Dinan, France

We start our day with a good breakfast served at Le Fond de la Cour’s dining area in the Conservatory. I am told that in warmer weather, breakfast is served in the garden.

We have freshly baked bread, eggs prepared as preferred, fresh juices, ham, yogurt, coffee – it is a great spread. But even better is the excellent customer service provided by owners Craig and Amanda Ferguson with their son Benjamin. 

Too soon, we leave the bed and breakfast which translates to “Back of the Courtyard” in English, being part of a historical property that the Fergusons purchased. The bed and breakfast covers a cottage, garden and stables that have been remodeled into accommodations.

It takes almost three hours of driving to reach Dinan, a historic town in Brittany, France, located on the Rance River. Tired and in need of a stretch, we happily note that we can park at the back of The Originals Boutique, Hotel du Chateau, and just roll our bags into the reception area

The elevator is tiny, so tiny that only Cesar can squeeze into it with our bigger bags. We meet him on the second floor to get the bags off his hands and into our room. I note with relief that this time, the toilet, shower and sink are all in one area in the adjoining room. 

We arrive past 2 p.m. and hope against hope that we can find lunch nearby. The receptionist takes out a map and circles places where we can eat, advising us that we might find the Creperie Suzette open despite it being past lunch hour. 

This is the second time on this France trip that I’ve had hotel staff hand out a paper map prepared for tourists, complete with restaurants and attractions. In this age of digital technology, it appears that paper wins - until it starts to rain.  Then, paper starts to disintegrate and I feel like kicking myself. Why did I not think to use the walk feature of Google Maps?

We come upon Creperie Suzette and I am charmed by the place’s quiet elegance. There is only one other occupied table at that hour and we thankfully accept the menu provided by the server. It is in French. 

I had not realized how much we had come to rely on Ellen’s French until the moment she has difficulty deciphering the menu. I try to help and realize I had the technology in my hands all along. It's embarrassing that I had not thought to use Google Translate before this.

The language barrier gone, Cesar chooses their Bouch galette, while the rest of us choose their Chourico galette.

It is my first encounter with the galette, which is made using gluten-free buckwheat flour and which is larger than a crepe. Galettes are commonly eaten as a main course, and are usually filled with ingredients like cheese, egg and ham.

We are pleasantly surprised by the crispness of the brown pancake that holds all the ingredients. The chourico, a Portuguese sausage, is very tasty and familiar. Cesar also likes the serrano ham in his dish. 

Replenished and refreshed, we explore the town. We go into the historic center of Dinan and our first stop is the Church of Saint-Malo, which has its origins in the 12th century, although the current structure was built in the 15th century. 

We wander along the Grand Street (Grand Rue), ambling past cafes, restaurants, ancient half-timbered houses until the street narrows down into Rue du Jerzual.

Cesar is about to turn back, but Ellen recognizes the street featured in American travel writer Rick Steves’ travel documentary on Dinan. It is a long and steep road which leads down to the Port de Dinan Lanvallay through beautiful medieval houses, craft shops, art galleries and cafes.

   

We get lost in the photo opportunities and distractions offered by medieval houses, unique architecture, enchanting silhouettes, and quirky shops before we emerge into a wider street down the river Rance, whose banks are lined with boats and restaurants.  The river is brown and murky but we take more photos, this time on the quaint stone bridge framed by a large viaduct in the background.

Soon, it is time to turn back up the street, now steeper than we imagined because it is late afternoon and cold, very cold.  I later learn that the street reaches gradients up to about 33%, which is why I quickly become aware of how physically unfit I am. Even the usually talkative Cesar is silent. 

I lead them back to the hotel past the Tour de l'Horloge or the Clock Tower of Dinan. Tired as we are, we admire the medieval building housing the Epicerie Fine Saint-Yves, a delicatessen and tea room, but we no longer check out its wide selection of French gastronomy products inside the gourmet shop. 

We glance but do not stop for photos at the Maison de la Harp, which houses the International Celtic Harp Meetings Committee that promotes the Celtic harp through exhibitions, workshops and events.

