Disquiet/Disconnect

Those who had ever been in a couple would probably understand what I’m talking about.  That feeling of utter disquiet one has in those particular moments of disconnect one feels with one’s other half in a relationship.  Suddenly, the person whom you’d totally connected with on so many levels is just disconnected from you in a lot of those levels.  Sometimes that’s just exactly what it is—a feeling.  But when you’re in it, it’s as tangible and literally pressing like a one-size-tight jacket worn on a day that is turning out to be a little more humid than expected. 

I couldn’t pinpoint exactly what triggers it, but I can give it a couple of jabs, based from experience.  Maybe a knee-jerk reaction to the following things: a rash comment said haphazardly which the other person easily forgives but not quite forgets, thoughts too strong to pull away from that it totally distracts you from the moment and from the person you’re with, an awkward moment that happens randomly, just randomly.  Whatever the permutations are, it results to that state of disconnection that’s just bewildering to one party or both. 

Like I said, it could just be a feeling, a transient state of reality that just happens the way El Nino happens—it’s a phenomenon that just happens and happens as part of a cycle.  Two people cannot be connected at all times, after all.  I guess the weird part comes in when you attempt to reconnect, or recover from the moment.  Friends could afford to say ‘meh’, and part ways knowing that equilibrium could be restored the next day or the next week or whenever they’d meet.  I think it’s a lot different with lovers (particularly ones who are fresh into the relationship), because to them, every moment together should count (or maybe that’s just me).  When it happens though, you throw in all sorts of lassoes and hooks, hoping one of them would catch and draw her back in, and along with it, the moment.  And it feels really strange when nothing happens, nothing latches on, and all you have is this hard, white, smooth blank wall. 

Anyway, I hope you don’t think I’m overthinking this too much.  After all, the purpose of my posts these days is to exercise my writing, which means I get to expound on single thoughts and feelings to full 500-word write-ups.  I do hope they’re making sense, anyhow.

* * *

Anyone who knows me knows I love cleaning.  Awhile ago I’ve just begun with the second floor, with the view of a complete floorwax of the entire house, as well as the general rearrangement of things—mostly lessening clutter and establishing particular places for particular things.  I have to admit I’ve been out of touch with the house for awhile; for example, I feel rather lost whenever I cook because I’m not very familiar with the way the kitchen is set up.  Anyway, expect more updates on the cleaning in the next couple of days.  I intend to finish that soon, since I consider it a prerequisite to cleaning up what I see as the general clutter in my life, currently.  

The Second Day

This is actually a cheat post.  I was supposed to post a 500 word writeup to this blog as part of my new morning regimen but as it is, I haven’t.  Then again, I am making up for it, aren’t I.  I will not make a habit out of it, I promise. 

The second day of forming a habit is always hard.  Yesterday I found it so tough to get up, put on my shoes and start my usual 30-minute run.  In any case I chose a destination: the nearby Rainforest Park, which turns out to be a 20-minute jog away, at a slow but steady pace.  I’m looking for a lap pool I can swim at—I enjoy the water way better than land.  Anyway, it turns out that the city-run Park is, pretty much your usual, badly-inspired theme park (e.g. the ubiquitous dinosaurs, all-too-colorful stone benches, etc) or low-end clubhouse.  Anyway, my comments might be harsh but the good thing is, most of the Park is under construction.  As our current mayor and his wife are both architects, here’s to hoping that the renovations turn out well. 

The swimming pools were these huge kidney-shaped pools made for kids, with towering slides; not really for laps.  The smell of chlorine was pungent, overpowering.  The water had clearly not been replaced for awhile (it had an milky-blue color to it) despite the rather steep fees they collected from patrons (P80 for Pasig residents; P100 for non-residents).  I could get a better deal from the Olympic sized pool at the Philippine Sports Complex, which is around P40+ pesos.  That pool is cleaned Tuesdays, weekly.

Second days are tough.  The romance of that new beginning, or the concept of creating a new habit for yourself is gone, and you’d have to face the rest of it one day at a time.  All the excuses surface: like, running should not be done daily but every other day.  What’s the point of keeping a blog that nobody will read.  And really, who will check up on you if you don’t follow through?  But how do I get to that target weight, or how do I sharpen my writing skills if I don’t push through?  So you keep going and going.

Anyway, at 1pm I attended this orientation seminar to become a volunteer for the Red Cross at the Rizal/Pasig/Pateros Chapter.  I figured the other day that while I have nothing to do during the bum months (with mostly a lot of “figuring out” to do) I ought to go through the list of things I’ve always wanted to do but couldn’t do because I was reviewing or working.  I’m taking the Basic Life Support Course, and if I pass that, the Water Safety and Rescue Course.  There are a couple of other free courses, like Disaster Management, Care for Mothers and Infants during a disaster, and other courses along those lines that I’m going to be looking into. 

