I love airports. It might seem weird for some, but they're the best places to engage in some serious people-watching. And so, instead of engaging in time-killing diversions such as reading or sleeping, I observe everyone else (better off being the observer than the observee).
Found this little list thingy on 43 Things that made me think of all those good times spent (mostly alone) in *eek* 29 airports, international and domestic, where I got the chance to indulge my passion for people-watching: http://www.listsofbests.com/list/12634/compare/HoneyOh
New York on My Mind
In February 2005, flying in from Montego Bay, Jamaica, I arrived at the John F. Kennedy Airport at a little past 11pm, and in the Manhattan apartment we were staying in some time before midnight. After we got settled, my companion suggested we go see Times Square. "It's midnight, won't Times Square be closed?" I asked. "Nope, Times Square never sleeps," he replied. Indeed, standing there, in the changing light of multicolored billboards that shone like a multitude of suns, in the middle of the night, in the heart of winter, it dawned upon me why New York calls itself "the greatest city of the world." Yes, I am home.
Roots
Funny how our homeland always calls us back.
The black American who finds familiar refuge in Africa; the Jew who returns to Israel. The call of the land which nursed our ancestors is much too persuasive to resist, and we migrate, as if through some inner radar, to where our forebears came from.
I just found out a few weeks ago that I am both of Chinese and Japanese ancestry, on my father's and mother's side, respectively. Aside from being of Mexican (and of course Filipino) stock, which I'd known already. This perhaps explains my lifelong attraction to Japanese culture (I used to have an obsession with the Japanese occupation of the Philippines in WWII) and Chinese food. And, come to think of it, Mexican movies.
But my most recent "callback" is from the Cordilleras, home to my ancestors and to wbich I've recently returned. It's odd; two dear friends who have accompanied me on my trips up to BC appear to be considering making the place one of their bases as well. And, guess what, turns out that both of them have the Cordilleras in their blood: my Anak, like me, has Abra; CC's ancestors are from BC too. Hmm. And to think our ascendants came all the way to Manila for a "better life." No worries though, we're on our way to setting everything right.
A Crowd Favorite
Baguio City's Session RoadMen's Health Philippines, June 2006 ed.
It’s no Ayala Avenue or Roxas Boulevard, but Baguio City’s most prominent thoroughfare could rival the busiest Manila street in terms of pedestrian traffic alone, not to mention mastodonic vehicular snarls. The renowned urban planner Daniel J. Burnham, tasked with developing a health resort town for overheating American colonizers, drew up plans for this mountain city with a population of 25,000 in mind: a century later it seems that 25,000 people are walking up or down Session Road on any given day, at almost any given hour. Considering that it hardly spans a kilometer from end to end, that’s quite a crowd for a normal day in the City of Pines – an experience definitely not for the agoraphobic!
According to Attorney Pablito Sanidad, National Chairman of the Free Legal Assistance Group (FLAG) and longtime Baguio resident, Session Road derives its name from the fact that it used to lead up to the old Baden-Powell Hall, where the Philippine Commission held its sessions from April 22 to June 11, 1904. Hardly surprising that the Islands’ Governor General Luke Wright and the rest of the Commissioners chose to escape the capital’s heat during the summer of 1904, and that Baguio City’s main artery of commercial activity would forever bear testament to the historic legislative and executive sessions that took place at the top of the incline.
A marker by what is now the Baden-Powell Inn, right beside the numerous bus terminals on Governor Pack, now stands as the only visible evidence that anything of remote historical significance ever took place on Session Road. Nowadays, the only sessions that regularly take place in the vicinity are the jam sessions at Ayuyang, a favorite watering hole of reggae, folk, and indigenous Filipino music fans and artists alike – on a good night you can catch local legends like Joey “Pepe” Smith and Joey Ayala performing to an appreciative Baguio audience (or just being part of it).
