While sorting through my documents a couple of nights ago, I chanced upon a small notebook that contained a daily journal of my vacation in Brazil in 2007. I realized I never ‘blogged’ about it, maybe because of the lack of time, or because I was confident that it was already documented. Anyway, while I was leafing through the entries, I was pleasantly surprised to find something I wrote, an excerpt of it I copied below:
March 4, 2007
Another cab to another airport on my way back from Salvador, Bahia to Rio de Janeiro. The driver turned on his radio and surprise, surprise, Tracy Chapman was on. So I started singing-along “Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around”. ..The next song was Brazilian, sounded familiar but I did not know the lyrics. I saw the driver glance at me from his rearview mirror and without saying a word I sort of understood that he said, “now it’s my turn”. Then he started singing along at the top of his voice.
Hmmm, the showdown was on. The next song was another Brazilian song that the driver sang but the next song was mine, and a Sting song at that. “We’ll be together, we’ll be together…” I sang the whole song the rest of the way with the driver nodding his head in tune with the song. At the airport, we said goodbye like we were old friends, I even gave him a hug, and all this without a single word being exchanged between us (I do not speak his language, he does not speak the language I use). We just shared a drive and some music and that was enough.
End of entry.
I was pretty amused because just recently, I had come from Taiwan. I had a meeting in an area an hour away from Taipei and instead of renting a car, my colleague arranged for a cab to take us, wait for us there, and take us back. Turned out, the driver is a Filipino who is now a Taiwanese citizen. He hooked up his I-phone and played his I-pod- and instantly I recognized the first song. It was Tracy Chapman’s The Promise and I have not heard that song for the longest time. And I happen to love the song and when I sing it, I feel I own it. So again, as is my habit, I sang along with my old friend Tracy. Another Tracy song followed that one.
I was at a tough meeting for four hours but when I got back into the cab, the driver was ready with the song. I did not even have to ask. This time, the driver sang along with me, and we sang at the top of our voices. My colleague was amused.
Naturally, I arranged for him to pick me up at 5am the next day for the airport. Like the day before, we listened to Tracy, but singing The Promise at dawn is not the same thing, it takes on an extra element of sadness. So we sang it under our breaths, each lost in our own thoughts, and singing, “in your arms, where all my journeys end…” I so badly wanted to ask who he was singing that song for, where she was, and when he was coming home to the country he said he badly missed, but I did not.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Friday, May 15, 2009
Love in Translation
What do you do in Taipei on an insignificant Thursday night? I saw long lines at the movie theater, and a big crowd of young people in the Ximen district where there are a lot of shops and bars. But I had better things to do. In the Taipei Central Train Station, I saw a long table with women talking to men in white, they appeared so engrossed in their conversation I asked what it was they were there for. It’s fortune-telling, my Taiwanese friend, H, said. Well, the horoscope junky in me just had to do it, I could not resist. You had to choose though, each guy there had his own expertise. Was it career fortune you wanted to know? Or family? Marriage? Money? I said, I know where my career is going and even if I love what I am doing, it does not completely define me. Family, I do not want to know what will happen with that, I am too paranoid to even ask. Marriage, well, it’s jumping the gun a bit, right? Money, I know I need to work really hard to have some, I do not need any fortune-teller to tell me that. So that leaves Dr. Love a.k.a. Mr. Chen.
But Mr. Chen does not speak English. So I had to convince H to translate for me. Out comes Mr. Chen’s PDA. After a very complicated calculation involving my date and time of birth, he said, through H, that from this year on until 2013, particularly during the months of February to July, I will have the good fortune to meet the One. And I will get married. And have children. Practical and pragmatic H, who could not help being a more active participant, right away asked a question I did not even formulate. How will she know? In the restaurant later that night, while we were recounting the experience, I asked her why she kept repeating that particular question. She said, “it’s very important, you meet so many people, how will you know who is the one?”
Mr. Chen was forced to give us a description so specific he went as far as to give me a physical and job description. H, who has an extensive English vocabulary when we talk about our work, had no similar range for conversations around love and fortunes. So the description involved a lot of non-verbal explanations and hand gestures. If I interpreted their hand gestures right and nothing was lost in translation, then does it mean that your time of birth will actually influence the height of the person you will marry?
I have a different explanation for fortune-telling that is more acceptable for logical people, especially when the reading is uncannily accurate. People who go to one usually have a specific question in mind. Usually, the mind is so cluttered with so many concerns that when they actually shell out 100 NT to get some answers to one question, they force their minds to focus on one thing. And more intuitive people (like fortune tellers) are able to pick up on that energy they emit, and read it.
