Deserts and Snow

To wait out the results of the bar exams, I went to America and stayed with my mom in Santa Fe, New Mexico, for about three months. I arrived through L.A., where I stayed a couple of days, before heading for Albuquerque, New Mexico, the nearest intercontinental airport to Santa Fe. Driving into New Mexico was a treat for me as it is unlike any other city in America.

According to Wikipedia (yes, Wikipedia), Santa Fe is the oldest capital city in the whole United States founded around 1050 by pueblo indians. The State was later colonized by Mexico and named Santa Fe New Mexico so that from the late 1600s until it joined the union in the late 19th century, Santa Fe was marred by various pueblo indian revolts.

Santa Fe's relatively rich history is obvious in its rather incongruous landscape. Driving into the city, I passed by snow-capped mountains standing above open and arid land. The houses are, I regret the cliche, a sight to behold. They were adobe houses that looked like pueblo dwellings, with its rooftop and walkways lined with a number of farolitos or paper lanterns.

The city, it seems, is very much concerned with aesthetics. Not just beauty, but the whole philosophy of beauty and art. The city took care of its artists and creates spaces for arts. I can almost imagine art works scattered around the city, waking up at night when the living residents are fast asleep, stretching a bit, and then walking around to mingle.

The people there were also pretty laid back. They take the time to look around, they sit down on park benches to have a rest, took their coffee properly, in proper cups and saucers, while seated, instead of on the go.

The food scene in Santa Fe is also interesting as it is a city that sits in between cultures. There is a decent sampling of the regular variety--American, Italian, Greek, Japanese and Chinese-- and a very good representation for Texas Barbecue and authentic Mexican food. By authentic Mexican I mean that they do not serve tacos... they serve sopapillas and enchiladas and tamales, made from real corn husks.

I don't really remember much of the details of my three-month long stay in New Mexico but I remember the highlights...the reason why I would want to visit again one day.

Upon arriving in New Mexico, the first thing I did was to learn the bus routes. My sisters had arrived before I did but they did not think of learning the bus routes. Santa Fe does not have intercity mass transit trains, although it is famous for its intercontinental trains. The bus routes and bus schedules are pretty straightforward and reliable. The intervals are written on the bus schedule which you can get from bus stops and from the bus drivers. Also, the bus drivers are generally friendly and willing to help you get around, unless, of course, they are not that conversant in English. On my first week, my sisters and I tried various bus routes, particularly those to the library, mall and cinema where we spent a lot of our time just to get off our asses.

We spent a lot of time in the Santa Fe Public Library. I borrowed quite a number of books and bought old library books on sale, to while away the time.Occasionally, we'd go out to visit a place of interest, or a casino, or a mall outside the city. But generally, we were confined to our house (I was particularly confined to the couch).

On my second week, because the weather was as nice as it could get in December, I decided to walk  through Canyon Road, an uphill street in downtown Santa Fe with hundreds of art galleries housing various types of art. Canyon road is, likely, the most intriguing street I've ever been. There, the houses stood alongside galleries, or were galleries themselves. Even the driveways were quirky. Many open spaces were littered with garden art, and artists at work.

Some galleries housed serious paintings (okay... "fine art" but I have objections to the terminology), others, native american art. My favorites were the ones housing contemporary art as almost of them were rather whimsical.  I remember one painting (unfortunately, I failed to take note of the gallery and the artist, although it was probably Chalk Farm Gallery), where there was a painting of a man, or a silhouette of a man, peeping through a doorway slightly left a jar. Through the sliver of an opening, the man could see the moon and the stars which pretty much summed up my melancholy over knowing how huge the whole universe is and how I will never be able to see it in its entirety. Because I was unemployed at the time, I did not think of buying it. But if I find it, now, I would probably try and find a way to buy it.

We also went to Canyon Road on Christmas eve, which, incidentally, was the night we found out my grandma was dying. Every Christmas eve, Canyon road is dressed up with farolitos lining the whole stretch. Residents and tourists walked around in their heavy coats and boots, with their dogs. Some galleries were kind enough to set up bonfires so the people won't freeze to death while walking or offer hot drinks. The center of the festivities was Cafe des Artistes, an artists' cafe where most people stayed a bit to have some coffee and watch live entertainment from a guy with a guitar, who decided to set-up right in front of the cafe and play some music.

On Christmas day (which was December 26 in the Philippines), my grandma passed away. As tickets in December are twice more expensive on any other month, my mom was the only one who could come home. My sisters and I were left to the care of my mom's friends, Tita Aida and Uncle Jim, who were kind enough to entertain us in the two weeks my mom was away.

