Ahh, another month-sary. ^_^
Food. The best way to a man’s heart? Let me get back to this later, meantime I’ve got a bureaucracy to attend to.
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Apparently, nobody in their right mind went out of their way to prepare for this meeting that I was supposed to attend. Which only asserts that I am a lunatic.
I’m down to my last 5 CDs to burn. Gotta go check out what this “Get Backers” anime is that I am making copies of. Find it here.
Pilipit. Another pinoy bread-food. It’s just bread with sugar after all, but I’m pretty hung up on it right now.
August 20, 1997. Six years ago today, I received one of the few and treasured “I’m sorry” missives from my none other. It was two days after the worst days of Metro Manila traffic you could ever imagine. Ahhh, what a way to immortalize that fateful day, let me write about it now:
It was a bright sunshiny day on the 18th of August, 1997. A Monday. I don’t remember any of my classes, nor whatever else went on in school that day, except that I was left very cranky by my then no-talking Silverh (a reason he described as mere katamaran. He’s been forgiven of this now by the way ^_^ ), provoking me to literally get up and leave. A girlfriend caught up and walked with me to the jeepney ride leading out of the university. I remember vividly that it was 1 p.m., since she and I noted the time since it was blazing hot while we foolishly walked outdoors. My usual dilemma when I get to EDSA is whether I should wait for a derecho Pacita, or a Makati stopover. And, my usual decision would be to windowshop in Makati(at least an hour a day, to keep the itches away). Unusually though, when I got off the Ayala bus, I did not enter Rustan’s (my usual route), but went straight to Parksquare. There was a tiangge ongoing, and from stall-to-stall I went, wowing over the native food and non-foods for sale. I don’t remember gawking too long, but i do remember what I bought. Two BIG bags of crunchy white chicharon (not the chicharon-hangin type that I preferred) which came with a tiny transparent plastic canister of suka, where a small but elongated piece of red siling labuyo. I carried a bayong-like bag (a really nice Kamiseta bag that withstood the heaviest of loads, i.e., Hugh Young’s 2-3 kilo Physics textbook). The chicharon safely tucked inside, for anticipated consumption with my mom that evening. Now it was around 3 p.m. On board the JAM bus, it was a mere 1 hour to go til I get home. Sweet home. I’ve never been more wrong. I could not remember where the bus was at a specific time, but I never set foot home earlier than 1 a.m. the next morning. It rained, and being a tropical country that is never any surprise. The rain did not falter, but still, storms are not unusual. The traffic did not move very well in the SLEX, in fact, you can say nagmistulang parking lot ang SLEX. People were getting upset. It was about 7 p.m., and we were nowehere near the first SLEX exit. The bus driver must’ve had a sudden hit of inspiration when we reached Nichols, for it swerved and went to exit SLEX. We were inside the airbase soon after, and later I recognized Baclaran… I think it was around 10 p.m. I was amused though, ’cause the people were getting acquainted. A woman even started to sell some food, and people were calling her their angel. Who wouldn’t be thankful for mamon after 7 hours or so of being stucjk in traffic? I had my own food to live on though, temptation I fought so hard ’til around 11 p.m. when I was so famished. The rain continued to beat down on the bus windows. Passengers who made up their minds to walk home obviously changed back their minds to just stay inside the comfort of the bus, which, amazingly, never busted a tire nor sprung a leak, nor lost a spark of bat
tery power. The driver was clever enough to turn off the engine often. We weren’t moving after all. No airconditioning was fine, it was raining oceans outside for crying out loud. There was one time when the radio weather report said “… at wala pong naitalang bagyo sa araw na ito…” Imagine the laughter that roared in that bus. Alas, I was sucking on the last chicharon- crumbed finger (I finished both TWO bags!), when finally it was the last stretch of Alabang-Zapote, and after a half-hour, I was home. Finally, 1 a.m. Twelve hours of travel. Quezon City to San Pedro. I was lucky, the others who lived in my vicinity left for home hours and hours after I did, and arrived a little before or after sunrise.
So Silverh’s little katamaran was a blessing. Like the real blessing he really is to me. Even when he’s wrong, he still turns out to be right. Somehow.