SUMMER LOVE
(ILIGAN, Part 1)
Home: Sunset Court, Iligan City




His name was Josh Blanco.*

I met him in the boat on the way to Iligan. He told me he was a cousin of Jackie Lou's. He didn't seem particularly meztizo to me, in fact the only resemblance between him and Pilita's daughter was the fact that they were both short.

Nevertheless, I took his word for it.

And, in the two days and two nights we spent together at sea, eating in adjacent tables at the First Class dining room and bumping into each other at the sun deck, I managed to develop a semi-crush on him.

I was 13 and overly-romantic, developing crushes seemingly overnight and dropping them shortly before dinner. But my interest in this guy somehow stuck. He was, after all, Jackie Lou's cousin, and a much older man at 17!

And so it was with a heavy heart that I watched our boat dock into the pier at Iligan. I knew it wouldn't be long before we had to part. Oh sure, I hardly knew the guy but I strangely felt sad, knowing I would never see him again.

And I rejoiced when he made his way to our quarters to say goodbye. I noticed that he was at ease talking to my grandmother, unlike boys my age who almost seemed terrified of grownups when introduced to them.

He told us he would be staying with an uncle, Atty. A. Lola Luz said "Oh yes, (Atty. A's first name). I know him." I could see she was already starting to approve of him. And when he left, I heard her say "He's a nice boy."

Too bad I would never see him again.


But I did see him again, later that morning, this time with his uncle, who boarded the ship to help him with his belongings. I was with my Lola Luz at the time, and was quite surprised when she and his uncle started talking. I guess they did know each other!

We both stood and listened, sometimes making faces, pretending it was so uncool to be hearing all this, but secretly enjoying the reprieve. And at the end of their conversation, he actually asked me for our address in Iligan in front of the grownups, and I shyly gave it to him.

The next few days were spent in breathless anticipation. Until finally one day, I heard the doorbell from my room, and then a knock on my door.

"You have a visitor".

I came out, my heart all a-flutter, my knees like jelly. And then I saw him!

We stayed in the veranda, in full view of my two younger sisters, who were throwing me teasing looks when he wasn't looking. It was plain to see I was super-kilig. I couldn't even wipe the silly grin off my face.

The visits continued over the next two weeks. Sometimes we would walk to the nearby Redemptorist Church and watch kids play soccer, sitting in the shade. Sometimes the ball would come our way and he would kick it back. I could see he also played the sport.

I had come to look forward to his visits, my heart jumping whenever I heard the doorbell chime. I even endured the relentless teasing from my sisters. Every moment of the day was spent in anticipation of his coming. And on those days when he didn't come, I would wander around the house, trying to hide my disappointment at not seeing him.

And then came the day when he told me he was going back to Manila. His vacation was over. He told me this in the same patch of shade, at the wide expanse of grass in front of the Redemptorist Church, where kids played soccer. And I felt my heart crumble at the words.

I never saw him again after that.


I spent the rest of my summer vacation making new friends and developing new crushes. But I somehow reserved a space in my heart for him.

We never even kissed, him and I, although he did shyly take my hand when we crossed the street and I was happy that he continued holding on to it even after we were safely on the other side.

Those were the days when boys visited girls, safely chaperoned in their homes. When they addressed elders as "Sir" and "Ma'am", and if they did it sincerely enough, maybe they would even be invited to stay over for dinner.

(In retrospect, I guess all my suitors had nerves of steel, to be able to endure my Lolo Maning's foreboding presence as he sat with us in the living room, reading his newspaper, listening to every word we said.)

It is a sweet, innocent time in every girl's life, when she first blossoms into womanhood, eager to experience her first love, still untouched by pain and disillusionment and regret.

When love was all about emotions, having nothing to do with sex.

And all its grown-up complications.


I will always remember that last summer in Iligan, when I was still caught in that awkward stage just beyond childhood but not quite into womanhood yet. An age when the slightest gesture made you blush and a simple song could make you cry.

One particular song, sung by Pops Fernandez during her ingenue days, received heavy airplay that summer. The music video showed her singing longingly on the beach, presumably for a lover lost.