It’s interesting to note that the Red Cross Founder’s first experience in setting up a group to give first aid (during a battle, in which he along with mothers, children and elderly cared for 30,000-40,000 wounded and dying) was an utter failure, as not one survived.  They ended up basically easing their patients way to the next life—handling their last will and testaments, possibly acting as de facto couriers, delivering letters to family and friends and lovers of the soon to be deceased.   That would have turned out to be a horrible second day for the founder, but after a couple of hundred years, the Red Cross is here, active and inspiring people like me to get moving and make a difference in the world.  I hope I do :) 

And The Trekking Resumes

It’s the fourth day of being officially “funemployed”, and while the game plan really is to carve a cozy little niche in my bed for two weeks to a month and watch DVD’s in the intervals between carbonite freezings, I’ve decided to start my bum-days with a more structured regimen.  Like for example, writing a 500-word composition daily to brush up on my writing.  Earlier, I did a 45-minute run.  I’ve just finished cooking breakfast for everyone; tortang talong, and, modesty aside one of the best dishes I could cook. 

I started this blog—TheCityTrekker—to write about the excitement of living in the city, of pursuing dreams, to take note of the nooks and crannies that hold secret treasures for that every now and then jolt the late 20-something from yuppie-zombiefication and generally to document the good vibes I came across.  You must have noticed that I haven’t written anything in over seven months.  It was a hell of a year, quite the roller coaster ride.  Getting oh so fucking close to getting my fucking life goal, then experiencing the crushing and rather irrevocable results of, well… not.  I shall probably fill you in with the details of that along the way.  But more or less, if you are 20-something, you’d most likely understand what I’m saying.  I’m glad to report that I’m still alive and functioning after that ordeal, and strangely enough, I came across some surprising blessings along the way.  To be specific, I met a girl (hereafter referred to as S, or the Stranger) who happened to see something in me when I was at my lowest, darkest point in my life.  It’s partly because of her that I’m making an effort to try and place a bit of structure back into my life, and systematically fighting the bad vibes to get back into my feet rather than stick to my plan of living in my bed. 

I Googled the word and it turns out that Trek is an Afrikaan word which means “a long, adventurous journey undertaken on foot in areas where common means of transport is generally not available”, and I could not have found a more apt word to describe where I’m at.  I have to admit that for the past three years, my life was transfixed on that one goal I was talking about, and part of the reason I stuck to it was because it would pretty much set my life in one direction.  Had I attained that goal, I could be one of those arrogant 20-somethings who could say I won’t be feeling lost about my career, that I had attained something quite significant before I reached 30, that the aspects of the rest of my life would flow and follow and start like clockwork.  Arrogance, yes.  There was an arrogance in knowing I would be more or less, better than everyone.  And how I reveled in that knowledge!  It was like boarding The Train that would bring me to the heights of greatness and happiness.  No more worries of “who I am and who I want to be”, or “what to do”. 

“A long, adventurous journey undertaken on foot in areas where common means of transport is generally not available.”  You can say that again.  Around New Year’s, I received news that not only had I not passed; I was barred from ever pursuing that goal ever again.  I felt crushed; not only did I feel like I missed The Train, I felt like it had run me over the way it did poor Anna, hooting and tooting away with three years of my life in tow.  In a sense, that was the easy, programmed route.  And it’s just not available anymore. 

I’d been depressed about that for the longest time, obviously.  But now, thinking of that word, trek.  I’m walking on foot, finding my way.  No compass, nor knowledge of orienteering.  No cars or trains or buses to get me there.  No easy routes, no easy answers.  Trek implies moving forward despite not being guided by an itinerary.    

For the most part, it’s what I have to do now.  One step forward.  Then another step forward.  In the English language, trek actually means: “a long arduous journey, typically on foot.”  While I do agree that this journey could be arduous, I’d like to prescribe to the Afrikaan definition that says it’s an adventure.  An arduous adventure, but an adventure nonetheless.  Fuck The Train.  I want adventure.  Come with me and look for it?  

The Meal That Saved My Life

Cold, sticky sweat stuck the hair on the sides of my face.  Every time the minibus lurched I clamped my mouth down, fighting the rising bile.  I tried burrowing deeper into what recesses I can manage to dig under my jacket, but it made no difference—I felt like I was being boiled alive in ice water.  I slipped in and out of reality, grateful for the darkness of sleep.  And whenever I regained consciousness, I was transported in the hellish kaleidoscope of the minibus’ stomach—the acidic miasma of disco-colors mixing and giving birth to colors beyond the spectrum, glimpses of the razor Mohawk-hair of the punks alighting and getting off the bus, the heavy metal music hammering into my skull. 