Uncle Jim, who dabbled in photography and video editing as a hobby, was scheduled to interview a glass blower in Tesuque, and invited us to tag along. By then I was no longer new to the Santa Fe art scene. Still, it amazed me to see how art was literally littered all over the city, and how most gardens did not just have the typical benches and trees but also had art installations, as though it was compulsory. Tesuque Glassworks, is fronted by an "open art gallery" with quirky contemporary sculptures.

After walking around for a bit, we were invited into the glass blowing factory. Until then I hadn't realized how intricate the work was (in fact, I didn't know that they actually needed to blow the glass). The guy who was working on something then was a bit of a rock star, blasting 80's rock music while working wearing shades, as opposed to goggles, and rejecting protective clothing. He talked to us while working, smiled for the camera and made it a point to entertain us with flashy glassblowing moves. Being glassblowing idiots, we were all sufficiently impressed.

Of all the places I've ever been, I would say that Santa Fe seemed the most... emotional. I mean that not in the sense that the city evoked all sorts of emotions from me, but in the sense that it seemed to me that it had emotions of its own. In Santa Fe, art had a life of its own. It had spaces to live and to endure, and were not grimly confined to museums as in Paris or London. There, you get to interact with art and artists freely and, in a way, the art gets to interact with the people just as freely. 

L.A.'s Devotion.

Most of my law school classmates joined the labor force just one month after taking the exams. Not confident with my performance, I put off work and job hunting until after I passed. Just a few weeks into unemployment, though, I realized that my finances would not make it through another month so when my mom offered to pay for my fare to the US and give me allowance enough to last me three months, I said yes.

At the time, my mom was living in Santa, Fe, New Mexico, and was working at a local catholic hospital as a palliative care consultant. Right now, she is based in Connecticut, working at a hospice facility as a consultant. Being away from us for most of the year, she was always eager to have us come over and spend a few months with her. I was excited, too, because I missed her and because it would be my first winter in America.

I was to fly from Manila to L.A. with two of my sisters early in November. Just as we were finalizing our plans, I realized that my passport had been expired for over a year. I had no choice but to stay behind and fix my passport. Fortunately, I had an open flight booking as I was travelling as a chance passenger under my brother's privileges as a flight attendant of Emirates. Also, a good friend of mine extended her mother's consular privilege to me, allowing me to schedule my passport renewal within the week, and get it in just ten days.

I was finally able to fly from Manila to L.A. on the last day of November, just after black Friday madness and thanksgiving. I stayed in L.A. for a couple of days before heading to Albuquerque, New Mexico via United Airlines.

Of all the states I've been to, I tend to think that L.A. has the largest density of immigrants. Mom lived there, for a while too, while waiting for her residency papers to be finalized, and before she moved to Alexandria, Louisiana. The influence of immigration is evident in L.A.'s food culture as restaurants serving cuisine from across the globe are rife. Also, the structures in certain immigrant-dense areas had some influence, particularly Mexican and Spanish. Even downtown L.A. did not look distinct such that you'll associate it with L.A. It wasn't like New York, with it's city lights and vibrant night life, and you understand why it's dubbed "the city that never sleeps." It was a city like any other, with ghetto areas selling I heart LA shirts and cheap Louis Vuitton knock-offs.You don't really get what L.A. is all about just by going to downtown L.A.

The City of Stars

I remember the first time I went to L.A., my uncle insisted that he take me to Rodeo Drive, and to the famous HOLLYWOOD sign before I left for the Philippines. I told him I didn't really want to, as I had already been to Hollywood Boulevard and the Kodak Theater and as I still had a lot of packing to do, but he insisted. I really should have just stayed home. Rodeo Drive is basically a shopping district, with boutiques lining the entire street. The Hollywood sign was also, basically, just a sign. A huge sign. It was nothing compared to Hollywood Boulevard where there is a little bit of history, a little bit of soul.

Hollywood Boulevard, when I went there, was  not as glamorous as depicted in old movies about old Hollywood. To be fair, though, I was there at midday when the street was practically still asleep and without the vibrant neon lights of theater billboards. The entire stretch is lined with tall palm trees, as in postcards and movies. It's (in)famous Walk of Fame, a long sidewalk where Hollywood's stars are honored by having their names imprinted on a star placed on the length of the boulevard, was teeming with tourists, in search of a star's star. Characters from famous Hollywood movies come alive and walk along the boulevard alongside tourists to entertain (or scam) and have their photos taken.

