Turning 37, a lifetime ago

I was scrolling down my pictures folder and I chanced up one that read “37 for 37”. And then I remembered- this was where I stored the photos that best represented each of the trip that were included in the travel challenge we started last year. The last photo I stored and labelled was a trip I took in September, 2013. I was at 30 places when I stopped counting.

(The Challenge was that we would need to visit 37 new places in the year leading up to our 37th birthday)

I had completely forgotten this because when Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan) happened, it eclipsed everything else, made all non-Yolanda matters irrelevant.

In the new scheme of things, this is still not relevant, come to think of it. I decided to complete the folder anyway- add the pictures of the trips that made it to the cut (It is a welcome distraction when one is in yet another airport, waiting for another flight that is delayed). And belatedly, six months since the deadline in December, I realized that I had completed that challenge.

Yeheey. That sounded hollow even to my ears.

But I cannot deny that the experiences of that challenge were significant. I would have said life-changing, but now I only use that description for disasters like Yolanda.

So, from January 2013 until my 37th birthday in December, as part of this “37 trips for 37 years challenge” I:

• racked up 3 new countries to my world travel map ( UK, Germany , and Belgium); and visited 9 new cities outside of the Philippines (Brussels, Eindhoven, Njimegen, Kinderjdike, Hamburg, Manchester, London, Fujeira, Sharjah)

• went up and down a slippery, almost-90 degrees cliff in the dark caves of Sumaguing, Sagada and decided that I will do that only once in this lifetime

• Rode a roller coaster in Singapore

• watched my first musical on the West End (Billy Elliot)

• Watched a play starring Felicity Huffman & Ed Begley Jr. (November) at the Mark Taper Theater in LA, front row seats to boot

• Went on a road trip with my sister in UAE and watched an ancient bull fight in the Emirates of Fujeira.

• Went on another road trip closer to home with a friend, that took us around Laguna Bay

• Unrolled my banig on the desert and sat to watch the sun set.

• Watched Willie Nelson sing the standards in Hollywood Bowl one summer night

• Jumped into raging waters of the Ulot river in Paranas, Eastern Samar.

• Paid an exorbitant amount of money (in Pinoy standards) for a joint in a coffeeshop in Amsterdam

• Went sunset-hunting in California, UAE, Vietnam, in the local front (Batangas and Southern Leyte)

• Took many early walks to avoid the tourists in cities/places where it can get overwhelming

• Went to the many islands of my archipelago for a country on random weekends- Bohol, Anilao, Southern Leyte, Batangas, Kalanggaman

Dipped my toes where the Indian Ocean meets the Arabian Sea on a full moon, and again at day-break.

• Sang as part of the church choir in Belgium even when I don’t normally go to church (but I do know the church songs)

• Road many trains and drank too many variety of beers in beer capitals of Germany, UK, and Belgium

Trip no. 37 was the most special, it was in December, two days before the deadline. We went up to Tagaytay with my parents (who are Yolanda survivors), my sister (who came home from Dubai), and my Proj. 4 family to celebrate my birthday. Yes, I traveled a lot that year but I always know I have a family to come home to.

But 37 is just a number (borrowed from a tag line of a popular anti-aging commercial). It does not tell how these memories were made with old friends and family I traveled with or whom I visited during these trips, and friends who showed me these new places. It does not tell the stories of the friends I reconnected with. It does not tell the stories of the stories told during those long drives, train rides and quiet walks.

Yes, these are memories to last a lifetime even if it seemed like it all happened a lifetime ago.

Anomalous Anawangin

Anawangin Cove is an anomaly. Pine trees grow on the beach. Volcanic white sand from Mt. Pinatubo’s eruption. Mountains that almost meet the sea. A marsh that is strikingly rust in color and clear blue waters. All in one island.

I wish I had seen this cove before the beach cottages were constructed, before the hawkers came to ply souvenirs to boat-loads of tourists and before stalls selling souvenir items were set up, before it became so popular that the cove is like a tent city during the weekends. To find a tent city in a cove tucked away in the West Philippine Sea is another anomaly (sorry for the reference to the tent city, we are Post-Yolanda Taclobanons you know).

It must have been very beautiful in its isolation, without the people, the tents and all. But as much as I don’t like crowds, the dagat more than compensates for it. We were in the water for a long time (and our sun-burned faces and backs show those hours under the sun) and even with all the tourists there, the island is beautiful enough so you can shut every one off, and find your own little place of solitude amidst the boisterous barkadas. And our own little unit (D&P) was just right. Just right. So come to think of it, this cove is “perfect in its imperfections”, so goes the line of P’s current favorite song (hay, it was the soundtrack of our trip, it followed us everywhere!).

The usual itinerary that boatmen in Pundaquit suggest is to go island hopping first and lunch and a swim at Anawangin by noon until late afternoon. But we opted to go to Anawangin first, swim and do the island hopping after. The seas in the afternoon tend to get rough, very rough, so when we were on the way to Capones Island, I was second-guessing our decision to do island hopping in the afternoon. Then we saw a bird swoop down for his fish-merienda, and then everything, everything fell into place.

