Counting to Four

There is no other way to tell it, other than to tell it as is. No embellishments. Nothing fancy. Our first four years of marriage was a honeymoon. We loved each other purely.

It was still drizzling in the morning, as with the night before. When a drizzle turns into rain, he always remembers a Kerima Polotan story, “The Sounds of Sunday.” There’s a line that goes, (and I’m paraphrasing) rain falling on tin roofs like a thousand I-love-yous. Our music played on the empty, pothole-free Skyway to Tagaytay. We were married there four years ago. Running on 100 km/h on our inexpensive car, remembrances flash before our eyes but slowly. It’s as if we are in a space ship, feeling more fortunate than the millionaires in chartered planes. An iPhone connected to the radio played Sigur Ros.

Brosandi
Hendumst í hringi
Höldumst í hendur 

(smiling
spinning in circles
holding hands)

We chose Hoppipolla for our wedding video song.

At the back of the car, the little one sleeps soundly. He wakes up to the sight of Taal Volcano. Around here, the rain has cleared and he sees the volcano in full view.  “A volcano, like in Little Einsteins,” he says. He forms his memories, and discovers himself both through an inherent, curious fascination of the world around him and by imitation. He says things like he really means it: “You’re very pretty, mommy.” “Thanks for cooking, mommy.” Children his age may not always be intelligible, but they are spotlessly sincere.

We stop at a place called Cliff House by the highway. For a Friday, it was desirably empty save for a small Korean tour group, some Europeans with their girlfriends, then another family or two. The little one runs around but he sits with us to have margheritta pizza and salmon asparagus risotto.

We hang out a little bit more before we head to our hotel. We read a little, sit down to rocking chairs, run around some more and have fruits in ice cream for dessert in this perfect, crisp weather.

“You have the lake-view suite,” the concierge announces to us, handing out the key card, breakfast and drink stubs. We notice high school kids in suits and prom dresses at barely four in the afternoon. We learned later on that it was La Salle Canlubang’s junior senior prom night.

The suite was spacious. The little one jumps up and down the king-size bed. They go for a long bubble bath while I go out for beer, cigarettes, chicken pies, beef turnovers, and multi-grain pringles. It's raining cats and dogs outside, which will make it even more cozy inside. Back in Manila, we heard that Edsa on this rainy Friday a night was a huge parking lot.

By the time I'm back they are ready for the playroom. I go for a 10k on a treadmill. Walking around the hotel, we saw the halls and the prom is in full swing, crowning their kings and queens. The fellow who operated the machine let us wear the silly hats and we took souvenir pictures in the prom photo booth.

We order some more room service for dinner, eat the pies while watching baby TV on a 42" LED. We were also instagramming just a few photos from this perfect life. Nowadays, you have to make sure that the pictures were few enough to preserve the spontaneity.

By the time the little one sleeps, D. and I drink our Super Dry lagers on the terrace. The rain has passed, the skies cleared, the lights of stars and the houses below dance in the distance. That's one of the reasons why people come up here: to feel this cold, to be clouded int his fog. We had to wear jackets. I let cigarette smoke drag through my lungs.

Up on the terrace, we saw some of the prom folks far out in the lawn. We suspected and laughed at our assumptions, this is the night they finally became "them" as we saw a couple wrapped in an embrace while staring at the dark horizon. More I love-yous tonight, I'm sure. But it was really cold and I wanted to call out to the guy and tell him to give his girl that coat he's wearing. She'll be a pneumonia victim in that prom dress.

We drink some more. I smoke and we sleep in those thick white sheets. It feels like a thousand threads. The hugs are warm and tight as they could be. We have a perfect life tonight, and you can never instagram this, no.

We wake up and open the curtains to a sunny day with this view.

I read the last few chapters of a Kazuo Ishiguro in the terrace. Golden weather. The sun lands on the perforated, creamy pages of the hard-bound.

This hotel is among the first ones in Tagaytay, and some of the spots look old but it's big enough to take walks with excellent views. Especially after a heavy, buffet breakfast with tapa that's cooked with barako coffee, paninis, fruits and pretty much everything you can think of for breakfast.

Mommy and the little one dip a little in the pool. By the poolside, there's a young couple. The girl is crying, and we suppose it's probably due to an incident in the prom last night. If were that guy, I'd probably quote something from Kerouac's On the Road, "This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion." Mommy remembers the crying she did in her teens, and I'm just glad she won't have to cry like that again.

