20 years after the fall

Berlin has changed greatly since the wall separating the city into west and east was broken down in 1989. There's hardly any trace of the cultural and economic differences between the two sectors. Economic prosperity is equally distributed whereas prior to the historic fall, residents from the east had to beg for food across the fence from the people on the west.
Imagine the pain of not being able to hug your relatives who just live a wall away. At one time, a death zone called no-man's land was created to prevent those from the east to escape to the west side. Anyone found hanging on that section is automatically rifled to death or electrecuted.
At Checkpoint Charlie, where the East Germany-made car trabi made a dramatic entry into the west signalling the reunification of the two states, tourists mill about, scooping into their hands whatever memorabilia they can find of the memorable event.
If you're looking for souvenirs, you will almost certainly find as did the other tourists before you rough pieces or slabs of rocks that storeowners would say were chipped from the historic wall.
Be warned: there had been hundreds of those pieces sold before and yet they don't seem to run out of supply. Berliners can be as enterprising as the streethawkers in Quiapo.
It was a happy event that Berliners this year marked the 20th year of the fall as happy as it was when it was tore down in the autumn of 1989. When the wall came down, communism died with it and freedom and democracy was restored in that part of the world and elsewhere.
That's Berlin's legacy that is worth remembering about, even if when you find yourself walking on the streets of Berlin, a pall of gloom - perhaps a leftover of the carnage in the tumultuous years under the Nazi regime - seems to hang over you.

(Not really) alone in Paris

When they say Paris is a city of love, they mean it. This city has been the setting for many a romantic movie. In spring time, it is as lovely as it appears on the silver screen.
Nothing is more symbolic of this city than the 324-meter Eiffel Tower. When I hopped into an Easyjet plane for an hour and some minutes flight from Schonefeld airport (the domestic airport that is soon to be the new Berlin Brandenburg International airport) in Berlin to Paris Orly (the domestic airport at the southern edge), my mind was fixed on just one thing - to see the Tower.
From the air, it was not visible so I was constantly on guard for the chance it would appear in my view. On the bus ride from the airport to the city center (Paris Orly is quite far - about 45 minutes), my eyes were leaned to the left, expecting to catch a glimpse of the famous structure (I had dreamed of seeing Eiffel in all its grandeur while I'm transit and quite expected that would be the case in this visit - I must say it again that dreams and de javu experiences often precede my visits to famous places).
But like a shy lady, the Tower evaded me until I reached the city, until I climbed into Montmarte to a hostel where I made online reservations for a two-night stay. I promised myself I would see only Eiffel, never mind that I was staying in an artsy charming district where the famed French movie "Amelie" was filmed.
My legs quite defeated me, for I was soon slouched on a chair in the hostel balcony unable to stand up and see my queen, the Tower that is. Into slumberland I fell. But once I regained my vigor, by mid-afternoon, in haste I descended to the subway (it's RTM, narrow trains with funny-looking tires) to a destination I didn't know where except for the city map in my hands.
With excitement, I rushed out of the train station, the fifth or sixth from where I entered, and emerged to a street full of outdoor cafes. People were going in all directions yet still the Tower was nowhere in sight.
Paris is terrible for its people don't speak the Queen's language. Unable to bear the longing anymore, I called out to a Frenchman walking by and asked for the Eiffel. "Oh, it's on your right." I wanted to slap myself but never had the chance to, for before me was the love of my mind - the Eiffel Tower! It's beautiful, though it's still some distance from me.
I made a slow walk to get near - the Tower was like an enchanting forest nymph that has beckoned on me to hold her. I was whisked from my mystical state by a call from an Indian-looking man behind me who asked me to take a photo of him with the Tower in view. I scratched his back and he did mine.
Reality seeping in, I made my way to the Tower to see how it is up close. Every turn going to the Tower I saw changing vistas - one was monochromatic, another as fresh as a tropical garden, with many young people basking under the sun.
You cannot resist the charm of this edifice. I queued up to make an ascent to the second floor, for a fee. It was a tough climb but everyone was doing it - young and old, men and women, French, Spanish, Germans, Americans, Chinese, couples, lovers, friends. My short nap was helpful.
I was happy at the view at the second floor, but I climbed to the third. It was awesome - Paris in its entirety! Yet still I wanted more, so I took the elevator to the top (overall, I think I paid nine euros). It was a fast climb and at the summit I didn't want to look down anymore.
That day I had fulfilled a dream. I went to see other Parisian landmarks in the next hours to the next day - the Louvre Museum, Sacre Couer and Moulin Rouge (all in Montmarte), Luxembourg Gardens past the Italian Quarter, Notre Dame, the Pantheon, Arc de Triomphe at the end of Champ Elysee.
I closed my two-day journey by going back to the Eiffel Tower grounds from late afternoon to dusk. Across the Seine River from the Trocadero Gardens, I sat on a bench and watched the view change. I hummed to my Ipod, as if I was with someone. Couples, some with kids and dogs, walked in front me, enjoying a romantic Sunday stroll. The air was chilly I had to cover my head with my jacket's hood. I stared into the distance, into the giant iron structure before me. I was having the date of my life.