It was a case of a series of seemingly unfortunate events leading to one perfect moment. If my plane had not been delayed; if P’s dad did not forget his bag in the car then we would not have had to go back to Laguna to return it; and if we had left at 3am as originally planned, then we would have gotten to Anawangin at 6, and we may have left the cove to go island hopping earlier too. Or if the boatman was not double-booked and he had another pick-up at 2pm that’s why he scheduled us for pick-up at 3, or if we had agreed to be picked-up at 1pm instead. Or if D was successful in his first attempt to climb up the hill for a 180 degrees view of the island, or if he did not suddenly decide to try one more time to climb up 15 mins before our scheduled departure, then we would have left earlier. Instead, we left as we did, not one minute before or later or we would have missed the show that was meant only for us.

A few seconds after that bird swooped down, we saw the dolphins. And then the show began. We headed to where they were, the boatman just as excited as we were. And then they were there, beside our boat, the others just a few meters from us, and one even did that twirling thing not only once but thrice. For 5 minutes we were a captive audience of their show. We were in the middle of the rough sea, the only boat in that area at that moment (the only other boat at that time was a few hundred meters away, not close enough to witness what we were privileged to see). That’s why I am claiming this as the show that was exclusively for us. The boatman said that it was only the third time in his career ferrying tourists to and off the coves that he saw these dolphins.

The magic of that moment was not lost on all of us. It was a sign, P said. But for someone who has been feeling disoriented, not knowing where I am, and why I am where I am (oh, so existential!), it suddenly came to me, that ever fleeting moment, of knowing that I am exactly where I should be.

But that was Saturday. And now it’s Sunday and summer is over. We got there just in time. So long Anawangin, till we meet again, maybe next summer.



Saturday could wait, but Sunday’d be too late
-STING

Postcards from the Edge: Sunset-hunting in Manila Bay

It was an ordinary Wednesday afternoon. I was up to my neck with work but I cut my meeting short to give a very short talk to Tanghalang Pilipino about the current situation in Tacloban. Of course, in the new-normal-post-yolanda-reality, work on and for Tcaloban is my second full-time job. So at 2pm, A and I drove to far-away CCP on Roxas Blvd. It was hot, the traffic was bad, but this sunset was our reward. We spent our honorarium for that talk (A did the talking more and I must have said 3 sentences but we got the same fee haha!) on coffee by the bay. It's a rare treat because I hardly find myself in this area, and on an ordinary Wednesday at that.

Tacloban on my mind

Someday soon, we all will be together
If the fates allow
Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow
So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

My taxi driver was making small talk as we crawled through unexpected midnight traffic in Singapore. We were discussing Christmas and how it is a big thing in the Philippines. I said, it’s similar to the Chinese New Year- we have parties all week-long. And like China, all domestic migrants in big cities make that trek back to the provinces/hometowns to celebrate Christmas. “What about you,” he asked, “where are you going to spend Christmas?”

All my life I spent Christmas in Tacloban. My mother’s siblings and their families would spend Christmas eve at home. Even when we were in college in Manila or Cebu, or when we were already working outside of Tacloban, it was a crime if we did not come home for the holidays. But there was one time in 2008 when we said that we’d try spending it in the big city, where Christmas lights and decorations were grander and fireworks bigger. It was fun but it was not home. After that, we said, never again. We still prefer the lights display of DPWH than Ayala Triangle or that Christmas tree in Balyuan than the Christmas tree in Cubao.
Home has always been and will always be Tacloban. I have been based in Manila for the last 20 years and been a transient in many cities for half of that. Friends would say: “the hotel room is your home, the airplane is your home, your home is where your head rests at night, you live out of a suitcase.” But I know where home really is. In fact, I am very particular with the words I use when I refer to my frequent travels between Manila and Tacloban- I say, “mabalik” ako ha manila (I am going back to Manila) and “mauli” ako ha Tacloban ( I am going home to Tacloban) and I never use these words interchangeably (I remember that it was another Waray friend, Bubbles, who made that distinction). I still dream in Waray, think in Waray. I tell all my friends that Tacloban is the center of the Philippines.

But my home will never be the same again. The first time I said that was in 2004 when we brought my brother’s body from Manila to Tacloban for the wake and funeral. It was also close to Christmas, that trip. I had been able to keep it together because I told myself at that time, my own grief can wait, I need to take care of my parents first. But when I saw Tacloban from the plane’s window, I started to cry. Because I knew then that coming home would never be the same again- there would always be this permanence of absence to deal with, my family will be completely changed and I, I myself, will not be the same again. A line of a poem goes: “For all the history of grief/An empty doorway and a maple leaf.” To our family, grief is an empty seat at the dinner table for a son and a brother who is never coming home for Christmas.

And that exact same feeling of profound loss came over me when I looked at Tacloban from the plane window when I came home on week 2. It has been a habit of mine to trace the way to our house from up above when there is a break in the clouds and the plane starts to descend,. I would zero in on a marker (the Astrodome) and then trace the roads home, looking for more markers along the way. I would look out for RTR hospital, then the V&G church, then I’d guess which among the similar-looking bungalows closer to the mountain side is our house. The plane would then make a u-turn in Tanauan, right where my friend lives (by Sol Oil in Brgy. San Roque). My marker is the wooden pier. And then I would start looking for certain landmarks again- the Palo Cathedral, that house on Maharlika Highway with that big ugly eagle or rooster or whatever. I would look out for the beach-goers in McArthur Beach, Baluarte and Sandy Beach Resorts (I remember how, as kids or even when we were older, we would vigorously wave at planes overhead). Soon after that would be the airport. (Once, my brother brought my sister and me to the edge of the runway so we could see the planes up close as they landed).

