Crabby cabby

I couldn’t wait to write this blog! Giggling while typing, a co-worker poked her head into my door wondering why the giggles. With a silly grin, I told my co-worker what happened to me this morning.

My plate number ends in 9 so I took a cab to work this morning like any other Friday. Running late, I hailed a taxi even when it’s a bit dilapidated. After I sat on the back seat, I noticed that the window at the passenger seat was rolled down. We were cruising along JP Rizal when I politely asked the cabby to roll the window up to keep the fumes from coming in, it was also getting warmer. I was surprised at the driver’s contemptuous tone when he said that he got a male passenger earlier who had body odor, reason why the window was rolled down. Then he added, “Parang pareho kayo ng amoy, miss…parang sa kilikili.”

I was jolted out of my Pasig River reverie! What-the---I have body odor???? He couldn’t possibly take the perfume (it’s Allure by Chanel, thank you) I’m wearing as body odor! And I’m fresh from my morning shower! I bit my tongue from saying something equally nasty, and comforted myself with the thought that there’s something wrong with the cabby’s nose.

I remember reading an article about smell blindness that could make the rotten cabbage smell like a 5-star restaurant. Some people have a heightened sense of smell and can be overwhelmed by aromas, while some suffer from insensitivity to odor.

So I calmly asked the cabby if he’s sure that I smell like his male passenger, or maybe I sprayed on too much perfume. He answered in a sarcastic tone, “Oo nga, amoy kilikili ang pabango nyo.” At that moment, I was ready to give him a piece of my mind but I realized that it would be self-defeating. Instead, I decided to give him a dose of his own medicine.

To give you a mental picture of my cabby---his used-to-be-white shirt is now beige, dirty nails, unkempt appearance. He looked like he had a bad hangover. The cab was not even well-maintained, the seat-cover needed a wash, and it smelled like dirty socks in need of ventilation. Honestly, the cab needs fumigation with the driver inside!

In my most charming voice, I told the cabby that he probably smelled his own body odor because his nose is nearer to his armpits than to mine. I added that I just took a shower, while it looks like there's a water shortage in the place where he lives, where soap is still unknown. That really infuriated him and he adjusted his rearview mirror so he could take a good look at me. Eyes bulging, he vehemently said that he never had a bad odor in his life! Innocently, I said that maybe he smells bad all his life that he never even noticed. He gave me a malevolent look through the rearview mirror---if looks could kill, I was dead right that moment! I was quietly enjoying his reaction, at the same time wishing I have a black belt in karate so I could kick his face before getting out of his cab. He kept on yakking about smelly people riding his cab, giving him headaches. We were almost at my office building and he was getting angrier. In a neutral voice, I said, "Manong, mas mukha kayong mabaho, tapos sasabihan nyo ang pasahero nyo na amoy kilikili. At pagkatapos kong sabihin sa inyo na kayo ang mabaho, magagalit kayo?"

He was quite furious, I thought he'd have a heart attack, or worse, he'd drive his cab straight to a post to kill me! When he was doing a right turn to the building's entrance, I advised him to use a brand of deodorant. And if he can't afford it, tawas is very cheap (sorry, I couldn't resist a parting shot)! The veins on his forehead were ready to explode! In the end, I got out of the cab in one piece, and still smelling fresh, sashayed into the lobby with a big grin on my face.

My co-worker pointed out that the cabby maybe a psycho, and I should be careful next time. I realize that now, but the encounter really made my day!:D

Over a cup of coffee

On Sunday afternoons, while waiting for my friends attending the 5 pm mass, I would sit at a coffee shop in Greenbelt and watch people. I would sit there contemplating the expressions on their faces, their fashion sense, their body language, the way they walk. People pass me by in all shapes and sizes, from dull to colorful...some with sure, quiet strides, some with aimless saunter, some with anticipation, a couple in a hurry, teenagers bickering. A young man with sad eyes made me ask myself if we all harbor great sadness in our souls, an old man at peace with life, a woman walking lost in her thoughts, maybe in order to find herself again. Another seems to wander, looking for something...maybe a smile or a wave; some stroll without a care in the world. I'm sitting there with my coffee, thinking of a place where love had hidden itself away.

Sometimes, in the silence of my heart, I would wish for someone to invite him/herself at my table for a conversation. A stranger, looking for someone to talk to, would decide to rest at my table. Hot coffee and good conversation...what a lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon. But that would never happen. Because people don't talk anymore, they don't sit down to talk and listen. They go to the movies, watch TV, listen to the radio, read books, but they almost never talk. If we want to change the world, we have to go back to a time when warriors gather around the fire and tell stories.

coffee with Sienna and friends, Starbucks-Eastwood

All the really important things in my life had risen out of long conversations---with my sister, with my aunts and cousins, with my closest friends. I miss the brilliance of face to face conversations where souls are unveiled, where you can gaze at each other's eyes, connected by energy, express each other's thoughts and perspectives on the human condition. Or convey a comforting touch from a friend to another. "A single conversation across the table with a wise man is worth a month's study of books", somebody quoted that to me. When I have a real conversation with somebody, it's a marvel of sustained revelation.