Although I have a simpler answer to H’s question and Mr. Chen did not have to consult his PDA and his complicated fortune calculator to tell me how I will know. For me, you know or you’ll never know. But if Mr. Chen is right, he will be invited to my wedding. And H, who has never gone to a fortune-teller until I dragged her to one, said she will remind me every year of Mr. Chen’s timeline just in case I forget. Tick-tock, tick-tock…
But Mr. Chen does not speak English. So I had to convince H to translate for me. Out comes Mr. Chen’s PDA. After a very complicated calculation involving my date and time of birth, he said, through H, that from this year on until 2013, particularly during the months of February to July, I will have the good fortune to meet the One. And I will get married. And have children. Practical and pragmatic H, who could not help being a more active participant, right away asked a question I did not even formulate. How will she know? In the restaurant later that night, while we were recounting the experience, I asked her why she kept repeating that particular question. She said, “it’s very important, you meet so many people, how will you know who is the one?”
Mr. Chen was forced to give us a description so specific he went as far as to give me a physical and job description. H, who has an extensive English vocabulary when we talk about our work, had no similar range for conversations around love and fortunes. So the description involved a lot of non-verbal explanations and hand gestures. If I interpreted their hand gestures right and nothing was lost in translation, then does it mean that your time of birth will actually influence the height of the person you will marry?
I have a different explanation for fortune-telling that is more acceptable for logical people, especially when the reading is uncannily accurate. People who go to one usually have a specific question in mind. Usually, the mind is so cluttered with so many concerns that when they actually shell out 100 NT to get some answers to one question, they force their minds to focus on one thing. And more intuitive people (like fortune tellers) are able to pick up on that energy they emit, and read it.
Although I have a simpler answer to H’s question and Mr. Chen did not have to consult his PDA and his complicated fortune calculator to tell me how I will know. For me, you know or you’ll never know. But if Mr. Chen is right, he will be invited to my wedding. And H, who has never gone to a fortune-teller until I dragged her to one, said she will remind me every year of Mr. Chen’s timeline just in case I forget. Tick-tock, tick-tock…
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
The Weatherman
My father has only one use for the internet- to go to the official website of PAG-ASA (Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical, and Astronomical Services Administration) to check the latest weather update and track the paths of the many typhoons and depressions that hit the country. He particularly likes those satellite photos of storms and low pressure areas. He keeps track of the travel schedule of the people around him (more often than not, he is on to my travel schedule) and he uses the information from the website to give people a go-ahead signal. He does not just check the internet, my sister said, he calls the PAG-ASA weather hotline too, to double-check.
The night before my flight back to Manila, Typhoon Dante was in the country. I saw him watching the news and was particularly worried he would not allow me to take the morning flight. He has done that before, he jumped the gun on the airlines and did not allow my grandma to fly because there was a typhoon on its route from China and when the typhoon detoured I had to shoulder the no show fees and fare difference. Every time we scheduled him for a trip to Manila or anywhere that involved him taking airplanes, I would pray for good weather, no, the best weather, and I would always be one step short of offering eggs to Sta. Clara (the Saint for sunshiny days, I think). I would tell him, you know, the airlines would not be allowed to fly if the conditions are really bad. Sometimes, my argument would be, oh, the planes usually fly over the storm clouds. That last one does not always work as I hope it would.
The morning of my departure I sensed that he was more nervous than usual. He asked me to check the weather on the internet and I pretended not to hear him. When he insisted, I said the internet was not working and I would miss my flight if we did not leave that very minute. What compounded his discomfort was his distrust for the airline I was taking that morning. It is new, or at least new to our area, and I kind of understand why he would not have confidence in an airline that sounds like a tetra-pack juice drink. He talked about maintenance, I told him airline maintenance is highly regulated and it would be standard for all airlines, regardless of its tutti-frutti-sounding name. I thought they had already left when I finished checking-in but my mom told me they waited for the plane to arrive so he could see for himself if the plane was big enough. He was not impressed. He called me and told me not to take that airline again.
It has become an SOP for me to call my father once my plane lands, and my standard line has always been “the flight was so smooth.” Technically, I am not lying because I am usually dead to the world during plane rides that the worst air pockets won’t affect me one bit.
