To market, to market

For the first time in my 29 years of existence, namalengke ako.

Full disclosure: spoiled ako, sorry. There was always someone to do the wet market shopping for our family growing up. When I got married and moved to Singapore, we did all the groceries at Fairprice because it was just a lot more convenient than going to the neighborhood wet market. Marlon is awesome at buying fresh fish and meat (his dad took him to wet markets growing up) so he was in charge of those purchases, prodding fish and prying open their gills while I ran around collecting all the dry and canned goods.

After three weeks of grocery shopping at the biggest Dutch supermarket chain, Albert Heijn, which all the Dutch seem to think is poorly stocked and overpriced, I decided to do as the locals do and shop at a real market. There was only one market on my mind: Albert Cuypmarkt, the biggest and most famous street market in Amsterdam.

The market runs the length of Albert Cuypstraat, a street in an area known as De Pijp (the pipe), just ten minutes by tram from my house. I took a big bayong, a stroller, and my grocery list for the week one Monday morning... and entered into utter bliss. 

The singular phenomenon that caused this rush of nirvana was cutting my grocery budget down by half. Our first grocery bill from the supermarket was €80 for a half-week (horrible, I know, but we had just arrived and didn't know any better); a week later we managed to shave it down to €40 for a half-week. 

At Albert Cuypmarkt, even with my big splurge on scallops (six of them for €1 apiece) and Norwegian salmon (€8 for 400 grams), the total came up to only €32.90 for the entire week! In Singapore dollars, that's about S$57. By comparison, my weekly grocery bill in Singapore would run between $S75-80, up to $S100 if we wanted to cook something special. I knew Singapore was expensive but I just didn't expect these kinds of savings here.

You can buy practically everything and everything at the Albert Cuypmarkt, and it's probably because I was so overwhelmed and giddy that I didn't do just that. There are stalls for fruit, veggies, cheese, nuts bread, spices, meat, fish...

Living essentials like kitchenware, mattresses and pillows, blankets, upholstery fabric, and of course, locks and other accessories for bikes...

Even my favorite guilty pleasures like second-hand clothing and chocolate!

My favorite Albert Cuypmarkt find of the week, though, was a gorgeous wooden dining table in a small furniture shop called Gerard Dou. I dragged Marlon back to the market after work the same day because I was totally set on buying it.

The shop owner, Maarten? Martijn? saw us approaching with our new cleaning materials (we had just bought a mop and bucket across the street) and greeted us heartily: "So you've come to clean my shop eh?" He immediately got all chatty and friendly with us, which was great. He explained that the tables were new but made out of old wood: recycled train tracks from India. How crazy is it that of all the things in his entire store I was drawn to something all the way from India? 

We ended up getting a 2-meter table for €675, with free delivery. After looking around online and in a couple of furniture stores, I haven't been able to find anything of the same size and quality for less than €800, with some tables even running into the thousands. Ah, the bliss of bargains indeed.

Upon learning that we were from the Philippines, Maarten excitedly led us over to a huge statement shelf which turned out to be... a banca sawed in half! "I had a container full of these things, but that was a long time ago," he remarked. "Things from the Philippines are so beautiful, but so expensive to bring over." I complimented him on his ingenuity and told him that it's rare to find such a lovely paint job and patina on bancas nowadays.

He packed us off with a promise of free polish for our new table plus a ceramic photo frame, also from India. He also told us where to go for DIY supplies that we need for the house, like a drill, hammer and painting equipment. Yes, todo na 'to.

So after my very first palengke experience, I came home not only with a bayong full of produce, but also a beautiful piece of furniture, a new friend and the sheer thrill of serendipity... and that's way more than I bargained for!

Moving day

Marlon and I moved out of our serviced apartment bright and early Thursday morning last week (well, maybe not bright, but definitely early). Sylvia from the relocation agency drove us and our 48,000 pieces of luggage over in a big van, and got us a cute housewarming gift. I very nearly went, “Oh! Onions! How lovely!” but caught myself just in time. Later on, I found out that these bulbs will grow into hyacinths when spring comes!

We locked Rogue in the guest bedroom so she wouldn't get underfoot of the movers. By some incomprehensible contortion, she managed to stick a paw out of her carrier, grab one of Marlon's favorite sweaters, and rip it completely to shreds in a fit of feline agitation. Yikes.

