somewhere i have never traveled. . .: January 2006

Friday, January 27, 2006

The Star

Well, I think that’s a super philosophy, Sean.
I mean, that way, you could actually go through
the rest of your life without ever really knowing anybody.

From the movie, Good Will Hunting

This piece was written in second year college, as part of the course requirements of my Psychology 11 class. It’s good, I think, to once and a while be reminded how easy it was to wear our hearts on our sleeves. The names in this piece, of course, have been changed from the original.

Celine sits at the back of our classroom in psychology. I had not noticed her in the first few days of school, and it took a classmate of mine from high school to point her out to me. That was when she captured my imagination.

She’s really nothing magnificent, nothing quite like Claudia Shiffer or Cindy Crawford. But it is precisely this simplicity, this gentleness, this lack of flare and clutter that attracts me so much to her. So nice to look at, Celine, with her pony-tail, and her bangs parted at the middle of that strands of her hair fall ever so delicately on both sides of her face; a face that is at the same time quiet and eloquent, mysterious and simple, like a rose, or a star.

I could just spend the whole period looking at her, admiring her from a distance, tracing her face unto my mind. But unfortunately, she sits behind me; I have to make a reason to look back, steal a glance, and be satisfied with bits and pieces of her, mental snapshots of this rose, or this star.

That was why I was not surprised to learn that she already had a boyfriend, a classmate in Filipino as it turned out; God does have a sense of humor. I was not surprised, yes, but disheartened, very much: saddened to know that yet another of the girls that held the magic to my imagination was, like the star I perceived her to be, far and unreachable.

The story of my life, I told myself. And yet, even if I did have a chance, I still would not have gone for her. With distance, there is no hurt. With distance, there is no pain. With distance, there is no embarrassment or regret. It is a fear that I have always had, a fear that has kept me from risking, from opening up, from loving.

Not that I choose not to, but because habit hinders me. Perhaps it is trauma, as my friends tell me. It is indeed something illogical, even non-sensical, something which is borne by a fear of being rejected, of being passed over for not being good enough.

e.e. cummings has the most perfect poem for this reality:

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

Love, cummings writes, has the power to open and close a person. It has the power to make or break a soul. This is probably why I am so cynical about it. This is probably why I am so cautious about it. This is probably why the movie Good Will Hunting hit very close to home: “He pushes people away before they have the chance to leave him. It’s a defense mechanism, all right?”

I’ve known this about myself for quite some time now, and it is a reality which I can’t really help. Fear sometimes is more powerful than attraction, or even emotion. Mas madaling mang-iwan kaysa sa iwanan. Kaya’t kung alam mong iiwanan ka, unahan mo na. Mabuti nang ikaw na ang mang-iwan kaysa sa iwanan.

And I guess it would be a case of life imitating art when some people say that Good Will Hunting is my movie, because, in some ways, it is. Not that I am any mathematical genius, but that I too am pushed against people’s expectations, conditioned to believe that failure is not an option, and that life is somehow a “Field’s Medal.” I understand, however, the logic behind such a philosophy, because talents indeed have to be utilized, and maximized, and honed, in order for them to be shared. But then again, it’s all just a matter of perspective. After all, happiness is often just a question of degrees.

This, I have realized, and this issue of being “pushed” is not much of a concern for me now. Life is too short for such “matters of consequence,” as Saint-Exupery writes. In the end, it is really a search for happiness that matters; that in helping others, we become happy, no matter what we may be: astrophysicists or brick-layers: to feel the beautiful emptied feeling of a toothpaste tube— all squeezed out, twisted whichever way, folded many times over, but scraped clean of all the beautiful gifts God has given to be given away.

But then, the problem is that something continues to be missing. Even after this giving, something continues to be absent. Perhaps I still lack the courage to write, “I had to go see about a girl,” whatever that “girl” may turn out to be: a dream, a person, a God. Because the reality of the matter is, I am afraid to risk and make myself vulnerable. I like to play it safe. This is why Robin William’s little monologue at Boston Common with Matt Damon was a hard knock on my head, a searing indictment against this unexplainable and inescapable fear:

I'd ask you about love, you'd probably quote me a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman and been totally vulnerable. . . . known someone that could level you with her eyes, feeling like God put an angel on earth just for you. . . . who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, to have that love for her, be there forever. Through anything. Through cancer. And you wouldn't know about sleepin’ sittin’ up in the hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes that the terms “visiting hours” don't apply to you.