Me and my flu in 88 crazy kilometers in a minibus from Balingoan port to Cagayan de Oro City.  I knew I was going to die. 

The Situation

But obviously I didn’t die.  And to this day I still swear that I am alive now because of a bowl of beef brisket noodles. 

I was never a big fan of the Filipino merienda, beef mami.  Beef mami broth was too scorching hot to eat.  The slurping of the noodles made it a messy meal.  The pieces of meat and the vegetables in the bowl seemed like an afterthought. It was a meal with no real identity—in the limbo between not quite-nilaga and almost-lomi.  But I was 24 then and knew nothing of what life really was. 

At the time I was working for a non-government organization specializing in community-based health insurance systems.  We were in Mindanao looking at how our project can be applied to cooperatives.  It sounds like a lot of technical stuff (and it is), but since we were in Camiguin (an island province) we decided to finish work early so we could steal a bit of R & R in the island. 

I already had a splitting headache and a slight fever after we finished with the work, but I wasn’t going to let THAT keep me in our room at Paras Beach Resort while my teammates frolicked in the sun.  No, I wanted to experience everything.  Checking out the White Island sand bar, renting bikes to pedal up at Ardent hot springs for a warm, luxurious dip.  Going to market, and of course, stuffing self with Pastel at the Vjandep store.  I believed my tiny fever couldn’t get any worse if I engaged in such happy activities.     

 

By the time I stepped into the ferry boat, I was near to having convulsions with the flu.  It was a good thing we had a doctor and a nurse in the team, but even they couldn’t do much; we had to get back to our hotel in Cagayan de Oro City.  They told me I could do nothing but survive the long four hour ride it would take.   

I can barely remember how we got back to CDO.  At Balingoan port after the ferry from Camiguin, there were long, impossible queues on buses.  And everywhere we turned there were armies of motorella drivers enticing us to get a ride with them for usurious rates.  A thunderstorm had also begun.  Drenched, far from the safety of my hotel room and with seemingly no means to get there it took a lot for me to keep myself from combusting into a pile of brain and entrails on the road.  But remember that I was with my team and I tried my best not to be a liability to them.  I didn’t want to let them down. 

Minibus from Hell

Finally, we caught sight of clunky minibus screeching to a halt in the distance, and when my teammates started running, I did so too—along with hordes of stranded passengers in the rain.  I was literally running for my life. 

My teammates would later on confirm what I saw in the “minibus from hell” while I was delirious.  Apparently, there was a punk rock concert in CDO that same night, and in various stops along the way, Mohawked punkistas jump onboard, their sharp spiked crowns barely scraping the ceiling of the minibus.  As minibuses go , the one we rode has a sort of strobe pumping out lights along with a 70’s display of bulbs that spewed out the colors of prunes, bruise-blue, magma, bile and acid green.  The minibus was the king of the road, switching lanes and roaring through the highway all evening.  While I appreciated the speed by which I was being transported to the safety of my hotel room, fresh waves of nausea would crash into my very being every time the minibus swerved to overtake.  At the time, I honestly didn’t mind it if we slammed violently into an oncoming vehicle, and our bodies turned into the consistency of vomit.  I wanted the pain to end; I didn’t care how as long as it did. 

I don’t know how I survived three hours of the minibus ride, but my companions and I found ourselves at a street corner within sight of our hotel (I forget now which one), and I was about ready to do a final kamikaze run back into my hotel room.  I would crawl back there and die.  My bones and joints ached so hard it felt like I was coming off at the seams—my body was literally falling apart and I just needed a place to dump my body before it turns into a corpse. 

I nearly wailed aloud when our project team leader declared that after that hellish ride, we needed to get some dinner.  I was too tired to protest and we made our way to a cheap but authentic Chinese restaurant right beside our hotel, plunking into its swivel-type plastic seats.  My jaws were clenched to stop my teeth from chattering from the chills.  My face was literally squashed into the tabletop, so one of my workmates (probably Mia, the doctor), ordered for me.  The others went for their favourites—chicken feet, spare ribs, hakaw.  I didn’t particularly care whatever she ordered; I felt I had no more energy to eat anything.  And as you know, I was brought a bowl of beef brisket noodles.

