RIGHT PLACE

BEING at the right place at the right time spells success. There is no argument about that. Aren’t we all aspiring to be exactly where we need to be when the right moment comes? Love stories are replete with this theme, but so are simpler, everyday occurrences. Sometimes we aren't even conscious of it, but God puts people right on the spot, not just for their own sake, but for the sake of others as well. It happened beautifully in my case a couple of weeks ago, and it is a story I feel compelled to share. Call it a coincidence, or call it a sheer act of providence. Whatever it was, it saved my family from utter embarrassment, and—thank God—it saved our home and everything we own from the wrath of a fire.

Had things gone differently, every neighbor on our street would be pointing fingers at my two sons, aged 11 and 9, as the culprits. My wife and I would have shouldered the blame for being reckless parents. We came terrifyingly close.

It was a Friday morning during the summer break. I was at the office, and my wife had taken our youngest daughter to her ballet class. Because of this, my two sons were left home alone. On days like this, they were free to watch TV, watch movies on DVD, or play with their collectible cards—provided they didn't step past the front gate or invite any of their playmates inside. Aside from the inevitable kalat—the scattered mess of toys, books, kiddie magazines, and playing cards left in their bedroom and the sala that always vexes their mother—the boys had proven to be quite responsible. They were already old enough to prepare their own simple meals and wash the dishes.

On this particular day, a phone call came from one of my sons' classmates. They were scheduled to have a practice session for the local church choir, where they were brand-new recruits. My aspiring singers were eager to go, so they passed a message along to our good neighbor—my kumare, who also happens to be my daughter’s godmother. At that exact moment, she was busy supervising a repairman who was fixing a stubborn leak inside their restroom wall.

My kumare texted my wife to ask for permission. My wife agreed, but on two strict conditions: the boys had to eat their lunch first, and afterward, they had to heat up the leftover ginisang munggo (mung bean stew) on the stove so it wouldn’t spoil before the next meal.

Eager to join their friends, my kids quickly finished their chores. They locked the main door and the front gate, handed the keys over to my kumare for safekeeping, and rushed off to choir practice.

Then, as if on cue, my kumare’s six-year-old boy began to fidget. He was suddenly struck by an intense stomach ache and desperately needed to relieve himself. However, their repairman gave them a strict warning: they had to wait a few more hours, or perhaps even until tomorrow, before using their newly patched toilet. But as anyone who has raised a six-year-old knows, nature refuses to wait when it calls. The poor boy was squirming, visibly on the verge of an absolute explosion.

After an hour or so of watching her son suffer, my kumare texted my wife, asking if they could use our restroom in the emergency. Given the urgency of the situation, my wife readily agreed.

The moment my kumare unlocked and pushed open our main door, she was hit by the horrendous, suffocating stench of burning food. Thick smoke was already emanating from the kitchen, slowly engulfing the entire house. She rushed inside and discovered the truth: in their frantic haste to leave for choir practice, my boys had completely forgotten about the metal pot of leftover munggo they were heating. The stove was still burning, completely unattended.

It was only a matter of time before the house would have gone pop and boom like a firecracker.

The near-miss left me spiraling with questions. What if my kumare hadn't called the repairman that Friday, deciding instead to schedule the work for Sunday as she originally intended? What if her son had chosen to use another neighbor’s restroom instead of ours? What if his stomach had felt completely fine that afternoon? What if?

At times, I am possessed by the firm belief that there is no such thing as random coincidences—that two or more circumstances intersecting without a clear causal connection is impossible. Everything happens for a reason. I know there must be a grander reason behind this near-tragedy, but for now, I am simply grateful that my family was spared and that I owe an immense debt of gratitude to my kumare.

And, of course, my kids learned an unforgettable lesson about kitchen safety. As for my nephew? Well, he learned that when nature calls, using a neighbor’s restroom can literally save a home. Just kidding!

NAMELESS

THE DEATHS of the nameless, faceless people we hear about every day usually bring only transient sympathy. The feeling lingers for just a minute before it slips away. Yet, it keeps our feet firmly on the ground, reminding us that life is fleeting, as are the memories of images passing our sight and the emotions that go with them.

