Island Blues

Puerto Princesa's Baywalk


We had just arrived in Puerto Princesa after a couple of days in Bohol, and after a kinda rough start, I thought the worst was over and that my parents understood the types of things I wanted to do. Not saying that everything we do had to be this out-of-control-let’s-jump-out-of-planes type of thing, but if it had a lot to do with practically going into mini zoos to look at tarsiers and pythons and other caged animals, that you could count me out. As I said, I thought we were past that.

Nope.

We got to this sweet hotel, and that afternoon we left for the city tour. First stop: the crocodile farm. F, man. What the heck. Whatever. So I grin and bear it. But then where do we go? Basically, it was a luxury prison. Frick on a stick. Can’t I catch a break? We stay there for a little, wait while my mom decides what she wants to buy, from the inmates there, and we finally make it out. The prison grounds were actually quite beautiful. Kinda reminded me of Shashank Remdemption, because it had a library and recreation center. I’m pretty sure those prisoners were livin’ better than most of the population.

So I’m already irritated, to say the least. We stop by this club house with a beautiful view, then Baker's Hill, where there were lots of restaurants and a garden (which I walked through.. quickly), then we DROVE past the local street market, through the city’s Baywalk, and past some other parks and this cute, old cathedral. We stopped, alas, at this indoor market.

Seriously?

I come to this island that everyone says is so beautiful, and my first few hours I go to a crocodile farm, and a prison? Are these the pictures I’m gonna bring back, and is this what I’m supposed to tell my friends? There isn’t much I can do to embellish these stories. I think that would just be called lying. You could wrap poop with flower petals, but it’s still poop.

Maybe it’s the way I like to travel. I like touristy things, but not like this. There’s an art to travelling. There’s a way to become a part of the town you’re in; to become more than a spectator. I hated sitting in that van, looking at this city through the glass. I wanted to be dropped off at that outdoor market, and walk to the bay and wander along the boardwalk.

I was not happy (lightly put).

I just wanted to go to bed. The sooner I went to sleep, the sooner I’d wake up to a new day. That Underground River better live up to the hype.

Come In With the Rain

Bohol, Philippines


I never really understood why people loved rain so much. Sure, it's a great excuse to stay inside and have a movie marathon, or read a good book. But most of the time, it's pretty annoying. And afterwards, it makes the air heavy and sticky. And all you can smell is sizzling asphalt. Like I said, I never really understood why people loved rain so much.

Until now.

It's difficult to describe how the rain in the Philippines feels so different. It doesn't feel like an inconvenience like it does in the city. Maybe it's because it's still so undeveloped by modern society standards, largely untouched by big businesses and huge skyscrapers. You understand that it's just a part Mother Nature's course. You accept it. And appreciate it.

I totally get it now.

It's cooling. It brings in such a sweet breeze, that you can hear weaving through the trees. And the sound it makes it when it falls on those trees, and the pitter patter on the leaves of the roof; it's soothing. Like Mother Nature singing you her lullaby. And the smell.. refreshing in way that makes you feel renewed. And you feel like everything around you has been given a little more life.

It's beautiful.

Life Beneath the Nipa Hut

Lumban, Laguna, Philippines


We had spent the first couple of days in Manila, and after we attended service at Templo, we left for Pagsanjan, Laguna, the province that my dad is from; the town I adored so much that I spent three years in a row going there when I was in 4th, 5th and 6th grade. I didn’t care too much about seeing the rest of the country. The river, my family, and the friends I made there were enough for me. I spent hours in the river, catching tadpoles, jumping off logs, or eating lunch on banana leaves with my feet dangling in the water. Some days, my titos would take me up a couple of rapids to cool off, or we would sneak into the lodge where there were pools of hot spring water, and when the occasion called for it, we’d go all the way up the river to see the falls.

More than a decade later, the river looks the same, but the roads seem smaller. The room I stayed in seems bare. The little hut by the side of the house where we’d all sit and hang out is still there, but surely no one’s used it in while. You can see the watermarks on the front of my dad’s old house from when it flooded, about nine feet up. And it makes me wonder how this little old town is still standing after all of these years. And what’s more impressive is that the furniture in my dad’s house is exactly the same as what he grew up with. You look around and wonder how in the world someone let me wander these streets when I was 11 or 12. Then you decide that it’s not like I would’ve let anyone tell me different. (At least that much hasn’t changed.)