Some Sunday when you're free...let's talk over a cup of coffee.

cafe in London

The Invitation

I read this poem a few years ago, written by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, a Canadian woman. I was stunned when I first read this poem because Oriah Mountain Dreamer put into words notions jumbled in my soul. This is the kind of love I'm looking for. No wonder Oriah Mountain Dreamer contemplates the sunset alone and I sit alone in my room charting the phases of the moon, the constancy of the stars. The kind of love we want we will never find in bars, parties or chat rooms. It's not the off-the-shelf kind of love we can work off in a motel room, though there's nothing wrong with that. I imagine the author sitting on a mountaintop at sunset, driven close to madness by the number of people who asked her, "How's your lovelife?" :D

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are.

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow.

If you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you tell me is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself, if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see the beauty even when it is not pretty everyday, and if you can source your life from God's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here.

I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doens't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself.

And if you can truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Mountain Dreamer and I have simply made other choices. We keep ourselves company in the empty moments, not noticing that moments string into years. We know only one thing: Empty moments are most meaningful filled with our own deep silence, the eloquent silence of ourselves feeling at peace with ourselves. Listen to this song, At Last by Etta James, while reading The Invitation.

Food trips

I enjoy trying local delicacies when I visit places. Sometimes, I'm brave enough to try something exotic. I tried frog adobo in Tarlac ---and I actually like frog's legs when battered and deep-fried. But I have to say that skinning a frog pose a problem for me, particularly because some folks skin the frogs while they are still alive, or at least twitching dramatically. That's what the market vendor did when we bought live frogs in Moncada market.

A friend in Bulacan brought me to a restaurant serving adobong sawa (I don't know what kind of snake it was). My friend assured me that snakes are clean reptiles...they eat chicken so they should taste like chicken. Yes, it tasted like chicken. Another reptile that tastes like chicken is the bayawak (monitor lizard) which I picked from my uncle's plate of pulutan. I have tried turtle in Aklan, tapang usa (cured deer) in Kanlaon and tapang baboy damo (cured wild boar meat) in Nueva Vizcaya. Tapang usa and baboy damo are both very tasty especially when marinated with lots of garlic, pinches of sugar and salt, a dash of lemon and black pepper. Dipped in native vinegar with red chili and red onions, great for breakfast with garlic fried rice, and hot coffee on the side. Scenes from "Apocalypto" flashing in my mind!

Here are some Pinoy delicacies and food that I truly miss:

• Batil Patung - is Tuguegarao's version of pancit. It is made of local noodles, generously topped with hot dogs, crunchy chicharon bits, ground meat, fried egg, and vegetables.
  
• Vigan empanada - is my favorite street food in Vigan. Walk around Vigan and it's in every street corner. Eat hot with vinegar-chili dip.
  
• Steamed wasay-wasay (hammer shell) - I tasted this very tasty shell in Bantayan Island. I coudn't find it in the seafood markets in Manila.
  
• Pagi cooked in coconut milk - pagi is the endangered stingray; the fish was cooked in coconut milk with green chili peppers. It's meat is so soft and tasty.
  
• Bagnet (chitcharon or deep-fried pork meat) - is made from choice cuts of pork. It is boiled then submerged in brewing oil until bubbles begin to appear while its skin hardens and begins to pop. There's bagnet salad (with tomatoes, onions and fish sauce) in Via Mare but I crave for bagnet from Ilocos.
  
• Kuhol cooked in coconut milk - kuhol is golden apple snail---escargot to the French. My father used to pay 5 centavos for each kuhol that we kids ate. We had kuhol marathons when the snail was in season.

There's also grilled bihod (fish roe) which I finally found at the Seaside Market along Macapagal Hiway, and taba ng talangka (crab roe paste)---prawns cooked in taba ng talangka! It tastes heavenly---well, not for you if you're concerned with your cholesterol. And of course, there's raw uni (sea urchin roe)---uni has a strong flavor and I believe, it's an acquired taste. My mother couldn't stand the taste or even the sight of uni sashimi. She fed it to the stray cats! Another favorite is cold jellyfish (dikya) salad, a common dish in Chinese restaurants, it is usually served with century egg.

Friends in Cebu were daring me to try the poisonous butete (blowfish or fugu in Japan). Improper preparation of this fish may result to fatal poisoning. Hey, I'm not that crazy! I also enjoyed drinking tuba (sap from coconut tree) mixed with Coke when I visited relatives in Leyte.

I'm a bit adventurous but I have my limits---my palate is not into bugs, worms and insects. But I would probably eat bugs if I'd be stranded on top of a tree and a hungry lion is waiting for me below. And I'd venture into eating worms and insects if I'm underground and it's the end of the world! Otherwise, I will tell myself that I'm on diet and fasting is good for the soul...then I'll wait to be rescued.

Nostalgia

I love this song, The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice.

The song and the rain make me a bit nostalgic. Unearthed from my baol an old poem I wrote a long time ago.

T W I L I G H T

when i hear the music,

the feel the new me

in an old time

and i crave the space

not ravaged by words

not rushed by time

send on scurrying feet

the pretty worries

that haunt the dark

dingy crevices

of my soul

to be like the sea

unthinkingly

rhythmical

of no purpose

with no directions

needing no plans

strategies

goal maps

but to be here by the sea

with only the lamps

shyly holding hands

with the darkness

keeping silence

and letting the music

of an old time

sweet talk

the secret

laughing Janus

of my soul.