The Meal That Saved My Life

I had no particular love for the dish that was ordered from me, but neither did I have the will nor strength to care.  Still shivering from the rain, the sweet, hearty aroma of beef broth awakened my senses—including my sense of hunger.  I attacked the soup first, feeling the essence of the beef return the strength to my body; it was like having a sun rise inside my chest and pour light in all directions.  I wolfed down the noodles next, appreciating its body and texture and its ability to enhance the taste of the whole dish rather than have the taste diluted by the carb, something which rice does when mixed with any viand.  The broth nourished me while the noodles filled me.  Then I picked through the oh-so-tender beef brisket, the soul of the dish, which melted immediately when I popped them in my mouth.  Finally, I scrunched through the perfectly cooked bok choy, a bright green joy, the emerald at the heart of the meal.     

 

I still remember that feeling of intense joy and relief after my first bowl of beef brisket noodles—a mixture of surprise, satisfaction, renewed strength and vigor.  I emerged from the meal, sweat trailing down my face—not because of fear, anxiety nor illness—but because of the sheer exhilaration of enjoying the entirety of a meal.     

From that day on I admitted that I had been wrong to shun beef mami my entire life.  I swore henceforth to devote a considerable amount of attention to this dish—to explore its possibilities in every taste, region or culture—whether it’s Vietnamese pho, Far Eastern ramen.  I search the world for every manifestation of beef mami, try to understand it more and become its champion.  That’s why a part of this site will be devoted to beef mami. 

Because after all… it had once saved my life.  

That Hateful Line

My 4-year old niece from Boston has been with us since May and our house, formerly populated by grownups has been infused with light and charm and sometimes tantrums that kids bring into any home.

She's a lovely child--curly brown hair, very expressive eyes and a smile that can calm down even the Hulk with the awesome powers of cuteness.  She's terribly smart, and can catch adults when they're trying to give her the runaround.  She speaks her mind and is very willful.  Get caught off guard and you'll end up as her slave.

We all love her.

I was a bum when she arrived, having quit my job to focus on taking the Foreign Service Exam.  I only got back into the working world after exams, which happened the last week of July.  So when the money started coming in, I began to devote a significant part of my funds to making my niece happy and acting as a proper uncle should.  You can't really get into THAT role when you're a bum.

A fancy wand to complete her "Fairy Princess" getup.  Bouquets of flowers.  Purple siopao from Eng Bee Tin.  Hopia ("Tito Mark, next time you buy me FOUR of these not only one," she reminds me) Yakult (P8 na pala yun ngayon).

I was passing through Carriedo to Quiapo when I was drawn to a woman holding a box of bunny rabbits.  After haggling P10 off the price I brought it home to present to its new owner.  Katie melted when she saw it and spent a considerable amount of time thinking up a name for it.

Finally, she decides on Mr. Bubbles.  If that isn't textbook cute, I don't know what is.

This morning, Katie, who just woke up told me I had to help her "take care of Mr. Bubbles."

"Katie, I can't," I said, barely chowing down my breakfast.  "I've got to go to work."

MOST HATEFUL LINE EVER.

Beautiful

I'm walking home, a little past midnight.  The world floats past me at every step, and it feels like I'm air jogging.  It's a Thursday night and my head is awash with endorphins and it's fuzzy.  My face is turned upwards, my nose taking in the cool night air, the ghosts of yesterday's molecular pollutants at the heart of every breath.  It seems all beautiful. 

The Rise of the Planet of the Apes is a movie that could've turned out wrong in many many ways and it didn't and I am pleased.  The fast pace and development of the plotline, turned one notch faster or slower could have been horrendous.  I'm absolutely against any form of CG animals posing as pseudo-humans living with humans (Stuart Little, G-Force and the like) but I loved the character designs of the apes and found myself cheering for them.  It was very beautiful.

I watched the movie with a girl I liked back in college (around ten years ago my garsh).  We spent two and a half hours talking, and with the few meet ups we've had sprinkled over the course of a decade, conversation with her always been like that: rich, riddled with humor, always a comparison of insights and experiences of the twenty somethings.  She's got this natural allure about her and she's terribly smart (she just passed the med boards), but for some reason perhaps she is not aware of this, which adds to the appeal.  It is so rare to find someone to connect with in so many levels at this point in life--in the working context, in the late twenty something run, in the city and the urban culture that makes human relationships utterly fragmented and difficult.  Finding people like her in the city is a joy considering it's among the mess of uncertain dreams, among streets dotted with red tail lights as if it were bleeding from a million machine gun bullet wounds and among zombiefied grownups, who on the outside seem lifeless and detached from the real life.

I walk home seemingly flushed and sedated at the same time. A strange cocktail indeed.

Shet.  Ang sarap ma-in love sa lungsod at sa buhay.