You don't know about real loss, 'cause it only occurs when you've loved something more than you love yourself. And I doubt you've ever dared to love anybody that much. And look at you... I don't see an intelligent, confident man... I see a cocky, scared shitless kid.

I am a cocky, scared shitless kid, hiding behind my books, and my masks, and my walls, because there, there isn’t any risk. They isn’t any vulnerability. There isn’t any potential for disappointment, or even for pain. And yet still, I long for company, for tenderness, for love. It is indeed something very confusing, running away from the very thing I need, the very thing that will heal me from this affliction.

This is why in moments like these, through movies like these, I remember Celine, and people like Celine who hold the key to my loneliness, and my happiness. And I am envious.

At sa gitna ng pagka-inggit na ‘yon ang nakapangibabaw na damdamin ng pag-iisa. Malungkot, hindi ba? Sa katapusan ng isa na namang araw, madalas na bumabalik sa akin ang katotohanang, The greatest human need is to be needed. At bagama’t ako’y nangangailangan, ay wala naman ang sa akin ang nangangailangan. Sometimes, at the end of the day, as I sit alone in my idling car, the overwhelming feeling of emptiness embraces me so tightly that it almost drives me to tears. Malungkot lang mga-isa. Sinasabi nga nila, we live lives of quiet desperation.

At kahit na ilang oras pa man ako umupo sa loob ng kapilya at tahamik na magdasal sa Kanyang nangakong papawi sa lahat ng pag-iisa, hinding-hindi mawawala sa akin ang pangangailangan para sa hawak ng iba. God does not come down from the wooden cross to hug you. People do that. Kaya’t tuwing nakikita ko si Celine, at si Mico tuwing magkasama sila, o si Enzo at si Hannah, o si Carlo at si Issa, o si Raymund at si Karla, o sino pang magakaibigan o magka-ibigan, hindi mawawala sa akin ang pagnanasa para sa iba, para sa kanya, kung sino o kung ano man siya.

We are all broken people. Lahat tayo’y nangangailangan ng pansin, kalinga, yakap, reassurance, security, love. At sa ilalim ng aking maskarang akademico, at pagpapanggap-sigurado, ay isang takot at basag na taong hindi nakasisiguro na mamahalin nga siya ng mundo. Ngunit ‘yan ako: basag at insecure na ito, sinusubukan maging maligaya kahit nag-iisa.

Ang cute ni Celine. Sobra.

11:48 AM | Permalink |

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Second Glances (Reprise)

He olvidado tu rostro, no recuerdo tus manos,
cómo besan tus labios?
Por ti amo las blancas estatuas que no tienen voz ni mirada.
He olvidado tu voz, tu voz alegre, he olvidado tus ojos.

de Un Amor por Pablo Neruda

She knew that she was finally over him. Although it was a struggle getting on with life following their sudden separation, she surprised even herself when one morning, not long after, she awoke and realized that she no longer remembered what he looked like, no longer heard his voice in her head, no longer saw him in her dreams.

Perhaps it was true, she thought, that people don't really get over someone, as though it were some task consciously to be worked at: it simply happened, without premeditation or desire, and all that one could really do in the meantime was wait for its coming.

That was why she wondered how, even after so long, she still found herself taking second glances at old, familiar corners they used to visit, at coffeeshops, restaurants, park benches, wondering if the man seated with his back to her was him, her heart racing at the faintest resemblance of hair, or voice, or gait, fighting the impulse to call out his name, afraid that if she did, the man would look back.

It was a mere trick of the mind, she thought. A mere glitch of the heart.

She understood then what it was that the poet meant when he wrote: he olvidado tu amor y sin embargo, te adivino detrás de todas las ventanas. We forget loves, indeed, yet still, we seem to glimpse them behind every window. This frightened her, because at that moment of sober recognition, she realized that the more she tried to forget him, the more she found herself remembering. And that, hopelessly, she found that she could not forget. . . .

* * *

It was bound to happen at some point or another, she thought, as she got out of the car, in front of the restaurant where they were all supposed to meet. The invitations were sent out almost a week ago, personally and over the internet, and while she had debated long and hard on whether to attend or not, she thought that she would be giving in to her weakness if she chose not to come. How bad could it be, she reasoned. So he was going to be there. . . . So she was going to see him. . . . So they haven't seen each other in six months. . . . She knew she had to face her ghosts.