The moving crew arrived with a crane. Yes, a crane. That's because by law, movers are not allowed to carry more than 20kg on their person. Spoiled much? I've carried suitcases that are heavier than that! Plus, entryways and stairs in Dutch apartment buildings are deathly narrow, so large items are typically moved in through a window. Thus, the rise of the machines.

To get the crane into position right outside our living room window, the moving crew asked our ground floor neighbor to move her car. For some reason, they also had to push it. Out of gas, maybe?

First to come up was our daybed. I can't tell you what a relief it was to see our beloved possessions coming in through the window. The last time I saw any of these things was before Christmas. 

I lost count of how many times the movers loaded the little platform and sent it up, as soon our immaculate, empty new flat began to fill up with boxes upon boxes.

As the lady of the house, I felt very wife-like bustling around serving tea, coffee and cookies to the movers. Dutch custom dictates that everyone who sets foot in your house must be offered tea or coffee, whether it's the Queen of England or the plumber. It's a gracious custom, and very egalitarian: in fact, yesterday morning the guy who came over to install my Internet had zero qualms about asking for an espresso. Ako pa ang nahiya kasi instant coffee lang kami sa bahay!

After the movers left, Marlon set up the kopitiam table and our only two chairs by the window to make a temporary dining nook. With some takeout fish and paella from the fishmonger on the corner, we sat down for our first meal in our new home.

We left the house in the afternoon to register our new address at the local town hall, and subscribe to cable TV and Internet. Before I stepped out, though, something magical happened. I entered the bedroom and saw my dresser, chair, lamp and our unmade bed… and it all seemed to fit. 

It was at that moment when the house and I clicked, like puzzle pieces laid into place by a gentle and unseen hand. It was at that very moment that I decided: yes, this is home.

Welcome home

Finally, the months of living out of boxes and suitcases, packing and unpacking, obsessing and worrying, have reached their most welcome end. Marlon and I moved into our new home last Thursday (eight Internet-, cable- and phone-less days ago!), and every minute in it has been nothing short of bliss.

Our building, on a quiet residential street in Amsterdam Zuid (zaud, or South), dates back to 1928, when Amsterdam hosted the Olympics and built blocks upon blocks of dormitories for athletes. After the Games, the dormitories were turned into private residential apartments. I love fitting into this slice of the city’s history. And I love the fact that I now live in a building that’s approaching a century old!

Though the building is old, the apartments inside are usually refurbished to modern standards. It does feel a little bit like a dormitory when you stand in the entrance/hallway and see a whole bunch of doors.

The first room on the left when you enter is a dining room. It has two things that are completely new to me: a coat closet and china cabinet. The dining room adjoins the living room, with heavy wood and glass sliding doors in between. They’re a bitch to close, but I guess they would be useful if you want to heat up either room faster or keep the heat in just one room.

Our bedroom faces the south, which apparently gets the most sun. Hurray!

So does the guest bedroom, which has a door that opens out onto a balcony that runs along the entire length of the apartment.

Ting alert: I can picture a couple of chairs and a small table for alfresco dinners in the summer. In fact, we already got a table, discounted from €275 to €35 at the very chi-chi Moooi Gallery’s warehouse sale. A few locals I spoke to had no idea about the sale and were shocked at the markdowns. Go me!

The kitchen has all the essentials: fridge, stove, oven, washer and dryer, and that life-changing invention known as the dishwasher. What it lacks in size compared to our Singapore kitchen, it makes up for with the abundance of natural light. I was horrified to unpack our appliances and cookbooks in the sunlight—and to see, for the first time in years, how greasy and grimy they had gotten. We had such poor light in our old kitchen that we’d simply never noticed. Never again!

Yay, a bathtub! The toilet is separate and is one of those odd German toilets. Well, I don’t really know if they’re German in origin, but I first saw them on tour in Germany. Instead of a big ol’ bowl, you get a small bowl and a sort of little shelf. So whenever you—er, unload the goods, they land on the shelf, forcing you to… inspect them before flushing them away. Very strange.

Sylvia, our yaya from the relocation agency who helped us move in, was shocked at how low we managed to wrangle the rent for an apartment and neighborhood of such caliber. What a relief! So while this house was actually our third choice, it turned out to be just the perfect one.

Next up: moving day!

Worst weekend ever

I was having a really hard time breathing since Friday night. In denial ang lola n'yo the entire weekend; I kept on thinking it was related to my lactose intolerance since it's been a cheesefest here since I arrived. So I decided that if I cut out the cheese and took my Dairy Care, the whole situation would just clear up.

