Say cheese!

Julien confessed that my lactose intolerance had thrown him for a loop. "No cheese? No cold cuts? What can we feed 'er?" he'd admitted fretting to Eena before we arrived. His solution: "I know! We will eat ze raclette and ze fondue, and she will eat broccoli!"

Faced with his pronouncement, I had to laugh... and protest vehemently. When he was convinced that I didn't give a rat's ass about my lactose intolerance and wouldn't die from it ("Your tummy gets big, that's all?" he asked suspiciously), it was agreed: dinner would be that great Swiss treat known as raclette. 

I've only had raclette once, at a wine and cheese party at Robin's house many pounds years ago. We had it melted in a ceramic baking dish, into which we dipped pearl onions and other odds and ends... more like a fondue really. But our Swiss host had the full setup in the chalet: half a wheel of raclette, and this fantastic tabletop contraption that would ensure that our raclette was the genuine article. 

This is how the Swiss roll: you clamp a wheel of raclette (or part of it, as we did) in place under a bar that heats up, melting the cheese. This to me is the most exciting part, something you never get with an oven and a ceramic dish: hearing the bubble and sizzle of the cheese, watching it soften and melt, and knowing that it's your turn to get it. The bigger the wheel of cheese, the more often you get to savor those moments, over and over again.

Once the top layer is melted and sizzling, you swivel the cheese out and tip it over your waiting plate, using a knife to scrape off the top layer into a quivering puddle of cheesy goodness. 

When Julien had demonstrated the proper way to do it, naturally Marlon and I had to give it a try. My scraping technique wasn't as smooth as the boys', with my knife bumping and skidding a few times, but that doesn't change how sinfully salty, gooey and rich the cheese tastes (thank goodness!).   

To accompany our cheese, we had pearl onions, potatoes, an onion and red wine vinaigrette, cold cuts, air-dried meat from the region, and gherkins, which I never liked before but suddenly found delicious.

Swimming in a sea of hot, salty cheese, I lost count of how many times Marlon and I stepped up to that glorious cheese-melting contraption. Six? Seven? I have no idea. "We're just eating this to be polite," Marlon joked on his nth turn at the raclette. "Of course you are," agreed Julien. "And when you go back to Holland, zey will ask you: 'How were ze Swiss?' Zey were horrible! So cruel! you will say. Zey forced us eat oil and cheese! Zen zey will ask you, 'did you tell them you were lactose intolerant?' Yes! you will say. And ze Swiss did not give a shit!"

Apparently this much cheese gives you nightmares, our hosts warned. Strangely enough, they were right. That night, Marlon dreamed about buying me a condo with dismembered bodies on every floor. And I dreamed of ghosts waking me up in the night. Currrr-eepy! 

Not that the cheesemares dissuaded us, because the next night, we were back for more. This time it was fondue at Julien and Eena's apartment back in Geneva.

We bought bread and cold cuts on the highway as we drove back from the Alps.

As the only local in the group, it fell to Julien to mix the fondue, which he did moitie-moitie (half and half), equal parts Vacherin and Gruyere cheeses, with some white wine, flour and garlic rubbed on the bottom of a cast-iron pot. Judging from the speed at which we inhaled that wonderful mixture, I'd say his fondue was a whopping success.

As we neared the bottom of the pan, Julien remarked, "If you're 'ardcore, sometimes you crack a raw egg on the crust at ze bottom and make a cheese omelette." Hearing the words hardcore and raw egg stirred something primeval in the deepest regions of Marlon's manliest self. Naturally, he had to do it.

We women were aghast. Actually, more like eeew.

But as the lactose intolerant girl who had wheedled and pushed and begged for two cheesefests in a row, I could not even begin to claim moral ascendancy. So I had my cheese, Marlon had his egg, and we all agreed that our men were hardcore.

Wide and happy smiles all around. And we didn't even have to say cheese.

Art in the Alps

One of my best friends from high school moved to France, then Switzerland after years of working as a flight attendant with Emirates. Eena and I would chat often about the things we would do when we both moved to Europe, and we would get so excited to be together again in such an awesome location. One of the things she suggested was driving up to the Alps to spend a weekend at her father-in-law's chalet. Eena said: "We can drive to Italy for lunch! Imagine that!" which of course made me kilig to the bones. 

Two weeks ago, our idle YM daydreams became a reality when Marlon and I flew to Geneva to visit Eena on the occasion of her 30th 26th birthday. Julien, Eena's Swiss husband (who is one of the funniest guys I've ever met) drove us from Geneva to the Valais, a region of southwestern, French-speaking Switzerland. "This part of Switzerland gets the most sun," Julien narrated as he drove. "Thus here we grow all our exotic fruits. Like asparagus and tomatoes." LOL!

