life is really something
Written about the fourth and final weekend of the month of February, in the year 2025, in increments and in different places around Manila.
After a successful train ride, I met an opposite fate on my bus ride that Friday night. This was the true Friday, everyone just wants to go home rush vibe that I so wanted to avoid. I had a theory then, that I told my friends about while waiting half an hour standing on the line for the bus to come: that on Friday evenings and Monday mornings, you are bound to see or meet an old school or classmate in that specific terminal. My supporting statements: that terminal is the first of its size in our country, a landport; and in highschool I felt that I was surrounded by smart people who were also the kind of achievers that chased the opportunities brought about by the big city. There is only one gate in that terminal for buses with the route straight to our town and the government has crippled any other means of crossing the south border of the capital region through public transportation that is not catered by the new landport.
That night I saw J, a girl from another class that I saw from time to time back in junior high. We didn’t know each other more than our names and faces, but it was still 4 years of being in the same high school in our (small) city, adding also the fact that we were friends on Facebook, despite never having a conversation between each other in all those 4 years. My evidence: this happened a few times before with me rarely ever interacting with them, because I myself know how much social battery it would take to bump into someone amidst the evening rush.
My thoughts circle about how common it must be to feel the convention of your past and current self at times like so. When you head home to your parents’ house or come back to everything your childhood ever was, whether it’s newly paved roads, renovated supermarkets or old classmates you see in the city, there is always a reminder of it being over.
Saturday
When I got home the bingo craze still wasn't over after the three weeks I’ve first mentioned it here. My family set up their tables then cards in one of my uncle’s garage turned lanai and I said my good night while they played since I had an early appointment at the clinic the next morning for an annual check-up.
So I have annual check-ups now. It is credited to the healthcare benefit of my job, but accomplished supposedly for my work permit that has to be renewed annually. I slept after setting my alarm for 5:00 AM. Come morning I washed up then took the 10 minute morning walk to the clinic. I remember the air was still cool. The rest of the neighborhood quiet. Another tito with his usual breakfast of black coffee and a Marlboro red. The clinic opens at 6, by the way, and I wanted to be early and lose a little sleep than arrive later then lose more of my sanity waiting for my name to be called and be accommodated.
I arrived exactly 12 minutes after 6. I realized everyone must have the same plan as me, because there it was, the reception basking in fluorescent lighting since the sun has barely come out yet, and already there were at least 40 people ahead of me. It sucked because I’ve since grown to like arriving before everybody else as if I was in on a secret, but I thought since it’s a weekend and a Saturday, this could be way worse.
I filled up the patient information form then waited for my name to be called. After half an hour, I exchanged my ID and a letter from the office for a slip that will be signed by the other healthcare people to indicate that I’ve completed a laboratory sample or activity. I’ve had the same experience last year so I knew what to do. The only thing I noticed was that they changed the layout of the clinic and I think everyone is still in the adjustment period of this whole new placement.
Long story short, my body cooperated with me and my results turned out okay and unremarkable. A step closer to proving that I’m legally allowed to continue working in my company. I don’t have any plans yet to complete the other requirements... maybe next, next week. I am glad to know that my body is still functioning as expected.
I took the walk back home and had breakfast while surfing Netflix. I didn’t know or precedent how the mere activity would dictate what would happen for the next 8 hours, but to sum it up: I found that there’s a new season out of Hell’s Kitchen and what that means for me is a binge-watching session that carries over until the next day.
I did not intend to rot the whole weekend, so by the evening, I joined my family outside for bingo and again, I won! Literally the same succession I did, 2 weeks ago. Twice, one after the other on my first 2 rounds.
But it wasn’t the highlight of Saturday just yet. It is a sort of custom for our family that when the pot for each round is collected, a small portion of it goes to what they call the tong. It amounts to 5-10 pesos kept away on each round. No one actually owns the tong, in our case, but this custom exists in other gambling/card games, as well. In fact, burial wakes that include an array of different card games played with real money, also have a tong. Then the money collected will then be given to the family of the deceased.
For the bingo nights my family has for the last few weekends, a sizable amount of money has been collected and decided to be allocated for a merienda to eat while playing. The merienda is sotanghon! It’s not the pancit version this time, but the soup. Sotanghon is my favorite Filipino soup dish. I don’t know how to explain how much or why I love this dish so much, but that night, one of my titas cooked a very large pot of it, and I went ahead and refilled my bowl thrice. Even burned my tongue on my first portion, but it felt quite nice, the flavor just perfect. I am so comforted by this dish. It reminds me of rain even if it’s been a dry couple of weeks. The toasted garlic lingered on my mouth the rest of the night. There was a moment I was so focused on the food I forgot I was still playing bingo.