Surprise surprise, it didn't! On Saturday night, I hacked and coughed for 20 straight minutes, started feeling chest pains, and even threw up my dinner. (Sorry, TMI ba?) So Marlon called an ambulance. Ans no, Gutsy, the ambulance guys were not cute. They were middle-aged, very tall men dressed in head-to-toe 3M reflective tape outfits. Kung nasa ulirat ako sana nakunan ko sila ng picture. 

More importantly, they came bearing medicated oxygen, which was the most blessedly sweet thing I have had in a long time. I slept through the night breathing easy. At least until the next morning. Sunday was bad. I couldn't even bend down to tie my shoelaces without wheezing for air. Mega tungga pa rin ako ng Dairy Care, to no avail. 

Things came to a head at bedtime, when I had to face the reality that my breathing was so bad I would not be able to sleep through the night. So Marlon took me to the E.R. of VU Medisch Centrum, the hospital of the Vrij University which is just ten minutes away.

Hello, healthcare system

So here are three things you should know about the Dutch healthcare system.

1. Everyone is required by law to have health insurance. Everyone. Dutch citizens get them free or highly subsidized from their government. If you're a foreigner, you need to get your own insurance coverage from a Dutch company (even if you have international coverage, which I don't haha) within four months of arrival. Basic coverage is about €100 per person for month... which is hella expensive right?
2. That's because health insurance pays for... pretty much everything. Break your leg? Giving birth? Suffering from a severe asthma attack? Just show up at the doctor's office or at the hospital, show your insurance card, and pay nothing. Zero. Zip. They will send the bill to your insurance company.
3. Everyone is required to register with a general practitioner and dentist. Once you  have a permanent address you find a GP and dentist nearest you who will be your doctor for, like, life.

And this is not about the healthcare system, but the Dutch have the highest lactose tolerance in the entire human race. Genetically, they have an enzyme that allows them to absorb and process more calcium and/or lactose than any other ethnicity. It's why they're so bloody tall. (I don't know if this also has any bearing on their general lack of eyebrows, lol.)

So I was a real anomaly: lactose intolerant, no permanent address thus no doctor, and no health insurance. Every single member of the VU hospital staff literally did a double take three times, one for each of these factoids. The E.R. admitting nurse, raising an eyebrow: "No health insurance? But the E.R. fee is €300. Okay?" Okay! *Lunok* Isang original Eames chair na yon. Pero sige, go lang, kasi parang nasa bingit na ako ng hukay. 

They hooked me up to my special bong (see previous post) for the first hour or so. Instant relief! After an hour, a doctor came to see if I was ready to go home by measuring my lung strength with this instrument called a spirometer. At dito nagsimula ang aking kalbaryo.

Image from vosmedisch.nl

You're supposed to make like a blowdart hunter from the African savannah and blow into one end, the force of your breath pushing up the little tab on the scale. Aba, hindi ako makalampas-lampas sa red zone. At sa sobrang lakas ng denial ko, sinisi ko pa ang spirometer! "It's so technique-specific!" I fumed. "Maybe it's made for much larger people!" Maybe I should have taken lessons in, er, blowing, from Eternal Wanderer. Siguradong pasok sa banga!

After six or seven tries, the doctor declared that I was unfit to be released... and that I would have to be admitted. I was so unprepared for this turn of events, I didn't even have a handbag with me; all I had was my passport and our last remaining stash of Euros. At which point I tried bargaining like a true daughter of Mrs. Paul. "Let's just try this whole spirometer again!" I faux-chirped, turning on the charm, to no avail. 

Marlon left at 4.30am to catch some z's before work. And I was left alone in the hospital.

Mrs. Paul meets Lola Techie

Since I'm married and haven't changed the name on my passport, I was registered as "Mrs. Paul", or Mevrouw (mu-frau) Paul in Dutch. How weird is it to be called Mrs. Paul? So many nurses kept popping in to check my blood pressure, draw blood, or put me on an inhaler every hour on the hour that I was almost used to it by the time I left. 

At 10am I took another spirometer test, computerized this time, which I failed equally miserably. Then I was transferred to a room in the lung ward, which I shared with a sweet old Dutch lady who spoke a little English, which was nice.