She walked briskly across the parking lot, half-lit from the neon of the restaurants above. Her heart started to beat faster in anticipation, coming up the steps at last, getting into the elevator. She pressed “5” and the door whizzed shut. The elevator lurched upward, and alone, she looked at her reflection on the dull aluminum, stained with fingerprints and grease, feeling half stupid and half dreamy at the absurdity of the evening. Or perhaps, she thought, it was all just in her head.

She walked into the restaurant, and searched the sea of faces for her friends— his friends also, by time and affinity— but tonight, they were hers. It had been a while since they had all last seen one another, and while some had suggested not to invite him to the dinner altogether, they knew that he had as much right to be there as she did; friends though they were, they did not want to take sides. Not that it really mattered to her whose side they were on, because she knew that it was only her side that mattered, and his, and nobody else’s. This was her issue, not theirs. Not even his, she thought. He was gone for too long to make the issue remotely his own.

She found them seated by the terrazza. A spontaneous burst of welcome greeted her, because she was the last to arrive. In the adrenalin of the moment, she hardly noticed him smile at her, sitting at the corner of the table. She smiled back, absent-mindedly, pretending distraction, feigning civility. Thank God, she thought, she wasn’t the type to give friends buzzes on the cheek. She finally sat herself down, three seats away from him, and got straight into the thick of the conversation, trying hard not to think of the fact that he existed, again, all flesh and blood and heart of him, merely three seats away.

The drinks and the food flowed freely through the evening, as it always would in the company of friends. She was amazed at how everyone else was carrying on with the festivities, without ever a hint of awkwardness or tension. It was perhaps an art that they had perfected as unwitting spectators in the sometimes sordid drama that was their life. She, of course, did not speak to him directly, and neither did he, to her. But it was not an awkward sort of obliviousness; it was neither angry nor bitter. It was, in fact, a respectful unawareness— maybe even a reverential attempt at forgetting— certainly, one borne of an acknowledgement of a finished past, or a tired present.

Even then, as he launched into his usual routine of jokes and commentary, she knew that she could not get mad at him for his leaving, even after the silence and the half-uttered explanations; even when he appeared so normal and unaffected, so getting-on with his life. She had so many questions, yes, but tonight, she did not know exactly what to ask or where to begin, or whether she wanted to ask them at all; only she knew what she felt. The feeling descended upon her like a heavy blanket, and she knew that it was resigned regret, dull yet overwhelming.

Now and then, between lulls and silences, through the ubiquitous beat of the bass and the music, she would notice his laughter, and she knew that he was still the same old person, thankfully, and unfortunately.

At last, they called for the bill, and the waiter came to make an accounting. When they got up from the table, it was nearly midnight, and they all parted ways at the restaurant’s entrance, with the usual hugs and handshakes. But he took his leave, by going away first, trying perhaps to save everyone from the awkwardness of separation.

And just like that, he was gone again, without so much as an acknowledgement of her existence. Of course, she noticed the haste at which he took his leave, but she chose not to be affected. She did not follow him to the elevator with her eyes. She did not fall silent or heave a sigh of regret or even of relief at his leaving. No. And while there suddenly surged an impulse to run after him, tug on his sleeve one last time, ask him whether everything was alright, she resisted, bent on putting up a face of frankness and resolve. She did not want anyone to know that he still mattered, if only in her memory.

Walking finally back to her car, alone again after a long day of work and worry, she felt the cold nip of wind blowing, colder, it seemed, than she had ever felt before. Alone with herself on that burdened walk of solitude and independence, she allowed some moments of vulnerability, and decided, quite consciously, that she loved him still, somehow, in those unvisited places of her heart. She loved him directly, without complexities or pride, without wanting to do anything more, without wanting to start the cycle again.

She reached her car at last, and fished for the keys from her purse. She was about to turn the lock, when someone called out her name. She knew who it was, of course, the inflection of his voice giving him away, and when she turned around, he was already standing two feet in front of her.

“Hey,” she said awkwardly, trying not to look at him.

He fumbled for words, trying to be natural. She tried to look impatient, formal, detached. “What’s up?” she asked, looking up at him, finally.

“Um. . . . just wanted to say good-bye, actually,” he answered. “It was too weird in there.”

She gave out a disgusted groan. “Yeah, well,” she said, looking away.

