Pure Session, Tuesday nights live

It’s a few minutes before the band begins to play live. On stage Fred taps his percussion, a few minor sound checks. He’s jammed with the Pure Session band last Tuesday night here at Atong Kamalig and tonight he’s doing it the second time. Up there he shares a hearty laugh with the members of the band, Alan Manalon on drums, Franber Candia on electric guitar, Philip Domen on vocals. They look almost ready to begin.

The gang (from left): Howard, Rodney, Jane, Alex,
Marton, Lillian, Nanie, Hedi, and Marietta

I'm sitting between Fred Block's hubby Hedi and Marietta Schwartz, very good friends of mine, and we too are having a good time at our table. To my left, Marietta is telling me her hubby Howard, both living in Atmosphere, is singing later, and I anticipate. Among their circle, he's known to be the 'karaoke king'. I ask Marietta if she isn't singing tonight. "Next Tuesday," she says, laughing, and adds quite re-assuringly, "I need more practice," as she plays a game on her touch phone.

Fred on percussion

At 8:30 P.M. the band plays their first performance, "Tequila Sunrise" and we merrily sing the lyrics to the song. The restaurant is reasonably packed, and most drop by to get a good dose of the kind-of-laidback feel after a Tuesday's work, over beer and vodkas, or rum, and of course a few comfort food served for the night. But most go there to revel at the band's good singing. Besides, it's a beautiful night, clear skies, no dreadful signs of rain, perfect for some tunes of Seals and Croft, a swag of The Eagles, or the effervescent James Taylor.

Franber on electric guitar

It's almost two years now that Pure Session has established themselves as a good solid band at Kamalig. To the usual frequenter at the restaubar, the band's name might as well have been a word-of-mouth. And why not? Anyone who's been there would surely get jaw-dropped at Franber's slick rendition of "Hotel California"'s instrumental part (imagine that nerve-tugging electric guitar playing?). Everyone in the house goes "oohs" when he suddenly strums the guitar with his teeth.

After the band's first set, I steal a few minutes of Alan's time and ask him more about the band. He tells me about the original band's name "Kinaiyahan" (roughly translated as 'nature') and recalls their first-year gig at Amlan, an-hour drive away from Dumaguete, at some restaubar called Triple 8. 

Alan on the drum set

"But coming here to Dumaguete, we had to change our name," Alan says. "One of the members thought it sounded too ethnic. We wanted our name to sound cool this time."

I ask him about rehearsals. To this he laughs and tells me, "We don't. We just text each other the song line-up and that's it. Every gig we do here always comes as a surprise to all of us. We'd go there on stage and just play. That's Pure Session."

Philip, acoustic guitar and lead vocal

And as with all bands, I take considerable interest at Pure Session's lead vocal, Philip. On first glance off stage, he looks a bit shy with strangers. Asked about how long the band has been playing in Kamalig, he tells me, "Over a year." Like how long, I ask him again, wanting to get the exact sum. I did ask Alan about this and but he said, grinning, "Ask Philip. He knows it better than the rest of us do." Philip pauses for a while, and says more firmly now, "Over a year."


But once on air, he just simply transforms into this ballsy guy who can sing behind the microphone. I especially like how he sings "Summer Breeze" with Alan's second voice backing him up.

I look at my watch. 9:45 P.M. Hedi notices this and asks, "Aren't you going to be late for work?" 

"Why don't you just skip work tonight?" Marietta suggests, jokingly, which does sound really tempting.

Howard Schwartz singing "Act Naturally"

My work begins at 10 P.M., and I'd rather not go into the details about this. Anyway, I tell them I'll report to work late, it's OK. Besides, I haven't seen Howard sing yet. "So I'm still staying," I tell them.

Second set begins and the restaubar continues to be packed with people. When Howard's turn finally comes, everybody goes hooting for the karaoke king while he gives his all-out sweaty funky rendition of "Act Naturally" with his hasty scribbled lyrics in hand and Marietta captures all of this in her hand-held digi camera, this passing moment of pure delight.