I came to validate this thought when I heard about the death of a sidewalk vendor whose face I used to see every day on my commute to work. I called him Tatay or Manong, as I never knew his real name. He was one of the many familiar, nameless faces that populate my daily routine—like the jeepney drivers in our subdivision, the barkers, mall guards, churchgoers, beggars, and the vendors occupying street corners and bus stops along my usual path. Our interactions were simple: a smile now and then, a familiar look.

Biak-na-Bato Street, Quezon City

He must have been around 70 years old, lanky, with square shoulders that seemed perpetually propped up by a clothes hanger. His skin was as brown as the soil, weathered to the texture of prunes. I almost always saw him wearing faded shirts and shorts. His kariton—a wooden cart about the size of a standard office desk—had extended posts at each corner covered by a recycled tarpaulin. It housed a wide variety of merchandise: yosi (the street term for cigarettes), gum, candies, biscuits, pens, tabloids, and packets of instant coffee, mostly 3-in-1 blends. I was his suki, a regular buyer of his instant coffee and SkyFlakes crackers.

He parked his cart on a portion of an asphalted street near a sectarian school on Biak-na-Bato Street. I always wondered why sidewalk vendors, despite their name, prefer to occupy the edge of the road rather than the sidewalk itself. His regular patrons were the daily passersby: employees heading to nearby offices, residents, students, churchgoers bound for the massive Dominican church nearby, and commuters waiting at the loading zones along Quezon Avenue.

His highly visible spot stood just a stone’s throw away from where two holdup men had been gunned down by the city police two or three months prior. It was also very close to a Land Transportation Office (LTO) branch, where cunning and accommodating fixers abounded, completely ignoring a prominent sign that read, "Bawal ang Fixer Dito" (Fixers Prohibited Here).

The last time I asked Manong for a packet of 3-in-1 coffee from his mobile sari-sari store, he was fanning himself with a folded tabloid.

"Naubos," he said with a toothless grin.

That was just two days before I heard the news of his death. Manong had fallen victim to a hit-and-run. He was crossing the four-lane expanse of Quezon Avenue, clutching a bottle of Red Horse beer, in a section of the road where pedestrians were forbidden to cross. A speeding van struck him before he could reach the safety of the other side. He was gone like wisps of cigarette smoke—a nameless death. He was erased from the surface of the earth, and even the memory of him would soon wash away, just like his bloodstain on the asphalt.

I wondered why I cared so much that he died that day. Tomorrow is no different from yesterday, save for the absence of that familiar kariton in its usual spot.

The next morning on my way to work, I bought a 3-in-1 coffee from a different store. As I sipped my warm cup, a thought crossed my mind: there is a world I belong to, and there is a world I am merely passing through. And I realized how often I bother myself with things I cannot reach—or things that even death cannot treat with respect.

RED ANTS AND CRUMBS

SHE said she had a date that night, so I didn't ask her again.

I went back to my table in the other room and dived into the mountain of manuscripts I had been proofreading since morning, letting her slip from my mind. It was February 14, but what the heck. I had just received my payslip. I figured I could just stay in my rented space in Roxas District to read another Leon Uris or John Grisham book, or treat myself to a simmering bowl of bulalo at a sidewalk eatery along Aurora Boulevard in Cubao.

By past 5:00 PM, most employees had already left. Through the glass wall separating the editorial office from the circulation department where she worked, I could see her still completely absorbed in paperwork. She didn’t look like someone raring for a date, but I resolved not to ask her again. I was the only one left in my department; unlike my officemates, my official shift ended at 6:00 PM because the company allowed me to extend my hours from Monday to Friday so I could keep my Saturdays free for post-graduate studies.

When the clock struck 6:00, I found myself asking her again anyway. She admitted she wasn’t sure about her date and needed another hour to finish up.

Returning to my desk, I closed my manuscript and checked the wall clock repeatedly. I lost myself in thought watching a column of tiny red ants marching toward the flower vase atop my cubicle, gathering crumbs left over from my 3:00 PM crackers. Eventually, I left the room, locked the glass door, and walked over to the circulation department. I told her that if she was indeed going on a date, I could keep her company in the meantime so we could leave the office together and part ways at the street corner. She agreed.

