Answers

We live our lives searching for some answers. They come in various forms and various disguises depending on the questions we ask

Some come piecemeal as if pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, others come whole, blatant and crystal clear.

Some come at unexpected times, others never seem to come at all – or perhaps they had but we never acknowledged them.

Some answers are so surprisingly simple we failed to notice they have been there all along. Most remain elusive - only the patient eventually find them.

Some answers are comforting we find refuge in them, others are so painful we summon the courage to embrace them.

Some seek answers for contentment. Others for enlightenment. Still others for liberation.

Lucky are the ones who ask and get to receive their answers early on. Sad for those who spend an eternity chasing for their own answers.

But nothing can be more tragic than for those who spend their lifetime seeking and eventually finding the answers, only to realize upon looking back that they have asked the wrong questions.

Part Diz

There’s no better analogy the way Mike has aptly put it - if New York city is a fun guy to be with, San Francisco is a beautiful lady. And my what a beautiful lady, San Francisco turned to be.

The last leg of my journey before I head back home.

Although I was still booked in an airport hotel, the trip this time to downtown was much faster and convenient. Save for a pathetic name – The BART ( Bay Area Rapid Transit) proved to be an efficient ride.

I was not set to meet my two batchmates in the area until the next day so I spent the early part of the evening roaming around the Fisherman’s wharf. The Cable car ride was not to be missed. I really enjoyed the ride since the streets in the area were very steep. I passed by the Ghirardelli square- VJ told me that the chocolates there were heavenly – so I bought several bars for the folks back home.

The following morning I left my stuff first at the stock room after checking out. I roamed once again the streets surrounding the Fisherman’s wharf. This time I walked from the train station to the wharf and casually took photos along the way. Had a glimpse of Alcatraz and a quick tour of the city on a double deck bus.

At 5 pm my Pisay batchmates Jand and Pat came by to pick me up at the hotel. We went to a nearby village and had a sumptuous treat of Japanese food.

Jand was the most religious guy I’ve met during my freshman year- always praying intently before and after his meals. He moved to the US after high school. I always thought he would make a brilliant priest. The next time I saw him (which was in college when he bunked in with my roommate Daj, another batchmate), Jand was casually flipping the pages of Penthouse.

Pat still had the devil-may-care attitude when it comes to expressing herself. The only vivid thing I remember about her was a Pinoy group practice held in Biology room. We were groupmates for a radio play of Arriverderci, during our sophomore year; she pushed the wrong button of the cassette player and shouted “Ay p*keng malaki”. I used to be shocked back then.

We were never really close in High school –each one had his own clique- but somehow having been exposed to the stress of the science high school environment we realized we had a lot in common. We had a bond that cannot be denied.

Our topics, ranging from the cerebral to down right kababawan, revolved on the very thing that bound us - our 4-year stay in Pisay.

I found it amusing how a single line from an obscure play – “Them’s not spiders dearie, them’s people, little people, hexed people” - can quite suddenly zoom us back in time. We talked as if we haven’t aged a bit. The conversation was very fruitful that Jand even got a thesis topic from the discussion – “why girls always fall for bad guys”

And then before we knew it was time for me to go.

On the way to the airport, Jand and Pat tempted with the idea of making a crazy move – stay there as “TNT”. Well I can’t say I did not consider the thought….

But then again I said to myself there’s always a proper time for everything.

Maybe next time around, I would stay there for good.

But right now, my heart lies where my home is.

A bite of the Big Apple (part sept)

A heavy downpour greeted me, as if to assert the weather’s inherent unpredictability, on the Friday morning I checked out of Connecticut Hotel. Just when the personal leg of my journey was starting, Mother Nature was showing its overwhelming support. Great.

Fortunately a few hours later, the grey swirls of clouds retreated, the rain petered out and my hope of having a swell time in the Big Apple – earlier dashed by the downpour- came back as quickly as it had gone out.

With tons of office work waiting back home, I only had a day; -definitely not enough time to have a taste of the Big Apple -but the vision of my boss giving me the basilisk look, the kind that would put to shame Lord Voldermort’s lethal stare, made the idea of a hastily extended vacation unpalatable.