A Day with Food, Beer, and Wilder

Thornton Wilder is the author of the Pulitzer Prize winning novel The Bridge of San Luis Rey. This is an account of what happened today, Sunday, when I decided to read each chapter of the book at five different places. This is an account of how to spend your money wisely.

Part 1: Perhaps an Accident

Jutz Café, 12:35 P.M. The first time I visited the place about two years ago, a poetry reading took place in that small space cleared off by the owner, also a Filipino, in order to give way to a few performers – a small band that played the guitar and the congo drums, and of course, the readers of poems. The wooden tables and chairs set on the sides had been festooned with lighted candles which doubly served as dimmed lights and the tables’ centrepieces. But most of all, these tables had once been occupied by writers luminaries and humble beginners like me, all gathered in the name of music and poetry which was to leave, now that I recall it, a clear and perhaps nostalgic imprint. 

Today I sit at a table inside, by a long wood-framed glass window overlooking the street on a sunny afternoon. Except for the bossa nova playing audibly enough over the speakers, the restaurant is quiet, a stark contrast to the bustles of the cafeteria just across the road. I am the only customer at this hour and a familiar face here. In such case, I feel at ease, like we all are at places we frequently visit. I order breaded porkchop and a glassful of iced tea and open The Bridge of San Luis Rey I chanced yesterday at the book sale for seventy-five pesos (Harper Perennial’s 1986 paperback reprinted edition which looks as good as new). The seven page chapter “Perhaps an Accident” opens with a third-person narrator telling the exact date that the bridge broke and how a certain Brother Juniper, a Franciscan, witnessed the death of five people when the accident took place: “On Friday noon, July the twentieth, 1714, the finest bridge in all Peru broke and precipitated five travellers into the gulf below.” 

I look up from my book as, minutes later, the waiter, a man who could be in his late twenties stands beside me and settles the food on my table. When he finally leaves, I put the book down and eat. 

Part II: The Marquesa de Montemayor

Casablanca Delicatessen, 1:30 P.M. I am sitting outside, at one of their tables set up right at the corner of the block where only a meter away to my left stands erect a wooden electric lightpost, this table where only two persons can occupy. The mantle is bare until I signal the young waitress for their menu. I choose the seat that faces the blue undulating sea, where my view of that long lovely stretch of the boulevard lies unobscured. At a table next to mine, an American guy wearing a pair of dark shades, perhaps in his early forties, is talking to the young waitress, the smoke from his cigarette going off his mouth in all directions, and I wonder minutes later if I had interrupted their ‘small talk’. “You looking for a girlfriend, sir?” the young waitress in her maroon-color uniform had giggled.

I feel like drinking coffee, and the name ‘Café Correto with Grappa’ amuse me, so I order one. There is a warm sea breeze, typical during hot afternoons, and I settle comfortably on my chair and begin to read the rather quaint character, Dona Maria, Marquesa de Montemayor and her story. Stripped off her power, she’s simply a mother of a child who loves too much. I wonder if that kind of love is repulsive, or to press the matter even further, if such love exists. The daughter, Dona Clara grows up, marries, then chooses to stay away from her and “saw to it that four thousand miles lay between them”, Dona Maria in Peru, and Dona Clara in Spain. It is a baffling thing, like all loves are. 

The waitress approaches and lays the coffee on the table. To my dismay, it’s a small goddamn coffee, like an espresso. I read the chapter again and order another cup of coffee, this time a Frozen Cappuccino at ninety-five pesos.

Part III: Esteban

Bogart’s Bar, 3:50 P.M. I am thinking of having a light beer. Bogart’s, which is just a block next to Casablanca, and in fact just one lot away is where I head next. The waitresses know I order the same beer, brand, flavor. They smile when they see me approach the bar. I order one light beer, apple-flavored, and sit at a high-rise cushioned bamboo chair outside, the boulevard in plain sight.

Another American guy in a red polo arrives. He shoots me a smile, and I nod. He orders a beer and sits at a table. “You have lovely hair,” he says, referring to my curls. I give a hearty laugh to this.

