Am I allowed to discuss clients’ name, work details and meeting specifics in my personal blog? More importantly, do I want to have my work, which is already more invasive than kudzu, occupy space that is supposedly designated for personal freedom? The answer to the latter is obviously no, however, certain events within have a personal demand insisting that some light reveal that which was once hidden.
Not that any of which I am about to reveal was all that hidden to begin with.
Apologies.
The bank, a large, successful bank in the Philippines, had an impressive edifice. The marble walls that greeted us were gray in both stature and ascetics. Gray in attitude was the armed guard who did not make eye contact, but was certainly watching. His M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder pointing down, but ready to unleash the murderous rage that it was assembled for in a second’s notice, a wish that the guard perhaps secretly wanted to grant. The lobby was sunny as was the attitude within. The large atrium with its long teller window was amply staffed welcoming its customers in a style that is very quickly being forgotten in the US. But as we progressed higher, the sun, light and attitude rapidly changed.
The meeting was scheduled for the fifth floor. Within a server room. Not the usual place to display an online system, but seeing as how this was primarily a meet-and-greet to high-level IT staffers, not entirely shocking. But this fifth floor hadn’t seen a paint job since the 1970s. Hallways, offices and cubicles were cluttered, stocked to overflowing capacity, with boxes, monitors and PCs. The computers lining this mass grave were easily 286 and 486s as three-and-a-half-inch drives could be spied on all of them. I was looking for the much-more elusive five-and-a-quarter knowing that they had to exist within the pile. In the server room itself sat an immense dot-matrix computer and more monitors – just monitors – their black soulless screens crying out to be turned on displaying their VGA action just one more time before their eventual retirement.
Here was to be our stage. Fourteen chairs of all different colors and sizes pulled from any available cube or office, sat lined up in two rows. And so we began.
Stage two of the presentation involved a conference call overseas. With London. And New York. Yes, the humor of the situation most certainly did not escape me. I actually traveled to the Philippines in order to have a phone conference with New York City. I had a laugh over that when the agenda was released. But not one of those boisterous, hearty, deep-from-the-belly-and-laugh-out-loud kinda laughs. Nor was it one of those damn-smart, getting-the-in-joke type of short, hilarious burst of laughter one can get from seeing Anchorman or American Splendor. Oh no. This was one of those situations where your body doesn’t know what to do, so instead of crying, you laugh. It’s a weak, sweaty and totally phony laugh. And I laughed.
The time zone difference actually worked out well for this instance. The conference call was scheduled for 8 PM, allowing my party to conduct the affair from the hotel’s business center, which actually ended up being pleasant. Contributing to this change of attitude was the fact that just across the hotel lobby from the business center was one of the lounges and in that lounge was San Miguel beer. Nothing beats conducting business than doing so with a friend or two. Or six. Or seven. And Saint Mike and I were becoming fast friends.
As Always,
theJOE
29 August 2006
22 August 2006
Manila - Day 1
Monday in the Philippines was considered to be an off day. Sent here to work, though, this relaxing day of wishful sightseeing and recovering from a touch of jet lag no worse than the Phillies current Wild Card standings was instead spent upgrading our soon-to-be sold-and-recently-downgraded-to-three-star Hyatt Hotel to the very opulent five-star rated Pan Pacific deeper into town and going through my work for the upcoming two-day Q&A blitzkrieg presentation for which this trip was all about. Plus, the monsoon season, much like Kevin Smith’s humor, had yet to fully surrender saturating the island with rain and humidity.
The Pan Pacific features two lounges, one public, one strictly for guests, and boasts a casino, nightclub and eleven different eating establishments. We tried two that night, and kinda wished that number was divided by itself.
Initially my boss, and Indian-by-decent who can generally eat anything, and I were coaxed into the Shabu-Shabu. Sort of like Benehana back home, Shabu-Shabu had a grill sitting in the middle of the table. You then selected from a long, stainless steel buffet table your choice of raw – let me say that again, raw – meat to go into the pot and see it cook before your very eyes. Well, in front of eyes that were interested, which this American was certainly not.
We then settled, no, I think the proper word should be resorted, to eating at a Chinese restaurant across the main hall. Where everything was deep fried. And covered in some sort of seafood-based paste with appetizing names like “oyster paste”. And greasy. And stringy. Haven’t the Philippines yet discovered the ancient recipe for general’s chicken?
Fortunately the Palm Lounge, residing at the top of the hotel’s twenty-one floors, became our saving grace. I was introduced to San Miguel, the Philippines’ answer to Heineken. The lounge offers comfortably-dim lighting and a smashing pool table. Smashing, of course, is what I ended up performing on it as I am certainly no Minnesota Fats. Although, I can twirl a pool stick just as charmingly as Tom Cruise. Plus I’m not a freako Scientologist, so I have Tom beat there as well.