As we talked, I casually skimmed through back issues of the company’s showbiz, sports, and music magazines. She had only been introduced to me six months earlier, back in August, by her college best friend who had convinced her to join the company. She was shy, slim, just a little over five feet tall, with an attractive face, observant eyes, and long, flowing tresses.

I had gotten to know her more closely one Sunday afternoon a few days after our initial meeting. She was alone in the office because her best friend couldn't make it that day. Meanwhile, the magazine editor who had called me in for press work changed his mind and canceled at the last minute. I went straight to her office, said hello, and stayed for the next two hours just talking. That was when I discovered we had graduated from college in the same year, that her family was Ilocano, and that her late father, brother, and sister all shared the same birthday—September 21, which also happened to be my birthday!

That same night, I invited her to dinner at a sizzling joint and bakeshop near the office, just across from Sto. Domingo Church. Over our meal, we talked about our college days, our wacky officemates, Eraserheads songs, and her goals in life. More dinners followed. Once, at a fast-food restaurant near Welcome Rotunda, I handed her three 100-peso bills to repay a loan from her petty cash. On those bills, I had written the three words I desperately wanted to say to her. She counted the money, looked at me in utter disbelief, and quietly slipped the bills into her purse.

"I'm in a relationship," she had said then. That must be her date tonight, I thought to myself.

We finally left the office at 7:00 PM. "So, you don't have a date after all?" I asked.

She nodded. I offered to take her home, which had become our routine whenever we left the office at the same time.

We hurried out to the street corner along Quezon Avenue and flagged down the first Malate-bound jeepney we saw. The entire city seemed swept up in a romantic mood. Inside the jeepney, two or three young couples were making goo-goo eyes at each other. On the sidewalks, couples openly displayed affection, holding hands as they walked, some girls clutching single flowers. Even through the glass walls of fast-food chains, lovebirds were visible everywhere. No doubt there were even more packed into cinemas, motels, and the shadowy corners of public parks. We just smiled at our observations, choosing to talk about absolutely anything except romance.

We alighted in front of Malate Church and walked toward Remedios Street. The night was clear and starry, and the cool breeze blowing in from Manila Bay felt like a sweet caress. I suggested dinner, and when she agreed, I brought her to a burger stand near her place.

I was secretly overjoyed by the unexpected turn of events—spending Valentine's Day with her, even if it was unplanned and unprompted.

"I finally got a date with you today," I teased.

She laughed but said nothing to confirm it. We simply enjoyed each other's presence. She knew the real me. I didn’t need to play the part of the perfect guy; I just allowed myself to be a genuine friend, and in turn, I came to know her deeply. I grew so comfortable with our setup that I stopped overthinking my feelings and just embraced being with her.

Before she knew it, a deep, resilient friendship had formed between us. Eventually, she found herself stepping into the very love territory I had quietly marked out for her.

That evening was our very first date—a friendly Valentine's Day outing. Yet, it remains our best date ever. It also proved to be our last "casual" date, because in December of that very same year, I married her.

JUST THREE WORDS

WHAT is your motto in life? It was a bonus 5-point question—so unexpected like a lightning at this time of the year, in my midterm exam for a civil law subject. But it was a breeze to answer it in not less than 50 words and having the extra points.

When was the last time I answered the same question? High school days, when I had to fill out slum books of my female classmates? Before I graduated in college, when the yearbook committee asked me about it?

It didn’t take me a minute to think what to write in the exam, because I have been consistent about it and live by this motto: NEVER GIVE UP.

Winston Churchill during the war had uttered these words in a speech before British students (some say “Never give in” were his exact words). Christopher Columbus and Thomas Alba Edison might have uttered these words also in their respective undertakings. I can’t imagine the world now without Columbus who never gave up during his voyage to the New World, what with the uncertainties of his destination, unfriendliness of the sea, and mutinies among his men. And what would the world be without inventors like Edison who persevered to make our life easier than before?

