A body persists in its state of rest or of uniform motion
unless acted upon by an external unbalanced force.
- Newton’s First Law of Motion


As sure as science, she fell, hard and irresistibly, towards his center of gravity. It was not that she intended to, or had any deliberate intention of being caught hopelessly in orbit around him. But as imperceptible as the laws of attraction go, she found herself drawn to him and his laughter, suddenly and inexplicably, the way gravity draws a river inexorably to the sea.

Things began innocently enough: group lunches with fellow workmates, innocuous chats during breaktime, unexpected connections. The romantics among them called it latent magnetism, a textbook example of opposites attract. Whatever it was, howewver,— magnetism, gravity, insanity— one thing was certain: she was not like any of the other girls that he had once upon a time dated; because what many thought to be that which was irresistible about him was not what she herself had fallen in love with. She was not overwhelmed by his presence or attracted by his celebrity; neither was it the idea of having been chosen over other oogling girls that made their hand-holding sweeter, or more meaningful. No. It was his vulnerability and his passion that made her a true believer. It was his willingness to damn the world for his art, and for his art alone, that defined for her the meaning of integrity. She even bought curtains for him, gaddamit. And she knew that she was in love.

But when all was said and done, as work and life and making a living made wider their shared universe, it became apparent that he eventually had to choose. And when the conflict between his heart and his art had led him to decide, he decided for his art, but wanted his heart as well. She was willing to give it, truth be told— to let him have his cake and eat it too. But he decided for both of them: It was for the best, because I don’t want to hurt you.

And before she knew it, that orbit which both of them had found so comfortable and endearing, had, for her, turned into a vortex of emotions and questions, sucking her ever downward and ever inward, into a spiral of self-doubt. Was I not good enough? Will I ever find anyone like him again?

She knew, of course, that their parting was really for the best— for he was who he was, after all, and in the end. It was too much to expect him to change.

It was just a matter of time.

So in moments of weakness, when vortices of longing threatened yet again to draw her into him, she knew that all it was, was the momentum of the past, the forward circular motion that formerly fixed her way, and nothing more. Soon, soon, even this motion would cease, all energy would be spent, and she would, if not already, break free, chart a different course, set a different motion, move to a different heartbeat: finally, that of her own.

The traffic leading to San Juan was unusually bad that Friday evening; or it was probably because I had to make a necessary detour to the Ateneo Law School campus in Rockwell to photocopy cases for next semester’s classes in Constitutional Law— whatever it was, by the time Yang and I picked up Awee in Loyola Heights, I had already made two phone calls to Lemuria asking that they hold our table even after our reservation time of 7:30PM. I was determined not to lose our table.

Tucked away in a corner of Horseshow Village in San Juan, I had many times noticed the sign along Horseshoe Drive while on my way to work in the morning: Lemuria and the Wine Cellar. Having already heard some bits and pieces from other foodies in the past, I decided that, for this month’s First Friday Food Club—already postponed one week because of Yang’s busy, busy schedule— we were all to trek to Quezon City for our monthly gastronomical feast. We would not be disappointed.

We arrived at around 8:10PM, and were greeted by a uniformed guard at the gate, asking for our reservation. “Ay, sa wakas, dumating na kayo, Attorney,” he said, radioing in our arrival. We were led down a lighted driveway towards a Mediterranean style house at the end. To our left was a private residence, which we figured belonged to the restaurant owner. We ascended, and were welcomed by a bevy of waiters with earpieces and radios, and a handful of patrons, numbering no more than ten.

We were led to the far table, laden with tall goblets, plates and silverware, and we felt instantly awkward—as though we had arrived late at a small, exclusive dinner party, and we were the only guests left unserved. We all gave each other amused looks as we sat down, knowing that our conversation, boisterous as we often were during these monthly reunions, would surely destroy the ambience. We knew, therefore, that we barbarians from Makati would have to be on our best behavior, if only to prove that we were somewhat cultured and deserved to sit in a restaurant such as Lemuria without having to deal with annoyed glances from other more discriminating patrons.