Now, my usual markers were gone. My friend’s house in Tanauan was crushed by the big oil tank of Sol Oil. Astrodome was still there but the surrounding areas were unrecognizable. The “ Shed”, where we went for sabaw after pa-morningan inuman in Magsaysay Blvd, was washed out. There was a boat in the middle of Magsaysay corner Real Street. And there were no roofs for me to be able to tell my house from the others. When the plane was almost on the ground, I looked to my left and I could almost see all the way through to Real Street, on the other side of the airport; hardly any houses were left standing to block the view.

I had been to ground zero before this. I came by bus that my friends and I chartered to get our families out on week 1. I came when everything was still chaotic; when one still had to be escorted by a military truck to get into the city safely; when bodies were still on the side of the road; when there was hardly any food or water getting to the people. I had already seen San Jose or what was left of it, and truckloads of bodies in body bags and in my mind, one of them could be people on my list that friends, who could not come home immediately, asked me to find. But I did not cry then. I had so much to do and so little time and I could not allow myself to break down. It was too overwhelming that there was no room for tears, no room for my own melodrama.

But this second trip home on week 2 was different. Maybe because I knew my family was finally safe that I finally let my guard down and saw, again, like it was the first time, the city that I love. And I finally allowed myself to cry.
Yes, it was the same feeling I had in 2004, that feeling that nothing is going to be the same again. But it was magnified many times over now because it was not just me-- it’s the feeling shared by my family, my friends, my friend’s family and friends. A whole city was grieving.

I think the sea always figures in most activities of Taclobanons: we do our early or late afternoon jog along Magsaysay Blvd, all the way up to Leyte Park, while enjoying the view of the bay; we’d spend late afternoons just hanging out in Bal-yuan. At night, we’d park our cars along the stretch of Magsaysay and have a beer or two (or more) and bbq from the stalls in Balyuan for pulutan. But how can we again spend full-moon nights along Magsaysay without remembering that at one point during this ordeal Bal-yuan was littered with hundreds of body bags? We would have breakfast or lunch at Yolanda’s (yes, there was a carenderia by the sea named Yolanda, very popular because they served the freshest catch of that morning) and then coffee at Café Lucia, pizza at Canto Fresco or buko juice at Manlurip while enjoying the cool sea breeze. We would take drives along the coast and end up in Brgy. Bislig Tolosa for a masag breakfast. On Sundays or holidays, families would go to the beach resorts for a picnic; picnic lunch is lechon, tuba, gaway, tinuon na saging. Personally, I prefer early morning dips on weekdays, when hardly anyone is on the beach. Sometimes, I’d go straight to the beach straight from the airport, coming from an early morning flight. Now, would we still look at the same sea without remembering how it once claimed so many lives? Would there ever come a time when we won’t tremble in fear at the sound of the rain or gust of the December wind? Didits said it best, “imagine, a whole generation of children would be afraid of the rain, would be afraid of the sea.”

And that is sad because what made this city beautiful is that bay that wraps around the city. And now, every single time we marvel at its beauty, it would always be bittersweet.

It took me a while to respond to the question of the taxi driver. I could have told him all these but maybe it would be a little bit too much for a late night ride. So I said, not this year, but oh, how I’d miss spending the holidays in Tacloban.

Christmas in Tacloban pre-Yolanda is a frenzy- everyone who is studying or working elsewhere is home, home from Manila, from Cebu, from abroad. And every day there’s a party- mini-reunions with friends from grade school, high school, college and then the never-ending family gatherings all throughout the season. But how do we do that post-yolanda knowing there will always be one or two, or even more, or entire families, who will be missing from these reunions? I imagine how our laughter would always be punctuated by silences- silences to remember those who are no longer there and how our stories will now be interspersed with accounts of the struggles to survive, or stories on the agony of waiting to hear from family during those days when Tacloban was shut off from the world, or stories of how they lost everything- homes, businesses and of the challenges of getting back on our feet from zero.

If I could have it my way, I’d be in Tacloban right now for Christmas, for my birthday, for the New Year, post-Yolanda conditions and all. My father is 79 years old, with a pacemaker and an anxiety disorder and his doctors said it would be better for him to be in a place where he would have access to a steady supply of medicines and hospitals with the equipment to be able to handle his kind of medical condition. So for the second time in my life, I spent Christmas away from home. And for the first time in my small unit in Quezon City, I hang a parol, borrowed a Belen, bought a very small Christmas tree, and my sister decorated my place so it would at least feel like Christmas at home. It’s not the same but we are all together and for now, I think that’s enough. Home for now, is where my family is.

Postcards from the edge: Sunset-hunting in Dubai

My sister is an OFW (overseas Filipino worker) in Dubai. She left late 2011 and she was back home last December for her first vacation after finishing a year of her contract. Actually there is another story here, one that I will write about in another post.

Anyway...one time, while driving along one of the provincial roads on our way home from somewhere, I stopped to point out the sunset. My sister looked at it and said, "oh, in Dubai,the sunset is enormous."