The friends I made have children and are married, and have been replaced by their younger siblings and those baby cousins that were only one or two when I was there last. Different but the same. Most of my titos and titas haven’t aged a bit, and they welcome us back with wide arms and the best food ever. And every few minutes I had to turn away because I seemed to always be on the verge of crying.

Lumban, Laguna, Philippines

Baby, It's Cold Outside

It is officially winter. Now, I was never a huge cold weather fan to begin with, but I was hoping that it was simply because I didn't have the appropriate wardrobe. I am now on the verge of closing out year numero uno en Nueva York, which means my second season of snow and the frigid cold, and while I'm getting used to it and 35 degrees doesn't seem so bad, I can't say I'm sold.

A few weeks ago, as I was walking home from school in low 30-something temp, I decided that I could hate the cold the rest of that night, but the next day I would begin to embrace it. Because as long as I'm here, I gotta at least try to love it. What's the use in being miserable in some place that you have to be? That is just silly.

A Night for the Werewolves

Monday, and I had officially ended my second semester at Parsons. I was freakin' exhausted, but I think my body had become so accustomed to staying up until the wee hours of the morning, 1 or 2 o'clock rolled around and it seemed to be no big deal. Since I was still awake, I decided I'd go ahead and stay up for the lunar eclipse on the winter solstice thing, because 400 years is a long time; and even though I still had to intern the next day, I figured what's another hour or two of lost sleep.

So I threw on my coat and a pair of boots to brave the cold and see what deal was. I walked out onto the steps of my apartment, surprised to actually see stars. I guess living in the city you assume you can't see any, so you forget to look up. I stood on my steps, hoping this would happen faster. I looked up and down my street, to check if there was anyone else out to witness this celestial phenomenon. But nope. Just me. Anyways, the moon was only half covered at this point so I retreated back to the apartment and decided I'd check again in a few. One of my room mates asked if there were a lot of people outside watching. I told her there weren't and she called me a nerd (which is mostly true). I went back outside to see if there was any progress. Back to the waiting game. A woman was walking towards me, and I expected her to continue to rush on by. But then she stopped, looked up, and took a few thoughtful steps backwards to get a better view. That makes 2.

Sometimes ya gotta step out of the hustle and bustle of the city and slow down, just a little bit. Otherwise, you'll drive yourself insane.

Strike a Match. Start a Fire.

November 1st. Past midterms. And I'm beat. I need a breath of fresh air. I need to re-charge.

The good news: Thanksgiving is in three weeks. That means home, and familiar faces.
The bad news: There's A LOT of work to do within those three weeks.

So I guess I have to muster enough energy and motivation from elsewhere, since home won't be it. And it better come. Quick. Because I don't think "I just can't" is a valid excuse at Parsons.

Big picture big picture big picture.

Alright. Let's go, y'all. Time waits for no one.

Dance Like Nobody's Watching

The weekends have become my running days, and Sundays in the Park seem to be especially lively.

There always seems to be something random going on, and this afternoon was no exception. So I let my breathing slow and walked past the congo drums, then continued toward this group of people to see what the fuss was about. As I got closer, the drumming started to fade and the whatever the DJ was spinning was getting louder. (He was playing Janet Jackson, if you were curious.)

They closed off a little part of the road and turned it into a mini roller rink. And the longer I watched, the happier it made me. It was the greatest group of randoms I've seen in a while. There was this little Asian lady with her sunglasses on, who after a couple of rounds came rollin' by with this big black guy, twice her size and dreads past his shoulders, helping her get her groove back. There was this huge guy with striped genie pants on and no shirt payin' no mind to anyone else. (It might be what Mr. T would look like if he stole MC Hammer's pants.) There were two younger gals hanging out in the center, sans roller skates, just dancing without a care. And another women who didn't have skates, just gliding her way around with the other roller skaters. Each was in their own little world, and everyone was just having a good time.

But one thing they did have in common, and what I found particularly amusing was how much swag every single one of them seemed to have. So smooth. And nobody gave a what-what.

Heeeeeeeey. Do your thhaannng.