Later, I restrained myself from playing so as to not lose any more money and getting more portions of the soup. All day that Saturday, I watched the Hell’s Kitchen challenges, quirky and artsy food and just fine plates, described by the chefs’ words that were meant for it to be marketed and appeal to appetite. I’ve forgotten each and every dish and thought it could not compare to my tita’s sotanghon. Yeah, okay, maybe that’s because watching is different than tasting but still. Still. It’s sotanghon, it can never, ever go wrong. It’s so underrated because it’s not technically served with rice like how sinigang is, but as a country, we were really on to something with this soup dish. It’s seldom prepared, not really one that you would put in a weekly meal plan since it’s best created on a really big pot for sharing. It’s also not the kind to be listed in Filipino cuisine restaurants. It’s in the Jollibee menu, they say, but that could not be any more different. It’s really the type of dish to cook at burial wakes and bingo nights, something to share with the family and prepared by a tita or a tito. My final thoughts about it is it can’t get any more nostalgic or authentic than that, so it’s a dish that wraps you up in warmth and you just know you are home and cared for, or whatever else that could mean to you, but that was what it meant to me.
Sunday
I went out with r’s family. We visited the columbarium to say hi to papa, prayed for him and greeted him a happy birthday. We then celebrated what would be his 77th birthday with lunch at the mall. We also bought pizza to take home, the one with garlic and spinach in it that r really likes. I stayed a little bit at her house to eat peanuts that were boiled for an hour or so. The best kind of peanuts that ever existed. r knew that this was my favorite, so by Monday she got mama to cook the peanuts again and bring it to our apartment for the upcoming week. I had a really great outing that day. I loved having the chance to drive around again and it’s always a nice time spending it with my girlfriend’s family. I really feel like I’m one of her mom’s daughters and her sister’s sister. This is one of the few things in my life that I feel most fortunate to have.
I think I have yet to actually talk about family, despite all these moments I’ve shared already. I thought, if you didn’t know me in real life, maybe you could wonder as a reader, what is the real score between my living situation and what is up with my own family. What is the setup? Do I come home just whenever I want? Why don’t I stay at my parent’s house, if I just come on the weekends and endure the commute anyway? It’s a story too long and maybe for another day. It has crossed my mind how I’m going to finally write about it all. I just know one thing: I love my family and they matter to me a lot. I try to keep them close. The love that I have for them translated into a life that had so many decisions that were anchored to what I thought was best for my parents and the people around me. In turn, I have betrayed myself one too many times. One day, I hope I get to finally talk or write about it. I imagine I would know where to start and I’ve healed better.
End of weekend
Monday morning is hell as always. When my dad went with me to the bus stop, three buses went off to a fast and furious race to the traffic light so I didn’t get to hop on one. I had to wait for 15 more minutes for the next bus, but the weather was nice and I had my dad as company, so I guess (and hoped) several more minutes wouldn’t hurt. A bus finally came, the same route but a different road. The one I was hoping to catch would take road A, and this one takes road B. My office is right beside the sidewalk of A and I’d have to walk maybe 10-15 minutes more if I take road B. So we signaled the bus driver that we’re not going to ride on the bus. They stopped, anyway, and lo and behold - my uncle was the bus driver (!!) My father’s brother, in the flesh. I have no idea when they last talked to each other, but there they were.
I know something happened between them in the past year, but I don’t know any details, but at that moment, he knew my uncle would not go away until I ride the bus, the difference in the roads be damned, so he urged me to go up the steps and I just did. There was not a lot of thinking in it and as I climbed aboard I realized there were no more seats left. I stood for more than half an hour until I was seated. Then, remember that ten-minute walk? My uncle dropped me off in the middle of the highway right before he entered the flyover lane, just so it could be three minutes less.
I did not imagine spending my Monday morning jaywalking, but it was so chaotic and no doing of the thinking. I’ve walked worse roads, so I fast-walked until I reached the turn and finally arrived somewhere safe (no traffic police on duty). Can a morning really get any unserious than that? Life is really something.
I know this update is late but I still made it and incremented the paragraphs day by day into the week. I have jinxed myself by mentioning the third installment. At some point I really thought I'm going to give up on this, but here I am. I kept on. Though I am letting go of the bit to keep my weekends interesting. I realized it isn’t much of a task, so I thought I’d just rebrand this whole thing into a slice of life series or weekly updates. It’s not actually the activities that I do that makes it interesting.
How do I put it... Well, I’m getting better at liking myself and writing about my experiences no matter how mundane, so it becomes something because I find myself interesting. I always think that when I read this in the future I’d be glad I wrote about it because I would have otherwise forgotten about all of it if I didn’t. Someone’s doing the work to catalogue my days, regardless of what it’s about, and it’s me! There’s no better resource.
Thinking about it like that, I see how writing can make one feel so special.
I hope March is kind to you and me :)
01 Mar, 2025