But the initial awkwardness subsided quickly, as we got lost in the coziness of our surroundings. It was a little too close and friendly, in fact, that no sooner had we been seated at our table that we began to eavesdrop on the conversation of the couple in the next table.

The menus having been handed out, I scanned the selection which boasted of an extensive list of appretizers and entrées. I had wanted to start with the seared foie gras, braised cabbage and fig glaze, but found that it was too expensive for my taste (it was around P880 a plate!), so I just settled for a garden salad with balsamic vinegar which Yang, Awee and I would share. For good measure, I ordered asparagus soup, which the waiter said was the soup of the day.

For our main course, Yang and Awee chose the risotto of New Zealand mussels, prawn and sweet pimiento while I, wanting to be a little healthy for a change, initially decided on the halibut, which the menu described to be baked in vine leaves with spices and aromatics. Disappointed that I would not eat foie gras, however, Yang suggested that I try the grilled wagyu steak, which the waiter affirmed as the restaurant’s best seller. The moment of hesitation passed quickly, and I asked that the steak be cooked rare.

On the wine, however, we struggled a little, as Lemuria had quite an extensive wine list to choose from. (Apparently, the owners of the restaurant also owned Brumms, a company which marketed foreign wines locally). We eventually settled on a 2007 California Pinot Noir, which was affordable yet proved to be perfect for the evening’s entrée picks.

After ordering, we were served bread which we ate with tasty tomato and pate spread, and an amuse-bouche of salami and eggplant quiche. My asparagus soup, which I unfortunately found a little too tasteless, came shortly thereafter. Awee, ever the envious one, did not want to be outdone, and asked for an additional order of mushroom and gruyere soup. We both ended up swapping our appetizers, however, as Awee fancied my tasteless asparagus soup, while I enjoyed her mushroom and gruyere.

But the highlight of my evening, of course, was my grilled wagyu steak, which was served with salad, mashed potatos and mushroom sauce. It was, bar none, the softest steak that I have ever tasted. My dinnermates, therefore, had to endure occassional and prolonged pleasured grunts and groans as I savored the meat which, quite literally, melted in my mouth. So much did I enjoy this steak that I am officially including the Lemuria wagyu as among the very best steaks I have ever had, right alongside Antonio’s and Gaudi’s.

We ended with conversations over Neuchatel Cheesecake—sweet yet sedate, a perfect counterpoint to the evening. We left at around 10:30PM, the last party to leave Lemuria that night. We were a little over budget, although with the food and the privacy, it was something to be expected. While the prices were quite limiting, therefore, our Lemuria experience was certainly pleasant and worth the occassional expense.


5 Julieta Circle, Horseshoe Village, Quezon City
Tel. No.: +632.724.5211
http://www.lemuria.com.ph
http://www.brumms.com.ph

I had first noticed the shortness of breath only about a month ago, while going around the office during my usual afternoon stroll. While I had complained for some months now of an on-again, off-again dull pain on the left side of my chest, doctor friends told me that it was probably more of a muscle issue than anything else. I knew, of course, that I was out of shape, and navigating a flight of stairs had usually left me short-winded. But I figured that these symptoms were merely the manifestation of the need to get some physical exercise. And so, I decided to resume my former gym regimen, and I managed to get through around thirty minutes on the treadmill, and another thirty minutes with weight training, four times a week for the last three weeks. While I did feel tired and uncomfortable after each session, I thought hat this was just the usual aches and pains common with resuming physical activity after a long period of sedentariness.

Last week, however, on one particularly hectic afternoon, I found myself dizzy and severely short of breath after having to climb a flight of stairs to a conference room. Luckily, the company physician was on-call, and I had myself diagnosed immediately after the meeting. He said that while it did not seem particularly serious, he had observed, through his stethoscope, that I had an irregular heartbeat, and therefore suggested that I see a cardiologist and undergo ECG testing at the soonest possible time.