The Kodak Theater, home to the Academy Awards since 2002, is the center piece of Hollywood Boulevard (although some would argue that the Chinese Theater rivals it's facade).Every year, devotees of Hollywood turn on their TVs to watch their favorite actors and actresses roll down Hollywood Boulevard in their stretch limos and step into the red carpet donning the biggest names in fashion. They tune in, not so much to find out what quality movies are out there (because honestly, at the end of the day, White Chicks would still fare better over Everybody's Alright). They tune in, yearly, to the Oscars and all the awards nights of the year, to see their stars put on a show, walking down the red carpet and posing before hundreds of cameras, delivering acceptance speeches or graciously accepting losses, with all dramatic flair, to maintain, if not regain, their relevance.

That, to me, is what L.A. is all about. The Kodak theater is not the only site for L.A.'s devotion to it's stars. Since 2008, the Primetime Emmy's has been held at the Nokia Theater in Downtown L.A. The Nokia Theater also usually hosts the finale of American Idol. In 2004, L.A. also became the permanent home of the Grammy's, which since then has been held at the Staples Center, home to the L.A. Lakers.This was fitting, considering that L.A., according to the Rolling Stones Magazine, was the site of the rise of popular music (to which the vitality of the music industry is owed). L.A.'s better-known history has to do with creating stars and demanding and ensuring the public's devotion to them. As a testament, many aspiring actors and musicians still travel to L.A., a seeming pilgrimage to help them in their quest for a place in  the entertainment industry.

Sometimes, I think, stars are like gods whose existence depend on the people's devotion, such that they will cease to exist once the people have lost devotion. Through it's celebration, awards nights, premieres, and creative spaces like their grand theaters, L.A. ensures that its stars will never cease to exist. 

But I digress.
 
There are also areas in the city that are worth a visit, for a bit of culture. Like Getty Museum, an architectural feat, a beautiful structure from above and from within, imagined and brought to life by J. Paul Getty, a devotee of the arts.

The Getty Museum is an art museum housing art from as far back as the middle ages. It was established by J. Paul Getty, an avid art collector, whose growing art collection required a large location. In 1983, after J. Paul Getty passed away, the Getty Center received a bequest of US$1.2 Billion from his estate, becoming the richest museum in the world and enabling it to acquire even more pieces of art.

The Getty's buildings were designed by architect Richard Meier, who is famous for geometric designs.

It's gardens and installations, which to me are equally noteworthy, were planned and designed by Robert Irwin, who is famous for installation art and landscape projects.

As with most areas in the city, getting there required having a car and a driver. The area was located on a Mountain overlooking the interstate highway, about a thirty-minute drive from my cousin's house in Cerritos, L.A. This, to me, is often a good sign because it usually meant that the museum is housed in huge spaces rather than in a cramped building in the city. In this respect, the museum did not disappoint. It's art collection enjoyed as much space as necessary for it's audience to appreciate each piece with as much attention.

The best area in the museum, for me, was it's cafe. Not for the food or the coffee but for it's tall, imposing,  pillars and how their shadows fall across the floor.It looks peaceful.It looks like the perfect place to talk, or read a book, or study.

It seems like a perfect place for contemplation. You can almost imagine how tragically beautiful it's ruins would be, centuries from now, as though it was designed to be tragically beautiful one day.  Like it's stars  who end up being just that when all the devotion is lost and when they are forgotten--tragically beautiful.

Bums

This isn't meant to be prose. I'm writing so I can remember where I've been because in my head I see pictures of the places, I can recall sensations, I can remember laughter, but I always have a hard time of remembering the finer details, the chronology, exactly how everything falls in place. So this is more of an exercise for me than it is a reference for an audience. One day, my memory might fail me and this will help me recall how I felt, whenever I found myself in a new place. That's the purpose of this exercise.

The first thing I did after the bar exams was to sleep as late as I could. Then, the morning after, I took a shower, sat in front of the TV, and watched all the six seasons of the Sopranos in less than a week, with just food and sleep as interruptions. After The Sopranos, I set-up the laptop in my room and watched the extended version of the Lord of the Rings Trilogy; all eleven hours in one go.

Soon after I've had my fill of sitting in front of the TV,  I packed a bag and headed to the airport with a couple of law school friends, all new members of the unemployed, to catch a plane to Cebu City. By then I had already been to Cebu four times. But in those four times, I never really got to  see what the island had to offer, and I knew it did have a lot to offer. The plan was to take the earliest commuter van, head off to the northern part of Cebu, to the ferry that would take us to the beautiful island of Bantayan.