En route to the town of Martigny, we could only gawk at the view: snowy white mountains towering over vineyards and fields of mustard flowers (Dijon, as in the mustard, is just over the mountains in France). We stopped for lunch at Veytaux, a small town on the banks of the Lac Leman, the biggest inland body of water in Western Europe, otherwise known to unsuspecting tourists as Lake Geneva. Glad I got the locals to give me the downlow.

The weather was freaking awesome, by the way. So awesome that by the time lunch was over, my back was sunburned with odd cutout patterns from my dress. "You 'ave the No Fear logo on your back," chortled Julien. No Fear! Retro!

We also poked around the old town looking for ingredients for our raclette dinner. Nothing much to see, although I was tempted to break into song. "Little town, full of little people, waking up to say... Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!"

Martigny is a small town with a big history. Hannibal, Caesar, Charlemagne and Napoleon all passed through to Italy via Martigny's route to the Alps, known as the Great St Bernard Pass (Col. Grand-St Bernard in French). You guessed it: this is where those big, lovable St-Bernard dogs are from. So upon arriving at Martigny, we headed straight for the St Bernard Museum. Its upper floor is dedicated to chronicling these canines throughout history, but the ground floor out back is where you really want to be... with these adorable doggies!

Marlon has always been a big dog kind of guy, and he was in absolute heaven. Betraying my crazy cat lady instincts, I couldn't resist squeeing myself. Especially when feeding time came.

This girl must have the best job in the town. As she called each of the nine joyously yapping, squirming pups by name and lifted each one over the fence to their feeding bowls, I could feel waves of jealousy radiating from my husband. "Sige nga, pati yung malaki buhatin mo," Marlon murmured.

Cue wagging derrieres (wagging boddies actually), excited yips, a few fights over food bowls. *MELT* How can you not want one of these for Christmas?

Near the museum was the remains of a Roman amphitheater, where Marlon indulged his debating fantasies (he was a debater in high school and college) and pretended to be a great orator .

On the spur of the moment, we decided to visit the Fondation Pierre Gianadda, a museum that Julien's dad had mentioned as being worth a look-see. In the late 70s, engineer (and obviously wealthy art patron) Leonard Gianadda found the ruins of an ancient Celtic temple on the plot of land he planned to build his house on. When his brother Pierre died in a car accident that same year, Leonard established a foundation and built a museum around the ruins to honor his beloved brother.

We came so close to not seeing it and I'm so glad we did. This small town's museum can easily put museums in both the Philippines and Singapore to shame. Its collection of Roman artifacts and art by huge names such as Luce (my new favorite), Monet, Chagall, Degas, Picasso and more was simply amazing. There weren't only huge names on the walls, but in the cultural calendar as well. Can you imagine one of the world's greatest living divas performing in our National Museum or the Singapore Art Museum? I didn't think so.

The antique car museum was equally impressive.

But what I loved most about the museum was the beautiful sculpture park out back.

We wandered around for nearly an hour, until closing time at six.

We were so lucky that day, to see these massive works displayed among trees, sunshine and blue skies.

Everywhere you look, you see the Alps. A breathtaking backdrop for such a collection.

The best came last: two of the most famous works by my favorite sculptor, Rodin: Meditation and The Kiss.

The entwined lovers of The Kiss seemed to belong perfectly in this setting.

I can't fully explain how wonderful that park was. I know everyone in our group was amazed too. We were all quiet on the way back to the car.

We drove onward, deeper into the Alps, watching the scenery change with every tight curve in the road and every last shifting ray of light. Soon we reached Bourg-St Pierre, and night fell.

Twenty minutes

Six weeks ago, I signed Marlon and myself up for a beginners' running group at the Vondelpark, Amsterdam's version of Central Park. I wanted a wallet-friendly form of exercise, but am especially bad at running (which is probably why I detested it). So I thought learning how to run "properly" and combining it with a fun group atmosphere would transform my experience of the sport.

So every Thursday at 7:45 pm (except last week when my sister was here), I ran. I quickly grew to enjoy the company of my group—11 warm and friendly Dutchies who had as little experience with running as I did. Rick, our coach, worked in sports for the disabled, a fact that did a lot to put me at ease. I had all my limbs and faculties, didn't I? So I couldn't be the worst runner he'd ever met! Rick was patient and kind, always reminding me that everyone has their own pace and I didn't have to keep up with the others. When you're perpetually at the tail end of the group, lagging way behind the Dutchies with their endless legs, hearing that can really keep you going.

Last night was our last run, the one we'd been working up to for six weeks: running for 20 minutes straight around the park. If this sounds easy to you, you must already be into running. Back in Singapore, I attempted a "couch to 5k" program where the first level was one minute of jogging alternated with a minute and a half of walking. I would be totally winded after the minute-long jog, and lived for those precious minutes of walking. I never progressed beyond that first level. 

But last night was a breakthrough. After working my way up from 2, 5, 8, 10 then 12 minutes of straight running (no walking allowed!), I was nervous that skipping last week's 15-minute training would stop me from reaching the goal of the entire course. But it didn't. Finally, running became easy, automatic even (at least after the first five to seven minutes). And running through a park buzzing with vibrant life all around me, seeing all the Dutchies out in full force to enjoy the spring sunshine with their beers and barbecues... running even became fun. 

