The trip that almost never was

Our trip to the Algarve, Portugal was never supposed to happen. Two months ago, Marlon and I had booked an Easter trip to Istanbul and were super duper excited about it. Then, a week before we were set to fly, I got a text from my sister:

"How long did it take you to get your Turkish visa?"

Wait a minute. VISA?!?!?

Surprise surprise! Turkey is not on the list of Schengen states, as I had so wrongly assumed. I can't blame the Filipino passport curse for this, though—I really should have double-checked. After a midnight panic-fueled flurry of surfing, Marlon and I decided that the easiest thing to do would be to rebook the Istanbul flight to October (making it a birthday getaway instead) and find a new place to go. Just a week before Easter, this was not the easiest thing to do as prices were high and most accommodations were fully booked.

We decided on Faro in the Algarve region of Portugal because a) we found relatively affordable flights leaving Black Saturday, b) accommodations at some top-rated places on Tripadvisor were still available, and c) Portugal is the home of peri-peri chicken, which we first fell in love with at Nando's in Singapore (it's a South African franchise though). Other than that, we didn't know much about the Algarve, except that it was a coastal region in the south of Portugal, with tons of beaches on the Atlantic Ocean.

Definitely sounded better than showing up in Istanbul without a visa! It turned out to be a fabulous decision. Our five days in the Algarve were simply made of awesomeness. Well, save for one really bad tourist lunch....

And the decisions upon decisions we had to make! The Algarve offers such an overwhelming array of options that we were constantly agonizing over where to go and what to do. Did we want to:

Hit one of the Algarve's 150+ beaches (!!!) and enjoy some sun?

See Moorish castles and forts?

Explore the colorful alleys of some pretty old town?

Enjoy a scenic drive?

Head up to the mountains for some cool air and gorgeous views?

Spend an entire morning lazing around in our hotel room? (Thanks to my sister for her Starwood points!)

Hunt down some hard-to-find hole in the wall with the promise of great local cuisine?

As you can tell from this random sampling of photos, Marlon and I were practically paralyzed every morning trying to decide on an itinerary for the day, then going back and forth and changing our minds every few hours. But that's not such a bad problem to have, as far as vacation problems go!

Bloemendaal

Somehow, between my sister's visit and our Easter trip to Portugal, I managed to squeeze in a day at the beach with Leigh, a new friend from the Amsterdam girls' Meetup group I joined. On a particularly warm day (24℃... yes I know, how things have changed!) I hopped on a bus to Leigh's place in Bad Hoevedorp, a town near Haarlem and Sloten. It looks far on the map, but turned out to be just 20 minutes by bus from Museumplein.

At Leigh's place, I saw how much space you can get living outside of the city (it's pretty, but I'm happy where I am!) and met her adorable (and huge!) pets.

Then we took her car for a 30-minute drive (where we almost ran out of gas!) to Zandvoort a.k.a. The Beach, where apparently everyone and his mother goes on a sunny weekend. At the Anne Frank House, I even saw pictures of Anne Frank and her family in their beachwear at Zandvoort back in the 1930s!

We opted to go to Bloemendaal, the "posher" stretch of beach beside Zandvoort, passing huge mansions on the way. Apparently the only reason it's posher is because of all these chillax-chic beach bars on the dunes...

... which were a nice enough place to enjoy lunch and a girly gabfest. I still have to get used to sandwiches and salads as beach food, though.

So, this is the beach. It fulfills the two basic requirements: sand and sea. It gets positively scorching up on the dunes, but closer to the shoreline, the sea breeze kicks in and cools you right off.

Speaking of cooling off: don't even think of going into the water, at least not in April... unless you want to die of hypothermia. No matter how warm it is on land, that North Sea means business. Toto, we're not in the South China Sea anymore.

With swimming out of the picture, it was nice to just tan on the sand and enjoy a chat with a new friend. Leigh is from South Africa, and it was unbelievable how many commonalities our countries share: from stunning natural beauty to visa woes to everyday tales of crime and corruption that the Dutch we've met simply find impossible to comprehend.

Q: Mahangin ba sa labas? A: Sa tingin mo?

If I'd come straight here from the Philippines without being exposed to the sadness that is Sentosa, I would have scoffed at this beach. But the stretch of sand is wide and clean, and it's near enough to get to in a pinch. I definitely wouldn't mind doing again, especially with lots of sunshine and good friends!

Sibling revelry

A week before Easter, Marlon and I welcomed our first official houseguest in the person of my sister, Sheila. 

Many awesome things transpired during, and because of, her visit. First and foremost among them was the cleanup of the spare bedroom, and its transformation from disaster area/dumping ground for assorted junk into a hospitable and rather pretty guest space.