My father’s obsession for the weather is only one of the many things he worries about nowadays. His anxiety level increases when he has to travel. I was not like this before, he would always tell me, especially when his anxiety was at its worst. When I came back from Zamboanga, he cornered me just to tell me the stories about his own travels to that island as an internal company auditor more than 30 years ago, of the times when he ate monkey brains, or his island hopping experiences, the time when he had to be sneaked off the island because of the anomalies he found in one warehouse. He also told me of his time in another town, when he had to make his way five floors down through rubble during an earthquake (that’s why he asks me to make sure I know where the hotel fire exits are). He was also supposed to be on a flight that crashed. I was not always afraid of travel; I had many adventures, too. I know, I know, no need for apologies.
Mastering your fear, someone said, is the key. But for my father, his concept of mastering the fear is to check the weather, so he will know what he needs to fear, and when. But how do you control the weather, Mr. Weatherman?
The night before my flight back to Manila, Typhoon Dante was in the country. I saw him watching the news and was particularly worried he would not allow me to take the morning flight. He has done that before, he jumped the gun on the airlines and did not allow my grandma to fly because there was a typhoon on its route from China and when the typhoon detoured I had to shoulder the no show fees and fare difference. Every time we scheduled him for a trip to Manila or anywhere that involved him taking airplanes, I would pray for good weather, no, the best weather, and I would always be one step short of offering eggs to Sta. Clara (the Saint for sunshiny days, I think). I would tell him, you know, the airlines would not be allowed to fly if the conditions are really bad. Sometimes, my argument would be, oh, the planes usually fly over the storm clouds. That last one does not always work as I hope it would.
The morning of my departure I sensed that he was more nervous than usual. He asked me to check the weather on the internet and I pretended not to hear him. When he insisted, I said the internet was not working and I would miss my flight if we did not leave that very minute. What compounded his discomfort was his distrust for the airline I was taking that morning. It is new, or at least new to our area, and I kind of understand why he would not have confidence in an airline that sounds like a tetra-pack juice drink. He talked about maintenance, I told him airline maintenance is highly regulated and it would be standard for all airlines, regardless of its tutti-frutti-sounding name. I thought they had already left when I finished checking-in but my mom told me they waited for the plane to arrive so he could see for himself if the plane was big enough. He was not impressed. He called me and told me not to take that airline again.
It has become an SOP for me to call my father once my plane lands, and my standard line has always been “the flight was so smooth.” Technically, I am not lying because I am usually dead to the world during plane rides that the worst air pockets won’t affect me one bit.
My father’s obsession for the weather is only one of the many things he worries about nowadays. His anxiety level increases when he has to travel. I was not like this before, he would always tell me, especially when his anxiety was at its worst. When I came back from Zamboanga, he cornered me just to tell me the stories about his own travels to that island as an internal company auditor more than 30 years ago, of the times when he ate monkey brains, or his island hopping experiences, the time when he had to be sneaked off the island because of the anomalies he found in one warehouse. He also told me of his time in another town, when he had to make his way five floors down through rubble during an earthquake (that’s why he asks me to make sure I know where the hotel fire exits are). He was also supposed to be on a flight that crashed. I was not always afraid of travel; I had many adventures, too. I know, I know, no need for apologies.
Mastering your fear, someone said, is the key. But for my father, his concept of mastering the fear is to check the weather, so he will know what he needs to fear, and when. But how do you control the weather, Mr. Weatherman?
Monday, May 11, 2009
Single-serving
I was an anomaly in South Korea. Not for any other reasons but for these: I was a tourist. A woman. Dining. Alone.
I have had solitary dining experiences in a good number of cities, in four continents. More often than not, I travel alone and I have never felt that dining by my lonesome was an anomaly until now (or maybe once in Sri Lanka but that’s another story).
Of the two nights I was in the country, one I spent having a group dinner with the people who came for the meeting, the other night I decided to spend part of it by myself. I refused dinner invitations from a couple of people but a made half a commitment to join the group to go clubbing later that night.
I should have heeded all the signs. I spent an hour walking around looking for restaurants that had pictures of food that was for a single serving. There were Western Cafes that had single-serving but who would want to eat Carbonara if it was there first time in Korea? I peered through restaurant windows and mentally took note of whether there were tables for one. There were none. All over, I saw groups, congregations, couples. The receptionist at the restaurant I finally settled on had a perplexed look on her face when I asked for a table for one. The waiter who took my order had to go comb through the menu to look for a dish that would be good for one. Even the glass of coke had two straws in it. The Korean guide for the night out, when I asked her if people in Korea ever ate out alone said in a very definitive tone: Never. So that’s that. I decided to get back at the Seoul that had no room for single people by going out and being sociable. But maybe I should not be blaming the city or the country. Maybe it’s me beginning to notice or to mind.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)