“I wish we could talk sometime soon,” he said, gravely, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

“If you want to,” she said with a shrug, letting the proposal hang stale in the air, a hint of disappointment in her expression.

“Well, that’s all, really,” he said finally, half-hoping that she would say something more.

But all she said was, “Alright.”

“Anyway, it was nice seeing you,” he said, embarrassed.

“You too,” she answered, and from her tone, it was difficult to tell whether she was serious or she was sarcastic.

He took some steps back, turned around, and walked away.

She got into her car without seeing where he was going. She fastened her seatbelt, and started the engine, turned on the air-conditioner, then set the radio. She eased out of the parking slot, and headed towards the exit. Gripping the steering wheel tight, she finally noticed his car, so familiar by now, waiting some distance from the road, its engine running, its taillights red, but still unmoving. She passed it without stopping, surrendered her parking ticket, exited the carpark, onto the road and into the traffic. For a moment, she took a glance back at her rear-view mirror to see if he was still there, parked, and he was. She turned up the volume of her radio, and at that instant, realized that she felt absolutely nothing at all.

9:32 AM | Permalink |

Saturday, January 14, 2006

Andiamo Mangiare L'alimento Italiano

I think it was because I could not swallow without water that my yaya fed me my first taste of spaghetti. I was two or three years old then, rather thin and sickly, and very difficult to feed. This was because I had fallen into the habit of following every spoonful with a gulp of water, too lazy, perhaps, of chewing on my food; too scared, indeed, to choke on any bones. Not only did it take me hours to finish my meal, I would also be full without having gotten any nutrition— the water would have satiated my little, finicky stomach.

And so, my yaya, wanting to plump me up on my father's orders, stumbled upon the idea of finally feeding me spaghetti, with its noodles not too difficult to chew or swallow. And with enough nutrition to jump-start my waning metabolism, it seemed to work. Thus, everyday day during my early childhood, I would get my diet of noodles and home made children's sauce of the sticky kind, with hotdogs, ketchup and even sugar, I believe.

Later on, and growing older, it was my mom— who herself enjoys a good Al Tinta and lots of parmagian cheese— who introduced me to the true Italian palette, bringing home pizza from work, or taking me out to eat at Italian restaurants. By the time I was a teen-ager, I was a certified spaghetti and pizza addict, never turning down an opportunity to sample the newest Italian restaurant or trattoria.

So comfortable was I to the taste of Italia that if I did not want the food served at home for a particular meal, I'd have it replaced by some trusty pasta, always on supply in our freezer. Anyone who's gone to my house will attest that there is always spaghetti— at times, even two types, Bolognese and Putanesca— ready to be served at a moment's notice. Whether breakfast, lunch, or dinner, the default food was spaghetti; or if any had been delivered, pizza from Shakey's or Pizza Hut, or Magoo's. In law school, spaghetti had even become my de facto comfort food. For the most of my four years there, spaghetti was regular fare at midnight, right before bedtime— this, of course, explains why one day, somewhat late in my study of law, I realized that I had suddenly grown a tummy! But the noodles, with the slight salty-sweetness of the sauce felt just right at the end of the day; it was difficult to resist such a simple joy.

Having gone to so many Italian restaurants, therefore, I have been able to form a good opinion of which among the many are actually worth visiting again and again. In reality, my tastes in Italian cuisine are rather really unsophisticated, and my choice of pasta somewhat even limited: I do not eat pesto, tinta or cream sauce. I do not like too much meat on my pasta, and I normally prefer spaghetti noodles over fetucinni, but sometimes, if I feel whimsical, I ask for fusilli, or angelhair, depending on the sauce. And always, always, I like my noodles aldente: there isn't anything like wet and soggy noodles to ruin a perfectly good sauce.

And so now, let me share with you my own discoveries— where the pizza is fresh and the pasta, delicious. These are the places where I enjoy my Italian food the most.

Therefore, dear friends, I now present: Peej's TopTen Pizza and Pasta Picks.

1. Burgho Pizza

We had just arrived at the Termini Station in Rome, after a Jesuit friend of our picked us up and brought us to the hotel. Immediately after checking in, he brought us around the major churches of that Eternal City. Of course, the last stop was St. Peter's. The Piazza di San Pietro was grand and imposing; but we had not had anything to eat for the whole day. Sensing our unease, the good Jesuit brought us to this small pizzeria off Bernini's Colonnade, out the Porta di Santa Anna, to this small place called Burgho Pizza.