Whatever food we have in our bags will have to do for dinner. It is only when we are pleasantly full, relaxed and warm in our rooms that we agree on the otherworldly experience we’ve just had, travelling back in time to Medieval Europe via the historic center of Dinan.

Ellen’s close friend (hahaha) Rick Steves is right: "if you have time for only one stop in Brittany, make it the ancient riverfront city of Dinan."

Honfleur, France

We are bound for Honfleur, but first, a stop by a field of Colza or rapeseed, to get photos beside the swaths of yellow dominating the French countryside. Colza, a bright-yellow flowering plant, is cultivated mainly for its oil-rich seed. 

Honfleur is a very picturesque village by the sea, whose streets are lined with houses cast in timber and plaster, and shops that sell a lot of caramel candy, calvados and other stuff that are a tourist’s stash.

We find street parking and after leaving our bags with the affable and courteous Benjamin at the Le Fond de la Cour, we walk under a fine drizzle in search of a late lunch.

The artisan boulangerie and salon de thé Eric Kayser catches our eye. Curious about the label artisan boulangerie, I learn that to be called an artisan boulangerie, a French bakery must have its bread baked on the premises using traditional, often handmade techniques. The branch we visit is also a salon de thé, a tea room, which explains the seating area where we eat our pastries and sandwiches. 

Cesar sees his favorite pastry – chocolate eclairs, and the rest of us get sandwiches. There is an Eric Kayser in the Philippines, but it is nothing like this. The one at the Rockwell Power Plant in Makati is a small section carved off a wall near the supermarket, with no space for baking or eating on the premises. It is simply a display and sales outlet.

 

  

Adequately nourished, we stroll down to the 15th-century Sainte Catherine’s Church, a vaulted timber structure erected by shipbuilders. I feel like we have stepped into the pages of medieval France.

Inside, we discover that the church has two naves, with the first built in 1460, and the second in 1496 to accommodate demographic growth. Its timbers reach up to ceilings shaped like the insides of a ship’s bow.

I see a large portrait of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux at a side altar and am amazed to learn that the church houses her relic. On January 2, 2015, the 142nd anniversary of Sainte-Thérèse of Alençon  (her birthplace on January 2, 1873), the sacred reliquary with a kneecap of Sainte-Thérèse was installed at the Church of Sainte Catherine. 

We say our prayers and leave, immediately coming upon what seems to be the belfry across the cobbled street. The bell is said to be so heavy, it had to be separated and set on a tower away from the all-wooden church.

We stroll along the harbor, and I come face-to-face with “Khadine,” a bronze sculpted male figure with part of his torso missing in front of Galeries Bartoux Sainte-Catherine. I later learn it is one of French sculptor Bruno Catalano’s ‘Voyageurs’ or travelers – sculptures of men, women and children moving forward, luggage in hand, with substantial sections missing. 

I am tempted to enter the gallery, but I am intimidated by the expensive-looking artwork and sculptures, so I pose for a picture with “Khadine,” asking that my image be captured in the missing part of his torso. 

As I like to tell it, “He consumed me, and I lived to tell the tale. He, on the other hand, did not come out whole.”

There are many more art galleries along Honfleur’s cobbled streets; thus, the monicker ‘Town of Artists’, as well as the museum of Honfleur-born, French landscape painter Eugène Boudin, who is considered one of the forerunners of Impressionism. The artist wannabe in me is excited, but we come upon the museum gates too late. It is closed for the day.

Ellen wants us to experience Honfleur’s famous creperie, so we stop at La Petite Chine along the Rue du Dauphin for some calvados tea, coffee, quiche and brioche. Whatever happened to the crepe? Hahaha. 

It is a very charming salon. I am amazed that Sinika chooses Calvados tea. My daughter is more adventurous than I am in terms of trying out food. 

The sun comes out, so we take to the streets to shop. Sinika and I are charmed by the window display of home décor boutique L'univers de Lou. It's a bit pricey but Sinika gets a pretty little Bukowski stuffed toy.

