Wanna Dance?

When I was growing up in Sta. Ana, I heard old folks talk about the Sta. Ana Cabaret.

During the American occupation, Sta. Ana Cabaret used to be THE place where generals and politicos whiled the night away. Then the Japs came and the cabaret became a Japanese garrison.

After WWII, the cabaret operated again, but this time, it slowly became a sleazy joint. It was dubbed "kabaret," where bellas came from far flung provinces and the patrons ranged from the moneyed class to the lower ranks, even jeepney drivers trekked there on weekends.

Gone were the uniformed men and scholars.

Finally, Typhoon Yoling tore away the place in 1970. And during the Marcos era, Madame Imelda built a Bliss Housing at the site of the cabaret.

Such a waste! This grand old place could have been preserved.

These days, if one wants to go dancing (the elegant dances such as rumba, tango, cha cha, waltz, etc), one has few options to consider. At Conway in Shangri La, the serious dancers have to settle in between the sets of the band to dance Manila swing, rumba and the other steps. Bykes, the other place where ballroom dancing used to be alive, and Club Filipino, I think, have become ghost towns as far as dancing is concerned.

In Toronto, when one wants to go dancing, there are quite a few but very elegant places to unwind and show what one has learned from the dance classes. And the people who go there are mostly dressed to the nines.

I miss dancing and dressing for the dance.

The Trip to Perdition

A man's life is peppered with spices and scents, and odours and ills.

He chooses which to inhale, carefully; with mind and sometimes, with spirit.  

He triumphs, he fails.

He stares, he blinks.

He remembers, he loses it.

He dwells on imageries, he acts on impulse.

He stays, he quits.

He prays pardon, he turns back again.

He aches, he moans.

He tells, I go to hell. 

The Bliss of Not Working.

Over the last three years, I have had the pleasure of not doing regular work. In my first year of semi-retirement, I travelled all over Europe. Then in 2009, I went for an extended stay in my country of birth, the Philippines. In 2010, I travelled all over U.S., to places I've gone to before, but still, I totally enjoyed the experience, seeing these places with a new perspective.

In Manila, I am a true blue Pinoy - pampered with food and service and nothing domestic to do; I try dish washing from time to time, and cooking, the chore I miss most to do.

I try to do little home projects, but once these are done, I'm back to doing nothing - and back to regular "things," which a paid employee normally does - sitting in front of the computer and surfing for hours, reading, snacking, telephoning, and planning on activities for the coming days.

I've come to enjoy watching old Tagalog flicks over Cinema One, and over at Cinemax and HBO and at other 24-hour movie channels. At the mall, I've re-learned browsing at National Bookstore. I've re-focused on photography.

And again, I've donned my dancing shoes for regular nights of dancing.

I've totally forgotten about those "headaches," at the office where I worked last in Toronto. I've lost track of the people I've used to work with. I've embraced bliss and joy, and what a life it is!

I've totally enjoyed our long drives North and South, trips to the rural - kissing the sun and the greenery, the humming of the birds front and back of the house, my dog Shadee's power bark and naps, the mystery of early mornings, the idyllic quiet of afternoons, and the romantic jazziness of evenings.

Life is what you make it; work is only incidental. At the end of the day- you are who is standing TALL. The one who laughs, the one who cherishes it all, the one who shares the joy with your loved ones.

Keep Going, Lucky.

The other day I was looking for fresh batteries to put into the portable radio; there was a brown out, you see. I rummaged through a drawer full of batteries and "katol," and matches, and candles. There were batteries used and unused there.

Finally, I loaded four batteries into the old radio, but there was no signal. I replaced the batteries with a new set, but again nothing happened.

That's when I took out from the "bodega," the portable emergency light cum radio-electric fan and mosquito swatter. Voila, radio!

Later, I lined up the used batteries by the kitchen window in order to re-charge them.

This is what I noticed. Batteries here in P.I. are the type that die young. I've changed clock batteries constantly.

And yesterday at the parking lot, when I switched the car ignition, there was just a click. I pumped the gas, and turned on the key... there it was again. Silence.

I opened the hood and checked the battery cables. That battery is practically new - 16 months' old. In Canada, I rarely buy a car battery; I keep going back to the same tire-garage for car maintenance and accessories, and the store honors the warranty on my battery, so practically, I don't buy new ones.

The security guard at the parking lot was already calling for service when I tried to start the car again. Vroom...the car growled at me.

I don't know what happened out there. Just like I don't know what's happening to my body (having flu-like days, and then gone next day), nor to my tomorrows.

It's like touch and go, one song declares. One can never tell the future, even if one bases the assumption or forecasts from previous happenings. There's no intelligent guesses, anymore, especially in matters of the heart.

It's Valentines Day, that's why I decided to blog today.

The last time I blogged was January 20th. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Back to Basics.

Last Friday, I found myself inside the Quiapo Church, Home of the Black Nazarene. We almost didn't find our way - thanks to the almost twenty five years' absence from the Philippines.

The roads leading to Quiapo didn't change much: it's the way the traffic flow was re-routed that caused the confusion.

The sudden urge to pray before the Nazarene was precipitated by the previous week's Jan.9 Grand procession, the Feast of the Black Nazarene. After all, I grew up worshipping at the Quiapo Church every Friday afternoon, courtesy of my Aunt, who thought that bringing along a six year old tot in her "lakad paluhod" would cure him of his asthma and attitude.