It is with a belly full grease, a bladder waiting to pass San Miguel and my boastful one-upping of an A-list star that my first full day on the other side of the planet came to an end. My room has a magnificent view of both the bay and the streets below me. And it’s still raining. Tomorrow, clients await.
As Always,
theJOE
The Pan Pacific features two lounges, one public, one strictly for guests, and boasts a casino, nightclub and eleven different eating establishments. We tried two that night, and kinda wished that number was divided by itself.
Initially my boss, and Indian-by-decent who can generally eat anything, and I were coaxed into the Shabu-Shabu. Sort of like Benehana back home, Shabu-Shabu had a grill sitting in the middle of the table. You then selected from a long, stainless steel buffet table your choice of raw – let me say that again, raw – meat to go into the pot and see it cook before your very eyes. Well, in front of eyes that were interested, which this American was certainly not.
We then settled, no, I think the proper word should be resorted, to eating at a Chinese restaurant across the main hall. Where everything was deep fried. And covered in some sort of seafood-based paste with appetizing names like “oyster paste”. And greasy. And stringy. Haven’t the Philippines yet discovered the ancient recipe for general’s chicken?
Fortunately the Palm Lounge, residing at the top of the hotel’s twenty-one floors, became our saving grace. I was introduced to San Miguel, the Philippines’ answer to Heineken. The lounge offers comfortably-dim lighting and a smashing pool table. Smashing, of course, is what I ended up performing on it as I am certainly no Minnesota Fats. Although, I can twirl a pool stick just as charmingly as Tom Cruise. Plus I’m not a freako Scientologist, so I have Tom beat there as well.
It is with a belly full grease, a bladder waiting to pass San Miguel and my boastful one-upping of an A-list star that my first full day on the other side of the planet came to an end. My room has a magnificent view of both the bay and the streets below me. And it’s still raining. Tomorrow, clients await.
As Always,
theJOE
21 August 2006
Manila - Getting There
The lightning arced sideways in the sky; its electric white and hot blue appearing as a flashbulb pop at a birthday party. Being several hundred feet in the air while viewing this didn’t quite have the same affect however. Surprisingly, the flight was still quite smooth. Or perhaps going on twenty hours of flight-time, I was just numb.
I was going to the Philippines, I was informed, making this not only the longest trip I’ve ever been on for work, but also personally – my previous excursion to a Pacific island was my Hawaiian honeymoon. The itinerary that was provided to me established that I would safely be in the air for most of the day. The term "safely", of course, being the variable, "most" being the constant. From the time I woke up on Saturday morning, which seems like three or four days opposed to the two that the date on my watch shows me, my life was full of acronyms. PHL to LAX to ICN to MNL.
LAX was insane. Not only was the weather extremely hot outside, but the bustle and congestion inside did not alleviate the heat any. A fun observation from LAX’s International terminal was that tall, English-speaking Anglos were definitely in the minority; but that could simply be LA for you. The company sprang for business class, which allowed me access to the Asiana lounge, another treat. Finding it, however, was a bit more of a trick. The end result was pleasant enough, and that’s all that matters.
Asiana’s business class was both comfortable and spacious and the stewardesses did their best to make the 12-hour flight quite not feel like 12-hours. Maybe 10-and-half instead. Between reading, perhaps a three-hour nap and the in-flight movie (The Sentinel starring Michael Douglas, Keifer Sutherland and Kim Basinger, mediocre but watchable, 6 out of 10) it wasn’t until the final hour-and-a-half that I really wanted to be on the ground more than anything. No, there was one thing that I wanted more. I really just wanted to turn around and go back home.
Seoul Incheon International was beautiful. Sleek modern designs placing tall windows in between walls of neutral grays, calming off-whites and wood-paneled floors. Flat screen monitors were conected in every gate broadcasting news and sitcoms. While waiting for my connecting flight – standing, mind you, no use sitting at this point – I was greeted by a church youth group heading to Manila for a week’s vacation. They were a fun and lively bunch with plenty of smiles, everything a church-based youth group should be. I think they were excited to see an American and were able to practice their English a little. We just went through the absolute basics first.
Where was I from? Philadelphia.
Do you know where that is? Just below New York.
How old was I, they asked. I lied and said thirty. They lied right back and said I was both young and handsome.
They wanted to know what I thought of Korea. I truthfully told them I could not wait to explore Seoul some upon my return.
