The outing was not planned, nor were there any real agendas. It was a sudden out-of-town trip borne from bored text messages and a long weekend. Naturally, it was the usual suspects, and this time, it was back to our farm in Tanauan, Batangas.

We decided on an overnight trip, because we had to be back on the first of November to fulfill our familial obligations. So, we left a little before lunch on Sunday, stopped to buy a couple of provisions, drove through McDonald's along the superhighway (and had my first BigMac and TwisterFries in a long time) and had a good dose of R&B, acoustic and Vienna Teng along the way.

Long drives under a light drizzle, I found, can also be charming.

We arrived at around two in the afternoon, and promptly set-up the DVD player and the cooler. Not having seen the new renovations to the main house, I found that the new set-up was rather homey: nothing grand, however: simply a television in front of couches and cushioned rattan chairs. We parked the drinks inside the cooler beside the couch, and got down to the business at hand.

Kristine was in-charge of the movie selections, and she started us off with an indie film, Particles of Truth, which I found to be cathartic and redemptive. It told of the story of an artist desperately unsure about her worth, and how, within a crazy 48 hours, she had pulled her life together (while those of the people around her fell apart!). I particularly liked the last scene where, as a sign of her redemption, she reached up to the sky from the sunroof of her new boyfriend's car.

Then we watched the pilot episode of The L-word, a drama series revolving around the lives and issues of lesbians living in West Hollywood. After the initial titillation of watching two girls actually getting it heavy on screen, I found the series rather engrossing, honestly. The fact that the story revolves around the often conflicting (and conflicted) world of lesbian relationships forced me to look at things through a different paradigm; and a new point of view, however shallowly conceived, is always good.

Following the films, we went to dinner in Tagaytay, which is just about a thirty-minutes' drive away via the winding (and scenic) Talisay route. We then had a hearty dinner in Carlo's Pizza (which was filled to capacity because of the holiday crowd), then back home to Tanauan, where cold beer, chips, and the movie A Lot Like Love awaited. I slept after the movie, a little after midnight, without drinking much alcohol (because I wasn't in the mood), while the others (I think) had vodka and watched How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.

I woke up at nine-thirty the next day, laid in bed for a full thirty minutes, waiting for the others to get-up. We all eventually got moving about at around ten thirty, and since it was too late in the morning to have breakfast, we decided to have someone buy food from the market for lunch. We headed to the pool, and spent the rest of the morning in the water. Late lunch followed at around two (Kristine and Paolo cooked porkchops and veggies), where we discussed: When is cheating cheating? (This will be the subject of another blog entry!-- Abangan!) Deciding to head back to Manila by six, we opted for a couple more episodes of The L Word, and probably a nap in between.

The drive back to Manila was quick and almost uneventful, save for the usual cracks and tsismis. We made the house in one and a half hours.

* * *

Looking back now on the last two days, I can't say that it was a particularly memorable outing. I won't even say that the conversations were anything to be remembered, or that our house is particularly picturesque to merit some note.

But what I will say is that I learned what it was like to actually be on a trip without having any plans or agendas, schedules or timetables. How fun it was to just bum, park yourself in front of the television, with a cold beer, and lots of comfortable silences. While it is true that I have been on official vacation-mode for the last month or so, and have actually gone to the Visayas and Mindanao with my family for over a week, this was the only time in a very long time when the moment was really just mine-- no errands to run, no people to meet, no things to do, no places to visit. It was, I guess, a realization (or perhaps a re-introduction) of what it is like to have those days of utter motionlessness, without a thought or a care in the world.

I sat on the porch of the second floor of our house, and watched as the sky turned from a bright blue to a deep lavender. And for a moment-- I'm sure it wasn't more than a moment-- the rest of the world seemed to melt away. And I knew that, somehow, things were going to be okay. And that wasn't so bad. Not bad at all.

How many hopeful lawyers does it take to book a flight to Hong Kong? Apparently, not enough.

Three of my law school friends, E, K, A, and I had, for the last three weeks, been planning on taking a trip to Hong Kong for the long Halloween weekend beginning October 28th. I had volunteered to book the flight via my mom's travel agent, looking for the best price together with Disneyland Tickets. The task seemed simple enough.