It is the only song of hers that I really liked. Perhaps because it reminded me of that bittersweet summer, when I pined for someone I barely knew, watching the ocean, remembering how I first met him.

Ironically, if I ever bumped into the same guy today, I would probably not recognize him at all.


DITO
sung by Pops Fernandez

Dito sa batuhang ito
Dito may naririnig ako
Sabay sa paghampas ng alon sa bato
Tinig mo'y tumatawag sa 'kin, giliw.

Dito, wala ka na, di ba?
Wala at di na makikita
Bigla at 'di ko kagustuhan
Ating tampuhan
At ang 'yong paglisan.

Bakit kung ika'y wala na
At di na magbabalik pa
Ba't kita naririnig nakikita?

At bakit ikaw ay narito lang sa tabi
Nakaakbay, kausap
Kaulayaw sa tuwina?
Ba't kapiling pa kita?

Dito'y kapiling ka.


*name altered
(PLUGGING: "Tickled Pink", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)

SANTACRUZAN
Homes: Marbella 2, 87 Gentle Street




The merry month of May signals the start of the Santacruzan season.

Now, I have to admit that in all my 37 years, I am still in the dark as far as Santacruzan is concerned. I am not deeply religious, or even Catholic for that matter. In fact, my father was a devout Muslim while my Mom was an agnostic-turned-follower of the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, which left us children pretty much clueless in the way of quasi-religious Roman Catholic processions.

Nevertheless, I thought they were pretty. I remember seeing my first Santacruzan when I was about four or five. The procession filed slowly past 87 Gentle Street as I craned my neck to see the many beautiful maidens and their handsome beaus, their smiling faces illuminated by candlelight. I secretly envied the little sagalas, wishing I was one of them just so I could finally wear make-up. My parents didn't even have to buy me a new dress, I could just wear the one I wore as a flower girl to my uncle's wedding!

I thought it was unfair that nobody asked my Mommy to make me a sagala. Why, I was prettier than most of those little girls I saw, even without makeup! Some of them even missed their front teeth. (I was vain, even as a child.)

It was only a few years later when I realized why. See, even though my Lolo Maning and Lola Elvie religiously went to mass every Sunday (well, my Lolo Maning anyway!), they seldom brought us with them. And since it was the parish which organized the annual Santacruzan, that effectively reduced our chances of being sagalas to close to nil.

Oh well, by then we were spending most of our summers with our grandparents in Mindanao anyway, so I never really missed it after that. Besides, I dismissed the whole lot as hypocritical, since year after year, my pretty next-door-neighbor, Joy , would be marching as Emperatriz. The same Joy who usually sneaked out in the middle of the night to engage in some pretty heavy petting and necking with the rich boy next door. (I lived in the other side of their house, with an unobstructed view of their nocturnal trysts.)

And so life went on, and I grew older, eventually accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, which effectively closed the door at my chances of reigning as Reina in any of the Santacruzans at my village.

My social circle also grew to accommodate many boys and girls from the area, mostly schooled in nearby Claret and Holy Family, where the parish usually harvested its latest batch of Reynas and escorts. But by then, I was already starting my career as a radio newscaster and, at the ripe old age of 17, couldn't be bothered with such trivial pursuits.

Fast forward fourteen years, one ex-husband, and one son later.

It was 1999 and Lorenzo and I were living in a chi-chi Roxas Boulevard condo, far far away from the old parish in 87 Gentle Street. I was enjoying my prime-time stint as co-anchor for RPN's "NewsWatch EveningCast" while Lorenzo had so many commercials under his belt, they would sometimes run back-to-back with each other during station breaks. We were deeply in love, both with each other and with life. And did I mention expecting our first baby, whom we would eventually name Lance?

You could imagine my consternation when some officers of a community organization in Malate approached me, asking if I could be Reyna de las Flores in their Santacruzan! I don't know if they already had an escort in mind, but the organizers took one look at my hunky fiancee and immediately asked him to be my escort as well!

I was still in my first trimester, so I wasn't showing yet. In fact, when I invited them to our condo in Marbella, they wouldn't believe that I was pregnant. But I assured him that I was very much in the family way, and was surprised and flattered that they wanted me anyway.

