Quickie

Once upon a time, in a Third World city, a girl had to pee. She told her colleague, one of the most beautiful men in the office, that she had to leave to go to the loo. In five minutes, she was back.

Man: That was quick!
Me: Yes, it's a quickie!

Har, har. Corny, I know. Bur I couldn't think of a good way to start this entry. This is going to be relatively short and sweet-- I need to wake up at 6:30 tomorrow, and it's almost 12 here. I just want to say how much I am grateful for everything that came my way-- the full scholarship that brought me here, the good jobs that are now proudly written on my CV, the demanding editors who brought out the best in me, the teachers who believed in my talent and intelligence, the friends--especially the ones I've made in college--who love me in spite (and sometimes because) of my flaws, and my parents who gave me the freedom to dream and chase what I wanted, no matter how unconventional or impossible it may first seem to be.

For once, I will not write about anything depressing, frustrating, or sad. I am grateful for tomorrow. Finally, I am crossing out one major goal in my lengthy list. And I'm crossing it out with a flourish.

Graduation, here I come.

 

Books and roving clinic

When I picked up my toga from school today, I noticed the roving clinic parked right in the same spot where I first saw it. You see, if you're an incoming NTU student, you have to take your X-ray exam in this van. I wish I brought my crappy camera with me to give you an idea. Alas, my cheap Nokia doesn't even have a cam.

Anyway, my point is, when I saw the van it got me all nostalgic. It's been a year since I last saw it, and now, I'm two weeks away from convocation; in two days, I'm going back to working full time. I know I've been getting nostalgic and have been blogging about it several times. But please, indulge me, for that's just the way I really am.



Before I left school, I dropped off a couple of books in my prof's mailboxes. In spite of what has recently happened, I still believe in the goodness of people. Life is short; we should spend it showing the people we love how important they are to us.

CG and APH, I hope you enjoy those books as much as I did. You guys were the best.

And it's back!

There was something I heard recently that really broke my heart. I read somewhere that we grow up believing that as we grow older, our circle of friends grows larger. The past couple of months, I saw some friendships destroyed. And I'm writing off another person tonight.

I'd like to pretend I'm okay. I thought I'll be okay after days of window shopping, mixing and matching clothes, and walking from one end of Orchard Road to another.I am not. It took one e-mail from my friend A and a chat with my former thesis partner M to make me realize that I'm not. I had a crying jag in front of my laptop; for several minutes I couldn't even type, and only M could do was wait until I could continue.

I feel betrayed. I actually thought this person was a friend. But friends don't rat on you. And if they do, well, that makes them a rat.

I missed this blog. This was a journal of the year I spent here in Singapore. I decided to open it because I don't give a fuck anymore.

From now on, I maintain, I do not know you. I am supremely disgusted with myself.

Life's a Beach

Spent Saturday at the beach with M, talking about random things, looking at a couple of white men trying to get a tan, stuffing ourselves with wedges and basically just bumming around. Wish I brought the camera with me. The beach wasn't as good as the one in Coron, Palawan, but it will do.


W said she didn't enjoy this semester as much as the first one. I love this sem. The classes weren't as interesting as they used to be, but this time I learned more about life, love, friends, music, and film. Made a couple of mistakes, especially in maintaining friendships, but I think I'll be fine. And she would be, too. 


It's just that I have a strange talent for shooting myself in the foot. I always end up being misinterpreted. I shot my foot again this morning. My god. But hey, at least I learned. My god. What a sem.


I used to regret not studying in Japan. But yesterday, staring at the water, I have no regrets at all.

Oranges

The campus is quieter than usual. Students have gone home for the Chinese New Year. The school is like a ghost town since last Friday, with many opting to skip classes-- something that I never thought these diligent students would ever do.


I spent Saturday with M, a friend and former colleague who has turned me to a J-pop and Jdorama addict. I like going to classes, I like learning new things, but without my Saturday sessions with M, I think I would have gone insane.


After watching animes, soap operas, and stuffing myself with Pinoy food, I took the train and waited patiently for the free shuttle bus that would take me inside NTU. Alas, even the bus drivers have gone on a holiday. I ended up taking the taxi instead.