I arrived at the NY airport hotel around 10 am and was greeted by the devastating news that the check in time was at 4pm. What the *&*^%%^. I’ve heard of check in times as late as 2pm. But 4 pm???, you gotta be kidding me. It was the normal check in time all over the city, I was told. Oh great, thanks for telling me that now.

Fortunately the hotel manager allowed me to leave my stuff at their warehouse. With my luggage secured (i.e. squeezed in an inconspicuous corner of a cramped sundries room), I was free to roam around the city. Clock was hitting 12, when I got back downtown. On hindsight I should have checked in instead in a downtown hotel.

The rest of the day passed like a blur. The twists and turns of the New York subway were more confusing than I had earlier thought; a big chunk of my time was eaten up deciphering the routes. Twice I boarded off at the wrong station. It didn’t help that I was foolishly proud enough not to ask for directions.

With my ever-reliable MP3 player and killer shades, I gallivanted through the stretch of Sixth Avenue, gawked at the looming edifices, browsed through thrift shops, and despite lingering thoughts of muggers lurking nearby, scampered through the dimly-lit alleys, dousing off the persistent fear that I might end up in the operating table of a CSI analyst or in a tubful of ice minus my kidney and pancreas.

My digestive organs were not as adventurous; for lunch, instead of having a taste of the famous Manhattan hotdogs by the stands, I decided to settle for a McBland, Mctasteless Big Mac Meal. It was at that rare moment, that I craved for Chickenjoy despite the annoyingly pacute Aga Muhlach as its endorser.

It finally hit me that I was not Superman (despite the obvious resemblance, ..cough cough). The itinerary I originally set would have rendered any mortal exhausted. Grudgingly, I crossed out the Metropolitan Museum and the Boat trip to Staten Island from my things to do and instead spent the afternoon at the Rockefeller area.

I passed by the infamous “Museum of Sex”. It was not as controversial as I expected it to be but it was nonetheless informative and entertaining. A smattering of contraptions -stuff that Marques de Sade’s dreams are made of - were proudly displayed in one level, definitely not for the prude and the weak-hearted. I remembered Gil Grissom’s line to Madame Heather “I find all deviant behavior fascinating, in that to understand our human nature, we have to understand our aberrations.”

My trip to the Top of the Rock was the highlight of the tour. The elevator ride offered a thrilling view as we zoomed to the top. Just as exciting as the ride up, the view on top didn’t disappoint me. Skyscrapers I only got to see in the opening scenes of CSI NY were suddenly right there in front of my very eyes. Alive. It couldn’t get any more real that that.

I definitely had to have a photo with the Empire State building at the background. I befriended some tourists by offering to take their photos (with their cams of course). Quid pro quo they returned the favor by taking my shot.

I headed back to the hotel at 5 pm for I had an appointment with NY-based relatives at 7. At the subway while I was peering over the map, an old man approached me.

“ Can I help you young man ?”

He was probably in his early sixties, graying hair, decently dressed. He had an umbrella in one hand which he used as a cane when he walked. Something about his features reminded me of the actor that played Jim Phelps in Mission Impossible. Although he limped, there was an air of dignified dapperness in the way he walked.

Hesitantly I answered. Yeah I am headed for Jamaica station and was wondering which train to take.

I am headed that way. You can take the train I’m taking.

A stranger in the NY subway offering for help would probably raise some internal alarms. It didn’t help that I had some preconceived notions of New Yorkers being haughty and inhospitable people. After all this was a fast-paced city, and people here would never stop for a moment to get out of their way to help someone.

I couldn’t bank on my gaydar either; oftentimes screwed up and pathetically calibrated, someone would already be hitting on me before I would have an idea of what’s going on.
But something told me, (probably my inclination to believe in the goodness of others) that this man just wanted to help, pure and simple, with no ulterior motives.