Yes, I remember. I was there in March 2012 for a short meeting and one thing I remember vividly were the sunsets. It was so near, so heavy, so big. It was breathtaking. I still have to read up on why it seems closer and much bigger in that side of the world.



My sunset-hunting has taken me to so many places, or I would always sunset-hunt in the places I find myself in. One place sunset-hunters should not miss then is Dubai (or the middle east).

Like a roller coaster ride...

Oh, wait. It actually was a roller coaster ride.

If not for this 37 for 37 challenge, I would not have gone on this ride (the Battlestar Galactica: Human, Red track). I don't think I would have gone to Universal Studios either. I am not a theme-park person. But I would go to these parks at least once in my life, so I can perpetuate that idea of myself as someone who is not a theme-park person (if that makes sense).


But I went. Because I had a weekend in between work/meetings. And except for food tripping and shopping, there is not much to do in Singapore (but if shopping is your only purpose for living, then this is the place for you). I think Singapore is one big theme park but that's just me. A lot of tourists enjoy the attractions, but to me, that's what the city is all about - just attractions. I find everything about the city polished, manufactured, designed to attract tourists or impress visitors. And even its rough edges seem contrived. Ok, that's a bit harsh I admit. It has its charms and in the many years that I have been going to Singapore for work, I found the charm of this country through the eyes of the locals or the migrants who have made this their home. Their local food haunts, the best hawker places, a watering hole...etc.

I digress...now back to the roller coaster. The rules of the 37 for 37 challenge state that if it's a place you've been to before you have to visit some place that is new to you. So roller coaster ride it is.

After California Screamin' roller coaster in Disneyland California, I said I will never ride another roller coaster again. My first was the Space Shuttle in Enchanted Kingdom, Laguna, Philippines but it was nothing compared to the the 108-foot drop from the highest point of 120 feet of the one in Disneyland. That was the scariest part, the drop. And then this, the tallest dueling roller coasters in the world- we saved this ride for last and all throughout the queue, I was nervous as hell. But what made me try it? Two things: (1) i saw all the loops and I am ok with loops, even the one with inversion and there was no death-defying drops. I don't like falling. No, not at all; (2) I timed it and it lasted only 60 seconds. I remember a line from the movie "We bought a zoo" that goes: all you need is 20 seconds of courage. So for the whole 60 seconds of that ride I screamed, and screamed. It was what I needed- an excuse to scream out loud. It was a stressful week, and an even more stressful week before that and ahead. So it's the best outlet in the world. If every one who is stressed screamed their lungs out once every two weeks, the world will be a happier place, this will be the end to world wars.


But having said this, I am not sure I can muster enough courage to try another roller coaster ride but who knows? Maybe the next challenge will be 38 roller coaster rides from all over the world. Now, that has to be done before my heart gets too old, too weary, and too weak to take all that excitement.

(This is trip no. 10 of the 37 for 37 challenge)

Postcards from the Edge: Anilao, again

It's an easy drive (2&1/2 hours from Manila). Doable day trip. It's dagat.

So Anilao will always be a default destination whenever the noise, the smog and ugliness of the city close in and I need to get away. I think I come here 3 to 4 times a year and have brought foreign guests to enjoy snorkeling.

This is not the best beach (there is no beach actually- it's rocky, more coral rocks) and not the best waters the Philippines has to offer but it has great sunsets, good diving and snorkeling spots. Once I brought my American-Mexican colleague and he said "you have such high standards for beaches/oceans/islands but for us, this place is perfect!". I guess he is right. Anilao has its charms and I will keep coming back.

(The picture was taken at Dive and Trek Resort)

(This is trip no. 7 of the 37 for 37 challenge)

Like an unexpected song

A day or two after the New Year I went on a road trip with a few good friends. We woke up to very heavy rain, almost stormy, even. But of course that did not deter us. We started to drive to the southern part of Leyte and our planned final destination was Kuting Reef Resort.

It was raining heavily the whole time we were on the road but I kept telling my companions that we needed to be at our destination in time for the sunset. “Sunset? In this weather?” But when we were about 10 km from our destination, the rain became a drizzle. At 5km, it stopped. And the sky began to clear. By the time we got there, this sunset was waiting for us. And I felt that this was heaven’s show for us, specially for us. Right after the sunset, it started raining again.



I was overwhelmed, overjoyed, over loved. So I said a silent prayer-- Here’s to another year of spectacular sunsets and unbelievable moments that come to us like an unexpected song (ang daming song references sa line na ito, anovah!).

(This is Trip no. 2 of 37 for 37 challenge)

A river runs through it (Torpedo Boat Adventure)

We now open the New Year with an adventure. This has become a tradition ever since we went for an unplanned drive to Silago, Southern Leyte and a trek to Tres Marias falls one stormy day a couple of days after the new year. That was in 2011. And then again, to Lake Mahagnao in 2012. And for 2013, we decided to do the Torpedo Boat Adventure in Paranas, Western Samar.

This was the German’s idea, again. The German is a pseudo-local of Leyte. He moved to Tacloban with his partner a couple of years back and since then has been exploring the province and beyond looking for rare orchids, documenting them for a scientific journal. This is our hometown, but this German knows its nooks and crannies better than any local. So, funny as it may sound to the others, the German is our dependable guide in our own backyard.