As my usual practice, I engaged in a chat with the driver, who was about in his late 50's, as soon as I hopped in. I asked the driver why he was working during New Year's Eve. His answer: "I have to work. I have to pay my insurance. I'll spend it with my family tomorrow." 


In my country, this would have been considered tragic. Old people don't work--their kids are the ones who do it for them, which is why many leave the Philippines to slave their lives away in a foreign land. Some Singaporeans have been abandoned by their children. But others just refuse to be a complete burden. At first I thought working at an old age was tragic. It was later on I learned that in this culture, they view working--even in odd jobs-- as a way to keep their dignity intact.


Before leaving, I gave my Mandarin oranges to the happy and flustered driver. Those were gifts from M. I hope she won't mind me giving it away. And I hope the driver, in spite of his work, still had a great Chinese New Year.

Ice cream and Shoes

I want to write about something, but I can’t find that something.

I have a lot of things to write really, but not now. There is a time to write about those things. Maybe I can write them 6 months from now. Or maybe not. By that time it will no longer matter.

I still have a short story to finish. I’m almost done. But I’m scared of how it would come about.

I keep checking my e-mail, hoping that something interesting would come up. The most interesting mail I got was about a meeting next week with one of my favourite professors. That was it.

Maybe I should just eat ice cream, but as it happens, I already have fulfilled my ice cream quota for the day.

Maybe I should just buy shoes. That always worked for me in Manila. The higher, the better. It would hurt so much I will never get to wear it. Walking in heels in Singapore is akin to suicide.

I should go back to working on my presentation for Monday, but the topic is depressing—about people who pretend to peacefully co-exist but, behind that facade, there is potent rage brimming, the kind of sheer anger that would destroy their society.

Emo. That’s what my brother calls this. I can’t believe I’m doing and feeling it now.

PMS, that's how my girlfriends would label it. Hormones.

That’s it. I’m going to buy a pair of shoes from Charles and Keith. Saturday. I promise.

Warmth and appreciation, one word at a time

After weeks of thinking of what to give to my professors, I’m finally done with my shopping. I bought a couple of stuff in Singapore, and the rest here in Manila.

Several days ago, I suddenly thought that the gifts were a little too impersonal. I wanted to do something that would really show my appreciation, and tell these professors how much I’ve learned from them. So after attending a press conference, I went to the bookstore and bought these Christmas cards.

One more card and I'm done. 

As a child, I spent my allowance buying numerous Christmas cards for classmates, teachers, and friends. I’d just write “Dear ____, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Sincerely, Rachel.” That was it. Back then, I didn’t know how to write well, and I was never the type who would say something sensitive or emotional. Showing my appreciation to people was simply too corny for me, an angst-ridden kid who grew up during the grunge era.   

Recently, however, I’ve been finding myself writing a lot of sensitive stuff here in my blog. I wrote about my mentor and a couple of friends. There’s really something special about this Christmas season that has made me appreciate people more, and it has made me more willing to say it to them. Maybe because I now spend part of my time living abroad, or maybe because I’m just getting older.

Last night, I wrote in these cards to tell these people how thankful I am for everything I’ve learned from them. I know I’m now a pretty good writer, and that I can express myself more eloquently in writing. I stutter when I speak, and I say some things which, while my intentions may be pure, end up being misinterpreted instead. I learned this the hard way last semester. One day I’ll write about it. But not today. 

I need another one more card though. One card was supposed to be meant for a professor who praised my writing to high heavens, but during the process of writing on the card, I found myself writing to a female professor instead, thanking her for her infinite patience when we acted like fools in class. I’ll buy that card for him soon. I just wish I can think of something more to write, something beyond the “Thanks for being supportive of my writing” line. He made the first semester a little more enjoyable. I think he deserves a little more ass-kissing from me.

Joan and Annalyn

If you’re one of the very few people who read this blog, you’d probably think that my YES! years were all hunky dory. I mean, I really love my job. There is something inspiring about being surrounded by so many brilliant people in showbiz, and nothing beats the rush of seeing your name in print.

But there were also days when I felt lost, frustrated, and upset. The daily grind of work often took its toll. What kept me sane during those years were heart-to-heart talks with Joan, and later, Annalyn.