I called the agent, and gave her the details of our trip. She admitted that it would be a tight booking because it was peak season. She said she would do her best, and would call me as soon as she gets reservations. Two days later, she called and said that we had confirmed airplane seats and hotel accommodations for USD 580. I promptly called my three other travel buddies, and briefed them on the amounts and particulars of the trip. All three confirmed the next day, following negotiations with their parents. I then called the agent and said that we were taking the deal. I asked her about the billing procedures, and she said she would email me over the weekend.

Great, I thought. That wasn't so hard. I started to get excited.

Before the week ended, however, E, suggested that we ask the agency whether there would be a possibility of looking for a cheaper hotel to lower the price of our package. It seemed a fair enough inquiry, considering that we only planned to sleep in the hotel anyway; a fancy hotel was not of particular importance. And so that weekend, I dutifully called the agency, and since it was a Saturday, my mom's travel agent was not in the office. Instead, I was referred to one of her assistants. I conveyed the query, adding that, notwithstanding, we already had confirmed bookings for USD 580. She said she would get back to me on Monday.

So, that Monday, while I was having a quiet read at Starbucks in Glorrietta, the assistant called me to say that not only was it not possible to lower the price of our package, but that we had to pay more, because they had made a mistake in quoting us the correct price. Apparently, the USD 580 was for a lower-rated hotel, and if we wanted to stay in the hotel which we had earlier agreed to, we had to shell out a total of USD 630. I told her that the agency and I had already previously come to an agreement at USD 580 at the higher-classed hotel, and it was upon that representation that we agreed to confirm at that particular price. I explained to her that we were on a tight budget and that we had already negotiated with our parents for the money. Asking for more was somewhat difficult. And on my part, I told her that I was not about to call my three friends all over again and have another round of lengthy discussion-- an inconvenience on my part-- because of a mistake which they should be solely responsible for.

Furthermore, I got annoyed at the fact that if I had not called them earlier to inquire about the cheaper alternative, they would clearly not have told me about their error in prices. When, therefore, would they have told us: when they were already billing us for the trip, or when we were already boarding the damn flight?

Talking to my mom's agent later in the afternoon, she admitted that she had made a mistake at quoting us the proper price. She was willing to give us the package at USD 580, but that we had to be downgraded to a more modest hotel. Frankly, I didn't mind. . . . I really wanted to go to Hong Kong. But what really distressed me was the idea that I had to call my three other friends all over again and have to explain something which was already finalized and closed. . . . This was quite frustrating, and all because of some negligence in the handling of our account.

Well, to make a long story short, I decided to cancel the booking (out of disgust at how the agency had handled the account) following an assurance from E that he would be able to get a booking at a cheaper price-- USD 560. I told him that I washed my hands of the whole booking effort-- it was unnecessary stress during what should otherwise be a stress-free vacation. He understood and said that he would take care of it.

As it happened, however, the hotels in Hong Kong at about this time were very unpredictable, both as to price and as to vacancy. Thus, the guaranteed USD 560 was increased to around USD 590, and the bookings were somewhat iffy. E, therefore, hoping to seal the deal, opted to personally go to the agency with A and K. While going there, however, the three took a chance and made a walk-in with one of the agencies and were again guaranteed a booking at lower prices. They placed a reservation.

But fate would not smile kindly on the four hopeful travelers: the flights were full and the hotels were all occupied. While we would be able to leave for Hong Kong (at a much higher price than that advertised), the only available flights out meant that we would have to leave at 4 p.m. on the 28th and return on the morning of the 31st. We would effectively have only two whole days in Hong Kong, which was rather expensive for around USD 600.

And so, after another series of lengthy, if not somewhat exasperated and clearly disappointed text messages, we opted to call the trip off. We could get the hint. As they say, "The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry." It was just too bad, because I had really, really been looking forward to going. And it wasn't because of Disneyland.

They say that Hong Kong harbor looks lovely this time of year.