My Jesuit friend ordered some slices of pizza— which, I had just then observed, they served by the weight and in little square pieces— and after only a couple of seconds, the first order had already been consumed. Perhaps it was because I was really hungry, or that it was my first taste of true Italian pizza, but that pizza was, by far, the best pizza I've tasted in my life. To think that it was only margarita and ham that we ate that morning!

2. Amici di Don Bosco

I had first heard about this restaurant sometime during the beginning of last year, from Fr. Catalino Arévalo, no less. But because law school was a more pressing concern, I did not have the time to travel all the way to Don Bosco, near Pasay Road, to find out what all the hoopla was about.

I was not to be disappointed. It was only during my cousin's birthday last November that I finally had the chance to go to Amici. Since then, I have become a regular customer (especially now that my office is just, at most, a ten minutes' walk away!). On hungry evenings, I'd finish a whole Pizza Al Funghi, which costs a mere P240! I'd normally also order their Spaghetti di Don Bosco, or their Spaghetti Mafioso. They say, however, that the Lasagna is worth every bite, but only if they are any left after the baking; they sell quite quickly.

And this wouldn't be complete without mentioning the gelato which they sell at only P35. There are over ten flavors to choose from; I normally ask for Pistachio or Strawberry Marble.

Antonio Arnaiz ave. corner Chino Roces ave., Makati City.
Restaurant hours are from 11 am to 9 pm, Monday to Saturday

3. Bellinni's

Belinni's used to occupy my favorite Italian restaurant before I began eating at Amici. Before Amici, it was the closest I could get to real Italian cuisine, and the prices were quite affordable. I think the atmosphere of the place also adds to the home-style character of the experience. It is a good place to have intimate conversation over tasty Italian pasta and pizza; and while the service is not that good, the freshly baked bread sticks, the tangy taste of the balsamic vinegar, and the complimentary after-meal ice-wine far make-up for any deficiencies. I even remember one or two times when I would invite some law school friends to a sudden lunch there, and we would take the MRT all the way from Rockwell to the Marikina Shoe Expo in Cubao. I also remember having many memorable and comfortable dinners there, with people still present or now inadvertently absent.

Ever the creature of habit, I normally only order the Scampi Pasta (in spaghetti noodles, of course), and the Frutti di Mare pizza. They say that the Pasta Cartoccio is also good, but I haven't had the courage to stray from my regular menu. The prices, in general, are higher than those of Amici, but I think the ambience and privacy make the additional cost almost negligible. If you want an affordable, quiet Italian dinner, this is the place.

Marikina Shoe Expo Cubao, Quezon City
Open daily from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.

4. AmoRoma

I first ate here during one of those lunches which a law partner tendered for me after my interview in their firm. The prices were rather steep, because it was fine dining right down to the tableware, and I was glad that I was not footing the bill. I don't really recall what I had that day— perhaps I was too nervous to appreciate what I had ordered. It was not until last November, when I was invited to have dinner there by a law school buddy and her good friend that I finally became aware of the menu. We had ordered wine, Salissia Pizza, and Ragù in Ravioli Spinaci. The meal was pretty satistying, and I could tell, they were gourmet powers involved.

Ground floor, Valuepoint Executive Apartments.
227 Salcedo Street, Legaspi Village, 1229 Makati City.

5. Bravo's

Bravo's is a perfect place to eat after shopping in ATC or at the Festival Mall, in Alabang. I know that there's another branch somewhere in Malate, but we never had the chance to seek it out. The ambience is pretty good too; it's a nice place to have a quiet dinner in. Their Spaghetti Pomodoro is pretty tasty, but the pizzas, I think, are their specialty. The crusts are freshly made; expect flour to cover your hands when you pick the slices up from the tray— indeed, the best way to eat pizza! They say that their tomato dip is also pretty good, and you can order it out in bottles, to be enjoyed at home with freshly toasted panini.

Bravo's was our favorite Italian restaurant. Good memories.

Festival Supermall, 2nd Level
Corporate Ave. cor. Civic Drive
Filinvest Corporate City, Alabang, Muntinlupa City

6. The Old Spaghetti House

I first discovered TOSH while taking one of my long drives at the Ateneo, in Loyola. Where Full House used to be, there was this new pasta place that seemed to spring up from nowhere. At first, I was somewhat disappointed, because I really liked Full House's cheap and delicious food, especially their chicken crepe. But because it was a new pasta place, I resolved to try it out. And so on my next visit to the Ateneo, I had merienda at TOSH.