Of course, there are also the bingo sessions on the uppermost level of SM Baguio, which looms imposingly over Session, and the entirety of the city for that matter: its newest and most conspicuous landmark is perhaps a slightly perturbing allegory of modern day life and times in the City of Pines.
At least it took a good deal of the attention away from the monstrosity that is the concrete pine tree at the top of Session, which serves as a vehicular rotunda as well as an incomprehensible waste of money, time, and cement; it’s so ugly it cannot even be looked at as charmingly kitsch.
Fortunately, honest-to-goodness art still manages to make its mark, even on Session; after all, Baguio City is well-known for being a haven of artists – apparently the comfortable climate is conducive to creativity. Session’s sidewalks, if you look closely, are peppered with works of art – mosaics of scrap glazed tiles painstakingly assembled in place of erstwhile potholes by Kawayan de Guia and other city-based artists.
De Guia’s artistic inclinations are not unexpected: he is the son of celebrated alternative filmmaker Kidlat Tahimik (of the prominent Baguio City de Guia clan), who in turn is the nephew of the late Victor Oteyza, one of the country’s pioneering modernists. VOCAS (an acronym for the “Victor Oteyza Community Art Space”) on the sixth floor of the family-owned La Azotea Building was put up in Oteyza’s honor – it is probably the single most astonishing establishment on Session. The 19th-century capiz window exteriors of La Azotea, as well as the hodgepodge of commercial tenants occupying its lower floors, give no indication that the cavernous penthouse up a flight of rickety hardwood stairs is a jaw-dropping art installation that can only perhaps be described as a Cordillera Neverland, or what it would look like if Peter Pan were an Ibaloi tribesman. As if the place weren’t enough of an attraction in itself, VOCAS also features art and photo exhibits, a vegetarian restaurant, Oh My Gulay! as well as a great balcony view of the streets of BC.
Sometimes the art on Session is the building itself: some structures remain architectural masterpieces despite the disasters wrought by nature and man. Session Road was devastated in the course of the hostilities of the Second World War, and new structures rose up from the ruins, some better-looking than others. The relatively new, Cruz-owned Puso ng Baguio building is an interesting combination of Baroque and Victorian architecture, with a touch of the owners’ colorful Bulacan whimsy. The Antipolo Building reminds one of Quiapo’s 1920-inspired edifices, and is still in pretty good shape, which is more than can be said for a good portion of the infrastructure along Session. Unfortunately, just like Quiapo, some parts of historic Session have gone the thrift-shop route: art deco meets
ukay-ukay.If old clothes don’t catch your fancy, then perhaps old haunts will – Session Road’s nostalgic staples are still there, for the most part: the unassuming Luisa’s Café, a favorite haunt of prominent personalities; Star Café and Restaurant, famous for its
pansit canton and freshly baked soft cinnamon rolls; and Rumours Bar, which was a popular night-time destination in the ‘80s and is apparently still very much in business.
“Newer” kids on the block, which seem to be steadily maintaining popularity with Session Road habitues, are Pizza Volante, at the old Session Theater, known for its long hours and excellent fare; Bruno’s Café and Restaurant (102 Session Road), which provides an unimpeded front-row view of the sidewalk cavalcade and is popular with the non-Filipino crowd; and the multitude of establishments at the deceptively one-dimensional Porta Vaga.
Prudence would dictate that Session Road and its chaotic crowds best be avoided – the Baguio City experience would be all the more pleasant without having to travel through the throngs. Then again, without a few times traversing the length and height of Session, the Baguio City experience wouldn’t be quite the same. After all, those 25,000 people on Session Road at any one time, at almost any given hour, couldn’t
all possibly be wrong.
Exploring Half-Understood Desires
"You're coming to realize that travel anywhere is often a matter of exploring half-understood desires. Sometimes, those desires lead you in new and wonderful directions; other times, you wind up trying to understand just what it was you desired in the first place. And, as often as not, you find yourself playing the role of charlatan as you explore the hazy frontier between where you are, who you are, and who it is you might want to be." - Rolf Potts,
Tantric Sex for Dilettantes (It's really not what you think. Uh, judge for yourself.)