The really remarkable thing about this granny was her tech savviness. She had a tiny Dell laptop! She kept getting calls from her family on her cellphone. She spent most of her day playing Sim City, Solitaire and Blackjack. She even (sweetly) bitched to the nurse about being unable to access the hospital Wifi. For those first few hours, I felt like such a Neanderthal for not even having a laptop and a phone. "Get a Dutch number right away so you can get Internet on your mobile phone," she advised. You gotta love these European lolas. 

Bills, bills, bills

In the late afternoon I called Marlon from the nurses' station. Before coming over to bring me a change of clothes and some entertainment options, he needed to settle the bill. "How much is it?" I asked, fearing the worst. "Mmmmm... masakit siya," he averred.

"Sige lang. Hit me," I ordered.

"It's €3,000."

THREE THOUSAND FREAKING EUROS!!!!!! For one freaking night!!!! Burj-al-Arab ba itoh?!?!?!?

Image from travelihub.com

I went back to my room and cried for fifteen whole minutes. As in hagulgol (buti na lang tulog si Lola Techie). I thought of all the things we could have bought with €3,000: closets and a solid wood dining table for the house, or two round-trip tickets home for Christmas, or at least three really good European getaways, and don't get me started on the bags. 

It was my darkest hour. I got to a point where I wondered if it was a huge mistake to move here. And since it was I who pushed for this whole exodus to Europe, and I with this stupid asthma, I wondered if I was responsible for this mess.

Then Marlon arrived to take me out of the dark, my Lord.

His big discovery for the day: he and I are covered by health insurance care of his new company. And even if we haven't completed the paperwork for it, the policy came into effect on his first day of work... three weeks ago. So the hospital bill will be reimbursed in full! HALLELUJAH!!!!!!

So tuloy ang shopping, lol. But kidding aside, you can imagine how relieved we both were. And I then started to ponder the beauty of health insurance and why the Americans are so against universal healthcare. Mas gusto ba nilang mamulubi kapag nagkasakit sila? I really don't get it. It works so well for the Netherlands—I already feel the positive impact, and I'm not even a citizen. 

Road to recovery

Other than that moment where we stared destitution in the face, my hospital stay was actually... not so bad. I had a cute male nurse named Thijs? Tyce? who was so sweet and friendly. Sorry, bangengers ako the whole time so no photos. Actually, everyone was really sweet and friendly, introducing themselves with their first names, a smile and a handshake. 

I was prescribed with a daily pill and taught to use an asthma inhaler which I have to do twice a day, every day. I detest the thought of being dependent on an inhaler. The presence or absence of an inhaler could spell the difference between life and death, say, if I end up hiring a psychotic yaya one day.

The hand that rocks the crade is the hand that holds the asthma inhaler.

Image from weblo.com

The doctors still don't know what triggered my asthma; we're still waiting for my blood test results. They have a vague suspicion that it's pollen from the trees that are starting to bloom again, but I will only get to find out when I come back to the hospital in three weeks to see a lung specialist. Till then, I will be a good patient and take my meds every day. That's a promise.

I was released yesterday afternoon and was well enough to take the tram and walk partway home. It's been great to be breathing normally again.

Tonight is our last night at the serviced apartment, so I'm in a spate of last-minute blogging while I still have Internet. There's also a lot of packing to be done; I can't tell you how sick I am of packing, repacking and unpacking. 

And tomorrow we move into our new and permanent address. It'll be a long and busy day, but one that couldn't come soon enough! So all's well that ends well, my lovies. Good things are coming just around the bend!

Asthmasterdam

Here in Amsterdam, for the first time in my entire life, I got hooked on the ultimate bong.

Medicated oxygen, baby. It's the ultimate high.

I just got home after being hospitalized for severe asthma. It was a... er, breathtaking introduction to the Dutch healthcare system, and among other things, made me realize: WOW. I'm really living here now. This is reality, not a vacation.

Details soon. Off to cuddle my husband and cat first.

Tram talk

Yesterday the temperature went below zero for the first time since we got here. It was something like -2℃ in the daytime. So it was not a good day for Tram 5, which Marlon takes to work, to be twenty minutes late. 

In a country where tardiness is unacceptable, the Dutch tram driver was beyond himself and visibly stressed. The crowd of frozen, grumpy commuters at each stop who would stomp into the tram and glare at the driver did nothing to ease the pressure on him to make up for lost time. 

Neither did the loud American woman who greeted every group of boarding passengers: "So! How long y'all been frozen for?" To make matters worse, a teenage guy kept leaning on the door, delaying the tram by a few precious seconds every time that door opened and closed. 