The place was pretty cozy and well-apportioned, I thought, but what surprised me more was that the prices were not that steep. While it certainly was not fine dining, I felt that it was a good place for students to have lunch/dinner/merienda following classes at the Ateneo. And the food was tasty enough: I normally have the Spaghetti Pizzaiola, and an order of Margherita Pizza. The preparation is somewhat commercial, but for merienda or a filling dinner, TOSH is always a good alternative.

319 A. Katipunan Avenue, Loyola Heights, Q.C. 1108
http://www.theoldspaghettihouse.com/

7. Cibo

Of course, who hasn't heard of Cibo? The first time I ate there, I thought it was one of those restaurants where you go because you wanted to be seen (I remember, it was still in Glorietta, in the middle of a busy corridor-- they did not yet have their own space; they just cordoned-off the corridor). Certainly the place had that nouveau cuisine, uppity-up feel to it. But the food, as I'm sure you will agree, is worth the added pretense.

When there, I usually have the Spaghetti La Foresta or Spaghetti Pescatore, depending on the mood of the day. But I also always order the Spinach dip and iced tea. If I'm extra hungry, I get their Pumpkin Soup. Delicious and filling, Cibo is best for me when I want to have a quiet meal with myself.

Power Plant Mall, 1st Level,
Rockwell Drive cor. Estrella St.
Makati City

8. A Venetto Pizzeria Ristorante

I first ate at A Venetto in fourth year college. I came with a big crown then, and I was just somewhat tagging along, focused on another agenda then at hand. But what caught my attention were the long lines that queued-up for a table that evening. It was a scene that I would witness, even up to now, whenever I go out and have dinner at A Venetto.

It was a New-York style Italian restaurant, with thick crusts and big servings. When I learned that their original branch was along Visayas Avenue, I wasted no time in trying out their menu. My favorite is the Eggplant Parmigiana or the Chicken Parmigiana, which they serve over spaghetti noodles. Because the servings are big, spaghetti and a small pizza will be enough to feed two people, with some left-overs still to take home. And precisely because it is dining, family style, it is a perfect place for barkada foodtrips, where you can get loud, rowdy, and very, very full.

26 Visayas Ave., Project 6, Quezon City
Open from 11am to 11pm, Monday to Saturday;
open from 5pm to 11pm, Sunday

9. Caffein/Cost U Less

Tin Reyes had invited me to Caffein a week after I took the Bar. It had become a popular wateringhole for the group because the beer was cheap, the place was out of the way, and they were practically the only people who would be there.

They would normally order chips and fries, because Caffein was a place you'd go to for drinks, but because I was particularly hungry that evening, I opted for some dinner of Seafood Pasta. I wasn't expecting much, knowing that the place was just another hole-in-the-wall, but the spaghetti proved to be a pleasant surprise!

Afterwards, they suggested that we get some after-drinks pizzas at Cost-U-Less (Caffein closes quite early), along Libis, near the fly-over. Following the herd, we ordered slices of Combination and Peperroni pizzas which turned out to be the perfect after-gimmik food. The best thing about it was that Cost-U-Less was open 24-hours a day! And so, from then on, whenever I'd be driving home from a party or some gathering, I would almost always pass by for pizza at Cost-U-Less, and have a midnight snack before retiring for the day.

10. Magoo's Pizza

I don't know why I found myself regularly ordering Magoo's Pizza on Friday nights, when I craved for something Italian. Maybe it was because I had grown tired of the taste of Shakey's Manager's Choice, thin crust, or because Pizza Hut's pizzas were just too greasy or that Yellow Cab's manu was just too expensive. I think it was it was also because Magoo's Pizzas taste unique from all the others, with their heavy garlic and cheese flavor. And the fact that they were cut into little square pieces added to the novelty of the experience. For a quick pizza fix at home, therefore, Magoo's Pizza is the way to go.

http://www.magoos.com/

And so, here's to all of us pizza and pasta lovers out there! If anyone has any new gastronomic discoveries, do let me know. Perhaps we can even meet up for a meal there. My treat!

Ciao e a presto!