Ça vaut le voyage
This piece was commissioned by Real Living for an upcoming issue. Ironically, however, I find myself committed to a growing number of projects that require me to be in Manila for the next several weeks. But I shall sneak a trip back up to BC very soon. Mark my words. *Boohoo!*Living BCMy epiphany came in the strangest of places. Fresh off a bumpy, dusty, five-hour bus trip from Sagada, bearing two backpacks that seemed to weigh a ton and a half, in the midst of a stifling throng of thousands of marketgoers – and suddenly, I knew that I was home. I was so stupidly happy at the realization that I could have walked the entire distance from the Baguio market terminal to the steep inclines of Mirador Hill, just off Naguilian Road.
Ça vaut le voyage! Arriving here – arriving home - was well worth the long metaphorical trip.
A Manila friend and fellow “BC” enthusiast remains fascinated at how Baguio’s residents all seem to be perenially in a good mood – and who wouldn’t be? The climate is comfortable, the community is inspiring, you’ve got all the conveniences of the city – with the Philippine Cordilleras, home to my forebears, as a backdrop. Quite the difference from the other “BC” I’ve called home since I was knee-high: Barangay Culiat, Quezon City.
Instead of bolting out of bed in an airconditioned bedroom purposely curtained-off from the sounds and scents of Tandang Sora traffic, I now wake up to birds serenading the hills in the early morning. I can afford to get out of bed extremely slowly, unperturbed by the usual metropolitan noises, watching sleepily through picture windows as sun languorously makes its way up into the cornflower-blue sky. From the very first week I started “living BC,” I’ve reveled in the relative lack of metropolitan urgency that I’d become so accustomed to (as if anyone could ever get accustomed to a constant state of drowning). My usual routine is to wake up with the sun, spend a generous amount of time in morning prayer, make breakfast, and decide what to do for the rest of my day. With a lot more time on my hands and a lot less “noise” than I’m regularly used to, I accomplish so much more, even having time left over to tap into long dormant reservoirs of hidden talents and interests that have been pushed to the far back of the proverbial shelf by the savage day-to-day demands of a vicious urban jungle.
“Baguio does that to you,” my friend and fellow Baguio-phile Carina told me lately. One’s creativity is amp’ed to record levels: on the first night of my first-ever writing retreat, poetry poured out of my head and heart onto my pen and pad like never before. “Never before” being the operative phrase, as I do
not write poetry. Or
did not write poetry, to be more precise. Just like I once did not do some things that even I am surprised to find myself now doing – playing the guitar, working with oil pastels, making mosaic murals, acquiring an interest in gardening (!) - Baguio really does stimulate the left hemisphere of the brain and inspire you to courageously reconnoiter strange creative territories.
Which is probably the reason why a number of artists have chosen to make BC their home: best-selling painter BenCab (Ben Cabrera); renowned sculptor and art pedagogue, Benhur Villanueva, together with his talented family that includes multimedia artist Bumbo and photographer Marney; BC native and émigré from Germany, filmmaker Kidlat Tahimik and his own family of artists; another Baguio local, Cordillera photographer Tommy Hafalla; and even Pinoy rock legend Joey “Pepe” Smith, to name-drop a few. In the first month alone of living here, I met many former lowlanders who have uprooted themselves from the madness of Metro Manila and found their place in this mountain town. Bliss Café’s Jim Ward, for instance, worked around the world before finally finding his groove as a BC vegetarian restauranteur; Grace Calleja runs a dimsum franchise at SM Baguio and one of the BC universities; the Missionaries of the Sacred Heart of Jesus’ (Sr. Patricia is from New York and Sr. Romy from Portugal) streetchildren apostolate is here. Even my next-door neighbors are originally from Marikina. To the last person, every single one of these BC converts told me that they have absolutely no regrets of moving out of crowded Manila and moving up to BC. Even as one of BC’s newest residents, I can easily say that, at this point, neither have I.