I got particularly scared for a couple of minutes after that diagnosis. The hypochondriac in me started to calculate the worst-case scenarios. Considering that I had been experiencing the symptoms for about three weeks now, and coupled with that dull chest pain from months and months ago, I convinced myself that I had some serious medical condition which would soon cause my death. I certainly did not want to go to bed that night, and suddenly not wake up the next day.

For my own peace of mind, therefore, I drove myself after work to the emergency room of the Cardinal Santos Medical Center, in San Juan, and complained of my shortness of breath and dizziness. I told them of the company doctor’s earlier diagnosis of an irregular heartbeat, and how he had suggested that I should get an ECG in short order. They ushered me into a gurney at the corner of the emergency room, drew the cloth partition, and connected my finger to a contraption that measured my blood oxygen level. The nurse, as she wheeled a printer-like machine right beside the gurney, asked me to take off my shirt and remove all metallic objects from my body. She then began attaching wires to my chest which were fastened with what looked like suction cups. It was an ECG machine. Moments later, I watched as scribbles emerge, much like a fax machine produced a telephone message-- the electrical impulses from my heart. The nurse took the read-out and said that I should wait for the doctor on duty to interpret the findings.

The verdict: Blood oxygen level, normal. ECG results, normal. But what of my dizziness and shortness of breath, I asked. It could be many things, the doctor said. It could even be psychosomatic. So he suggested further tests to be sure. But he reassured me that whatever it was, it did not seem at all life threatening, at least from what the instruments told him.

I was relieved, of course, as I drove home from the hospital. But I still did not know what was wrong with me, if ever there was even anything wrong with me at all. I knew that I was (and still am) experiencing episodes of dizziness and shortness of breath, even after the most sedate of physical activities. So I asked our family cardiologist to prescribe a series of tests that I should take, if only to rule things out, or generate baseline findings against which subsequent tests or check ups can be compared.

What was terrifying about this whole experience was the fact that I was worrying about this now, at age thirty. Was I not too young, I thought.

But reflecting on it more deeply, I realized that while I was not exactly old, neither can I call myself relatively young. Unfortunate as it may seem, I realized that I am no longer invincible. And coupled with this realization is a nascent yet acute knowledge that one day, sometime soon, the movement of body and quickness of feet will not be as it used to. In short, I was confronted with the truth of my mortality. In short, I was reminded that I was actually going to die.

What was it that Homer wrote in the Iliad about death—

As the generation of leaves, so the generations of men.
For the wind pours the leaves out on the ground,
But the wood blooms and grows and begets in the season of spring.
So too the generations of men: now they bloom, now they pass away.

Too often, I suppose, with the hopes and plans and dreams of day to day living, I have gotten caught up in the belief that everything is a possibility, and life somehow goes on forever. Or at least, that there will still always be a tomorrow, or a chance to start again. It is an easy enough delusion to accept, so that it sometimes comes as an uncomfortable intrusion, these occasional reminders of mortality that nonetheless are just as true as the possibility of tomorrow. I am, after all, as that ubiquitous philosopher of death, Martin Heidegger, put it: Sein-zum-tode, a being-unto-death.

It was not because Heidegger was being nihilistic (or even morose) when he described man as a being directed towards dying. On the contrary, Heidegger points out that it is because of this fact-- that all men will ultimately die-- that man’s existence finds meaning. He believes that death is not an external “event” that happens to man at the end of his life. Instead, death is inbuilt into man’s very essence, and every moment of his life is actually in anticipation of it, whether consciously or unconsciously. It is the canvass against which human life is lived. “As soon as man comes to life,” he says, “he is at once old enough to die.” Therefore, the awareness and acceptance of death, while difficult or uncomfortable, is a requirement for authentic existence. Death makes life authentic.

The challenge, therefore, is to go on with life, knowing that one day, there is death. Indeed, it is a knowing that should not be fearful or fatalistic, but an acceptance that death— or, in my case, getting older— is just really just a part of life. I suppose the key is not to worry too much, to be cautious where caution is needed, but, by and large, to live, nonetheless. After all, to borrow the words of Sara Teasdale, “Time is a kind friend. He will make us old.”


Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.