When I saw the green fountain ("water post" in Rick's idiosyncratic English) that marked the end of my 20 minutes, I could not help but break out into a wide grin. Marlon, having seen me at the worst of my running attempts, was so proud of me. 

After a round of high fives, we walked over to the pub at the Amstelveenseweg gate of the Vondelpark to celebrate with a drink. It really did look and feel like a celebration, with a packed open-air terrace and bonfires lit all around. And that beer tasted like the sweetest thing on this good earth.

I also received a certificate from Running Holland. If I ever forget that I was able to run 20 minutes straight and how good I felt afterwards, I have this to remind me!

But why would I forget? Because I signed up for the next course, 6.6km or two to three rounds around the Vondelpark, next May. And I'm looking forward to surprising myself all over again.

Away for now

I have tons of kwento and photos from my awesome weekend in Switzerland. But they will have to wait because the next few days will be very busy! My sister is arriving in about an hour from Oslo, and we will be amassing more kwento and photos over the next few days. I'm excited to have someone to explore Amsterdam with while Marlon is at work, not least because I know she won't mind some shopping in between all the parks and museums.

After she leaves next week, I have a couple of days to recover and get ready for our next trip: our Easter getaway to the Algarve region in Portugal. It was a last-minute decision and I don't know much about the area, but I'm excited because of two things: 25℃ and piri-piri chicken!

Anyway, hopefully sometime in that two-day lull, I can turbo-blog and share my adventures in the Alps (yodelei-hee-hooo!) and around Amsterdam. Till then, I'm taking a little break from blogging to go and live life! Toodleloo!

School days

I've been looking for art to hang alongside the two Indian miniature paintings that Marlon and I bought on our honeymoon in Rajasthan. We've already put up most of our art, and none of them seemed to go with those two paintings in particular, either in style or in theme. 

Then I realized I had just the thing to go with the Indian miniatures: a family album of old photographs of India from the 1950s and 1960s. I first discovered this album in my mom's drawer back in high school. It was packed with some things of my dad's, like old passports. I'm guessing either he owned it or my Dima, his mother, kept it for him as a chronicle of his school days.

A little bit about my dad: he was named Amitabha, but known to family and friends as Gandhi because he was born on the date of Gandhi's death. (Nicknames are a big thing in Bengali culture.) At the age of 5, he won a huge regional quiz contest where the prize was a coveted scholarship to a British-run boarding school in the Himalayas, where India's elite sent their children to study.

This was a major deal. It made him something of a golden boy among his clan, the best and brightest, the family's pride. This sort of hero status surrounded him his whole life and extended to my mom, sister and me. I really feel it whenever I go to Calcutta; as Gandhi's daughter, I get the star treatment. My dad's boarding school education led to a scholarship at AIM, and eventually to a career in trading, banking and finance in Hong Kong and Manila, then the financial capitals of Asia.

Not bad for a young boy from a simple family from Calcutta. Dima was always so proud of him. Here is Dima in her younger days. Something about this photo reminds me of my sister.

Out of all the photos in the album, it was the glimpses of my dad's boarding school life in 1950s India that really captivated me.

 I think my dad's the one on the top left, in the singlet and sailor hat.

 Second row, second from left. I've had that same expression in class pictures.

Swimming lesson.

 Military training. We had that too.

 School dance. Already happening in India in the 1950s, 

but forbidden in my high school in the 1990s. WTF.

 Sometime close to graduation, I'm guessing. My dad is seated, on the right.

There are also some beautiful vignettes of India. These pictures are so small and delicate—some are just half the size of my iPhone. This is one of the larger, sharper ones.

I've decided that my new project will be to hunt for vintage frames for my favorite photos from this album. It will be hard to choose just a few... I might end up filling an entire wall!

Gone sledding

Did I mention that we have a sled at home?

On our very first furniture hunting trip to Spoor 38, Marlon saw this battered old sled outside in the cold and mist. His Superman complex immediately kicked in and he just had to rescue it. Or maybe it was a third world/tropical aspirational thing, I don't know. Anyway, we threw an Ikea cheapskin sheepskin over it, and it magically went from odd purchase to cute seating for the living room. 

The ultimate sign that the sled was truly meant for our home was the Rogue stamp of approval.

It's perfectly Rogue-sized, furry, soft, and right next to the radiator, which makes it perfect for catnaps.

On a particularly cold evening, Marlon draped a hand towel over her during one of her catnaps. She just looked like she needed to be tucked in.

Of course that meant waking her up accidentally, which she was none too happy about. But in general I think she's very happy about the sled, which means crazy cat lady and crazy cat man-in-training are happy about it too.

So what if we're too close to the ocean for actual snow and live in the most slope-less, hill-less country in Europe. Who says you can't enjoy a sled?