We landed in Mactan Airport just before the sun rose, had coffee and a bit of breakfast in a carenderia at the transport terminal, where we were to catch a commuter van for the port.  Instead of taking a commuter van, though, we ended up renting an Avanza for P1500. It was slightly more expensive but it meant that we could leave at the earliest possible time, and that we had the van to ourselves. On reaching the port, we caught the first ferry to Bantayan. The ferry ride to Bantayan was fairly short. About an hour or so. We got seats in an air-conditioned room where the seats had a comfortable legroom and enough space for our backpacks, so that most of us who had early flights were able to rest.

Prior to the trip, I already booked a family room at the Yooneek Beach Resort. I'm not quite sure if Yooneek survived the recent supertyphoon Yolanda. The basic structure was cement, and seemed solid enough, but based on an aerial view picture after the typhoon, the island had been flattened, save for the terminal.It's a pity as the resort was nice, and there weren't that many beach front resorts that were as inexpensive.We initially mocked the name because, well, let's face it, it's a ridiculous name. But the place was real value for money  as it was huge, had internet, had a sala, dining area, closets and a balcony with a view of the sea.

 And the sea. Oh, the sea. It was perfectly calm. Unbelievably still. The sand was powdery white, the shore, wide enough for tossing around a frisbee. It was serene, it was beautiful, it was quiet, it was perfect for a couple of bums who had no agenda other than to sit and stare and forget about the impending bar results.

We had no real plans. The following day, we went island hopping. We went to an island right across our shore, where we had lunch. One of the caretakers of the resort offered to prepare lunch for us, which we gamely accepted. Lunch was a feast of grilled seafood and grilled pork and a whole lot of scallops.

For dinner, we walked around the area, and found a small eatery serving native chicken inasal. Then we looked for a videoke place (because that's how we roll). We decided to bike to the town proper the following day. We were told that the route was 15km, one way. By our estimation we thought it wouldn't be a problem but, with the hilly terrain, it turned out to be, well, tiring.

Tiring but fun, just to be clear. Before heading to the town proper, we stopped to check out a famous underground cave which was not really worth the trouble. After taking a dip in the pool (because we paid for an entrance), we left for the town proper. One of our friends who didn't know how to ride a bike rented a pedicab for P150, including the driver. When we reached a steep incline, the driver asked our friend to alight as he couldn't bike up the incline anymore. It was awfully tiring and hot, so we stopped for drinks at a sari-sari store that served chocnut shake, which was refreshing and interesting. An hour or so after, we finally rolled into Bantayan's town proper. It is pretty much like other provincial towns in the Philippines.It had and old church, standing beside the town hall, post office, and other government offices. There was a plaza lined with street vendors selling street food. Nothing of note, but still worth the 30km bike ride there and back, if only for the experience.

We didn't really do much in Bantayan, after that, other than just sit and swim and watch the sunset. You would think that after five months of reviewing for an exam we'd want to move around a bit more but with a sea as still as ice, in an island where everything slowed down just a little, why would we?

Here and there

I graduated in April 2010 but didn't really break free from the shackles that was law school until October 2010, when my bar examinations ended. I knew that the review would be long and tedious, as I had to read through, and commit to memory, four years worth of law subjects in just four months. So just before I buckled down to study, I went on a five-day road trip to the south with a good friend.

Bagasbas, Camarines Norte

We didn't have an itinerary. All that we had decided was to head for Bagasbas in Camarines Norte. From our research, we expected the ride to take ten hours but it was longer than we had expected. It took us about eleven hours to reach Daet and another hour just to get to Bagasbas.

Bagasbas is a surf spot. There were a few lodges lining the shore of Bagasbas, just behind the barricade, most of which rented out surf boards and offered surfing lessons.

The sand is not pristine, not white, but it was fine enough that you'd want to walk barefoot. The coast was long, barricaded by a sea wall, about fifty meters from the shore.

We stayed at the cheapest lodging we could find. It was a fan room with two beds. It was not clean, not comfortable, not airy. But it was cheap and we were on student budgets then. The caretaker informed us that the area fronting the property was for campers, which they rented out for three hundred pesos, usually during surf season. We found a place to eat, ordered bicol express (the best I've had) and relaxed a little. After our late lunch, we headed back to our room to rest. So tired from the long ride, we ended up sleeping at 6:00 pm and waking up at 8:00 a.m.

The following morning, I went for a quick swim. The waves were punishing so I decided to get out immediately. When we got back to the resort, we were told by the caretaker that there was a lagoon of sorts just a five-minute walk away. We went there so we can relax and swim a little. As it turned out, behind our resort was a huge farm lot with sheep. Real sheep.

We reached the so-called lagoon soon enough. It was not a blue lagoon. In fact, I wouldn't really call it a lagoon to be perfectly honest. It was what looked like an estuary, where the river and sea converges. The sand was really soft and the water, lukewarm, but it was secluded, quiet and beautiful.