"That's all right", they assured me, "we'll work around it."

And so preparations were under way for my first Santacruzan appearance. I didn't mind it happening this late in my life. I was just flattered that they would even consider me, at the ripe young age of 31! They told me this year's Reyna Elena was Glydel Mercado. Heck, I didn't mind playing second fiddle to her!

But there were the logistics of accommodating my growing waistline. Obviously, the measurements they took down for fittings wouldn't stay the same for long, and since fashion designers rarely stock clothes with sizes above anorexic, we were in a real dilemma as far as wardrobe was concerned.

Enter long-time designer Tony Galang, who fortuitously had the perfect baro't saya in my size, pregnant tummy notwithstanding! He even had a beautiful Sarimanok-inspired barong for Lorenzo which matched my dress perfectly. And the best part of it all? I had comfortable shoes to match.

And so, on that Sunday afternoon in early June, we set out for an undisclosed place in Malate (actually it's more unremembered than undisclosed). We parked in a quiet street and proceeded to the beginning of the procession. My octogenarian grandmother, Lola Luz, tagged along to watch the festivities, and so did my alalay, Belen, who was also pregnant at the time. My driver, Sam, doubled as videographer, while my bodyguard, Regan, reprised his duties as "hawi-boy".

I never realized how much hard work it took to march in a procession AND look pretty AND smile at the thousandth time somebody said "Don't Forget the muffins" to Lorenzo, all the while pretending your feet are all right when in reality they feel like a couple of bricks. And then there is the odd firecracker or two exploding nearby which causes you to nearly jump out of your skin. By the time the procession ended, Lorenzo was practically supporting my weight.

But there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and it came in the form of a delicious buffet at the four-storey home of one of the community leaders. I felt bad that only VIPs could avail of the food. Even the ordinary rank-and-file of the community organization weren't allowed inside. Sadly, after a few hours of co-mingling and rubbing elbows, the haves and have-nots were separated once more.

But I had the added responsibility of eating for two, so I settled down to the task at hand: nourishment for me and my baby. Besides, I had to fortify myself because our duties weren't over. Earlier that day, the organizers asked Lorenzo and me if we could act as judges in choosing the best korona among the different barangays. Designer Tony Galang, whom we thanked profusely for providing our wardrobe, was one of the judges as well.

(Glydel didn't stick around for long after eating her VIP meal.)

And so we proceeded to the contest site. There were speeches and presentations, and, (I was happy to notice), food as well. It was good to know provisions were made for the rest of the community, not just for us "VIPs".

Lorenzo and I sat and visually dissected each korona , dazzled at the display of creativity from our neighbors in Malate. In the end, our choice was also that of Tony Galang's and we declared the winner. It was touching to see the barangay's members rejoice and congratulate each other, the very picture of teamwork and pagkakaisa.

It was a heady experience, one that I would always remember. I will forever treasure the memory of my one and only Santacruzan, which came late in the day, but at just the right time when I could appreciate it most.

Best of all, I was able to share it with the man I love.




(PLUGGING: "Pop-sicles", my Father's Day offering in The Prada Mama Chronicles. Also check out my newest blog, Sightings.)

PASALUBONG
Homes: Modesto, CA, The Brown House, BAGUIO, 87 Gentle Street




Part of the pleasure of having visitors from the Philippines are the pasalubongs you get from home.

I am a simple girl with simple tastes. When it comes to pasalubongs, just give me gourmet tuyo and pastillas de leche and I'll be happy as a clam.

I got hooked on gourmet tuyo when a former fiancee gave me a small jar of the Kalipayan brand as pasalubong. I hoarded that jar for months, miserly picking at each bit of fish and savoring its sweet saltiness. When I finished it, I found use for the leftover olive oil too, drizzling it on steaming hot rice to give it some flavor.

I later discovered that they sold it duty-free on PAL flights. I used to buy jars of the stuff, even though I thought the six dollars they charged for each tiny jar was outrageous.

Alas, I didn't get any gourmet tuyo this year. I got gourmet bangus and gourmet tinapa instead. The tinapa wasn't bad but the bangus was a disappointment.