Perhaps I share many of their reasons for choosing to live here, but I have many more reasons of my own. The move was bound to happen sooner or later, considering all the time I’ve spent in the Cordilleras - Benguet, Mountain Province, my maternal home province Abra - much more so in the last year or so, with BC as a hub. BC itself is a city of great memories, a trove of reminescences starring those near and dear to me, with whom I’ve shared quality time in Baguio over the decades and into the new millenium. Some of these dear and silly friends have twitted me about likening my BC relocation to moving into my first apartment in Paris, but the experience is so similar in many ways that I’ve chosen a Parisian-apartment/Moulin Rouge (on hash?) meets Session Road theme in renovating the house. BC mornings are crisp and chilly, with sunny afternoons – especially in the hilly area where I live – punctuated by foggy interludes that cool the air, just like a good day during a Parisian spring. And BC is also a great walking town, never mind the doggy poo that you have to constantly watch out for, especially in my neighborhood. And of course, BC has the best market, hands down, of any I’ve seen or experienced in this country. I could spend the whole day in it, just like I spent many hours dreamily lost in the Sunday Bastille
marche or the smaller weekday Mouton Duvernet market in my 14ème neighborhood. For a fraction of Manila’s (or Paris’!) prices, I can carry away my dinner of skewered meat or fish hot-off-the-grill, newly harvested vegetables in season, succulent strawberries by the kilo, and, my favorite indulgence: armfuls of freshly picked flowers. The Parisian comparison is not so superficial after all; but this time, with my own Cordillera Ilocano ancestry, I can actually talk the talk. And, unlike Paris, or any of the many other places I thought I’d settle down in, Baguio City truly feels like home.
I’m living, and loving BC – it’s Baguio City, Back to the Cordilleras for me.
The Touristing Traveler
Breakfast came in a brown paper wrapper, as pleasantly warm as the smile of the elderly man who came knocking on my hotel room door at such an unholy hour. Or so I thought; it was actually already 8:00 in the morning, a fact that could be attested to only by my trusty timepiece, considering that the lack of any windows in the room or its vicinity ensured pitch darkness once the lights were switched off.
The lack of windows was the least of my travel companions’ many complaints: the rooms were too cramped, not to mention the bathrooms – which were technically toilets with a shower, just like one of those little cubicles in a cruise ship’s cabin. The walls were too thin, the location too far removed from the city center, the surrounding establishments suspiciously a little too seedy, especially after dusk. And, horror of horrors, breakfast was not the huge buffet they were accustomed to, but instead a sorry (but extremely delectable) package of steaming fried Hokkien
mee with a side of
sambal belacan and a carton of commercial orange juice. For this particular vacation, accomodations were far from opulent, a situation initially decried – albeit a little more goodnaturedly than I expected – at every other opportunity. Then again, things could not be helped: the booking had been made at the very last minute, just when there was a huge food and beverage summit in town, and we were extremely lucky to get accomodations at all. Even if they happened to be in the remote East Coast area. And so my traveling companions, who take far fewer trips than I do in any given year and holiday even more infrequently, laudably bore the incommodities in high spirits.
The last international trip I took with my family was to Hong Kong, right before the hand-over in 1997. Scratch that - I think it was in fact the Bangkok excursion in 1999 to visit the Thai branch of the family, but that time around it was an all-girl excursion. After that, I took on more countries, continents, and the rest of the Philippines and the world mostly on my own or in the company of my peers. But never again with family members. Being around people one dearly loves, in alien surroundings, is one of the most stressful scenarios imaginable. Familiarity truly breeds contempt, especially in foreign climes, and especially with family members – mainly because you’re bound together permanently by bloodline and therefore have the license to violently feud with each other any time, at any place, without fear of major estrangement. Which is why I begged off from the last family trip to Shenzhen, China (to which I’d already been with my friends Neil and Jules), two years ago, and declined to join my parents’ US coast-to-coast adventure last year.