We'll check out and drive around some more, eat again somewhere.

On the Pursuit of Ideals, Light, Madness, & Humility

(Subtitle: This is how we felt when we gave in and bought you an iPad mini.)

Fathers often wish to have children who follow their footsteps.We want our little ones to eventually fancy movies like Dead Poet’s Society, The Color Trilogy, or the History Boys. We want them to read Nietzsche, Camus, understand some Derrida and Foucault. We want them to listen to Pearl Jam, Phoenix, John Coltrane, and Chopin.

The children grow, and they discover the things we haven’t. Their futures beam even more brilliantly. Our children will not just be improved versions of ourselves. Yes, they will fall and falter, and all over again. But we are right behind, their very own Catcher in the Rye.

They will stand on their own. They will be fresh and crisp. They will be more elegant in their pursuit of their ideals, light, madness, humility. In their attainment of wisdom and resulting peace, they will make their own way, deciphering that fire, (paraphrasing Neruda).

In the meantime, my little one, mommy and I present the world to you. Let's build your core. I would never tell you though that we are now just growing up -- together. There are so many things I have just seen and learned.

Your Top-Shelf Books

The Sunset after our Sunday Ocenarium Scuba Dive

Groupers

You finally found Nemo

Drizzling

Belated post. 2.21.2013 

It's drizzling. We are celebrating her birthday in a dimly-lit restaurant, telling her in a hushed voice (some spanakpoita still in my mouth), life feels like a dream.

 

This little dream almost didn't happen. It's Thursday evening rush hour and we ran late. The restaurant called me and they were about to give our table away. I love it when this happens, because it makes Makati feel like New York. They held on to the reservation.

The Corner Tree Cafe is quite literally, in the corner and beneath by a huge tree. It looked homey and that took it to us. Inside, there's framed poster listing them on the Miele Guide. They served a wide range of vegan, glutten-free cuisine. We had Spanakopita for starters, spinach & mushroom lasagna, and baked tofu walnut burger. It must have been the lights on dim, the slow flicker of candles, but something compelled the crowd to keep the conversations on a low volume. While the setting was intimate, "children are welcome," their website announced. So we happily brought our little one along. There were ladies in office attire having cocktails while waiting for their takeout and they exchanged smiles with him. This pre-schooler sure is smooth. And I'm glad I'm smooth myself, but only to the birthday girl. It all flashed before my eyes, the birthdays of hers we celebrated in beautiful islands, the birthday I got her a watch, the birthday I got her a refrigerator. Every time, she was beautiful.

It's drizzling. It's just the right amount of rain to keep a cool breeze. The clouds maybe thick, but my stars are all twinkling tonight.

Gentlemen

The crossing of his legs gave emphasis to his otherwise unnoticed shoes. A pair of hand-made oxfords, perfectly pointed and well-formed, brushed clean as though it made him stand as a pillar of self-respect. A black pair of socks covered what would have been a revealed portion of his shins. He thought he understood the requirements of sock-length. He had some foolish, useless pride in telling an Oxford from a Venetian or a penny loafer. He thought his shoes earned him a modest, quiet dignity. So he thought.

We Need Less Parking Lots

For the rest of the week, this spot in Legaspi St. is a perfunctory parking lot. On Sunday, it comes into life, shaded in large white tents, lightly clouded with the haze of its grilled food. There is a gypsy-like feel, but some of the sellers/owners at the stalls look a tad too well-heeled to be gypsy types. Many of them were enterprising foreigners.  Perhaps it's more of an upper-class hippie vibe. It’s not fine-dining of course, but many of what’s served here tasted like food cooked straight out of kitchens who kept family recipes like treasures. The taste was more true to itself as compared to what’s available in malls and even restaurants. 