Ellen and Cesar go crazy buying sardines inside the Conserverie la belle-iloise, a family-owned cannery since 1932. The tin cans are a  pretty sight and when both emerge with bags, I cannot help but wonder if they have enough airline baggage to accommodate the weight. 

 

We take so many pictures around the Vieux Bassin (Old Basin), and it is there that Ellen tells me that Hôtel de Ville means City Hall. There is one overlooking the Vieux Bassin and the word 'hotel' makes me think it is one of the more expensive ones given its location and size.

All the walking has us famished and we are grateful that Benjamin had gotten us a reservation at Côté Resto, a rather upscale restaurant by the side of the Sainte Catherine Church. 

Our table is on the terrace or terrasse, which is the outdoor seating area. The awning is up, and the area is enclosed in glass presumably to protect diners during cold, rainy nights. We are especially glad when the servers set up and light a patio heater which, coupled with white wine, keeps us pleasantly warm.

My order of grilled fish, venerated (black) rice & cream of shrimp is tasty. Sinika surprises us by ordering the Grilled Octopus, Jalapeno, mashed potatoes, fine herbs & lime which she declares delicious. Ellen and Cesar get sea bass (catch of the day), mashed potatoes & brown butter.  

We walk off the alcohol back to our bed and breakfast. Ellen looks at her Smart watch and declares that we have taken close to 10,000 steps today. 

That should get us all fitfully sleeping tonight, never mind if the toilet is located near the door, separate from shower and sink facilities at the far end of the room. In France, we adapt.

A Birthday (written August 22, 2019, finished August 22, 2022)

My heart aches when I think about Mommy. So I try not to.

But it’s hard when her birthday is coming up. Last year, her birthday came up a few months after we buried her. I honored her birthday wish that we gift two (2) kilos of rice to a stranger in need. My sister felt the same so I lugged sacks of rice to a nearby orphanage and to our church for the parish’s feeding program.

A 2015 picture of my mom,
Evelyn R. Luab

Now, her birthday is a few days away and all I feel is resentment. She is not around. She is never going to be around. She is gone. What does it matter if I give away rice or not? It will not bring her back. Nothing will bring her back.

I go to Sunday mass in the chapel I visited almost every day for all those days leading to her death. At first, there was just sorrow. Now there is hurt in my heart. I had put my mind and heart into asking the Lord that she be healed. Once I decided to ask for a miracle, I went into it with complete disregard for the rational. I chose to dismiss all arguments against it and just asked with complete faith and trust. 

A miracle, after all, is the impossible. If I rationalize it, why even ask for one? Why even doubt? I had everything to gain, and just myself to lose. 

Mommy died on February 28, 2018. I tried to understand God’s decision. I know He could have granted me my dearest wish, but He did not for reasons I actually understand and try so hard to appreciate. I bring back images of her as she was nearing her end so that I can appreciate His taking her from that kind of life. 

So I pray for her every day. I ask for her eternal repose. But beyond that, I try not to think about her. Every time I feel a thought of her coming on, I dismiss it.  It is a struggle because I miss her every day, several times a day, too many to count. I don’t want to open that door. I don’t want to remember all that love, because it brings so many memories that I really have to ignore or I might come to a complete stop, wondering if I will ever be that special again.

A mother’s love is all-encompassing. She sees everything, yet loves regardless. In her eyes, her children are special. I share that special space with my sisters. There are days, though, when I feel that space has all but dissolved with Mommy gone.

It’s the year 2022 now, and once again, it’s August. Mommy’s birthday is coming up. I am no longer angry or hurt or resentful. I am just sad. So there is hope. There will come a day when I can actually celebrate her birthday with love and joy blocking out all these other feelings that I cannot describe.

So Mommy, I am truly glad that you are with God, and that you are free of all earthly pain. Try not to be sad that I, that all of us, still miss you. It’s your fault. It’s hard not to miss a lifetime of being loved, the way you loved us. 

I imagine your eyes widening at this before breaking into that infectious laughter of yours. Of course, I am being silly. Laugh, Mommy. Happy Birthday from your silly daughter.