Never give up! Perhaps one of the most evocative mottos, and it has proven to have woven magic to people who take these three words to heart. For me, it has become like a mantra every time I am in a bind. For without it I would not have accomplished things and become the person I am now. My college education was filled with uncertainties and consistent combat against poverty. I had lots of rejections when, as a probinsyano and an inexperienced fresh grad, I applied for a job in the big city. And in pursuing my dream to buy a house with my hard-earned money, I was robbed thousands of pesos by a scheming real estate agent.

But did I give up? In those particular cases, NO. I finished college by supporting myself; I worked as a student assistant for a time and an underpaid farmhand during semestral breaks. I persisted in my job applications, until I was hired by a publishing company which up to this time is still providing me the work I need to earn a living. And I was able to acquire a house on mortgage from a new and legitimate broker (though I wasn’t able to recover my loss).

My father used to say to me, if you think you can do it, you can do it. I remember I was tempted to add: if you think you can’t do it, then forget it. But I realized early enough that this is wrong, because the resolve to do something must dwell first on the mind, that’s why there’s this mental conditioning: if you think... Now if you think and you believe it can be done, then you can do it, as what my father used to say. But if you lose, there’s always a second chance, and third, and so on.

But the best one that gives me the real push comes from the bible, thanks to a Born-Again Christian friend in college who first shared this verse to me: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Philippians 4:13). Now this added a new dimension to the three-word motto “Never give up” as I say it now because a resolve that comes with it, is now hinged on a belief that I cannot fail because Someone’s up there to help me all the time.

There are times, however, that I wasn’t able to use the motto, along with my father’s words and my favorite verse, to my best advantage. Sometimes I falter, waver in my faith, and give up things for good reasons. And some, for bad reasons.

When did I give up? I can only think of a few. I gave up playing chess, though I have been good at it when I was younger, because I had been very emotional when I lost in a match; I gave up my post-grad studies midway to the course because I decided that I rather start a family of my own than embark on a new career; and I gave up a friendship because I chose the will and weal of a group rather than nurture a close relationship with this person.

But so far, one thing will never change about me. Not a chance would I give up working and dreaming for something better.

THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE... MALATE

BEFORE I became a resident, Malate was to me merely a passive host to rowdy bars and restaurants stretching into the nearby Ermita district. It seemed like a place reserved solely for people looking to chill out, hang out, and seek casual encounters.

During my first year in the metropolis in the early '90s, I only knew of the area through news reports about its famous mayor, Alfredo Lim. The former police chief turned city mayor—who later became a senator before returning to the mayoral seat—made headlines by padlocking bars and restaurants across the Malate-Ermita area. The city council at the time believed these establishments were havens for prostitution and lewd shows. Years later, the Supreme Court ruled that the mayor and his council had exceeded their authority by shutting down legitimate businesses. By then, however, many bar owners, entertainers, and patrons had already migrated to other nightlife districts in the metropolis.

Mayor Lito Atienza, who succeeded Lim, initiated a grand revitalization of Manila’s old districts, including Malate, sprucing up city squares and mini-plazas. New resto-bars and KTV joints—many of them Korean-owned—began to crop up. A diverse cluster of new businesses breathed life back into the Nakpil-Adriatico-Orosa stretch, an area just a few blocks south of Robinsons Place that had sat deserted during Lim's first term.

I first saw Malate up close when I started frequenting the area to visit my girlfriend. Her family lived in one of the remaining pre-war wooden houses along Remedios Street, just about 500 meters from Malate Church. It was 1996, three years after I had moved from Ilocos. At the time, I was working as a proofreader for a publishing house and renting a bed space in an old house in Quezon City.

That very same year, I married my girlfriend at Malate Church. From January 1997 until late 2001, when my family relocated to Bulacan, I was a proud resident of Barangay 697, Malate District. I registered to vote there a year later and have maintained my voter registration in that same barangay through every succeeding election up to this day.

Even though we now reside in Marilao, Bulacan, the old district of Malate will always be home to my family. My three children were all born at the nearby Philippine General Hospital in Ermita and baptized at Malate Church. When they were babies, we would bring them to the barangay health center near San Andres Market for their free medical checkups.