There was absolutely no parking spot that Friday at Quiapo. So, we parked right in front of Plaza Miranda, leaving Plary to mind the car. We braved the sea of people listening to the mass from outside the church, and were able to get at the tail end of the aisle.

It was almost the end of the Mass. We were just in time for the blessing of statues and icons, missals and other religious objects.

On the way out, a layman was blessing the crowd with holy water and we caught lots of it unintentionally, as the others busily jostled for the perfect position. It was a blessing, I guess, a sign that good things are to come.

Afterwards, we walked behind the Church with the intention of finding Wa Nam, my favorite childhood Chinese panciteria. But the huge crowd and throng of merchandisers dampened our hungry spirit. Instead, we canvassed for the Image of the Black Nazarene, and haggled with the vendors, until we found one with the "soulful" face that appealed to us. It cost 600 pesos.

When we got to our parking spot, the car was nowhere to be found. We saw cops manning the traffic and thought rightly that Plary had been shooed away. We walked towards Quinta Market and found the car parked outside a pay parking lot.

We ended up having lunch at Tropical Hut, past the Santa Mesa Church, in a small shopping arcade. I immediately ordered the Classic Burger, a favorite of mine way back in the late '70s. But it was a total dissappointment.

Not only did it take at least fifteen minutes for the burger to arrive, but the tomatoes and cucumber looked soggy
and the lettuce, like the car, was nowhere to be found. I brought it to the counter and asked the clerk what happened to the lettuce. "Oh, here it is," I said, after digging underneath the sandwich.

About two minutes into my sandwich, a clerk brought me a small plate of fresh lettuce.

Pining for cold.

RIGHT - Last March in Toronto.

We planned to go to Baguio this Friday, and I started to look at various accommodation using Google. There were some good prospects. I meant to take along Plary to be my co-driver/aide in case of any vehicular mishap (flat tire, etc). A niece wanted to tag along, even the help.

The sudden urge to go to Baguio was precipitated by news that weather up there has hovered between 9 - 12 these last few days. Aah, spring/winter weather. I love that!

But yesterday, my co-navigator suddenly had a change of heart. "It's too damned cold, my legs might freeze." Plan cancelled.

Then I thought, Tagaytay.

But yesterday while watching television in the living room, I felt cool air blowing into my face. I live behind a creek, trees in the village abound, and the house's screened doors allow breeze into the house, especially in the helper's quarter which is located at the rear. In the backyard, you could even sleep in a hammock (which had been taken down) in the middle of the afternoon during summer and wind will caress your face and limbs.

The Philippines is having a nice January weather. Back in Canada and the U.S., relatives and friends are experiencing a bad winter. My sister called and said they drove to Irvine, California from Seattle, Washington for the Holidays and encountered areas which had been snowed. My other sister in Ohio has been so used to snow that she rarely complains anymore. I could almost feel the frosted mornings of Toronto.

I wish this cool Manila weather will persist longer...into March and beyond. I dread Philippine summer.

It used to be that I took weather for granted. I grew up thinking flood was an annual event. I loved bathing in the rain in the rainy months, playing in the grass during summer vacations, and wearing corduroy jackets on Misa de Gallo nights, and freezing inside the car in the early morning drive to our hometown in Nueva Ecija.

Only when I started to live in the U.S. that weather became a bid deal. "What's the weather like outside," people in the elevator would quiz each other. "Are you warm enough," my sister would repeatedly ask her kids who were about to go to school. " Bundle up folks," the newscaster would holler in the early morning show.

The good thing about this little cold spell is we are saving huge on air condition bills.

Twenty Eleven.

LEFT - Replica of Rizal's House in Binan, Laguna.

We celebrated New Year at the Fontana Resorts at Clark in Pampanga. The whole Clan was there except for bro who did send in two of his sons. It was a hectic yet relaxing way to greet the New Year of the Rabbit.

However, my Year Twenty Eleven started with losses. But I'm glad it was losses at the Casino. This means that I should stay away as far as possible from gambling venues. I'm not a gambler, so this is no big deal.

But then gain has started to come in. A buyer is interested in the property I'm selling.

Unlike other people, I don't set any goals or resolutions at the start of a New Year; I've always been a procrastinator.

Like last January, I promised to take up dancing lessons here in Manila, and to take up swimming as a form of exercise. But no, I didn't follow through. Now, it's January once again.

Good thing, I'm ready with my Total Gym at home and we promise to take early morning brisk walk after the 6 am mass.

Waking up at 5 am everyday and having hot pan de sal with my coffee, and then having a "real" breakfast at eight consisting of rice, egg, and meat (tapa or longganisa) or fish (danggit, daing na bangus or tinapa) have completely ruined my "Canadian" diet of oatmeal and toast/peanut butter sandwich for breakfast.

At Clark, we made a side trip to the Nayong Pilipino. It was unlike the old Nayong Pilipino at the Philippine Village. This one at Clark has only selected scenes from the North (Mountain

Province) and Cavite (the historic Aguinaldo house where Independence was declared on June 12), Laguna (house of Jose Rizal) and Bulacan (Barasoain Church), and a lone Maranao Muslim house, to represent Muslim South. There was a pathetic representation of a Volcano which was unrecognizable since there was no tag or post naming it.

I remember the Nayong Pilipino of Imelda Marcos circa 1975. It looked brand new, and was clean, and the scenarios were almost a complete representation of the Philippine archipelago.

ABOVE, a replica of an Ifugao hut/dwelling which features the detachable stairs, to discourage thieves. Shown are sculptures of Ifugao.