The drive to Paranas, Samar from Tacloban took 2 and a half hours. Upon reaching the town, we headed towards the headquarters of Samar Island National Park (SINP). It isanother 16 kilometers along the Wright-Taft road past the junction (ay, we kept asking the annoyed German, are we there yet?) and up a hill. You register, pay the fee, choose a guide and get a briefing before going to the jump-off point. I think the package for 5 persons is PHP 1800 and it includes the helmet, the boat, and the fee for the guide. (The package rate is based on boat capacity- maximum of 5 pax, so if there are six of you, you need to get another boat for 1800. So it’s better to go there in multiples of 5).



The boat ride along 10.5 kilometers (one way) of the Ulot river (total length is 520 km) was scenic, with a lot of wildlife sightings along the way (it’s a bird watchers’ heaven). We saw a couple of waterfalls by the river banks. And there are a few rapids and drops that will satisfy the adrenalin junky. The ride downstream was exhilarating but the ride upstream was even more so since we were going against the current.



The ride culminates at Deny’s point, the designated picnic area where visitors could swim then have lunch by the big stones and boulders lining up the riverbank. Oh, and we dared each other to jump into the raging waters and let the current just take you downstream where the guides wait to pull you back to the riverbank.

It was a good day trip, the perfect start to the year and this 37 for 37 challenge.

(all photos by Mandy Aumento)

(This is trip. no. 1 of the 37 for 37 challenge "

The 37 for 37 Challenge

I, with two of my closest friends, decided to make the year leading up to our 37th Birthday (38th for P) more interesting. We got this idea from a friend who challenged herself to go on 35 trips before her 35th birthday. We met her on the eve of her birthday and she was going on the 35th trip (to Davao) the next day. So we said, why not try it..we are always looking for places to go anyway, always hoping for time (and money!)so we could go on our next adventure. We are perpetually planning...even if half of those plans do not work out.

So we decided to call it 37 trips/new places for 37 years (or 38 for P)- the 37 for 37 Challenge. It is a challenge because: (1) there are only 52 weeks in a year, meaning, 52 weekends in a year. And our work is such that we have to work even on weekends so there is no guarantee we can free up those weekends to go on these trips; (2) That means 3 trips every month. And right now, we barely have time meet up for dinner once a month or so. So yes, it is going to be a challenge. But bring it on!

We drafted these rules so we know what's and what's out...

General Rules

1. Primary purpose of the trip: vacation, leisure (* see exceptions to this rule)
2. It has to be a place that you have never been to before ( ** see exceptions to this rule)
3. At least 90 kilometers away from base city (reference point Kilometer Zero in Rizal Park, Philippines and Kilometer Zero in Tacloban City)
4. A city or town counts as one point even if there are numerous tourist attractions in that town or city
5. One could earn several “points’ in one trip for as long as rules 1-4 are met
6. Coverage: for Me and D: January to December 2013. for P: March 2013- March 2014.


* For work related trips to be included, there should at least be one full day “extension” devoted to sightseeing/vacation for the trip to count ; the site/attraction/place should be a place that one has never been to before

** A trip to a place that you have been to before can count as a point for as long as Rules 1 and 3 are met; You stay in that place for more than 8 hours.


So there. I have decided to document where the '37 for 37' will take us in this blog.

A walk along Nanjing Road

I spent a week in Shanghai last March but as usual, I barely had time to explore the city, even after work. There was one night though that I put on my coat and braved the chilly weather to explore the famous pedestrian street Nanjing Road.

I remember taking another walk along other popular pedestrian streets in Barcelona- the Portal de l’Angel and La Rambla. There were a number of street performers and musicians along the stretch of these streets. In one alley, there was an opera singer taking advantage of the good acoustics of that specific spot. Further down, there was a guy playing the Spanish Guitar. A flamenco dancer. A clown. Bubblemakers.

But I was told that these performers had to audition to get a permit to show their art on the streets of Barcelona. The idea is, if you have no talent, or if your act is not original or interesting at best, you get no permit.

It was obvious that this was not the case in Nanjing Road. I got the feeling that anyone who wanted an audience can set up in one corner and do whatever they want, regardless of talent or lack thereof.

I started my walk in Nanjing Road East and just a few meters down, I saw a crowd and I checked out what caught their attention. It turned out there was a pair demonstrating some ballroom dance but the moves were almost unrecognizable. A little bit of Swing, a little bit of Cha-Cha, and a little bit of Boogie. But they had avid fans, gathered around in a small circle like it was the cast of So You Think You Can Dance.



On the other side of the road, you see China’s version of the Line Dance. And there was another group a block farther down. I saw a lady in corporate attire briskly walking who surprisingly veered from her direction and joined the group like it was an afterthought. It very well could be that all participants intended to be there at precisely 7 in the evening so they can dance. But it equally seemed so random too- people who are just walking by and compelled to join in a little bit of community activity, maybe, to make them less alienated from the rest of the world. And what better way to do this than join a group of strangers and dance.



But my favorite was the group of older folks, singing traditional Chinese song and revolutionary songs. There is one guy who sets up a flipchart showing handwritten lyrics of the songs, a speaker and a microphone. To me, this was throwback karaoke. And any one feeling a little bit nostalgic can join in the group singing. There is even a guy with a saxophone and a conductor-wanna-be. Oh, how fervent their singing was. That’s the best I can say.