In the footsteps of a saint

"Why Poland?" my fellow Filipino at a journalism training course here in Germany asked me when I told her about my plan to cross the northeast border one weekend. A training staff, an Italian born and raised in Germany, joined in the conversation and told me, "I have never gone to Poland."

I can see what they mean - there are other more interesting places to visit in Europe. A Filipino will look southwest of the continent - France, Italy, Spain, Austria or Greece, just as every central European would do.

I told them I want to see a Divine Mercy shrine. Finally, the Italian assistant said, "Oh, Catholics."

Poland is not as touristy as its southwest neighbors. But yes, it has something that makes it special in the hearts of every Catholic. It is the homeland of Pope John Paul II. And of St. Faustina, whose convent in the city called Plock not far from Warsaw was the subject of my visit.

So, that weekend I went out as planned, taking the express train from Berlin to Warsaw. Five hours later, I was in a town called Kutno, from where I took a slow train to Plock. I reached Plock by nightfall an hour later.

It is an unassuming city. It is small and quiet, devoid of the hustle and bustle I've seen in other European cities. Save for its big petrochemical factory that supplies Poland's liquid gas requirements, it doesn't figure in the map.

But it's a quite charming city, located by the Vistula River, Poland's biggest. On my way to the city center from a distance across the river, I saw a hill with a big church on it. It was a picturesque sight; it added excitement to my trip.

When I checked in to my hotel, I asked the receptionist how to go to the Divine Mercy shrine. She looked at me puzzled. She said she didn't know. That surprised me.

Plock may not be a tourist town but many people, especially Divine Mercy devotees, know its place in history. Seventy-eight years ago in February, Jesus appeared to a simple nun, who is St. Faustina today, in her room in the cellar and instructed her to paint the Divine Mercy according to the image she was seeing. Jesus also gave direction for the institution of the first Sunday after Easter as Mercy Sunday.

That's the story of the Divine Mercy, to whom the world today looks up for its salvation.

But that fact, it seems, was lost on the Polish receptionist. Or maybe it's harsh reality - no prophet is accepted in his hometown.

I found my way to the shrine anyway the next morning, with a little help from the cab driver, who brought me to the city's cathedral. That was the big church I saw the other day when I neared Plock. It is a 12th century gothic Catholic Church.

Locating the Divine Mercy shrine was another struggle. Not that it was far from the church, but nobody spoke English in this city.

The door has been opened to me, though. First was the cab driver. After him came this kindly looking nun I found inside the church who walked me up the street to the Sanctuarium when I asked for the shrine. She had to accompany me. She couldn't speak English and give me the directions.

We entered an old convent that has been well preserved. That was the Sanctuarium, the convent where St. Faustina stayed.

The nun - apparently a member of the Congregation of Our Lady of Mercy, St. Faustina's religious order - brought me to the side of the convent and there I found my purpose. In front of me was the Divine Mercy image, built on the exact spot where Jesus appeared to St. Faustina. For a moment, I stood there in unbelief.