They are immensely proud of what they sell. “I baked it myself this morning” I overheard the French entrepreneur, insisting on having a potential customer try a quiche. All around, there are croissants, cabiatta bread and pastries. Another table sold organic mushroom burgers and when asked if I can try, he indulged  with a polite “please do” and most pleasantly showed me the mushrooms from which the burgers were 100% made from. Out here you can pretty much sample everything. The first time I was here, a fellow who would look as if he’d wear a tie on week days handed me a rockefeller oyster. Walking around is looking at the menu, or not just the menu – but the food and even its ingredients. When I seemed interested in a dish, they’ll give you a Popsicle stick and have you try that beef rendang. The spot for the Morrocan dishes also sold tajines. The Pad Thai was cooked on the spot by a guy who looked Thai (but probably wasn't), and you can watch how generously they throw in garlic and noodles. There’s lechon from Cebu, crabs cooked by Alavar’s, callos, paella negra, okoy and turon.   It’s a market – so there’s also fresh produce: organic lettuce, fresh seafood, bird houses (to our little I.'s delight) and folding bikes. There’s a stall for Himalayan salt, and this is also where we get  D.’s favored household “green” products:  the grapefruit laundry detergent, green tea and aloe dish cleaners, my herbal water sports spray, orange and mint disinfectants from Messy Bessy. More than the non-toxic products, we admire the sustainable, local sourcing, environment-conscious advocacy.  

The organic food in the market has their own area and tables, but while it looked good I’ve had a full fruit sandwich and it wasn’t as exciting as say, the baked empanada. The baked empanada was very reasonably priced too (four for 100), with a hint of curry in the beef variant, pervading olive and tomato taste in the vegetable variant. It partners pefectly with a strawberry or blueberry yogurt shake. 

It gets hot under these tents, and the visitors already know so everyone’s mostly dressed lightly, sunglasses on.  With the noontime heat, it’s always a perfect time for Merry Moo's sea salt ice cream. You will be thirsty and that’s when the pandan or dalandan iced teas work their magic. There’s pure sugarcane juice sold too, and ultimately – German beer. It escapes me how some of me my fellow country men, or even the balilkbayans who were just raised with electric fans, always complain about how hot and humid it is as though we didn't all spend our childhood in this tropical country. Look at all these beautiful drinks to quench that your thirst and feel refreshed on a Sunday. We are on the bright side, after all. 

We always take our little pre-schooler I. with us on all the Sunday lunches we have here. He seems to have figured out the map of the place. He swings on a lose branch of a tree. He lets small little hands tap to the beat of a store that sold Bongos. A lot of folks play the bongos too, and it serves as as an apt background music to the area that sold utensils with colorful gems, some artwork and books. There's also a small playground just right behind where we let him run around some more. We wish playgrounds and parks didn't have to be this small. 

Recently, many of the malls in the city started to adapt the Sunday Market concept. We tried one which was set-up in the park in front of Shangri-La hotel in Ayala. It's called Cucina Andare, featuring "meals on wheels" food trucks. There's some comfort in finding the local beers and locally-made bottled iced teas called "Bayani Brew." Spicy chicken wings were good too, which comes with a plastic glove so you can use your hands to eat. Everything else just seemed either too forced, or too rushed, and painfully too commercial with the familiar names that invite you to franchise. The paella was just glorified fried rice that they microwaved. There was live music which was just too loud. We were turned off with how it tried hard to copy and ended up as a wannabe at best. 

The Legazpi market has a sense of community that almost feels real, and realizing how this concept really sells, the imminent sad story is that it'll be all be too commercialized. Eventually, they will prioritize profit over that priceless Sunday Market sense of community. But there's still a good thing going on there, but as the way it is with things organic,  big and fast and profitable isn't always best. Otherwise, it'll be just another perfunctory parking lot. 

Nothing is Real

After the highways and the ascent through zig zag roads, a city pops up in the mountains, evenveloped in fog, unfolding right before your eyes. The afternoon sky bursts with colors gleaming on the greens of the mountains until it cools down to the early evening's grey. It's like a visual equivalent of a Sigur Ros song.  We close in and see houses, gas stations, pasalubong stores and the rest of a bustling city sprawled in a row of hills. Baguio is an urban dwelling among the clouds, the traffic heavily congested in some parts but the strawberry fields close by.

Nothing is real, it sings to you.

IN MEMORY OF BUGGERS

This city is capable of building the strongest connections in your psyche. These mountains hold and mold some of the firmest memories. It’s a collective childhood recollection:  getting dizzy at the zig-zag roads, bike or boat rides at Burnham Park, posing with the Igorots in Minesview, pine trees, jars of Good Shepherd ube or strawberry jam and sundot-kulangkot.

When I was a kid travelling up here, my father drove us himself. It must have been lot more difficult to navigate, let alone drive these roads back then. My mother being my mother, all three of us (I think even my cousin) were all in matching yellow Camp John Hay vests.