12:01 AM | Permalink |

Friday, January 06, 2006

Sa Kaharian ng Araw

Written in lyrical and captivating Filipino, Sa Kaharian ng Araw has a simple plot: the search by two friends, Ponce and Paolo, for the legendary Kaharian ng Araw. The two go for different reasons: Ponce is driven by the wealth, power and fame this kingdom promises, while Paolo goes because of his friend.

Their long journey takes them through three kingdoms— Kaharian ng Ulan, Kaharian ng Hangin and Kaharian ng Dilim, each of which cannot be passed unless a heartbreaking toll is paid to its king. In the end, Ponce, broken and alone, reaches the Kaharian ng Araw, the end of the journey for which he has traded everything he holds dear— only to be met by a surprising, spine-tingling revelation. . . .

from Ateneo's classic play about the rat race staged anew
by Paulo K. Tirol, Philippine Daily Inquirer, February 1999.

The minutes seemed to trickle by, a slow stream down that magic mountain, waiting as the day drew to a close. It was Friday, the end of another day, the conclusion of another week, the first of the rest of my life. The office was nearly empty now, the telephones falling dead, the associates and partners going off to their weekend retreats, evening entertainments, golf games, familial obligations. I sat there at my desk defeated, staring into the darkening screen of my monitor just recently turned off, not knowing whether it was loneliness or disappointment that I felt, or whether I knew exactly what I was doing. I blinked my eyes from the strain, stretched my back, looked around, beyond my little corner space, beyond the secretaries' station, beyond the cubicles of my colleagues, and in the harsh glow of the fluorescents realized that in this place of acerbic silences, there were no windows, only walls.

It was a difficult week, especially for me, nursing a holiday cough grown worse. The work was manageable, of course, and somewhat even routinary, but slowly, the deadlines were piling up. It was the cost of being the freshman in a team of veteran lawyers, I thought, and while I was gladly putting in the hours— content as I was doing what I thought I would someday enjoy— the stark luminosity of the moment left me panting and cold: this office was my Clean, Well-Lighted Place, and everything now seemed to be nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada.

'Di ka ba nangangambang magising isang umaga at matuklasang ika'y mali pala— na lahat ng tinapon mo't inaksaya ang siya palang tunay na mahalaga?

It was a human moment, I thought, of doubting and opportunity costs. The rollercoaster ride of emotions (as a friend described it) was certainly something quite expected from a fresh graduate like me, where images of the rest of one's life begins to flash with alarming regularity during unguarded moments between memoranda and legal opinions. Somehow I was comforted by the fact that it was probably just cold feet, and as Hemingway quite poignantly wrote, many, indeed, must have it.

* * *

PANGWAKAS

Buhat sa nakapinid na tabing, lalabas nang mabagal ang Hari ng Araw, nakakapang ginto, nakakoronang ginto, ngunit mukhang hapong-hapo, mga mata'y namumugto. Mahihintakutan si Ponce sa alingawngaw ng musika, palakpakan at hiyawan. Mapapagapang pakaliwa. Malumanay na kumumpas ang Hari ng Araw sa di nakikitang madla. Marahang huhupa ang musika, palakpak, at hiyawan.

Hari ng Araw: [Sa tinig na pagod na pagod] Ah, kaibigan, kapatid sa pagkauhaw sa kaharian ng araw, kay tagal-tagal kitang inani-aninaw. Kapatid sa pagkahibang sa tagumpay, kay tagal-tagal kitang hinintay-hintay. Huwang kang matakot. Lumapit ka't paakbay sa isang katulad mo'y kay layo na rin ng nilakbay. Sa iyong pagdating, ako'y may alay. . . kapa't korona ko'y sa iyo ibibigay.

Ponce: Ibibigay? Bakit niyo po ibibigay?

Hari ng Araw: Pagka't ika'y nagtagumnpay. Natamo mo na ang kaharian mong pakay. Sa balikat mo na ngayon aking ilalagay ang kapang dati'y ako ang mga taglay.

Ponce: Hindi po yata bagay.

Hari ng Araw: Iyan ang atas ng tagumpay at ng buhay. Kahit sa bahay, iisa lang ang panganay. Di maaaring dalawang hari ang nakalukluk sa trono. Di ka idolo, kapag may kasalo. [Malungkot na tinig.] Mag-isa ka, kapag numero uno. Ikaw ang bagong panalo, kaya't heto, tanggapin ang premyo.

Ponce: Ngunit kayo nama'y paano?