“With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.”
from The Desiderata by Max Ehrmann


Agosto 31, 1998. Tahimik ang gabi nang umupo kami ni Trina sa parang ng Mataas na Paaralang Ateneo, tanaw ang tahimik at malumanay na pagkislap ng mga ilaw ng Marikina. “Ang tahimik. Ang lumanay,” bulong niya sa akin, sabay patong ng kanyang ulo sa tiklop niyang mga tuhod. Tahimik siyang nag-isip.

Nagtaka ako sa kanyang katahimikan, isang pagtatakang dinala ko pa mula sa aming paglalakwatsa kasama ng barkada ilang oras pa lamang ang nakararaan. Kung bakit ako naroon kasama ang kasintahan ng isa sa pinakamatalik kong kaibigan, hindi ko lubusang naunawaan. Marahil nangailangan lamang siya ng kausap at kasama ngayong kinakailangang bumyahe ng kanyang boyfriend na si Carlo. Ipinagkatiwala si Trina sa akin. Ako raw ang mag-uwi.

Hindi ko rin naman tinanggihan ng pagkakataon. Kailangan kong aminin na noong high school pa, kursunada ko na si Trina, at kahit na alam kong sila na ni Carlo ang magkasama, at kahit na halos magkapatid ang turing namin ni Trina sa isa’t isa, natural lang sigurong makaramdam ako ng kakaunting kilig noong gabing iyon. (Sabi nga nila, ang kilig ay biyaya rin ng Diyos.) “Ang ganda nga naman ng tanawin,” naisip ko, kasama na rin dito ang mga ilaw ng Marikina. “Tahimik. Malumanay.”

Napangiti ako nang muli kong naalala ang mga masasayang araw na yaon, sa high school, nang tila lahat ng bagay ay nagsisimula at umuuwi sa pag-ibig, nang ang lahat ay maganda, tahimik, malumanay.

Doon nagsimula ang pagliligawan nila ni Carlo, at ako ang nagsilbing tulay. Nakilala namin si Trina sa isang pagpupulong ng mga mag-aaral ng iba’t-ibang mga paaralan sa Maynila. Hindi sila agad nagkausap ni Carlo, ngunit kami nama’y agad na naging magkaibigan. Napakabait kasi ni Trina, bukás, mabilis magtiwala at madaling pagkatiwalaan. At ang kanyang ngiti— higit pa sa init ng unang pagsinag ng araw sa umaga. Halos nakakikiliti.

Kaya nga’t hindi ako nagulat nang malaman kong kursunada pala siya ni Carlo. Laking swerte na lang niya nang malaman kong may gusto rin pala si Trina sa kanya. Kung sa bagay, may hitsura rin naman ang aking kaibigan, cariñoso, bagama’t tahimik at mahiyain.

At nagsimula ang mahabang laro na kung tawagin ay ligaw. Para nga silang mga bata, nakakatuwa: urong-sulong, pahiya-hiya, sulat dito, tawag doon— mga kaligayahang high school. Tila isang masining na nobela ang kanilang pagsusuyuan. May mga bahaging tila kay hirap paniwalaan. Puno ng luha at tawanan.

At sabay naming inalala ni Trina ang mga araw na yaon. Ilang oras din naming pinag-usapan ang mga nakababaliw na kababawan ng aming makulay na kabataan, at kahit paano’y nasiyahan ako na sa aming munting pagbabalik-tanaw, napangiti ko ang kaninang tahimik at nag-iisip na puso.

“O, may gusto ka pa bang pag-usapan?” tanong ko sa kanya. “Medyo late na.”

Sa simula’y nag-alinlangan siya, ngunit pagkatapos ng isa na naming malalim na katahimikan, tahimik siyang nagsimula: “Peej, I think I’m pregnant.”

Natigilan ako, nagitla, sandaling naguluhan, naghanap ng maaaring sabihin, naghanap ng maaaring gawin. Tiningnan ko siya’t malumanay pa rin ang kanyang mukha, ngunit nakita ko sa kanyang mga mata na nais na niyang lumuha. “Luhang high school kaya?” naitanong ko sa aking sarili. Sana, pero hindi yata.

Tahimik niyang binalikan ang kanyang pagkonsulta sa gynecologist, ang tila pagwawalang-bahala ni Carlo, ang damdaming tila ginamit lamang siyang laruan ng isang lalaking pakikipagtalik lamang ang nasa isipan.