Staying there until we got son-burnt, we realized something. There wasn't really much too see or do in Bagasbas if you weren't a surfer. The beach there isn't for people who just wanted to lie on the sand and sleep and maybe swim a little. I wish I tried surfing, then and I don't even remember why we didn't. Because we didn't have any other plans, we decided to head to Camarines Sur and find an island or a beach where we could stay. The drive to Camarines Sur took about three hours. There were no establishments along the way, no places to eat, and we soon regretted our decision not to eat breakfast. It was 2 p.m. when we found an eatery beside a gas station, at the junction where the road from Manila, Camarines Norte and Camarines Sur meets.

We drove around the area, asking for directions to the nearest beach. Any beach, we told them. They directed us to a beach an hour away from Pili. I can't remember where it was exactly, or what it was called. I only remember that it was near a port, and that there weren't many tourists willing to drive there.We found the cheapest, and saddest accommodations I've ever seen in that area. A 2x4 room, with just a mattress and a light bulb inside.

We were told we could rent a boat to take us to a "virgin island" with white sand. We gladly took the offer, just so we could have our fill of beach bumming. It was, as unenthusiastically described by the resort owner, "maganda." It was, really. The best part was that we had it all to ourselves. The worst part is that there was literally no food there and we were lucky we brought two bottles of Red Horse, some chips, gatorade, and vienna sausage.

There is just so much world to see and it was unfortunate for me that on my return from that fairly random and unplanned trip to that beautiful island, I had to go back to studying for the bar exams and waste away for five months. But there were other things I needed and wanted to do, like become a lawyer, for instance, so buckle down I did.

 I've never forgotten that view, though I've forgotten the name of the island. During my review, I'd close my eyes and see, that blue sky and blue sea, the soft waves crashing towards the white sand and I'd tell myself it won't be long before I'd sit in front of that majesty again. I didn't need the pictures. I remembered them well but did not want to go back. I wanted to go elsewhere, everywhere. I wanted to be here and there, as often as I could.

So in the last four years since the exams (which I passed, by the way) ended, I've done a lot of being here and there. I have friends who have traveled more than I have, but, considering the circumstances, I think I've done well.

So let me tell you more about that--being here and there, in the last four years.

Keep Walking

I used to write a lot. Mostly, it was about sadness. There was sadness over particular things, like loss, good byes, love, poverty, catastrophes, death, and I wrote about them as a form of therapy. But there was also sadness over ideas, the thought of a vast universe and my insignificance, or how poverty will never be solved. It was the kind of sadness that paralyzed me, that kept me in my bed, or that weighed me down so that I'd drag myself around. I'd write about it to understand it, or to remember what I understood of it. But I never forgot it.

About a year and a half ago, however, I found a reason to be a little more happy so that there just wasn't enough sadness to write about. I got distracted from the general sadness, the sadness over ideas, because I was, by force of circumstance, living. I stopped writing. Then, about five days ago, well, let's just say the circumstances have changed. So here I am. And here you are.

Is it strange that I missed it a little? The sadness? Or the time I used to have wallowing in it?

But this isn't about that.

After watching two straight seasons of Dr. Who, I've come to realize things.

I realized that there is so much to be sad about, if you think about it. There really is. And maybe it's from watching Wonder Years growing up, or maybe it's being raised with an ability to empathize or sympathize, but it is hard not to feel sad if you are not distracted from it and especially so if you make no effort at being a little less sad, or a little more happy. I've realized too, that the thing that makes me the most sad, but that fascinates me at the same time, is the fact that there is a vast universe out there and so much to see, and that I have just a single life time which is simply not enough, especially as I have to spend most of it dealing with exceptionally mundane things like brushing my teeth (2 mins.) or choosing what to wear to a hearing (10 mins.).

But I figured, too, that this should not paralyze me. If anything, it should motivate me.

So here's a new year's resolution, and this is me as resolute as I ever was.

Yes, there are the things I have to do to make a living. But I have, give or take, eighty days in a year I could spend just trying to see what there is to see. It doesn't solve my problem but it would take a bit of that chip on my sad, sad, shoulder.

There will be sadness, I am sure of it. But it will be the kind of sadness that will keep me walking. I figured, that the trick just might be, to keep walking, and get lost, and hope that in the process I would find myself.
The coming year... it's going to be about seeing, feeling, breathing, living, living, living. It's going to be about keeping on keeping.

So this is what this blog is about.

It's about the lonely joker who keeps on walking. It's about where I've been to and where I'm headed. It's about new flavors that excite me.

And it's about time.