When I was left alone, I found myself absorbing the deep silence that enveloped the area. It was a very powerful place. It's though as if the Lord has left His presence there, and you would do nothing but feel Him and breathe Him. It calmed my spirits.

Another nun, wearing the same habit as the first but more senior, appeared in my view. I took the chance to ask her for St. Faustina's room. It was down in the basement opposite the Divine Mercy shrine and she gladly opened it for me.

The saint's room has been well kept, too. I wanted to wonder why was nobody else was visiting this shrine. If it were located in the Philippines, it would be full of devotees on this Sunday. But I was glad I had the room to explore by myself.

It hit me: St. Faustina was a real person who lived like the rest of us. Here was her dwelling place: the bakery and kitchen where she faithfully performed her tasks; and her small room where an equally small bed, her robe, shoes, bag and umbrella were on display.

Small little things dot every corner of the basement. The nuns had followed every bit of change in the saint's life and documented it for the world to see.

The nun tried to explain some things to me in Polish. I was only too glad to feast my eye on the saint's memorabilia.

I had half the day to linger in the convent and feel its soothing energy. I have not been to a saint's trail and to a Divine Mercy shrine with such very high historical value. When I came out, it felt as if I had been to a holy tent, with clouds of smoke all over it.

It made me ready for the long journey back to Berlin, and to my Divine Mercy mission in the Philippines where I would go back three weeks later.

In the slow train out of Plock, I thought that perhaps if my friends back in Berlin knew what is to see and experience in Poland, they would not have been skeptic of anyone going to this less-trodden country.

Déjà vu in Prague

It is happening again – my déjà vu experience. This bridge leading to Prague Cathedral in this touristy little European town is exactly the one I saw somewhere in my subconscious – in one of my dreams I can’t exactly recall now just when. But in that dream, I felt a little cold, perhaps because it would be in a wintry environment as it turned out to be. I can’t almost believe this bridge is really how it looked in that dream – the design, the length and how it ends to the arches leading to the courtyard. Just perfect. Maybe I should dream more because it bring me there!

Faith unfreeze

St. Albert Church in Nestorstrasse off Kurfurstendamm looked empty at the outside. The doors were closed so it was easy to see there was nothing going in the church. That’s why passing by, I didn’t notice I was in front of the building I was looking for. Instead, I went straight to what looked like a cathedral further up the street (back in the Philippines, every big church is almost always a Catholic church). I thought I heard a bell toll from its towers so in haste I entered it, thinking I was late for the mass. But once inside, I found out it was an evangelical church – a woman minister was in the pulpit directing the few attendees to the readings of the day, in German.
An elderly just outside the massive walls to the church was kind to accommodate my question but she, too, spoke only in German. Helpless, I went out the church into the street, searched for – and found – a Good Samaritan to point the way to the Catholic church I just missed.
St. Albert wasn’t really a big church, but more like a chapel I guess, except that it has high ceilings (Catholics comprise only 30 percent or 1.2 million of Berlin’s total population of 3.4 million – Protestants are the majority – so small churches like this will do for the flock).
I found inside the church about 70 attendees, mostly senior citizens, and I came in just before the priest was to give the Holy Communion. The mass must have started earlier at 10 a.m., not 10:30 as a staff at the International Institute of Journalism told me, and the service was in German, not English, again not as I expected.
In panic, I queued up to receive the Holy Communion – I thought to myself, perhaps I could just stay for personal prayers later on (it was impossible to look for another Mass. This is Berlin, not Manila).
The mass was over in a few minutes, so I lingered to pray, until the church was almost empty. Just when I thought I have seen the last person come out, one by one, people started coming in. They were very distinct, however. They were not Germans nor Asians like me. They were all blacks (no pun intended). I suspected there was a prayer meeting to follow and regardless of the crowd, I decided I would stay. But curiosity got the better of me, so I was soon inquiring about what would happen in the church. The African-looking young man I inquired from said an English service was to follow, at 12 p.m. or an hour and a half since I entered the church. I was like a parched soil that suddenly got excited for the prospect of rain!
More people filed into the church and it was filled in no time – the crowd numbered about 200. I saw a couple of fellow Filipinos in the hall – the rest were whom I thought African-Germans – and we simply nudged in respect for our race.
The mass was soon rolling and it was English all right. A choir at the loft gave a solemn touch to the celebration. At the Holy Communion, I just stayed at the pew because I already had it earlier.
The Mass was over in about an hour and I left the church to a final song with some foreign, yet lovely sounding lyrics (for some reason, the persons I asked about for the meaning of the words didn’t know the meaning themselves although just like me, they sang it with glee).
The church that was empty when I first passed by it was now bursting with people going out to their other errands for the day.
I thought at 1 p.m. the weather was harsh. I pulled in my jacket to pack the heat inside but the cold only grew worse so I had to rush my walk to Kurfurstendamm to the subway station in Adenaurplatz where I got off for the church.
I wasn’t hungry but I was really feeling the cold so I had to stop by a cafe for a cup of hot tea and some bread - to gather heat for the cold.
It occurred to me, I have been cowering in the cold thirteen days into my two-month stay in Berlin. But I thought to myself it wasn’t a good idea to let my faith freeze but get it warmed by the grace of the Holy Mass in the same way the hot cup of tea revived the life in my sun-deprived body.

