visione doppia

For a sensitive and imaginative man who, like I, has lived for a long time but can still imagine and feel, the world and its things become in a certain sense double. He will see a tower or the countryside with his eyes, his ears will hear the sound of the bell, and at the same time he will see, with his imagination, another tower, another countryside, and hear another sound. In this second seeing lies all the beauty and pleasure of things. - Giacomo Leopardi, Zibaldone (1828)

I knew our train ride was almost over when I saw a villa that seemed to float precariously in the middle of the ocean. Sea gulls flew above it, while before it a gondolier, wearing a black hat and a black-and-white striped shirt, carefully paddled his boat while perched on its prow.

Why isn't that palace sinking? Why doesn't the gondola topple over?

It was that picture of apparent defiance of the laws of physics- the illusion of effortless grace- that made me understand why Venezia has come to be known as La Serenissima, the Most Serene.

Even in the field of government, the Republic of Venice seemed to have maintained two faces for most of its thousand year history: one gracious and diplomatic, the other secretive and potentially cruel. Hence, my appreciation of the beauty of the original quadriga or the softly glowing altar containing the remains of St. Mark, for example, was tempered by the knowledge that these relics arrived in the basilica through war and wile. In many ways, the unique culture of the ancient Venetians mirrors our contemporary Philippine Republic, from the confusing jumble of narrow streets and the dependence on the bounties of the sea to the "consensual" government that oscillates at various times between an autocracy and a democracy.

At sunset, I rode a vaporetto down the Canal Grande. For a moment, I was transported back to Bangkok where I spent New Year's Eve in 2004 with my high school classmate Jill Clarke and her dad Bob. Jill's friend told us then that the water of the Chao Phraya looked just like the water in the canals of Venice; now I could compare their respective reflections for myself.

"Scusi, would you like some fruits?" I thought I heard someone ask me in Italian. I stopped taking pictures of the green and pink water and looked to my right: I saw a beautiful woman in the winter of her life with a bright smile and a bag of peaches and nectarines in her hands. "Are you a student?"

In Madrid, I was Ramon, the abogado; in Paris, the writer Voltaire. Now, I perceived that this kind stranger saw perhaps a facet of me, perhaps a university student who she met during her travels in summer or spring. And so I smiled back and replied, "Si Signora. Mi chiamo Santi. Un studente."

I accepted her gift of sweet Italian sunshine- my supper- as she got off the water ferry with her niece. She seemed happy to receive the treasure I gave her in exchange: the knowledge that this student would never be able to repay her kindness, as my journey as she described it was still long, whereas hers was already about to end.

hejira

I took an overnight train from Bercy station in Paris through Switzerland to Venezia. I shared my cabin with Jamal, a travel agent from Algeria, with whom I conversed in a kind of volgare that mixed French and Italian. Jamal was bespectacled and soft-spoken- I was comfortable being with him because he seemed to understand what I tried to say, we discovered a common language.

Most Algerians living in North Africa are Muslim and, for more than a century, have been migrating to France such that there are now around 2 million French-Algerians. Together with other Muslim ethnic groups, such as those from Morocco and Tunisia, they comprise between 3-10% of France's population. In confronto, Filipino Muslims make up around 5% of our population; according to Tatay's history, Agos ng Dugong Kayumanggi, Islam has been in our archipelago as far back as 1280 A.D.

In the Spanish towns I visited, scholars now recognize the contributions of Islam to local cultures: the keyhole-shaped doorway of a church in Toledo, the sound of running water in the gardens of Cordoba, the divine cuisine of Tres Culturas in Sevilla. I would discover that in the Palazzo Ducale in Venezia, a city-state that became prosperous because of trade with Muslim dynasties, there is an exhibit on "the play of mirrors" between Venice and Islam, as seen in painting, glassware, and other spheres of artistic production. While all Filipinos observe Eid ul-Fitr as a national holiday, Christians and Muslims in the Philippines still have much to learn about each other's role in the development of a national culture.

One of my most vivid memories of Europe is that of Jamal standing in the side aisle of the train by himself, looking out the window, his thoughtful face bathed in the lemon light of a new morning.

I wanted to ask, What do you see Jamal?

I couldn't break the silence.

We stood beside each other for a long time, each of us enveloped in our own solitude.