I took his train. For the next 45 minutes or so, we exchanged stories. For that brief span of time, I got a glimpse of his world, he got a glimpse of mine. He would have never thought I was a Filipino if I hadn’t told him. Yes he knew some Filipinos in his work and found them to fun-loving and hard-working people. He had a house in San Francisco but was working in NY as Vice President of a bank. He recounted his days in the Vietnam War and mourned the loss of his comrades. Somehow I noticed a woebegone expression, as he talked about his kids who were all grown up (as if everything happened in a blink) and now living on their own.
Despite the setting, it felt as if we were on a lake and he was teaching me how to fish.

Before he boarded off the train, we exchanged business cards and he wished me the best.

As the train doors were closing I somehow felt some pang of loss, the kind that you feel when two friends part ways at the inevitable end of a journey. For a moment, I hoped that our paths would cross again, but knowing life, it seemed a remote possibility.

I realized there’s a gem in the saying that you can be with someone for 30 years, yet still remain acquaintances, and be with someone for 30 minutes and remain friends for a lifetime.

In this whirligig called life, I am just thankful that occasionally we meet such persons albeit briefly, who make the journey more meaningful.

The Flight Out (part neuf)

My flight to San Francisco the following day was at 11 am. As always, there was no opportunity for serendipity. It had seemed to be an unlucky ride. Although I got a window seat, I got seated next to a frail seventy-ish lady who I suspect has a severe respiratory problem. Her coughs were loud, incessant and deep like her ribs were hollow.
She kept on coughing so forcefully I wouldn’t have been surprised if her dentures or esophagus shot out of her mouth.
Something did shoot out. It was probably Quaker oats she had for breakfast. Good thing she managed to catch the vomit deftly in her handkerchief- not deft enough though to hide the sight from me. I stared at the window and tried to forget what I saw. “Oh boy, it’s gonna be a looooong flight to San Fo”
Her white gnarled hands reminded me of my Lola Olive. I still have vivid memories of my Lola’s hands when she gave me her rosary. The same hands that used to clutch a white hanky which she also used as her improvised wallet; bills neatly folded, secured by two square knots
The hanky of the old lady beside me contained something else. And the thought of it and the long flight ahead made me uneasy.
During our ascent she started out a conversation. She was from Kansas. I told her I was from the Philippines. I did not bother asking how she ended up taking a San Fo Flight from New York. Normally I would have lots of follow up questions to keep the ball rolling but I was half-tired, half-squeamish. Somehow the old lady felt that I was uninterested so the talk ended up abruptly. I decided to browse through the magazines to alleviate the air of uncomfortable silence (save for the occasional coughing).
When the plane steadied and the seat belt signs were off, I stood up and checked out for vacant seats. Great ! Our flight was only half-full; there were plenty of vacancies in the middle. The old lady’s companion, a lady probably in her forties- a caretaker maybe- occupying the aisle seat, somehow read my thoughts and understood my predicament. “ It’s alright young man. You can transfer anytime”. I excused myself from the old lady and clutched my jacket. As I was easing out of our row she threw me a question. “From which part of the Philippines are you?”
“I am from the Philippines” And my mind was like “Yeah, like an old lady from Kansas would have an idea of the places in the Philippines”
“Yeah I already know that. I mean which place? Like Manila for instance”
I was somehow surprised that she knew something about the Philippines, more that it just being a country in the Far East. (Yeah, I know it’s rather mean of me to have underestimated her). It would have taken a lot longer if I told her “ I actually grew up in Antique an island in the Visayas blah blah” so I just said “Yeah I’m from Manila”
I just had to get out of there. And fast.
But then for the first time I stared into her eyes and held her gaze for a moment. She had a deep and penetrating look and it was welling with sadness. There was something about it that tugged the depths of my soul.
What was she conveying? What was it that I saw? What was it that struck me? Sorrow? Pain? Fear? Longing?
Was she afraid of her impending death?
Was she crying for her unbearable loneliness, the kind that you feel when you’ve lost a loved one?
Was she pleading for companionship, like when you’re lost, alone and cut-off from the world ?
Was it really sorrow in her eyes that I saw or maybe it was my own sorrow reflected?
I did consider going back to my seat. For some strange reasons I felt pity to the lady. But I was already on my way and I disliked the idea of appearing foolishly ambivalent.
I transferred to the middle section of the plane where everything was peaceful. I could have easily taken my respite. Yet the pleading look from the old lady haunted me.
There she was, lonely, afraid, longing for a kind soul to talk to and I, the one person who could have made things easier for her, abandoned her.
I felt at that instant that I was the meanest person on earth.