This is where you take those pictures.

You spend a good part of your life wanting to be the kid in those pictures again. Repetition longs and desires itself.

FARM-TO-MOUTH STRAWBERRIES

This trip was also the Panay crowd's annual meet and H.'s 32nd, Baguio-style. The couples with kids stayed in hotels, while the rest camped in F.'s place. Only a few years back, D. & I were drunken-ice-skating with F., having vodka jellies at 8 am, among other fond memories. Nowadays, we do wholesome cookouts, play Monopoly, and finish the drinking before 1am while the kids are in another room playing Nintendo Wii.

We had dinner the first night at a Japanese place called Chaya, a house-turned-restaurant where the tables were few and the kitchen was open and literally homey. The floors and high ceilings were wooden. There's a fireplace, a huge couch, and a piano. The chef-owner was Japanese and you find a curious warmth in a place that served complimentary green tea ice cream.

After touring the BenCab museum the following day, we had lunch at the museum's cafe. All the rice meals had the organic mountain-grown brown rice of Cafe Sabel, paired perfectly with cucumber coolers or lemongrass iced tea.

On the third day, we had lunch at Le Chef at the Manor in John Hay. "A Christmas tree place." P. called it. It’s December, and their Christmas tree was a real pine tree. Their garden had a playground where I.  insisted on playing in his make-believe train for over an hour.

Little P. and our little I. picked strawberries at the La Trinidad Farm in Benguet and we'd like to think this is the trip's highlight. We rinsed them with water from our bottles and ate them literally on the fields where they grew, so they were farm-to-mouth. We all had strawberry taho - the pang-instagram taho, as the slick taho vendor in sunglasses dubbed it, encouraging us to hashtag and become a follower.  

THE SEARCH ONLY APPEARS COMPLICATED

It took me sixteen years to climb up here again. The last time was when a National Convention sponsored us (the geekiest boys and girls) up here for 5 days. I formed part of the school Debate Team (led by H.) that made it to the finals. All of us were no taller than 5”5. How cute it was – an exclusive-for-boys Catholic school with a rowdy reputation versus an exclusive-for-girls Catholic school mostly from upper middle class families who were reputed to be smarter than us. All the young ladies of their debate team probably stood taller than 5”5. We debated the abolition of pork barrel in Congress and our school’s team won, mostly because of H. ‘s arguments and pre-conceived counter-arguments that we all rehearsed.

On the day we won the debate, among the audience were three other classmates who became my friends for life. Also among the audience was a young lady who was voted to be the convention’s National Vice President (the popular and intellectual equivalent of second head cheerleader), whom I married 13 years later. 

Here we all are, again, now. H. is completing his Ph.D in Berkeley. B., who won the convention presidency at the time, has been shuffling back and forth Manila, Melbourne, and South America with his Canadian astronomer-wife. We did not speak of it, but we are celebrating so many other wins as we sipped coffee sweetened by muscovado in the old Café by the Ruins. What we did speak of, was the weather and the wine in Santiago, Chile, triathlons in Melbourne, and a Filipino and his Canadian wife’s search for Argentina Corned Beef in Argentina.

I shared that I heard a story about a friend of a friend who looked for The French Baker in France. 

HIGH-ALTITUDE RUNNER'S HIGH

If we lived here, my favorite thing would be how the weather makes running outdoors conducive at any time of day. The towering trees, the clean pine scent (or the pollution) and just spotting a interesting-enough place for lunch or dinner during your run makes the uphill dares worth taking. Drunk the previous night, M. and I decided to head out for a run at 10am, but it still felt like running at 6am. 

We decided to follow the running route of Manny Pacquao, except that I imagined it to be in Lake Drive, while M. thought it was up in Camp John Hay. We lost track of each other somewhere around Session Road. So we were on separate paths, but must have felt the strange, laughable relief in knowing that we both got a little lost. I ran 5.5 km at a slower than usual pace, having to walk or stop at the crowded sidewalks. As I lost my way I discovered how so much of Baguio has also deteriorated, has been overcrowded and polluted.  But nevertheless, it’s a path you’d want to run again. 

On the way back, I saw M. a couple of meters away from the hotel. Inevitably, We head out at the same time, we both get lost, and he was right there exactly at the time to go home.