Thanks to Robert Eldridge for the video that was inspired by Giuseppe Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso; the music is by Ennio and Andrea Morricone.

culture = capital(e)

A sign posted by the Mairie de Paris (City Administration) on an old building that is being renovated exhorts Parisians to protect their heritage: "La culture, c'est capitale!" My immediate thought upon reading this was how apt it was: the French have, perhaps more than any other people, turned intangible culture into a river of clinking coins, as can be inferred from the hordes of visitors who pay to enter museums, dine in restaurants, and shop in their fashion boutiques each year.

While this may have been a mistranslation- my Larousse defines capital as vital or fundamental- the astute practice of elevating and then selling memes (diverse elements of cultural transmission) is one which we in the long bahag economy- the world of niches- can learn and profit from.

The French are not only aesthetes who have, since the reign of Louis XIV, set the standard for luxe, they also belong to a vibrant intellectual tradition that has produced Foucault, Sartre and Voltaire. Consequently, while all peoples across space-time possess culture, it is the French who are arguably the experts in analyzing, atomizing, deconstructing, and self-consciously reflecting on it. Thus, for the Rugby World Cup 2007, aside from hosting the games themselves, the French have organized concerts, films, musicals, fora, debates, and even art and museum exhibits all centered on the theme of rugby.

Here I am at midnight in an Île St. Louis pub with my rugby team, the kilt-wearing Scots, after their victory over Portugal. Mabuhay!

l'important c'est le vert

The French language is romantic in another sense: the sound of its words is said to express or induce amorous love or romance. I believe Filipino can be just as romantic because of the many nuances of emotions that our words can convey. In both languages, the same word (Fr. cher/ chère, Fil. mahal) is used to denote both affection and the attribute of being precious or expensive.

I found a jewel of a French poem in KC's blog and decided to test the above hypothesis by translating it into Filipino. It was fun to play around with synonyms, the placement of words, and rhyme. Here's the aesthetic, light-hearted French spirit finding expression in emotionally lush Filipino:

Berde
ni Paul Verlaine

“Heto’ng mga prutas, bulaklak, dahon at sangang dala ko
At heto ang aking pusong tumitibok para lamang sa iyo.
Sana’y huwag itong punitin ng mapuputi mong mga kamay
At patamisin ng magaganda mong mga mata itong aba kong alay.

Dumarating ako ngayong mag-uumagang binabalutan ng hamog
Na sa aking noo’y kay lamig kapag nahanginan
Sa higaan pabayaang sa iyong paanan ang aking pagod
Ay managinip ng matatamis na oras ng kapahingahan.

Sa bata mong dibdib pagulungin ang aking ulo
Na pagkatapos mong halika’y puno ng dagundong
Pabayaang mapayapa ang mabuting bagyong ito
At dahil ika’y nagpapahinga maidlip naman ako…”

beauté

After moveable fiestas in Toledo, Sevilla and Cordoba under the brilliant Spanish sun, the Malay in me emerged from the deep, giving me the mocha complexion that our people wear so effortlessly. The AGM was over and I took a Ryan Air flight from Madrid to Paris.

After mailing some coffee table books and my formal clothes to Manila in the Hôtel de Ville, I found affordable lodging in what was once a 13th century monastery in the Marais, by the Seine and within view of the gargoyles of Notre Dame.

If Madrid reminded me of Manila, the turrets and steep blue roofs of many buildings in Paris reminded me of parts of Washington, D.C.- this was probably no coincidence since the first city planner of America's capital was the French-born L'Enfant and the First Lady who some say gave her people majesty was a Francophile.

Interestingly, Europeans once called Manila the "Paris of the East" but, sadly, almost all of our colonial buildings were bombed during the Battle of Manila of the Second World War- Manila was the most bombed metropolis after Warsaw. Paris was luckier: when Hitler ordered its complete destruction by explosives planted throughout the city, his general der infanterie von Choltitz disobeyed him.

Perhaps because of sensory overload- and with thousands of people visiting Paris for the rugby games- I found it difficult initially to take pictures. With all the photographs of Paris that had already been shot, what angle or perspective was left to show?

Then, in the early evening, while looking for a restaurant in the Left Bank frequented by students and artists who, like me, were on a budget, I met someone special in front of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Paris lit her grand buildings one by one and clothed the Eiffel Tower with a veil of green and gold stars, until their gentle beams warmed my face and found their way to my heart.