No goodbyes

I did not say goodbye to Mommy.

When the men were about to seal her tomb, her immediate family lined up to throw flowers into the compartment that would be home to her remains.

But I had distanced myself, watching from under a Sampaguita tree on the rotunda nearby. I had slipped away, unable to bear any more grief even as the tears would not stop flowing. I could not see clearly. I felt a heaviness that threatened to crush my chest and arrest breathing. 

I felt, rather than saw, my sisters look around for me and I shook my head, crumpling my handkerchief into my mouth to stop my sobs from becoming audible, even as they shook my body. A friend I’d last seen in high school put an arm around me, which brought me back and gave me enough control to mutter a miserable “thank you”. 

Mommy would not have approved of such behavior. She was made of iron. When Daddy died, I barely saw her cry. Instead, she entertained visitors, and attended to and gave directions on what needed to be done. She was tireless, strong and there.

I was fine when I rushed home upon learning of her death since I was immediately thrown into a whirlwind of things that had to be done. From the airport, I went straight to the funeral parlor where I took over from my sister and oversaw Mommy’s body being transported to the chapel where her wake would be held. 

I remember my first sight of her. It was her and yet, not her. My mommy did not look anything like this thin, stern-looking being whose hair had been flattened to her skull and whose cheeks were painted red, making her look grotesque. I frowned and tried fluffing her hair with my fingers to make it look more natural. I asked those attending to her to reduce the redness on her cheeks and her lips. 

No tears threatened to flow in my determination to make her look as she would have liked. There was nothing I could do to disguise how thin she had become just before she died so I was just relieved that Mommy had insisted on a closed coffin. 

I felt lost inside the chapel. I’d never organized a wake. When Daddy died, Mommy took care of everything. Now, it was her wake and I had no idea what to do. Our eldest, overcome by grief and fatigue, showed up at a hospital emergency room instead of the chapel and I was alone. Our youngest was busy with life and family.

That night, it was just her body and me, but I did not feel her presence. After my friends from the newspaper left a little after midnight, I prayed and wondered if I really wanted her to contact me. And what I would do if she did. I tried but could not sleep so I started collating all her photos to show at her wake. The morning light had already filled the room by the time I was done.

After that, my sisters and I went through the days, fumbling through the wake. We were lost. Our rock had gone. We made do, but I think we did not do as good a job as Mommy would have done. I certainly did not. I failed her when I refused to deliver the eulogy at her burial mass, not knowing she had stipulated it in her will. I could not have done it anyway. My sister, Tina, was amazing. She did it for all of us, and she did a great job.

So many people came to pay their respects and kept us occupied. It was only during the nightly celebrations of the Holy Eucharist that I would weaken and allow the tears to roll down my face to unload the grief that I somehow kept at bay. I looked over at my sisters with their heads bowed, and they were doing just the same.

I didn’t know where Mommy was, only that she was not there. I could not feel her. I don’t know what I expected. All this talk of Heaven was comforting, but all I could feel was this total, overwhelming loss. I could not find her, even if she was bigger than life in the stories of her former students and friends. She was lost to me, never to be found.

She was not there when they started sealing her grave, so I did not say goodbye. How do you say goodbye to someone you so badly but cannot find? How do you cut off someone who’d already left you? How do you stop being a daughter when your mother dies?

I had no answers, so I did not say goodbye.

New school

(Part of an ongoing account started on March 13, 2020 of how the spread of COVID-19 in our country and our government’s response has affected our lives.)

I feel sad.

I am preparing for the enrollment of my daughter for the schoolyear 2020-2021. She’s transferring because her old school does not offer her track of choice. Like all schools during this pandemic, her new school offers blended learning - a mix of online and offline methods.

Illustration by Bianca Bagnarelli
for The Economist

We know, though, that we cannot realistically expect face-to-face learning to resume any time soon since a vaccine has not yet been developed. This means she will have very limited interaction with people her age.

I feel sad because my daughter belongs to a generation that will grow up without all the perks (and disadvantages) of spontaneous social interaction in a physical setting.