We still return to Malate every third Sunday of November to celebrate the feast day of its patron, Our Lady of Remedies. We go back whenever my wife or one of the kids falls ill and needs a checkup with their doctor in Singalong, or whenever my wife has important business to conduct in the city. Malate is our permanent anchor—a reliable stopover and a familiar watering hole.

Above all, the one event that gravitates our family back to Malate is our annual New Year’s Eve celebration. It serves as the grand reunion for the Gundran clan, bringing together my mother-in-law, my wife’s brothers and sisters, their children, in-laws, and grandchildren. We welcome the New Year watching fireworks just outside the front gate on Remedios Street, later feasting on spaghetti, ham, and pork or hotdog barbecue. Remarkably, we exchange our holiday gifts on the 31st of December rather than on Christmas Day.

For the past twelve years, with the sole exception of 1999 when we visited my hometown in Ilocos Sur, I have spent every New Year’s Eve in Malate. The first day of the year is traditionally spent strolling and taking family pictures along the Manila Baywalk on Roxas Boulevard. Other times, we attend Mass at Malate Church, visit the Manila Zoo, play arcade games at Harrison Plaza or Robinsons Place, or watch our children run around the open spaces of Remedios Circle and the Paraiso ng Batang Maynila park, sharing the space with local street kids playing half-naked in the sun.

Whenever the holiday season wraps up and we leave for Bulacan, we carry the comforting certainty that we will be back soon. We will return to old Malate to be with family, to revisit my wife’s birthplace, and to walk the streets of the city she first called home. No matter where life takes us or how far we drift, we always find our way back to Malate. There truly is no place like this district, a place I have happily considered my home for the past 12 years.

San Andres market fruit stands & Paraiso ng Batang Maynila


Remedios Circle & Remedios St. front of Royal Plaza


Malate Church & Rajah Sulayman Park


Manila Baywalk fronting Malate Church & Adriatico St.

A FAMILY AFFAIR

This piece was written two years ago, tracking the deep relevance of the ongoing Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF) to my family. Once again this year, we are planning our annual trek to watch a festival entry. But with three growing kids now in the picture, our trip to the cinema will inevitably be a battle of compromises: a choice between a film of my own preference or one that caters specifically to fun-seeking children.

If the choice were entirely mine, I would readily go for Iskul Bukol. I have been a massive fan of Tito, Vic, and Joey and a loyal viewer of Eat Bulaga since my own childhood. But as with most things in a full household, the final decision depends entirely on the kids—after all, they hold the majority vote. Of course, there is always a chance we might skip the festival altogether this year—not out of a family disagreement, but simply due to a lack of time or a tight holiday budget.
 

THROUGH the years, Metro Manila Film Festival (MMFF) has been part of my married life. My wife and I couldn't celebrate our wedding anniversary on December 30 without a movie date.
  
Because December is MMFF month, we always had a filmfest entry in our list and it has become our tradition to watch only one movie for the whole festival. And we just don't watch any film, we have to see to it that it would be the best among the entries. 

Most of our picks romped away with the Best Picture award or received good reviews among film critics. 

The most memorable of these films and what I would say is my personal choice as Best Film in recent years is Mark Meily's debut feature, Crying Ladies. 

I'm not a big fan of Sharon Cuneta who plays the female lead character named Stella Mate in the movie. Sharon does a magnificent job in eliciting our sympathy (and laughter) for Stella's never-ending woes and her many wacky attempts to solve them. And to think that she looks chubby or losyang in Crying Ladies, far from the more glamorous portrayals she had in most of her previous films. 

Watching Meily's film made me truly realize why Sharon rightfully deserves her legendary Megastar status. 

No, Crying Ladies is not only about Sharon. It's about the clever plot of a story cobbled with local color and the ordinariness of life, centered on an old Chinese practice of hiring professional criers to fool the gods into thinking the deceased would be sorely missed for his/her good deeds. The humorous, witty script by Meily himself put together the individual stories of the three criers played by Cuneta, Hilda Koronel and Angel Aquino and that of the deceased's son, played by Eric Quizon. The funny shrieking trio and the relatively subdued Quizon came out with winning performances, marked by their brisk rendition of their characters' desperation with humor and poignancy. 