I loved being able to finally do girly things, things that I've learned not to foist on Marlon. Such as hours upon hours of window shopping...

Loved this gold bag by A.P.C. Hope to find it at the A.P.C. outlet in Paree!

Move over, Kate Moss... make way for Kate Mouse!

... during which, naturally, some actual shopping also took place.

 My new suede shoes: comfy lace-up sandal/booties from Bershka

Our girly pursuits also extended to gratuitous camwhoring...

Huli ka, Ate!

... and camwhoring's style blog-inspired subset, known as outfit shots. It was so nice to just go "Outfit shot!" without reservation and have someone automatically know what to do. I haven't trained the husband in this area yet. Nahihiya pa ako. But with a sister, hiya does not apply.

Outfit shot! on Prinsengracht

Outfit shot! at Museumplein

Outfit shot! in the Jordaan

Finally, it wouldn't have been a girly week without our shared appreciation of the many... er, ways that Amsterdam is superior to Singapore, KL and Oslo (all cities we've lived in). We didn't agree though on whether or not it is superior to Manila in terms of eye candy. 

 Ben Affleck isdatchu? Maybe 10 years from now!

From the tram rides to the police at Schiphol airport, the Dutch men did not disappoint. It must have been the weather! Salamat, mga ginoo, at di naman ako napahiya sa aking bisita.

Kikay pursuits aside, it was great to just show my sister around my new home, my new life, and take her to some places that have become fast favorites in the four months that I've lived in Amsterdam.

Lipsmackingly authentic Chinese food at Nam Kee in Zeedijk 
(complete with MSG headache!)

Dutch design for your home at Moooi Gallery, 
merchandised with playfulness and panache 

The yummiest (refillable!) giant margaritas, 
caramel crepes and Mexican grub at Los Pilones

Green serenity at the Begijnhof, a 14th-century courtyard tucked into the busy Spui 

Lazy sun-drenched afternoon at the Vondelpark with a good book

Steak and lobster at Restaurant Red on Keizersgracht

Having my sister around also gave me a great excuse to go out, explore the city, and discover some new favorites. Call me weird, but I prefer to keep my exploring down to a minimum when Marlon is at work. He gets so envious (not that he stops me), I end up feeling sorry for the poor guy—what with me out and about in this gorgeous city while he has to stay cooped up in the office all day, 5 days a week.

 Apres Anne Frank House, La Perla's crisp wood-fired pizzas

 Enjoying an appeltart, coffee and sunshine at Cafe P96, a boat cafe on Prinsengracht

 The Friday book market at the Spui

Besides, going out and exploring is just so much more fun with company. So I (and Marlon, on the weekend) went on the tourist trail for the first time since moving here and finally got to tick off some tourist staples.

 Requisite tourist photo at Dam Square

 Amsterdam's 'floating' flower market, the Bloemenmarkt

 Rediscovering a girlhood heroine at the Anne Frank House

 After the Rijksmuseum, camwhoring at the giant Iamsterdam sign in Museumplein

Day trip to Keukenhof, Holland's famous (and eye-popping!) tulip garden

Whew! Ang dami pala naming nagawa! Not bad considering we never left the house before lunchtime, in true Paul fashion.

It's funny, I was doing the hosting (okay, with significant help from Marlon, haha) but I really have to say thank you, Ate! It was so much fun having you here!

Silhouettes

After a two-week hiatus (sister's visit and Portugal trip, both of which are next on my blogging agenda), Make It Monday is back!

This was very different from my first Make It Monday, when I had absolutely idea what I wanted to make and took three hours to do it when I finally figured it out. I've been collecting ideas since that first Monday, and this time I knew exactly what I wanted to accomplish. It took me less than an hour!

I first saw these old photos of my parents last Christmas. My mom had unpacked an old box of family photos, and both my sister and I took snaps of our favorite ones since we didn't have a scanner at home. These were taken in Hong Kong, probably when they were in their late 20s, somewhere in the vicinity of how old Marlon and I are now. 

Mom really looks like my sister here! Through most of her 20s, actually.

Some of my favorite design blogs feature homes with cutout silhouettes hung on the walls. So I made my own version using these old photos, strips of this fluorescent yellow translucent paper that I've been obsessed with, and sections of unused Laura Ashley (80s flashback!) wallpaper that Marlon found on the same street corner as our dining room chairs.

Then I put them into vintage gold frames that I bought during the Queen's Day flea market in our neighborhood, just a few doors down from where we got the chairs, actually. A little old lady (there are legions of them around here) was selling them for €4 apiece. In hindsight, I wish I had bought a few more!

Now they're hung on our dove gray living room wall, beside a pair of Indian miniatures from Udaipur. Or at least they will be until Mom visits at the end of the month... I suspect she'll make a bid for them then!

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.