Hari ng Araw: Galing na ako sa pinagdaanan mo, pati na sa iyong patutungo. Nahibang na nang totoo, nasugatan na nang husto. Pinagpalit nang lahat, pati mga minahal ko. Tulad mo. Ngayo'y pabayaan mo na lang akong makalaya rito.

Ponce: Ngunit ang kahariang hanap ko, nasaan ito?

Hari ng Araw: Nagsisimula rito. . . . ang kahariang ngayo'y sa 'yo. Kaya, bago pumasok sa kaharian mo, isuot mo na muna ang kapang ito. Ipatong mo muna, korona sa ulo. Tanggapin ang paghanga't palakpak ng tao.

Magpapalakpakan at maghihiyawan ang koro.

Ponce: Ngunit ang kahariang paghaharian ko, paanong mapapasok ito?

Hari ng Araw: Ipikit ang mga mata. Iwagayway ang korona't at kaharia'y lilitaw kapagdaka.

Hahakbang ang dating hari nang papaalis. Pipigilan ni Ponce.

Ponce: Huwag, huwag niyo akong iwanan.

Hari ng Araw: Nawa'y wala kang pagsisihan.

Ponce: Ngunit bakit, bakit? Pinaghirapang kaharia'y bakit ngayo'y tinatakasang pilit?

Hari ng Araw: Mga mata mo'y mulan nang ipikit nang katotohana'y iyo na ring masapit.

Sumandaling bantulot si Ponce sa kanyang gagawin. Sa wakas, ipipikit ang mga mata. Iwawagayway ang korona. Bubukas ang nakapinid na tabing sa dilim. Tunog ng isang bungkaka. Dahan-dahang mag-iilaw ang entablado. Isa pang bungkaka. Maraming bugkaka-- hungkag at basag ang tunog.

Matatambad, sa buong pag-iilaw, ang nagbabagang entablado. Walang anumang laman.

Ponce: Walang laman? Walang laman? Walang anupaman? [Sa dating hari] Ang Kaharian ng Araw ba'y walang laman?

Hari ng Araw: Walang laman. 'Yan ang mapait na katotohanan.

Ponce: Nasaan ang aking mga pinagimpan? Nasaan ang saya at kinang? Ang galak at pagdiriwang? Ang kasukdulang walang hanggang? Na sa pagkauhaw ko'y titighaw? Na sa pagnanasa ko'y aagaw? Na sa puso ko'y mag-uumapaw? Nasaan? Nasaan?

Hari ng Araw: Wala. Wala, kaibigan. Ang tunog ng tagumpay ay pakinggan: hungkag at basag, mapanglaw at bahaw. Tulad ng hiyaw na sa buho, umaalingawngaw.

Ponce: Ano? Pinagpalit ko ang kabayan at kasintahan, mga magulang at ang tahanan, pati ang aking pinakamatalik na kaibigan, para sa kahariang walang laman?

Hari ng Araw: 'Yan ang kabayaran sa ating kahangalan. Paalam, kaibigan.

Ponce: Huwag ninyo akong iwanan.

Hari ng Araw: Dapat akong maghanap ng sarili kong kapatawaran. . . kung ito pa'y matatagpuan.

Ponce: Ngunit ako'y mag-iisa.

Hari ng Araw: 'Yan ang sa ati'y pinakamabigat na parusa.

Tuluyang lalabas ang dating Hari ng Araw.

Ponce: [Mag-isa sa pagkalito at pagsisisi. Halos mapapahagulgol.] Saang langit ngayon hihingi ng habag, para sa hibang kong paglalagalag? Ako'y nagpabulag, nagpabulag, sa tagumpay na hungkag! Hungkag! Hungkag!

Mapapaluhod sa panghihina. Mapapahagulgol sa panghihinayang. Kasabay ng marahas na paglabnot sa kanyang gintong kapa, mapapahiyaw sa dagok ng pagkakaunawa sa hubad na katotohanan.

[Sisigaw] Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh!

* * *

The most oppressive time of the day is dusk, of course, as I leave the office and walk quietly to my car. The end of a long day, tiring and empty. The sunset sky darkens, the velvet rays reflecting luminous against the pane glass of the buildings. Melancholy never was so palpable, I thought, and the longing never so human.

Would only had I you to call at the end of my day.

I get into my car. Start the engine. Drive home.

Would only had I you.

10:04 AM | Permalink |