Image: Wikimedia Commons

Finally the tram speakers crackled to life and a voice boomed from the heavens. The beleaguered tram driver had had enough.

"WHAT. THE. F*CK?!" Who the f*ck keeps leaning on the f*cking door? I'm already more than twenty f*cking minutes late, so if the f*cker does that again at the next stop, I'm going to stop the tram, leave you all in here and go for a f*cking smoke break!"

Yesssss. Meltdown. In English. All the better for us non-Dutch to be entertained by.

So I was having a bad day yesterday. Call it schadenfreude, but sometimes it helps to remember you're not the only one!

Le sigh

The apartment situation has been a little crazy these past few days.

Through Housing Agent #1, we made an offer for the place on Beethovenstraat which was lower than the owner's asking price. After two days, the owner's agent told us they had knocked €50 off the asking price—and I was like, what the heck kind of tawad is €50? Still, we kicked our budget up a notch (the house is that nice), made a counter-offer, and waited.

And waited.

In the meantime, we viewed another apartment with Housing Agent #2 (a.k.a. The Blond Clive Owen). A ground-floor apartment near the Concertgebouw and Museumplein, it promised to be a contender, but turned out to be too big of an investment on our part—we'd have to spend for closets, curtains, a dryer, lighting fixtures and to clean up the garden. So much for that.

And still, we waited.

Marlon and I also decided on a back-up apartment should Beethovenstraat reject our offer. I haven't blogged about it since the pictures I took were crappy. But we saw it on our very first day of house-hunting, and it was the pick of that day. We just needed to get the final word from Beethovenstraat so we could make an offer on this other place before it got snapped up by someone else.

But still, we waited. And started to wonder why the owners were taking so long to evaluate our counter-offer.

Today Housing Agent #1 found out that the owner's agent was in talks with another prospective tenant about the same apartment! Instead of holding one-to-one negotiations with the first to make an offer, he had been playing us off each other without either of us knowing. After getting an offer from us, he would tell the owner, then run to the other party and get a counter offer, then make the owner decide.

This whole runaround not only prolonged the entire process, but drove up the rent (and the agent's commission)... in favor of the other "bidder". Marlon and I weren't expecting a bidding game, and we're certainly not funded to play one. Welcome to Expatland, where there will always be someone with a bigger relocation package/housing allowance/tax benefit than you.

So we gave up the bidding war to the other party, and for the second time in as many weeks, I'm crushed.

We now have a pending offer for the third choice on our list. I can only hope it's still on the market—we lost so time on this stupid waiting game—and that the negotiations are not as draining. We're only in the serviced apartment until Wednesday, so we have to close a deal on an apartment asap. Like tomorrow.

Afraid

While canvassing for sofa beds on the Ikea site, I saw this.

Afraidy Krueger! Mothers of Europe, beware! Having gone criminally psychotic after being booed at his last coffeehouse gig, Euro hipster bogeyman is out for revenge! He will make off with your children in the night!

And your little dog, too!

Let's try this again

After hearts are broken, life must go on. (Chos! Emo!) So, in the interest of moving on, Marlon and I have instructed our housing agent to make an offer on another flat. It's on Beethovenstraat, in what the housing agent and relocation consultants keep saying is the one of the poshest areas in Amsterdam. 

I don't know if this fact is stated over and over again because it's meant to be a huge selling point; it's all the same to me. It's not like fitting into the social hierarchy is on my agenda here. What I care about more is that right across the street are a tram stop, Albert Heijn supermarket, fishmonger, bakerij and butcher! No more carting heavy bags over a 15-minute walk in the cold!

Ayan, na-excite na naman ako. Be still, my heart. After my recent real estate heartbreak, I don't want to really get my hopes up. But I thought I'd share the place with everyone anyway so you can root for us!

It's on the first floor, so just one flight of moderately manageable steps, thank goodness. The front door opens into a small hallway that leads to all the rooms. I now have to think of things like where to hang the coats, and whether there's space for a coat rack or just wall-mounted hooks.

I like the wooden floors and the decent-sized living/dining space facing the street. The decommissioned brick fireplace in the corner is a nice old detail in an otherwise modern space.

The all-important second bedroom also faces Beethovenstraat. Because it's a busy street, the owners have all but hermetically sealed this room off. To compensate for the lack of circulation, they've also added a contraption that lets in fresh air while filtering out the noise from the street. It's the small rectangular box on top of the radiator.