The pastillas de leche I got weren't too hot either. I like the ones coated with granulated sugar, but this particular brand (Sevilla's) was too sweet. I prefer the ones from Red Ribbon, or my childhood favorite, Merced Bake Shop. But, since I'm more than a hop, skip and jump away from the nearest Red Ribbon and oceans away from the Merced of old, I just settled down to enjoy my too-sweet-treats.




However, my Auntie Evelyn sent me something which more than made up for the disappointment: GIANT versions of the yemas I used to love when I was a child, made in that familiar pyramid shape and wrapped in the same colored cellophane.

It's almost impossible to come by these delicacies in this day and age. In fact, when I was a teenager, the yemas they were already selling were the round kind, with a hard coating of caramelized sugar. They were okay, but I didn't like them as much as the simple yemas of my younger days.




Auntie Evelyn also sent us a box of polvoron. Polvoron has certainly gone a long way from the days my Mom and yayas used to make it in our kitchen in Baguio. I remember them packing the flour-and-sugar powder into little oval molds, and pushing them out into the center of colorful little squares of papel de japon.

Through the years, I saw the lowly polvoron get dolled-up and fancified in commercial bake shops, the tiny oval shape giving way to bigger circles with fluted edges. The papel de japon has all but disappared from the stands too, giving way to the hardier colored cellophane.

Now, I happen to be one of those people who like their polvoron PLAIN. Whoever got the bright idea of adding pinipig into the mix just ruined the formula as far as I'm concerned. But I'm a purist, and not always in tune with the times, which was why I wasn't surprised that the fancy-schmanzy polvorons in my pasalubong sported snooty pedigrees of kasoy and cookies and cream.




Evolution or devolution?

Well, the jury's still out on that one.

I, for one, am happy with the way tuyo and tawilis evolved from poor man's fare to their present stature, their names elevated side-by-side with gastronomic giants such as olive oil and capers.

But I declare a downturn when it comes to my childhood favorites. Just like my Mom and mother-in-law lamented the disappearance of heko from the manggang hilaw of their younger days (now replaced by bagoong alamang), I decry the devolution of the yema, the polvoron and the pastillas de leche.

Is it just me who thinks all of these native delicacies tasted much better, way back when they were still produced in small homemade batches? Or sold in no-name bakeshops in nondescript cardboard boxes, sometimes wrapped in festive holiday paper around Christmas?

Have time and commerce corrupted the simple formulas of the past? I hope not. Indeed, the return of the simple yema has restored my faith in those small cottage industries and enterpreneurs who still cater to quality over commercialism.

If only I could speak to the owners of Sevilla's pastillas de leche right now, I would praise them for their packaging and chastise them for their formula. For what is the good of having a glossy, tourist-catching uniform box a la Hawaiian Holiday when your wares inside harden to rock sugar within days of opening?

I am a simple girl of simple tastes. And I speak for every Pinoy and Pinay, both at home and abroad, when I say that the quickest way to our hearts, (and to our WALLETS), are through our taste buds.

As to those old, original, time-tested recipes? It's simple, really.

Don't fix them if they ain't broke.


(PLUGGING: Another kind of "Pasalubong" in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)

MUSIC 21
Home: Traders Hotel




It was getting chilly out, the cold night breeze blowing in from Manila Bay.

Luneta Park had already woven its magic upon us. The night was still young. We wanted to savor it some more.

But we had to savor it someplace else. My denim sundress was a little too flimsy to protect me against the elements. Even with the mild weather, I still felt exposed somehow.

So we decided to head for familiar territory.

Our first stop was Ratsky in Greenhills, his old watering hole. Ratsky is owned by his cousin, Randy Santiago. He used to be a regular there, during its early days. But Ratsky is worthy of its own detour on The Long Way Home, so I won't talk about it much on this post.

Next, we went to my old watering hole, Motions at the Centerpoint Hotel in Manila. Again, this place has its own stop on The Long Way Home, so all I'll say for now is that we saw my good friend, Pol Antonio there.