Die Hard in New York (Part huit)

“Die Hard” was a term coined back from Pisay days. We refer it jokingly to players who would exert their last ounce of effort to save the ball – never mind if you dive like a kamikaze, go skittering across the pavement, and risk breaking a limb, if it all meant saving a single yet crucial point for the team.



By all means, I was making my NY stay the “die hard” way. Time was the enemy and any moment spent resting is precious time lost. By the time I got back to the hotel, my entire body was already protesting and craving to rest. The comfort of the soft pillow, the wooly blanket and the cold blast of the aircon was sooooo tempting you could have Anna Nicole Smith naked in there and I would still opt to have a long and deep slumber. After all when push comes to shove, sleep comes first in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
But I promised my Tita Acay Remy that I would pass by their place. It was in Mushulu Parkway which was on the other side of New York City and it meant going back downtown again. (Damnit, next time never book in an airport hotel). I was almost tempted to cancel the appointment- I was too damn exhausted.
But the other side of me thought that I rarely get the opportunity to meet my relatives in New York, whereas I could have all the rest and sleep I want back in the Philippines. (I am glutton when it comes to sleeping.)
So I did it the Die Hard” way and headed back to downtown at 7 pm. There was only one train exchange which was convenient as I was dozing off the entire time. As the train was approaching to Moshulu parkway, which was at the near end of the Bronx area, I noticed during my torpid state, that the passenger skin tones became darker and darker.
I’ve heard lots of crime stories in the Bronx ( the Tondo version of New York) so I was really wary when I boarded off the station. The site was an awful mess really -skewed turnstiles, busted phone booths, dimly lit stairways, graffiti on walls, stench of urine and alcohol – the typical NY subway crime scene you get to see in movies. I ran as fast as I could and only stopped when I saw a well-lit convenience store with a phone booth a block away from the station.
My Tito Bubot picked me up. Their place was a little bit cramped but I was somehow amazed that they were able to fit all their butingtings in the apartment. You know, the usual Pinoy accoutrements- an altar, Sto. Nino, a painting of the last supper, souvenir items from long forgotten weddings and debuts, photo albums.
Tito Bubot and Tita Acay Remy used to be teachers in my hometown and had moved to the Big Apple about a decade ago in search for the American Dream. They are third degree cousins of my mother. Tita Acay Belen, another relative was staying with them. My mom and the 2 Tita Acays were co-teachers in my Alma Mater. I was quite amused to recall that these Tita Acays were the two teachers I feared most – their strictness was well known among my schoolmates. Hell, I could still even recall the two instances Tita Acay Belen scolded me in class.
How quaint, my elementary years were sandwiched by two terror teachers: Tita Acay Remy, kindergarten; Tita Acay Belen, grade 6. Never would I have ever imagined when I was in Elementary that I would someday be having dinner with them in New York City.
A feast they served and how - crabs, prawns, tuna, chicken- it almost felt like I was back home eating at Kamayan restaurant. The trip was well worth it. Tita Acay explained that it’s almost like the Philippines there with all the ingredients of typical Filipino food available and reasonably priced.
We exchanged stories. I gave them updates of the hometown happenings. They recounted their tales – the difficulties they had to go through until finally getting the sought-after green card. In true Filipino fashion, they gave some pasalubong for the folks back home. It was almost midnight when they drove me back to the hotel
And so came the end of my New York journey. I was just happy to finally get some shut-eye.
In the movie Die Hard, Bruce Willis saves the world, kills the bad guys and gets the girl.
In my life story, at least in this episode, there’s no world to save, no bad guys to kill, no girl to get. But at least, the good guy, after a long and tiring yet eventful journey, gets to have the rest he well deserved. That I guess makes a good happy ending for now.