In the chapter “Esteban”, the twenty-two-year-old is struck with grief by the passing of his twin brother Manuel. Both are orphans, left at the doorstep of a convent called the Convent of Sta. Maria Rosa de las Rosas. What inevitably struck me here as poignant is the part when he goes into a burst and weeps, “I am alone, alone, alone”. The repetition of the word “alone” bears a conundrum, and a kind of pitiful surrender. To this, Captain Alvarado, whom the twins had great respect, says, “We do what we can. We push on, Esteban, as best as we can.”

I sit for a few minutes and stare at the sea to pass the time. When my drink is over, I stand up. Before I leave, the American guy in red polo says, in a jocose tone, “Don’t cut your hair.”

“I won’t,” I say, and smile.

Part IV: Uncle Pio 
Coco Amigos, 4:52 P.M. I tell the beautiful waitress to give me a Schnitzel Sandwich. It’s in their menu. I have no idea what a Schnitzel Sandwich is in the first place so that I want to see and taste one. In her well-rehearsed American accent, she says, “Okay, sir. Schnitzel Sandwich coming up.” There’s something in the way she says “Schnitzel” that impresses me (others would definitely mistake the “i” for an “e” as in “egg” or the “e” as “i” as in “hill”) but what I really wonder is, why does she have to do that. 

I am in the company of white people. Most of the tables are occupied by foreigners. I look around and feel like a pretentious sprat lifting a Thornton Wilder book, and for a minute, I notice I am just reading the same sentence over and over again. I put the book down.

The beautiful waitress comes back. “Sir, we don’t have available Schnitzel Sandwich.” There’s the “Schnitzel” again.

“Okay,” I say, looking at the menu. “What about a Salami Sandwich?” Seventy-five pesos.

“Okay, sir. Salami Sandwich.” She smiles, then leaves. I pick the book again and read on.

What is love for Uncle Pio?

“He regarded love as a sort of cruel malady through which the elect are required to pass in their late youth and from which they emerge, pale and wrung, but ready for the business of living.”

I think about this for a while. But then the beautiful waitress with the well-rehearsed American accent comes with my Salami Sandwich, and I thank her for that. I’ll have that Schnitzel Sandwich some other time I guess, and eat.

Part V: Perhaps an Intention

Nevas, 5:45 P.M. I decide to order a green salad with a Thousand Island dressing. For forty-five pesos, you get loads of cabbage, strips of carrots. chunks of cucumber and tomatoes, and the deceptive dressing. I say, it’s OK if you’re not particularly picky when it comes to salad. 

I always choose the second floor of the restaurant where the lights have a soft touch of yellow and there’s good airconditioning. Right now, there are quite a handful of people. On my left there’s a group of college students – three girls and one boy, a Korean. One of them is saying, “What’s the Korean for ‘good afternoon’?” I look at her, this girl speaking now, and I stop what I’m doing (which is eating). I look hard at her and I couldn’t believe my eyes. She looks a lot like my college schoolmate. Holy shit. No kidding. I study her face furtively. I pretend to look around, at the two noisy kids talking about how they love to eat pizza, to their mothers who are also eating pizza, to the family at the next table, and so on, and I always end up looking at her. I don’t believe in dopplegangers, but right now, I think I do.

The last chapter of the book sounds like an epilogue.  A new bridge has been built to replace the old, and Wilder, like Chekov’s “gun in the wall” technique, finally harnesses his penultimate symbol, the bridge, and shoots us point-blank by saying, “Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

But my eyes keep darting back to the girl at the next table. I am convinced she looks a lot like my college schoolmate – the same pronounced cheekbone, the same hair style parted sideways, the same make-up, the eye-liner, the lips, the eyes. I am drawn to her eyes. I want her to look at me and see from them a faint recognition. But she doesn’t look at me. I glance at her once in a while until I make up my mind that it’s not my college schoolmate. I pay the bill and climb down the stairs and out, and the day's over.