I met Joan during my application interview, and that early, I knew we were kindred souls. We went through the same highs and the same shitty lows. Whatever I felt during those first two years, she did as well. We thought we weren’t good enough, and that writing, as much as we love it, can be tortuous and pure hell. To cope, we would go to the cinemas (our office was housed inside a mall) and watch movies together until midnight, then go back to the office to log out, thereby completing our required 10.5 hours for the day. Yes, we're two little she-devils who sometimes loved breaking the rules.

Joanie eating a bag of Tomi in NYC.

You can just imagine how difficult it was for me to navigate the succeeding years without Joan, who, after a year and a half, left Manila for New York. I’m glad though that Annalyn came along. If Joan was my partner-in-crime, Annalyn acted the part of the level-headed older sister, who gave the sanest advice in moments of sheer insanity. She patiently listened to my woes, and even more patiently when I talked about all the men (and I mean all!) that I’m obsessing about. I’m also friends with the other YES! girls, but there are some things that I can only talk to her, like the alienation I sometimes feel in NTU, and how hard for somebody like me, who never fit in, to be perfectly square in Singapore. Mother Annalyn tries to sort things out for me, me who’s always unhinged and confused.

Annalyn and I at the office pantry, the site of our many "sessions."

I’ve always been the type who finds it hard to make new friends. I need time, and enough drama to bond well with somebody.  That's why I find it hard to let go of old friends, because it took me so much effort to build my relationships with them. I have to accept that I will never work with Annalyn or Joan—ever—and that while we may be still friends, I have to make new friends and hope  that those relationships would be as good as the ones I had with these two girls.

For now, I would just have to content myself with my frequent visits to Manila to see Annalyn and the rest of the YES! girls. And Joan, I know, I feel, that I’ll be in New York soon. I’m working on it. We’ll raise hell in NYC. I promise.

One Night at Changi

Budget airlines have the most interesting flight schedules. My flight out of the Lion City was at 6:30, which left me no choice but to camp out at Changi, or else I would have to pay more than SGD 50 for taxi fare. The airport was unbearably, numbingly cold, made colder by the fact that except for us Flips, there were very few people milling about.

Changi has some really interesting Christmas decor. Hmmm...

I spent the night reading a novel, and when that eventually bored me, I resorted to talking to one of the fellow Flip passengers from Darwin, Australia. Our conversation went like this:

Man: You should try working in Australia. You can end up being a PR.

Me: I prefer to work here though. Singaporeans are very nice. And you can also be a PR eventually.

Man: How much is the Singaporean dollars worth when you convert it to peso?

Me: SGD 1 to Php 32.

Man (a little arrogantly): Ah, the Australian dollar is worth a lot more.

By this time, I have a feeling the conversation is heading to dangerous territory.

Man: Are you single?

Me: Yeah. It’s very hard to leave your family behind just to study.

Man: Do you plan to go home and get married after this?

I looked at the man and thought, “Hell, no!” I did not leave my comfortable life in the Philippines, complete with maids, membership in a swanky gym, and a slew of weird, creative, and funny friends, to study in one of the toughest schools in Asia just to go home and get married after I’m done with it. But since I've lived in Singapore, I’ve learned to be nicer and be more patient. So I gave the man a sweet, bleary-eyed smile, and said, “No.”

Today's lucky number...13.

What is it about marriage that we Flips bring up the topic to people we’ve just met? Shortly before I left for school, I needed to get my insurance ID. There, I met a woman who had the temerity to tell me, “You’re 28, and still single?!” Yes. Is that a mortal sin?

What’s the big deal about being married? Is it that much fun? If it is, how come many of the married people I know (with the exception of magazine editor Frances Amper-Sales) end up looking like hell after only a couple of years of marriage?

And why do we Flips have this tendency to impose it on other people, especially to those who are so uninterested in it? As much as I love the Christmas season, I actually dread Christmas day itself. Christmas is the day when everybody—aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends, people who pretend to be related to us even if we don’t share the same DNA—troop to our house and badger me, “So, when are you getting married?

I am not anti-marriage. If my parents weren’t married, I would not have existed—although I have a feeling they were doing the deed a few weeks before their wedding. Sorry, Ma.

But what is it about Filipinos and our culture that puts marriage on a pedestal, as if it’s the greatest achievement anybody can ever have?  And why is it that whenever somebody’s single, people think of that person as some sort of a freak, a weirdo, some circus attraction? Shouldn’t it be the other way around, considering we live in a world where very few marriages stay intact?