I also like the checkerboard floor in the bathroom, and the fact that the place comes with its own washer and dryer (less for us to spend on!). It doesn't have a bathtub though, which I initially thought was not such a big minus. Huwag maging choosy ang lumaki sa tabo at balde, lol. But I did a long, delectably hot soak in the serviced apartment bathtub the other day, and I must admit having one would be a wonderful luxury.

Still, I can't complain. The his-and-hers sinks are a major step up from our tiny bathroom in Singapore.

The master bedroom is airy and spacious. The closet is a huge plus, since a lot of apartments here don't come with built-in closet space.

The apartment has its own garden! How cool is that. It will be really lovely to eat here with guests when the weather is warmer. It's a little odd, though, that the only access to the garden is through the master bedroom. Marlon and I are toying with the idea of switching spaces, i.e. using this room as the living/dining area and the front room as the master bedroom. But then that would mean that our bedroom faces the street.

A relatively spacious kitchen, with the very rare full-sized refrigerator (who needs a refrigerator when it's already cold outside? is the Dutch logic) and enough space for our kopitiam table, Eames chairs and maybe some extra shelving.

Looking at it on the map, Beethovenstraat seems kind of far from the center of town (the canal belt up top), but it's only about ten minutes by tram. The Museumplein where the Van Gogh Museum and Rijksmuseum are about three stops away. Yep, Amsterdam is that small.

For guests (that's you!), there's a direct train from Schiphol Airport to Station Zuid, which you can see is practically walkable from the apartment.

So root for us to get it! It's a great apartment for you too!

Prins Charming

Every girl dreams of meeting a dashing prince who will sweep her off her feet. Well, friends, it finally happened to me. 

His name is Prins Henrikkade. You could say he had me at hello. 

A listed historical building on the Prins Henrikkade facing the water, a few minutes' walk from Centraal Station and the public library, this apartment got my heart beating from the moment I walked into the perfectly preserved, shared entrance.

Being on the first floor (or second floor to us non-Europeans), even the dreaded staircase was transformed into a delightful confection. Kulang na lang ang yellow gown ko and my Beast waiting on the ground floor. Or, since I have a short bob and no yellow gown, baka dapat ang naghihintay sa akin sa baba ay si Captain Von Trapp.

The front door opened into a spacious kitchen, a full room instead of the little strip that is common to all the apartments I've seen so far. We could probably fit a decent dining table inside. I knew Marlon would love it.

And the living space. Exposed beams, herringbone floors, a gas fireplace... swoon.

*SHOOP!* Your Highness, pardon the sound of my panty falling.

This huge front room was linked to the back of the apartment by a small hallway...

... that looked out into a small light/airwell. The Prins was pushing all the right architectural buttons. Naughty naughty.

A decent-sized second bedroom for our many future guests, and at least one future baby.

Connected by an equally decent-sized bathroom...

... to the most stupendous master bedroom in the history of all house-hunts!

Fall to your knees, peasants! Behold!

I may have seen one too many episodes of So You Think You Can Dance, but it made me feel like breaking into a Viennese waltz. When the housing agent opened the original built-in closets, I simply melted into a vaguely girl-shaped puddle on the floor.

The best part about this handsome Prins? He's well out of the heavily touristed area, but just one or two streets away from the classic city centre views. With a "negotiable" asking price just a hundred Euros away from our budget range, I thought I had found my happily ever after. After seeing the pictures, Marlon gave me the go-ahead to tell our agent to make an offer.

But...

Like many modern-day fairy tales, this one does not have a happy ending.

Choosy pala si Prins Henrikkade. After my agent made the offer, the owner's agent nosed around into Marlon's salary, length of contract and tax status, then requested soft copies of his employment contract and both our passports. Mayabang ang lola mo at muntik ko nang sampalin ang kontrata sa mga mukha nila. But of course there is no way to make sampal with a soft copy, jejeje.

Yesterday I got a call from my agent. The owner rejected our offer. Not because of our income. Not even because of our nationality. But because of... our cat.

Unwanted :( :( :(

"The apartment has been newly carpeted, newly curtained, blah blah blah..."They didn't even want to put in a standard clause holding us liable for all pet-related damage. My agent was pretty pissed (his commission just rode off into the sunset!), declaring this truly unfortunate and unreasonable.

Lesson of the story: don't give your heart to the first Prins you meet. He just might turn out to be another frog.

The End.