How to get fired, how to get fired up

Last Thursday night I lied. In a text message I told my team leader, sir, I'm not feeling well, I just logged out. I was at a restaurant when I told him that, drinking milk tea. My work had just started. Ten o'clock in the evening. I'd opened my PC and started editing one file then when I decided to get out. There at the restaurant, I checked the time. An hour past ten.  Did you visit the clinic, he asked. I told him I didn't. Later that night I convinced myself it wasn't entirely a lie, what I said about not feeling well. True, I wasn't feeling well, I said to myself, here, touching that part where my heart is, guffawing.

I bar-hopped alone. If per chance you've tried doing this already, you might have to agree with me when I say it's one of those rare moments when you could actually feel a strange pathetic sense of purpose and stupidity, meshed in a way that, when you're finally sitting at the bar's counter watching others on the dance floor having the time of their lives and you're gulping one bottle of beer, pretending (or not) to look amused, makes you want to leave that godforsaken chair and head out to the door of oblivion, or stay, hoping against hope that someone would come over and share that quiet space of desolation you call being alone. One moment I was at the office reading a boring file about a research study that talked about why Brazil was having a bad time getting their economy up. Next thing I know, I was going to three bars that night feeling, well, in a strange mission for experience, I'd later on say to myself.

But I ended up getting tipsy and smelling of smoke so I went home. It was almost three thirty in the morning. A few minutes after, I realized something. There's a boat leaving for Dapitan at four in the morning and I have to catch it.

At around 6am somewhere between Visayas and Mindanao.

Still feeling really tipsy, I packed my stuff in my bag -- toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, shampoo, a bottle of blueberry-flavored vodka, deodorant, shirt, my Speedo trunks, a pack of green peas. I was hyped. Then I remembered McDonald's, ordered two burgers and Coke, and told the old pedicab driver to please hurry I'm catching a 4-am boat ride I need to get that ride please hurry. It was exhilarating. 

When I finally had my ticket and reached the boat, I stood at the open deck, breathed slowly, took one bite at my cheeseburger, almost screamed but didn't, and thought for a second what if this boat sinks, goodbye friends, goodbye work, goodbye mom, goodbye world.

The best thing about traveling alone, I found out, is, in an inexplicable way, you become braver. Something inside you demands that you talk to someone you don't know and that what you need to talk about is why you are there at that moment and what are you up to in the minutes and hours to come. I eventually ended up talking to this guy who, I gathered later on, was headed back to his hometown, Pagadian city, a ten-hour ride or so from my own hometown. Davao city. He was a nurse, was an instructor before -- said he did it for experience -- and so on. He's visiting his parents for two days.

"What are you doing in Dapitan?" he asked.

"I don't know," I said. He laughed. I laughed too. I said I was doing it for experience. I had been planning to visit Dapitan for a long time.  Funny that I had to get drunk to do it, I said.

But I really didn't know. There at the boat, when both of us decided it was time go to sleep, I thought about what I was doing. The four-hour ride was taking too long, I couldn't sleep, and what seemed like enthusiasm slowly turned to sour boredom, and fear, and regret. That was one of the things I later figured out when traveling alone. There will be moments when traveling becomes pointless and for a second you just wanted to get out of there, go back home, and snuggle in bed. The good thing about it was that I was in that boat somewhere in the middle of the ocean on an early morning headed to a place I haven't visited for the first time. There was no way out and I was on my own.

Pulauan Port, Dapitan

At around nine, I finally had a glimpse of Dapitan's port, and I was immediately struck at how it looked. There were no buildings, to name one. From what I see, it looked too rural, the line of houses cluttered too close to each other, others even reaching all the way up the mountain side and the image of Rio de Janeiro's slum area flashed in my mind. When the boat started docking, men waiting below, porters, began to shout, "Dallas here, Dallas here!" "Miami! To Miami!"

Later I would find out from my motorbike driver that indeed, there's nothing much to see in Dapitan except for the famous place where the famous national hero, Jose Rizal whiled away his time when he was in exile, thanks to the Spanish, before he was finally shot, and of course, the dollar beach, Dakak. I wasn't interested to go there anyway. After a few minutes at Rizal's shrine, we proceeded to Dipolog city, a fifteen-minute ride from Dapitan. The drive reminded me of the movie "Motorcycle Diaries". It felt surreal.