detour delights

How true that unplanned trips are the most memorable and enjoyable.
Nearly two weeks in the province for the long holiday break and no experience was the most fun than the one I had with my brothers at san fabian beach today.
And nothing can give you thrill than doing something you have not planned.
I borrowed someone's pair of shorts, took off my polo shirt and pair of jeans and plunged into the water. Oh the feeling from an unexpected adventure!
I tried my swimming skills in the water but none gave me joy than just lying on my back and let the water bouy me up. I just realized that I didn't have to do anything - flip my feet or hands - to stay up. All I needed to do was float on my back, chin up. Unfolded before me was the clear blue sky with some cloud patches like smudge. It was like it was just me, the water around me and the sky above. It was like meeting God!
Oh maybe I should plan my trips less and look closely at the intimate surprises tucked at the corners, waiting to be discovered by the wide-eyed wanderer.

finale

I know my vacation is ending when it's time to go to the manaoag shrine to hear mass.
This is true of this long holiday break. After nearly two weeks in the province, I'm getting ready to go back to the big city.
So, on the second day of the new year, I visited the manaoag church, a fitting finale to my much-needed break.
I don't know why I make it a point to make a doorstop at the church. It could be because each time I go home I become prayer-less. When it's time to leave, I become prayerful because I'll leave my loved ones again.
These times are really precious to me. I rarely find time to go home. When it is over, I become restless and anxious.
Today, going to manaoag, I was like that. After the visit, the feeling was different. I become more positive thinking.
Aha! I think that's what it is - this is my place of peace. This is where I get strength to face my tough life out there.
I'm going back to the city ready to make the daily grind again.

to eternity

There are three ways, they say, to eternity: write a book, sire a child and plant a tree.
I haven't written a book (just contributed an essay), doesn't have a child yet, so I'm left with planting a tree.
That I did this new year's day. I planted, together with my father, fast-growing gmelina seedlings, plus some umbrella tree and narra in our backyard.
I can't remember the last time I dug the earth, but this recent experience reunited me with mother nature - it was good feeling the soil in my hands.
The planting made me realize I was doing something for forever - the trees, when they grow, will outlast me and my father.
Actually, that was not the intention. I want shades around the house because a typhoon middle of last year felled many mature, shady trees that it now becomes so hot at suntime.
My father said the gmelinas can grow a trunk in half a year, so the next time I go back home, I can expect some new leaves providing protection from the heat for us.
Anyway, if the planting will give us more than the short-term goals, it is an experience worth repeating. Nature can exceed the beneficence of human intentions anytime.