Elsewhere

Malay, Aklan
Fourth Day in Boracay Island

Traveling here for the fourth time, the first impression is an expected surrender. The capitalists have won. With more paved roads, more highly-organized logistics, a chain of hotels and restaurants, this beach paradise is a trophy for the empire, their dream came true. Who are we to clamor for "character?" The tragedy is that, after four trips here, collecting some life-shaping milestones, your once-cherished memories become forgettable and commonplace. 

Traveling here is supposed to be for everyone. And yes, everyone ought to squish their toes in the still incredible softness of this sand, the saltiness of teal turning into clear water lingering on our lips, magnificent sunsets, of taking a pause from the grinding humdrum of everyday life. Traveling, as we always say, will tell us not only about a place, but will let us learn more about ourselves. Even to remind us of the most basic things, and then eventually transforms us.   

V. takes a plane ride for the first time, she has felt and conquered a fear. She's earned a fascination that some would take for granted. She's reaped the joys of basking in the hot sun, burning her skin in five days of swimming everyday in the one of the world's best beaches. All with the convenience of sleeping on hotel sheets with air conditioning, hot water, housekeeping and room service. Not to mention that we did this very shortly after a global pandemic was just about getting over.  

We came in the rainy season, and the thunderstorms were inevitable. And as the 12-year-old I. whined, I had the perfect opportunity to tell him that he will be a man one day, while we were running to shelter from heavy rain. And while he had a terrific time, traveling shouldn't be without hiccup. 

We came with friends, and our friends' children. And we were so curious about each other's lives, and this time I think there were more stories than drinks, fancy cocktails, restaurants, margherita pizzas and fruit shakes. And we not only hope, but know for certain, we'll be around to tell stories - reminding ourselves of the best and maybe sometimes the worst of each other. We are not just looking around some of the so-called fancy restaurants now. We're in them. And we're not congratulating ourselves, we're laughing at ourselves. There's true wisdom. I am thankful for friends. We understand as much that I don't have to tell them that. 

I came with D. She is the constant that keeps the world moving, the impetus for travel. If not for her, I would have lived in a cave. We left the children momentarily in the hotel room with their devices, we got ourselves coffee in one of the enduring and endearing cafes. We also had lunch in a local, charming restaurant and their kebabs were excellent. Perhaps this is a phase on this island's story, and someday the local people have gathered enough they will claim their own and not just work as servers, but as owners themselves. On the way back to the hotel, we take a short walk by the stalls and walk the stretch of beach front while the sun is out. A breeze sways the trees and the waves roll like a chillout CD track. If we really look in the right direction, the capitalists will be elsewhere. 

And here I am, in my own perception, pacing myself better. I'm drinking as much as I want without being useless and hungover. Running fast, or running slow, I figured out how to enjoy the landing of my feet on this white, powdery sand.    

We all know for sure we'd do it all over again. 

Hunger and Folly

We just woke up and her first item on the agenda was to play Monopoly. I give her “inheritance money” and she always wins. We practice her handwriting. I make us pancakes. After a few morning classes, I jump on the saddle for 30km workout on Zwift (2 x 15 FTP intervals). After his piano lesson, I walk I. to his 2pm swimming class. Before his class is over at 3pm, I run an outdoor 5k around Baywalk and Rizal Park. It’s cloudy, but it’s still hot and humid.  They are still re-filling the sand on that “Dolomite Beach.” I saw it with my own eyes. The enshrinement of wasteful and crazy. It represents government’s plan is to drive us all mad, both with hunger and folly.

I’m hungry all day. I have a late lunch, and D. still manages to cook a nice meal even if she’s working two jobs. After some chores and a shower, I make coffee, run the evening classes along with some admin work. There’s always some space for a little boredom, of wondering after work at night. What does the inside of a bar look like, what am I missing out on? We search for the trends in Twitter and watch YouTube. Get another snack. Contemplate on fixing a drink, craving for brandy or whisky. But I really have the mind of a child, and the diet of a child. I make myself chocolate milk.  

Fish on a Monday

 

There’s a power cut today. The electric company’s replacing some of the old posts. Only the modem, PCs and low-wattage fans are on using the battery back-ups so we can both keep working for the next hour or two before we head out for a lunch and D. will finish off her shift at the restaurant. I was done with a 25-minute morning class, and I got to read a good chapter while having fish and chips. D.’s going to have her hair done and I’m taking the children to the arcade. They’ll snack on burgers and ice cream. It’s summer, online school is out, and they might have a hybrid set-up next year. For now, the children are on online voice and piano lessons, swimming lessons (thankfully, in person). It’s our “working” lunch, while parenting, while running errands. It’s Monday, which used to be grueling. Everyday, more and more, feels like Sunday. Even if we work on the afternoons and evenings, it feels like we can power through.

Bourgeoise Burns

The Recorded History of a Girl
Celine Lopez

Manila

I’m writing you a letter-style review, in the spirit of the book’s writing style. Age 41. 

Dear R., 

Chapter 10 was glorious! Your mother had a peculiar personality: tenacious in her pursuits. Her life had no absence of struggle, and she dealt with her insecurities without the fortune of a privileged upbringing. If you wrote a novel about her, I certainly would have enjoyed it. 

Forgive me for being too honest with my feelings. I felt that your letters had too much flexing, humble brags, and as you put it, “bourgeoise guilt,” or “bourgeoise fatigue.” Summers in Santorini, apartments in London, a duplex in New York, a son in Yale Law School. I’m pretty sure the readers of Philippine Tattler would approve of your book better than I would. My tastes are too lower middle class these days. I took note of what you wrote to your son, “I can’t imagine you being with someone with socialist ideals, my darling capitalist.”

 

I’m just being biased, but truly not hateful. I did read every word, every sentence, some of which I honestly cherished and read again. Besides, I only bought the book for 99 pesos, a small fraction of its original 499. In that sense, it was worth the price. 

After all, we do live in a time where there is much talk about re-writing history and burning the books. I hope it never happens, and if it should, they should burn the more bourgeoise books. 

Sincerely, 

J.