Can somebody please explain to me, ha?

The other day, I was telling my mom that my next homecoming might be around 2011, because I have plans of working in Singapore after I am, hopefully, done with school in 2010. I told her I plan to look for a job in Singapore, try to work my way up and maybe become a fashion editor of a magazine, because I honestly believe that I can’t make that happen here in Manila. The city’s social-climbing, status-seeking crowd will make it impossible for me.

My mom, that sweet, kid-loving, nagging lady, smiled at me and said, “Oh. I thought you were about to say you were getting married.”   

Curtis

After 13 weeks of intense studying (how intense it was, I can't even describe), I am finally done with school. It feels strange, not reading any of my notes. My friend N sums it aptly, "What do we do now?"

What I did was, I met up with a friend whom I haven't seen for months: Curtis. She and I met around 4 years ago, at work. While it took as quite some time to polish our writing, she was already writing a storm as soon as she set foot in the office. Not a single soul doubts her talent.

Curtis went to a bar and forgot to wear her shorts.

She also has an amazing knowledge of The Beatles, and their music. Never make the mistake of asking Curtis about The Beatles, or else you'll be forced to listen to her--for hours-- mouthing off every Beatles trivia she knows. I've learned a lot about The Beatles and rock music from her. In a way, I think I owe my current musical taste to this irreverent soul.

I think the best things that I learned from her though is that you have to learn how to be tough and how to face  your problems squarely, right on its face, without blinking. I thought that there were times when I was treated unfairly, but Curtis had it worse, and she handled her problems as best as she could. I'm a pretty tough kid, but I look like a wimp next to her.

Merry Christmas, Curt. Here's my gift to you. Enjoy!

Old Folks

I’m beginning to like Singapore. In spite of all the shit I read on Temasek Review, I think the government takes care of its citizens. Sometimes, it can get a little blah, especially if you’re used to the hustle and bustle of Manila. Life on campus is quiet—you can, literally, hear a pin drop. The headlines in the newspapers are not newsworthy at all (I don’t understand why it’s a big deal that a boy will sell a dog he adopted), but I guess that’s just the Filipino in me—always looking for the next big scandal and expose.

Singapore’s good. Everything’s organized and people generally lead a good life. Except for the elderly.

I noticed that many cleaners are really old folks. The taxi driver who brought me to Changi at 4AM seemed like 60 years old. The McDo crew are old as well. My Singaporean friend N assured me that these people are working just so they can be independent of their kids. But still....

This guy cleans our apartment. I see him working, even during the sweltering afternoons. After work, he brings a monobloc chair on our second floor to just chill, take a nap, or just stare into space. Uncle, the space cadet.

The Train

Two days ago, I wrote something about how much I love my people. Only two days have passed and I think I'm doing an about face.

Nakapag-LRT na ba kayo from Recto?

Do you notice how people act when they board the train? Boarding the train from that station is a scene straight out of a children's party, with everybody scurrying about, trying to find the next available space. It's an adult version of that old parlor game, Trip to Jerusalem.

Here in Singapore, people seem to be more giving: when they see you carrying something, they'd give the seat to you. When they see an older person board the train, they'd give the seat to her. They're very courteous people

I noticed that during my registration, NTU's staff are so different from UP's. The people in NTU are courteous and respectful of students. Some of UP's staff are some of the most bastos, power-tripping, egoistic people you can ever meet. I've met several secretaries in my college I'd be happy to strangle. I was once berated by a librarian for mistakenly leaving my stuff in his turf. As freshmen, we hated this nasty OUR admin assistant, whom we will only talk to at gunpoint.

When I opened an account at OCBC, the lady constantly apologized for making me wait-- for like, well, three minutes. It's so different from the treatment I got from the local bank I have been depositing money to for almost 10 years. The manager just looked at me with dead eyes-- no good morning, no smiles, no apologies for making me wait.

Somebody told me that one thing she liked about working here is that there are no class differences in the workplace. People don't care whether you're rich or struggling: they'll befriend you, talk to you, eat out with you. In the Philippines, parang may caste system in a single office.

We're supposed to be good people. I guess we're not anymore.