Nothing much happened when I arrived in Dipolog. My driver and I ate lunch. I hadn't taken a bath yet and I was feeling hot, too stressed out, terribly edgy, almost nauseous really. I ended up looking for a massage spa. Okay, I'm going to stop here.

A few things I found out after the trip. For one, before embarking on a sudden crazy journey somewhere, take a bath. It really helps that you get out of the house feeling fresh and in good, comfortable clothes. Number two, at least have a general plan about what you might want to do there, especially when it's the first time you're visiting the place. Random ideas may help too, and I'm a firm believer of random plans, I tell you. I'm a fan of it big time. But it pays to have at least one clear plan just the same. Third. Never ever go to a new place and have yourself a massage. It kills all of your wild adventurous hormones, slays them that you eventually end up getting slothful that you don't want to do anything but lie down in bed and sleep instead of walking around the place and getting familiar with it.  Fourth, for heavensake stay at the place for one night! You've just arrived at nine in the morning and you're already leaving at four in the afternoon? Are you out of your mind? Last thing, if by chance you might want to visit Dapitan or Dipolog, do not ever ask anyone if they have coffee shops in town.

Literally or literarily

It still comes as a mild surprise to me whenever lost in thought somewhere, I stumble upon the fact that I'm nowhere near home. For that split-of-a-second there, something just taps inside me, and it lets loose what I gather as scales from that day-to-day casualness of my having to be alone in this city, its name I only heard for the first time the day my childhood friend decided to study here for college. As it happens, I look around, find my feet still walking the familiar streets of what I now consider my home. And once again, I am giddy and raving and ecstatic at the decision I made.

A year ago, around May or June as I recall it, I promised myself a dare. I dared that by the time I reached twenty one, I should be away from home. Far from it. Miles and miles away from it. That time I thought the prospect was just too ambitious. Picture a fresh grad who just drained his mother's pockets and everyone else's around him setting off somewhere to start an epic journey of his life at twenty one, all these crazy carpe diem! ideas running frantically in his head thanks to those movies and stories in college, a borrowed bag in tow, and no cash. It's ridiculous. No. No. It's a self-centered, egotistic, selfish impulse, like a sexual orgasm actually, unable to contain itself now that I think about it.

Unmistakably, there's always the usual heart-wrenching question nowadays: When are you going back home? Always, I tell them, "No plans, yet. It's too early to go back." And mind you, I say this with a light heart plus a quick offhand gesture. Poof. (No, I don't really do the hand thing. I like it there for the sake of effect.) Then: Don't you miss your parents? your friends? It must be hard living by yourself. Which reminds me about the phrase I heard one of my writer friends say about living literally or literarily. It's quite a distinction, actually, one that kept me pondering even as I am writing this. In Susan Orlean's words, she has this to say about traveling:

Is it that when you travel you can invent yourself anew, and the new person you become is freer and more engaged and more engaging than the persona you left at home? And even if you're not in love, is this still what makes travel so seductive - the creation of a new buoyant version of yourself, unpunctured by the familiarity of people who know you and know that you have another self?

What I consider living by myself is, in a way, what I consider too as traveling. I experience what it feels like to go home from work, to switch on the lights and find at ten o'clock in the evening my unmade bed, the sheets still tousled from last night; the dumped used shirts on one corner, the clean ones on another; the eerie quietness of the place when most of the nextdoor boarders have gone home, the racousness when they're back; the barking of dogs; the gurgling sound made by my cheap water heater as I try to cook instant noodles; the loud groaning sound of passing motorcycles outside the gate.

Or the site of men stationing themselves along Meciano street, drinking; boys my age gathering, strumming guitars, the beat box following the rhythm, the chorus of glee boys and girls singing Huling El Bimbo; the tired looks of old men and women watching them, oftentimes swaying their heads, perhaps in dismay at the noise; the twenty-four hour bakery station, the lady with the long hair inside, her round face and the bulge of her cheeks protruding in this irritating, sometimes frightening way whenever somebody wakes her up at three o'clock in the morning to buy bread.

So yes, I may possibly be living both. I want to think I am.