And it was like this, different performances all the way down Nanjing Road. Performers would bring their portable audio sets, their thermoses with hot tea, their disposable cups and then they would set up along the street and perform all night long. I took a walk on one cold night in March 2013 but the minute I set foot on that road, I was thrown back to another era, another time, and I don’t even know what era it was.

Postcards from the edge: Dauis, Bohol

One thing I really miss from my childhood were the times I spent up a tree. In primary school, I remember spending a lot of time up the Kalachuchi tree (Plumeria Acuminata, Temple Flower) while waiting for my parents to pick me up after school (the branches are brittle, not like the guava tree, my mom would always tell me. At home, my favorite was the Balimbing tree (Starfruit). I would bring a book and read it while perched on one of the branches of that tree. Whenever I see an imposing, magnificent tree, my instinct is to climb it, find a nook for myself.

So when I saw this tree, it instantly became a favorite. I may not be able to climb it now, at this age, but I can certainly lounge around under its shade. It is the perfect accent to this coffee shop (Cafe Lawis) in Dauis, Bohol (it's beside the church). It is on the right side when you cross the bridge connecting Tagbilaran and Panglao. I love spending afternoons here, sipping coffee while taking in the view. Dinners here are also romantic, even if you are on your own.

The winds of March that make the heart a dancer

Horoscope for March: This month will be filled with all sorts of things to do and places to go. Travel is a very real possibility now, especially in early to mid-March, and to places not too far away. You may decide to go for any reason - for enjoying romance or to complete a deal at work. If you can go, do, as being in a new setting will refresh you, and when you return you will be energized and more motivated to tackle other projects.

So on the very 1st day of March, very close to midnight, I got on a van with 4 other friends and started to travel as my March horoscope foretold. All 12 hours of driving through 400 kilometers up long and winding mountain roads and at some point through roads that are 5000 feet above sea level.

It may be sooooo far but Sagada attracts a good number of foreign and local tourists. It is a small town and it can easily be overwhelmed by tourists. Most shops cater to tourists- restaurants, cafes, souvenir shops. During the peak season (April, May, December), there are so many people that it’s hard to find a place to eat, and a place to park.


It is so easy to lose sight of this town’s charm, what with the droves of tourists all over. I have found an effective remedy when I find myself in a town like this; I try to find that space where I can shut off all the tourist chatter so I can hear the town speak to me. I usually find that space and time very early in the morning, long before weary tourists wake up or before the next batch of tourists arrive. So at 630 am, we took a walk from St Joseph’s Inn to the Anglican Church, sat and watched the churchgoers arrive for the first mass, mostly old ladies slowly making their way through the fog. Our walk took us past the cemetery to Echo valley, a popular spot because it has a view of the hanging coffins. It is better seen that early in the morning, when there are no tourists shouting their lungs off just to check out why it’s called echo valley.



From there, we went to Masferres Inn to have breakfast. It has charming window-side tables where you can sip hot decent coffee while enjoying the cool & fresh breeze wafting in from the open windows. I’d go back there for the bread.



I think the best way to enjoy Sagada is to take it slow. But because it already takes practically two whole days to get there and back from Manila, most visitors have barely a day or two to spend here that there is that frantic dash to see and go everywhere. And you completely miss the point of Sagada if you do that.

So aside from that walk, my favourite part was that lazy afternoon back at the cottage. I opened the window of the attic where my bed was and I could see the trees outside. I propped my legs up the headboard and started reading my book. I loved how quiet it was, how far away I was from my world, but close enough to be with my friends. I could stay that way for hours and hours.


It was a Saturday when we were there so we went to Sagada Log Cabin for their dinner buffet. Charming place and really good food. The roast pork was to die for. After dinner, we went back to the cottage, opened a bottle of wine that I brought in from the city and talked about everything and nothing. Oh, how I loved those long and easy conversations among friends at night over wine.

Sagada is about taking leisurely walks; it’s about lingering over coffee, or taking 5, or 10 minutes, or an hour more of time under the covers. It’s about taking time out to smell the flowers, literally and figuratively. As for me, I love the smell of pine cones more. It permeates the air in Sagada.



BUT do not discount the travel going there and back because it is just a magical experience as the destination itself. From Manila, we decided to take the Nueva Vizcaya route, with a short stop-over in Banaue. We arrived there at 7am. It was a brief stop, just enough to quickly take in the splendour of the Rice Terraces from the Viewpoint. Although, on the way up to Sagada, you pass through many versions of these rice terraces. It’s a very scenic drive, once you enter the Ifugao province. It’s actually exciting to be driving along the cloud-capped top of the mountains. On the way back to manila, we took the Sagada-Baguio route. If you have to sleep during the trip, do so on the Baguio to Manila leg because the view from Sagada to Baguio is spectacular, spectacular (4-5 hours from Sagada to Baguio and an additional 5 hours from Baguio to Manila). You actually go through the highest point in the Philippine Highway system (7400 feet above sea level).



So yes, the winds of March brought travel. And as for romance part, that’s another story that has yet to be written. What I know for certain is that I will have this on-going love affair with Sagada. When things get crazy, it will be the place in my mind that I can retreat to, and I will imagine the smell of pine cones, the cool weather, the walks, and that fresh air and silence at night that the city could no longer give.

