favorite quotes:

"People will forget what you said.
People will forget what you did.
But people will never forget ...
how you made them feel."

The truth will set you free
Wednesday evening in a live interview on French television channel Canal Plus, Zidane finally reveals the reason why he head butted Marco Materazzi.



Actually, his explanation is more heartfelt in French but, I'm not in the mood to translate.

I'm still upset that France lost.

Pourquoi, Zidane, pourquoi ?
It was time to dim the lights.

Put the sign out on the door of room 664 at the Philippine Plaza. Plop into bed, switch the telly on to watch the World Cup dramatic finals.



What can I say?
I was pretty hyper and still stuffed from the dinner buffet.
I tried to tone it down a bit by drinking tea. Yet the excitement was at an all time high for both, me and my sister. She kept cheering on the Italian squad. I was screaming relentlessly at L'Equipe France to attack, attack and attack.

The first half was clearly Italy's game.
The usual tripping, tackling from behind, the pushing and shoving, the few attempts at Fabian Barthez's goal.
The referee conceded a penalty shot to France after Cannavaro and Materazzi tripped Florent Malouda in the penalty area.
Yes it was questionable, to say the least.
Zidane who was clearly NOT in a good mood from the start of the game, based on the frown pasted on his face took the shot.
He almost missed it but by some stroke of luck, it was deemed as a goal for France. A few minutes later, a header from Marco Materazzi gave the fans at the Naples stadium a chance to jump up and down with joy and Italy equalized the score at 1 - 1.

Half time - I was more subdued but kept arguing with my sister about the questionable penalty shot from Zidane. So I made myself another cup of tea to try to calm myself. It didn't work. Heh!

The whistle to signal the start of the second half was like a trigger for the French players to bring it on. So they relentlessly attacked and practically embedded themselves within Buffon's penalty area.
Several misses from Thierry Henry, Florent Malouda as well as Franck Ribery almost gave me cardiac arrests. The tension was gripping me like electric currents. A second goal from Italy was disallowed after Luca Toni was deemed offside. By the the end of the full time game, it was clear that both sides were already exhausted from the tough game. The warm weather with temperatures soaring at 30 degrees C didn't help either.

During the extra added time, Italy was obviously gunning for the penalty shoot outs showdown. While France tried to desperately score more goals. When Zidane's header hit the crossbar, I screamed with gusto. Quel dommage.

Of course, we now all know what happened during the last few minutes of the second extra added time. The horrible incident that first left us all numb. Then shock slowly kicked in as the replay showed us what the mighty Zidane was capable of doing when he gets provoked.
Several questions abound, there are no sure answers.
Why was Zidane so harsh? How could he do something that terrible? Is he mad, it is the World Cup finals! Was he provoked? Was it a racial slur that Materazzi spewed out? Did he rub Zidane the wrong way? WTF?

We can spend the rest of the month or the years to come just fielding endless questions. Speculations continue to muddle the mayhem that fueled up the incident. Several allegations of Materazzi calling Zidane, a terrorist or an Arab, maligning Zidane's family and even ridiculous tendencies of nipple tweaking are spreading like wildfire. It is really silly, if you ask me. I don't think Zidane should ever explain WHY he did it. Surely he has his reason. Whatever it is. It was his decision to self destruct. To ruin his reputation. To taint his football legacy. It must have been something really horrifying, he didn't care anymore if he lost his temper.

France lost NOT because Zidane was handed a red card BUT because Trezeguet missed the penalty shot. The youngster faltered. The ball didn't go into the net. End of story.

So Italy won! Fabio Cannavaro lifted the golden trophy amidst the triumphant joy of his players. The massive stadium was filled with white confetti. The fireworks lighted the dark sky of Berlin. At the end of the day, I'd say it was a game which befits a World Cup finals in a style we can truly expect from two powerful footballing nations, Italy and France.
Whether Italy deserved to win or which side played the better game is beyond the point. Only ONE side had to take home the honor of being the champions at the 2006 World Cup. Congratulations, Italia!

Top honors though go to Germany for graciously hosting the event. A really spectacular show. Good matches, great players, massive stadiums, 32 teams of qualifiers who all deserved to be there. Even the record number of cards handed, the nasty incidents which disabled players with painful injuries, the drunk hooligans arrested, the bad referees, the racism - all these are part and parcel of any World Cup event. Too bad it only happens every 4 years. I will surely miss staying up till the wee hours of the morning just to watch the games. I am looking forward to the 2010 World Cup in South Africa.

My final paragraph is dedicated to Zinedine Zidane. I want to thank you for being such a fantastic football player. For entertaining us with your fancy footwork, your masterful tactics on the field, your skillful display of your formidable talents. You are the main reason why Spain, Brazil and Portugal got eliminated out of the World Cup. That is no mean feat. I salute you and would eternally adore you as my favorite soccer player in the whole world.
Sans blague!

Salut Zizou. =)

Another hotel suite experience
My stay at the Hotel Philippine Plaza last Sunday (July 9) was pretty uneventful.

I took a long warm bath.


I took pictures
A view of the swimming pool from the balcony of my 6th floor room.

The Jumbo Floating Restaurant with the Manila Bay skyline in the background.

The calm sunset over Manila Bay.

Then it was time to get dressed for dinner at
Spiral.
The restaurant located at the lower level of the hotel's lobby. It is the mother of all buffets. It was a gastronomic feast of cuisine from all over (Chinese, French, Japanese, Korean, Filipino and Continental food).
Oh gosh, the dessert spread was a purely divine experience. Pannacotas, cakes, ice cream, pastries and fruits all enticing my sweet tooth.
I actually ate till I was ready to burst, really! I might as well, right? The price I paid for the buffet dinner is equivalent to a pair of designer shoes. I don't have Imeldific tendencies, so I splurge on food. As usual, I don't take pictures of the amount of food I stuff myself with. If I did you will see what a glutton I really am. Suffice to say, I had to suck my breath in to prevent the skirt I was wearing from exploding at the seams.
And I wonder why I have this non existent waistline. Go figure.