Lumipad ang mga tanong sa aking isipan na tila mga balang nakasusugat, nakapapatay. Si Carlo? Paano? Si Carlo na kaibigan ko? Nanggagamit ng tao? “Hindi ganyan si Carlo,” bulong ko. Ngunit ang pigil na luha’y tila naging mas kapani-paniwala.

“I don’t know what to do, Peej. I don’t know what to do. . .” sabi niya. Ipinikit niya ang kanyang mga mata at tahimik na lumuha. Noon niya sinimulang hawakan ang aking kamay, at hinawakan niya itong tila buhay niya mismo ang nakasalalay.

Sinubukan kong magbiro, “Do you know that this is the first time I’ve ever held a girl’s hand?” sinabi ko. Medyo siyang napangiti. Kakaiba ang aking naramdaman.

At sa wakas, yinakap ko siya. Wala akong ibang nasabi kung ‘di, “I’m sorry, Trina. I’m sorry.” Naramdaman ko sa aking dibdib ang bilis ng tibok ng kanyang puso. Naramdaman ko rin ang galit at puot na nagsimulang mabuo sa sarili kong puso, galit kay Carlo na gumawa nito sa kanya, galit sa sitwasyon at sa mundong mandaraya. At bumalik din sa aking isipan si Carlo at lahat ng aming pinagsamahan, mula high school hanggang ngayon. Pumukit ako’t nalalala ang mga mahahabang gabi sa tarangkahan ng aking tahanan bago kami magtapos sa mataas na paaralan, pinag-uusapan ang aming mga pangarap, ang aming mga patutunguhan, ang aming mga kaibigan at ka-ibigan. Naalala ko nang sabihin niyang, “Peej, mahal ko na ‘ata si Trina.” At pinaniwalaan ko siya. Paulit-ulit na umalingawngaw sa aking isipan: Carlo, anong nangyari sa ‘yo? Anong nangyari sa ‘yo?

Hawak ko ang kamay ni Trina nang kami’y bumalik sa sasakyan, at sa paglakad namin ay natanaw kong muli ang tahimik at malumanay na pagkislap ng mga ilaw ng Marikina. Ngunit sa pagkakataong iyon, naunawaan ko na sa likod ng katahimikan at kagandahang iyon, nabubuhay ang isang mandarayang kamunduhan: naunawaan ko na sa likod ng katahimikan at kagandahan ng mukhang iyon nabubuhay rin ang isang takot at pag-iisa na hindi maaaring hulaan ninoman; at naunawaan ko na sa likod ng katahimikan at kagandahan ng gabing iyon nagmula ang galit, kaguluhan at pagkamulat ng sarili kong kanlóng na puso.

I fished the foregoing reflection from an old diskette containing files dating from college (almost eight years ago). It's interesting to read old musings and reflections. . . . reminds me how naive I was, and how simple life seemed to be. Once and a while, I guess, it's good to remember.

Tila ba kay layo na ng ating nalakbay
nang huli tayong muling nagkita.
Hindi na halos makilala
ang halakhak, ang ngiti,
ang hampas ng hangin sa iyong buhok.

Ang mga lugar na dati nating binibisita,
Naririyan pa rin--
pareho pero iba.

At sa gitna ng paninibago
ay may nabubuong pag-aalinlangan
sa kung ikaw pa nga ang taong napag-iwanan
ng mga alaala nating dalawa.

"I have always been delighted at the prospect
of a new day, a fresh try, one more start,
with perhaps a bit of magic
waiting somewhere behind the morning."
- J.B. Priestly


Now that the drinking is finally winding down, two weeks following the conclusion of the 2005 Bar Examinations, the immense truth is slowly beginning to creep up on me: that these weeks may very well be the first days of the rest of my life. This realization began as I went around fulfilling errands and engaging in activities which I had been putting off for so long, either because I was too busy preparing for the Bar, or because I was too caught up in the fishbowl called law school. In the past couple of days, for example, I moved out of my flat in Rockwell; I cleaned my room and threw out all my old cases dating from first year law; I opened my own bank account; I deposited my own money; I got myself my own ATM card; I withdrew my own money, and painfully spent it on paperbacks; I booked my own flight to Hong Kong; I replaced my aging cellular phone; I visited old friends.