Tips:
Transportation: We rented a van for four days (PhP16,000 inclusive of drivers’ fees, gas, toll, drivers’ accommodations and food). The cost was split among five people and our individual share was only 1thou more than what we would have paid if we had taken the bus. The convenience was worth the added cost. Prepare a playlist. You don’t want to leave it to the driver to choose your music for 24 hours’ drive (back and forth).

Hotel: St. Joseph Inn. We got a charming little cottage. It had two rooms and an attic. 4 double beds. A toilet with a heater that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. It has a table with 4 chairs and a double-seater sofa. . All furniture and the cottage itself were made from pinewood. It was clean and I’d go back there again. Heaps better than being in those other inns where you are in a concrete box. If they could add an electric pot to boil water, coffee cups and teaspoon so guests can just make their own coffee.

The Sumaguing Cave: This is what a non-hiker has to say: it is not for the faint-hearted and those with no sense of balance. Guides tell you it’s difficult, you have to go down slippery rocks. What they don’t tell you is that half of the time you will be going down (and up on the way back) an almost 90 degree cliff with no safety lines and you hold on to rocks for your dear life. One misstep and you are done for. But the other half of the time is also priceless. The most common phrase you’d hear from those who have been there: “I won’t do this again but it was worth it.” (Request for a guide at the inn you are staying at- not all guides is experienced or will inspire confidence)

(This is trip no. 6 of the 37 for 37 Challenge )

Mang Pedring

At 1:36 am, September 12, my dog died.

Yes, a dog. This happened at a time when there are very disturbing events unfolding in the Middle East, East Africa and South Asia over that Anti-Muhammad movie. At a time when news about hundreds of garment workers who died when their factory burned down in Pakistan came out. And a good friend's sister has cancer. Insignificant in the face of these other tragedies, I know. But still.

Mang Pedring came to us in January 2005. And in his 7 years with us, he ran away many times but we would always find him. But there was one particular time when I thought he was lost for good and I told myself I will not cry, I will not grieve, I will reserve my tears for people, for real losses, for real heartbreaks. He is just a dog and I don't even like pets. I cannot even walk down a block because I am afraid of stray dogs. He had been gone more than 24 hours. And I did not shed a tear that whole time but I also did not leave my room until he was found the next day.

And now he is gone and I have cried buckets since, on the train, on the bus, in my hotel room, over breakfast. I am crying not just for a pet but for that girl 7 years ago who cleared out her Mano's room and went home with his books, his clothes, his documents, his things, and his dog. We were both so lost then, Mang Pedring and I.

I did not know how to be a dog owner. And he did not know how to be a normal dog. Call his name and he would run to you but not in a straight line as other dogs do. He would run in small circles, and more small circles until he reached you. It was dizzying to watch. And I figured out why. He was in a cage while my brother was away and that was the only space he knew how to move around in, all 36 inches of it. So when my home became his, he still moved around in that space in his head, 36 inches at a time. His circles became bigger and bigger over time until one day (I don't remember when, maybe a year later)he finally run in a straight line.

He did not eat his food directly from his food container. Instead, he would take pieces of dog food in his mouth, bring it under the dining table, drop the pieces out and eat them one bite at a time. And he would make several trips back and forth until he was done. Oh, and he would only start eating if one of us is already at the dining table.

And for some time he did not bark. He though he was a cat.

And I did not help him find himself (if ever there was such a thing for dogs). I was too lost, too sad. But we made it through, he and I, one small space at a time.

I am also crying for the girls of Matahimik Street (Daryll, Emma & Ruby) who decided he should be named Don Pedrito Garucho Urmeneta or Pedring for short. Blame it on the tanduay. "Mang" is used as a sign of respect for elders and we figured we needed a man of the house so he became Mang Pedring, a very unusual name for a dog. And maybe that's why he was confused- because of his name and because since then I decided to treat him like he was my alcoholic uncle.

Oh, we were young then, the girls and Mang Pedring. A different us, a different world.

I am crying for his caregivers (Nicky, Lorna, the tres Marias, Maica, Mana Adette, Uncle Dodi, Tita Ting, Uncle Joseph and Nanay Patsy). For Emma's mom who refused to call him Mang Pedring but instead called him Peter.

And for my mom, his primary caregiver, who narrated how he was confined and how he died (she told it like he was a real person in the hospital) and on the phone, said, "day, let's not get another dog, please. Makuri hin duro". For my Papa, who would feed him with his favorite tinapay every now and then even when he said we shouldn't and who could not bear to watch him buried. My parents said when I went home recently "we have 3 senior citizens in this house- kami and Mang Pedring".

And I am crying because it's another end to an era.

So no, I don't cry for dogs, I cry for people who loved this dog, of those years, and of a world with Mang Pedring in it.

Before May Ends

(My tribute to all Biological and Un-biological Mothers)


This conversation with my mom started with my very innocuous remark about my curly hair, how I never notice it until hairdressers ask me if my curls are natural, or when I first wake up in the morning. Ngatanan gad kamo, kurong, my mom said.

My mom then jumped from that topic to Hayden Kho, waray man la mag sulibang ko. And how she pities him now. What? Am I hearing what you are saying? And how did we get to Hayden Kho from my hair?

My hair, my brother’s curly hair, Mano her son, Hayden who is now in the news is a son to a mom who has defended him, she would defend her son too, no matter what- that was her logical flow. You follow? From the time I woke up that morning with my untamed hair, we were just one breath away from talking about Mano, the pinakurong among us.