We parted with waves and more smiles.
Flying from Seoul to Manila is when I noticed the lightning. And the rain. Still, the flight itself wasn’t bad. Perhaps business class has better stabilizers than coach.
Manila International was everything Seoul was not. Cafeteria-tiled floors, institutional greens, low ceilings. I was greeted with a blue flag welcoming me to "Bird Flu Free Philippines", which I guess is welcoming in that manically humorous way. What was surprising was customs. Unlike some of the European countries I’ve been to – Italy and France – where incoming customs are a joke, Manila actually has queues, scans your passport and collects the customs form.
The rain hadn’t let up even though monsoon season is coming to a close and the taxi’s heavily-tinted windows did not allow me to get a good view of the ride in. One of the elements of travel that I enjoy the most is that first ride in a foreign city. Even if it’s just a highway, I like to see how the signs are laid out, what the lights look like, the cars on the street. Through the black-glazed windows, I was afforded none of that as only the brightest of signs penetrated. Also penetrating was the driver singing to love rock love ballads. Not much else to listen to on a Sunday night, I suppose.
Monday morning and the rain started up again with a clap of thunder. Hopefully I will be able to post again this evening with a report on my day in Manila.
As Always,
theJOE
I was going to the Philippines, I was informed, making this not only the longest trip I’ve ever been on for work, but also personally – my previous excursion to a Pacific island was my Hawaiian honeymoon. The itinerary that was provided to me established that I would safely be in the air for most of the day. The term "safely", of course, being the variable, "most" being the constant. From the time I woke up on Saturday morning, which seems like three or four days opposed to the two that the date on my watch shows me, my life was full of acronyms. PHL to LAX to ICN to MNL.
LAX was insane. Not only was the weather extremely hot outside, but the bustle and congestion inside did not alleviate the heat any. A fun observation from LAX’s International terminal was that tall, English-speaking Anglos were definitely in the minority; but that could simply be LA for you. The company sprang for business class, which allowed me access to the Asiana lounge, another treat. Finding it, however, was a bit more of a trick. The end result was pleasant enough, and that’s all that matters.
Asiana’s business class was both comfortable and spacious and the stewardesses did their best to make the 12-hour flight quite not feel like 12-hours. Maybe 10-and-half instead. Between reading, perhaps a three-hour nap and the in-flight movie (The Sentinel starring Michael Douglas, Keifer Sutherland and Kim Basinger, mediocre but watchable, 6 out of 10) it wasn’t until the final hour-and-a-half that I really wanted to be on the ground more than anything. No, there was one thing that I wanted more. I really just wanted to turn around and go back home.
Seoul Incheon International was beautiful. Sleek modern designs placing tall windows in between walls of neutral grays, calming off-whites and wood-paneled floors. Flat screen monitors were conected in every gate broadcasting news and sitcoms. While waiting for my connecting flight – standing, mind you, no use sitting at this point – I was greeted by a church youth group heading to Manila for a week’s vacation. They were a fun and lively bunch with plenty of smiles, everything a church-based youth group should be. I think they were excited to see an American and were able to practice their English a little. We just went through the absolute basics first.
Where was I from? Philadelphia.
Do you know where that is? Just below New York.
How old was I, they asked. I lied and said thirty. They lied right back and said I was both young and handsome.
They wanted to know what I thought of Korea. I truthfully told them I could not wait to explore Seoul some upon my return.
We parted with waves and more smiles.
Flying from Seoul to Manila is when I noticed the lightning. And the rain. Still, the flight itself wasn’t bad. Perhaps business class has better stabilizers than coach.
Manila International was everything Seoul was not. Cafeteria-tiled floors, institutional greens, low ceilings. I was greeted with a blue flag welcoming me to "Bird Flu Free Philippines", which I guess is welcoming in that manically humorous way. What was surprising was customs. Unlike some of the European countries I’ve been to – Italy and France – where incoming customs are a joke, Manila actually has queues, scans your passport and collects the customs form.
The rain hadn’t let up even though monsoon season is coming to a close and the taxi’s heavily-tinted windows did not allow me to get a good view of the ride in. One of the elements of travel that I enjoy the most is that first ride in a foreign city. Even if it’s just a highway, I like to see how the signs are laid out, what the lights look like, the cars on the street. Through the black-glazed windows, I was afforded none of that as only the brightest of signs penetrated. Also penetrating was the driver singing to love rock love ballads. Not much else to listen to on a Sunday night, I suppose.
Monday morning and the rain started up again with a clap of thunder. Hopefully I will be able to post again this evening with a report on my day in Manila.
As Always,
theJOE
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