There wasn't much going on in Motions. Even my dance instructor, Boyet, wasn't there, which was just as well. I was feeling so giddy from the first blush of love that I was in no mood to dance anyway.

We hooked up with Pol and decided to head over to Music 21 in Makati. Music 21 is where my karaoke journey began. I used to go there with my friend, Dada Carlos, along with other members of our barkada, the Rub-a-Dubs. We used to sing up a storm until the wee hours of the morning, fueled by calamares and iced tea. Through many return visits, I finally learned how to compliment my voice through proper positioning of the mic, tricks which were alien to me during my choir days.

Pol was another karaoke bar denizen. He even had a signature song, "Paradise", which never failed to leave the audience in stitches. I knew Pol was game when it came to singing, but I wasn't sure about my new beau. I was just happy that Lorenzo didn't object to going to a karaoke bar, which was a promising sign.

When we got to Music 21, Lorenzo was relieved to see the location's setup. He did express apprehension about singing in front of strangers when we first mentioned karaoke, but we reassured him that it would take place in a very private setting.

We ordered our food and drinks and started choosing our numbers from the song books. We insisted that Pol do the first song, since we were still in the shy stages of our relationship. And then it was my turn. I don't remember what I sang anymore, but I'm sure it was a noisy song from either Pat Benater or Heart, or maybe even Joan Jett and the Black Hearts. (Is it obvious I'm a frustrated rocker as well?)

Maybe I DID sing "I Love Rock-N-Roll" because I remember his surprise at the uncharacteristic choice of music, and his loud claps of approval after.

And then it was HIS turn to sing and I remember it just like it was yesterday. He sang "Just Once", and he sang it well too, James Ingram growl and all.

We sang late into the night and I was happy as a clam, content in the knowledge that we had found one more thing we had in common.

Both of us loved to sing.

But the biggest surprise that night was yet to come. And it came in the form of a song. I had programmed "With You I'm Born Again" into the system, hoping Lorenzo knew it. I have always loved this song, and used to sing it with Dada all the time. She was versatile enough to make the duet sound good, even though we were both female.

I didn't have high hopes at first, and was surprised that Lorenzo seemed to know the opening verse. I sang the next verse on cue, thinking (hmmm...so far so good), and we continued taking turns, singing our respective parts.

And then the chorus came. He sang "Come bring me your softness..." and I blended my voice with his, being used to the harmonization from my many practice sessions with Dada. My senses were fine-tuned to listen for any hesitation on his part, but Lorenzo continued just like it was the most natural thing on earth.

And then it was my turn to sing the following verse, and to my surprise, he sang second voice. Flawlessly. It was like we had been singing this song all our lives. And the feeling was awesome. Giddy. Hair-raising even.

We finished the song beautifully, blending and all, still in our own little world together until the final notes faded.

The spell was broken by Pol's applause. He was dumbfounded when we told him it was the very first time we ever sang that song together. He even expressed doubt, saying there was no way we could sing it that well unless we sang it before, but the look of happy surprise on our faces must've convinced him in the end.

This is why, to this very day, we still consider it our song.


Pol would later be found murdered in his own house, just seven weeks after that karaoke date. They still haven't found his killer to this day.

I would like to dedicate this song to my dear departed friend, Pol Antonio, and to my former singing partner, Dada Carlos, who is dealing with a recent loss of her own.


WITH YOU I'M BORN AGAIN
Billy Preston & Syreeta
Written by David Shire and Carol Connors

Come bring me your softness
Comfort me through all this madness
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again

Come give me your sweetness
Now there's you, there is no weakness
Lying safe within your arms, I'm born again

I was half, not whole
In step with none
Reaching through this world
In need of one

Come show me your kindness
In your arms I know I'll find this
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Lying safe with you I'm born again

Come bring me your softness
Comfort me through all this madness
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again

Come give me your sweetness
Now there's you, there is no weakness
Lying safe within your arms, I'm born again
(Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again)

I was half, not whole
In step with none
Reaching through this world
In need of one

Come show me your kindness
In your arms I know I'll find this
Woman, don't you know, with you I'm born again
Lying safe with you I'm born again


(PLUGGING: "Art For Heart's Sake", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)