She explained: Hayden is a mother’s son too. And if she were his mother, no matter what he did, no matter how wrong, she would take his side, and she would protect him. Like what Hayden’s mother did. I could have told her that Hayden’s mom got a lot of flak for that. I told my friends this exchange and they asked, but what about Katrina’s mom? I said, that is not the theme that day- for my mom, the mother and son story is the central theme this particular morning. The son who did wrong and the grieving mother. And if Mano were alive and did a Hayden, well she would go on TV and say, nilulong lang siya ng droga ni Katrina. She is funny that way, my mom. I could have laughed but I wanted to cry instead.

So just to clarify, it was not Hayden my mom sided with, she emphatized with Hayden’s mom, just in case the anti-Hayden group set camp outside our house.

But that morning, even before I had my first cup of coffee, my mom had once again shown me what this mother-love thing is all about. In All about my mother, (something I wrote two Mothers’ days ago) I have said all that I could say to pay homage to my mom. And I wondered, would I ever be like her?

*********
My mom’s declaration of unconditional love reminded me of a very indulgent question that only a non-mother like me would ask. I have asked this question over and over again: What if I have a child and I end up not liking him/her? (What if they end up being the over-achiever classmate everyone detested, or the bully, or the airhead I would make fun of? What if she/he does not like books? What if the sound of their voices is irritating? What if? What if?)

Consistently, and without much hesitation, every single one I asked who is a mother said, “that is not possible.” It is impossible for any mother not to like their children.

Of course a non-mother like me would have a little difficulty understanding this statement of seemingly unquestionable fact. But the daughter in me, who is loved by her mom, major flaws and all, somehow gets it.

********

The plan for this trip to Tacloban was I would bring back my cousin’s kids to Manila from their summer vacation. When I arrived, the two now very home-sick kids were waiting for me. The conversation went:

Kuya Shameer: Nanay Jet, sabi ni mama sama kami sa iyo balik Manila basta hindi lang kami makulit.
Me: Ok, basta I only have two rules, don’t call me Nanay Jet if there are single men about and hindi kayo mag poo-po-poo ha…
Kuya Shameer: Bakit, walang toilet?
Me: May bathroom, Pero si Nanay Jet, hindi nag-clean clean ng poopoo, ever…
Ate Lousie: Kasi wala ka children kaya hindi ka naghuhugas ng pwet?

Such insight from a five-year old. Poor kids, they would really have to hold it, if they travel with me.

But motherhood and baby shit have always been inseparable from my mind. When I was a teenager, my mom would always tell me, kung gusto mo magkatae early pa, hala sige, pag-asawa hin temprano. Mom, that was very effective, look at me now.

Now, decades beyond my teenage years, I still panic if these kids, whom I adore and who adores me in return, calls me from the toilet, saying, “tapos na ako”. It’s Mana Adette’s job, she’s a mom, she has no qualms about these things.

In my mind, that is what sets Mothers apart from us the cool titas- this kind of love that makes it ok to wipe the shit off somebody else’s ass. Shet. Pakshet.

*******
So would I be willing to do that? (and more, I know, but in my mind it all starts with dirty diapers)

My brother once said that one has to decide early on whether they want to have children or not, and past a certain age one should not have children anymore (he did not say what age though). I took this to mean that he has already decided not to have kids. I suppose that marker has to do with being at an age where you can still grow with your kids, or play ball with them without getting a heart attack after. I have thought long and hard whether I want to have kids and at some points I said I am cool being the greatest Tita ever (and ask my pamangkins, I am the coolest Tita EVER). Now the only thing that I am certain of is that I do not want that option taken away from me.

Now, I am surrounded by women who badly want to have kids but for many reasons could not just yet. We talk about it sometimes, or we don’t most of the time. But the mere fact that they are already considering being responsible for another life is already remarkable. I will dance a million times in front of the fertility goddess for them if that would help.

********

And then, there are the un-biological moms (dyndyn’s term not mine).

Aimee and Rubylee have long ago started calling each other MA, - just because they could only really depend on each other. Another mother-sister—mother relationship I admire is that of Dyndyn and Baan. They are mothers to each other and mothers to Dantoy.

There’s Mommy Jasmin, who has done a pretty amazing job in raising Jehu, and like any other Mom has already set aside her own dreams and has planned her life around him.

Drey has reluctantly and temporarily assumed the role of the mother while waiting for her mom to wake up from her sleep. Darl recently stood as the mother of the groom but has long ago assumed the role of mother in the Delgado household. In one conversation with Darl and Drey, we concurred that taking on the role of the mom in a mom-centered household is not an easy feat. We may be competent in our jobs, but thrust in the roles that our moms played, we reach a certain level of incompetence on things that our mothers have done so effortlessly.

And so I propose that after Mother’s Day, there should be a day dedicated for all un-biological mothers. Let me bring this up with the Hallmark people, that should be a strong start. Or come up with a contest for Ulirang Hindi Ina. I could go on and on with these ideas (I could hear Weng heave a big sigh, adi naman kamo, nagwinaso-waso na naman) but in the meantime, let me just say: Mothers of all non-mothers, you rock!!

Taxi Drivers and Tracy Chapman

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.

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…

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?

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.