It's a Filipino version, if not second best, to Forrest Gump, in terms of the cunning use of comic relief to temper the heavy stuff and the depiction of an affectionate yet satirical portrait of an ordinary life with interesting twists at the end of the story. This is the kind of script I wish I would have written.

A couple of scenes remain vivid in my mind up to these days, perhaps because of the movie's Pinoy-ness or comic effect. 

One shows Stella having a hearty McDo meal with her son, her exasperated ex-husband and his wife. Others show Stella's regular encounter with the balut vendor, her audition piece for an entertainer's job in Japan and her winning an international acting award as a videoke model-artist.
 And to think that my wife and I almost missed watching Crying Ladies! We were celebrating our seventh anniversary that year and our two boys --then aged five and three, wanted so much for the family to watch Bong Revilla's Captain Barbell. But I did not give up watching Crying Ladies for a fantasy flick about an over-exposed local superhero. So we hired my wife's niece to accompany my boys to watch the film of their choice, while my wife and I watched Crying Ladies. 

For the next years, I gave in to my kids' wishes. With kids in tow, our anniversary date has turned out to be a family affair.

(Originally published in The Philippine Star, March 2, 2008, under the title "Pinoy as it gets")

A BOXING FAN

I AM one of millions of Filipinos that up to this day relish every retelling of the victory of Manny Pacquiao in his much-vaunted fight with another boxing great Oscar de la Hoya early this month. It was a good fight, a very convincing TKO conquest by the Filipino punching machine. In my whole life of watching great fights in the ring, and those of Pacman’s latest exploits over other big-time Mexican sluggers, his last fight for me is one of the best one-sided fights of all time and it’s a good thing when you’re a Filipino and on the side of the victor.
  

I have been a boxing fan since my elementary days in Ilocos. And I thank my Apong Lakay (my maternal grandfather Angel Escobar Sr.) for this. That’s why even to this date when I think of amazing fights, or when I see people to their feet cheering with wild abandon for their warrior in the ring, I always think of my late Apong Lakay doing the same.

And if I make a list now of those special moments I spent with Apong Lakay, who died when I was a college freshman or years before Pacquiao entered professional boxing in 1995, it’s the ones we had together watching boxing, or even wrestling matches, on TV which seem to be the best for me. Maybe because I always enjoy watching physically competitive contests whether on TV screen or in the street. Or I should say I can only watch a boxing match on television and any TV show hours after that when Apong Lakay was then in command of a rich aunt’s black-and-white TV. He would know schedules of every live boxing match or some classic boxing matches on replays, as I would with schedules of my favorite action movies shown on TV. He would call any of my cousins (my aunt’s children), no matter what they were doing, to turn on the TV for him. Yes, during that time, our own TV was already sold by my father to a neighbor, and Apong Lakay’s house didn’t have one until his death. So the best venue then for a visual delight over a bakbakan (slugfest) would be in my rich aunt’s house.

Apong Lakay, who was good in arnis and mano-mano during his younger days, was so proud of our Filipino fighters, especially Flash Elorde and Pancho Villa. Perhaps he would feel the same, if not reserve the best now for Manny Pacquiao. He was also a big fan of Sugar Ray Leonard and Muhammad Ali. And with those years when Apong Lakay was alive, I was able to watch Ali or Leonard fight with their respective opponents in classic matches. I also watched other outstanding boxers in the 80s who have become legends of the sports—Marvin Haggler, Thomas Hearns, Roberto Duran, and Larry Holmes. Likewise I didn’t miss great fights of our local champs like Rolando Navarette, before his rape conviction in Hawaii, and Dodie Boy Peñalosa.

And now if Apong Lakay were alive today, he would have savored like his favorite steaming papaitan this latest fight of Manny Pacquiao. And I would have loved to have us exchange our own post-fight analysis, now that I have matured as a boxing fan through the years. But I could only imagine these things now.