At first, the euphoria of having so much time on my hands made me realize how much one could accomplish in a single day. Even waking up at nearly ten o'clock in the morning still afforded me much time to do so many things-- and with daylight to spare to even allow me to watch sunsets in Loyola again-- all without feeling acutely guilty that I had to be doing something else instead. The abundance of time was liberating, exhilarating even! I was living on my own pace, on my own terms. But as the days wore on, and in between gimiks and drinks, this liberation began to give way a creeping sense of uneasiness: yes, I was living on my own time, and on my own terms. But I felt that I wasn't doing anything with it. Thus, while I was glad that my life was actually moving forward once again, I wasn't exactly comfortable with the reality that, in a very real sense, this life was finally, irrevocably, mine.

I am now accountable for my life.

This reality for me was-- understandably enough-- a long time coming. Having spent an additional four years in law school, the real world, and the responsibility of accounting for one's own life, was somewhat held in abeyance and left as an unnecessary inconvenience to be put off for another day. While many of my batchmates in college had gone on to live independent lives-- some got married, some had children, others bought cars, others mortgaged homes-- I, on the other hand, was (as I always had been) sheltered from the worries and trivialities of everyday living, choosing, quite conveniently, to indulge in this "life of the mind" that study afforded me. Little did I realize that living with my parents, while comfortable, safe, and convenient, made me ill-prepared for facing the stresses that everyday living had to offer.

This fact was brought home to me three weeks before the Bar Examinations, when I had what I thought to be a nervous breakdown. Because I had not slept for almost two weeks, was experiencing nervous fits, and could not concetrate, much less study, I was contrained to finally see a medical professional (read: psychiatrist). Desperate, and teetering on what seemed to be the edge of sanity (I was seriously considering deferring my taking of the Bar Exams due to the hopelessness of my situation), I explained to the good doctor my symptoms. Almost immediately, he prescribed anti-anxiety medication and sleeping pills, much to my relief and slight embarrassment. He reassured me that taking such pills was a normal thing (He laid stress on the fact that I wasn't actually crazy!), and that many people are known to take them if only to get from one stress to the next. The diagnosis was comforting enough; but it was what he said later which I remember now most specially: "Maybe the Bar is the first real crisis that you've gone through in your life, thus, you really don't know how to handle it. While the drugs will help you deal with this problem right now, you've got to learn to develop the skills to face other crises in the future. And there will be more of them, trust me. This will build your character."

At that time, the doctor's words did not bother me much; I was too wrapped up in getting back on track with Bar review. But looking back on the experience now, I am somewhat embarrassed to realize that at twenty-six, my "first real crisis" in life would be the Bar Exam, which, by the way, many consider to be an asinine and trivial exercise. And even that, I did not handle very well!

This is why, I think, owning my own life at this point takes much more courage for me as I slowly move away from the comfort zone of my parents' fawning. Of course, I still live under my parents' roof, eat their food, use their water, and drive their car. But now, I would like to think that I am more keenly aware of the fact that I have my own two feet to rely on, that I have my own life to lead, and that finally, I really have to grow up. No more asking mom to buy this, or dad to do this. No more having to ask for money unless really necessary. No more assuming that someone will always be picking up after me, doing this or that; I have to do it myself.

More than this parental dimension, however, it is really the more fundamental reality of the rest of my life that, in unguarded moments, creeps in on me with a quiet dread. Laid bare in oppressive certainty, it is a fact that I-- and perhaps, many others in my batch-- will ultimately have to face and deal with (without psychotropic drugs, hopefully!) Indeed, it is a fearful thing, holding one's own life in one's own hands. But it is also, I must admit, somewhat exciting and giddily hopeful. New beginnings often are, I guess. And this is no exception. So here I am, it seems, at the cusp of a new phase in my life, which, appropriately enough, I can now call My Life: Vita Mea. The author's statement, therefore, immediately comes to mind, applicable not only to a work of fiction, but also to my own life's work of fact: this work is purely the product of my hardwork and imagination; any mistakes or inaccuracies in the text are indeed purely mine.