But this year, since my little sister was on a rare vacation from her medical fellowship in the US, I was “mandated” to keep her – and the parents – company on a short out-of-the-country trip. Not that I had to be hogtied and tortured to go, because, after all, wanderlust will jump at the slightest opportunity to explore unfamiliar territories (which is why some of us are aptly called “wandersluts”). I thrilled at the thought of Beijing and Shanghai – the original travel itinerary – and even did my research, learned some Mandarin, secured a Chinese visa. But,
zaogao! Honorable travel agent made booboo and botched up China plans, constraining family to take other less desirable course.
Which is how I found myself in the colorful Peranakan district on the East Coast of Singapore. Except for a transit through Changi Airport en route to Kuala Lumpur a few years back, I’d never been to Sing – never really was inclined to go. The funny thing is that my friend CC was very recently talking about visiting Singapore and actually considering moving there, but I didn’t think for a moment that I would ever go. But there I was. On eek! – for shame – a package tour.
Now don’t get me wrong. Package tours are da bomb. Cheap airfare, cheap board and lodging, free airport transfers and breakfast – those things rock. But I’ve never quite fit into the tourist mold, and I think I will never, ever again be one of those stickered group excursionists hanging on to every word out that comes out of the tour guide’s mouth. I suppose it’s because I don’t find it very pleasant to travel in a herd – I’ve found that you miss out on a lot of the most important things that await to be seen and experienced. Independent travel is more of my bag: you get to linger at your own pace, explore hidden nooks and crannies, interact with the locals and your fellow travelers on a different level. And yet, on this Singapore trip, after so many years of independent backpacking and traveling all around the world, I found myself at the mercy of the dynamics that make up a package tour, compulsory “city tour” and all. Shudder.
One of the things I abhor – nay, the thing I
MOST ABHOR, about tours like this is that there will always,
ALWAYS be one person in the group who will annoy the very last ounce of patience out of you. In a matter of half a morning. She/he is overly loquacious, making unwelcome comments and know-it-all remarks, and just being downright irritating. This trip was no different – I wanted to chuck the annoyance into the Singapore River every time she opened her very undiplomatic, politically incorrect, nonsensical mouth. Grrrr. She made me ashamed to be a Filipino!
These are the things about touring that I find difficult to abide. Then again, I am blessed with the opportunity to travel more than the average person, and to make a living out of it - whereas most tourists are hardworking people who need breaks from the world and deserve a little more pampering than what they’re normally used to. The average tourist pays top dollar to enjoy and be entertained – to engage in diversions that will temporarily distract one from the humdrum worries and cares of every day. While the traveler curiously attempts to scratch through the surface and acculturate himself to the local lifestyle, the tourist is, for the most part, just passing through, trying to hedonistically squeeze the best sensations out of a once-in-a-lifetime experience, patronizing theme parks and engaging in “I-was-there” photo-ops. The tourist stays on the beaten track and tries to check off the must-sees, must-dos and must-eats on the guidebook list; the traveler wanders far off the track to create entire new experiences that he may or may not want to recommend.
“Touristing” can be a pleasant thing, to some extent – especially because of its convenience and comforts. But “traveling,” or how I define it at least, brings a lot more satisfaction – to me, at least – because it tests character, independence, and introduces, in a very real sense, a lot more adventure into one’s life. Except for the one and a half hour that I had to myself exploring Joo Chiat and its architectural and cultural marvels, I didn’t play my usual role as traveler on this particular expedition, something that’s left quite an amount of frustration in my system. Then again, Singapore is but a JetStar/Tiger Air flight away, and, without the benefit of a booked tour or confirmed hotel accomodations, is just another travel adventure waiting to happen. But first, there’s the matter of an unused Chinese visa that needs to be addressed…
