There’s One Thing I Hate About Traveling

The main train station in Kyoto, Japan

When I was a kid I remember days when my mom would go off to work or out to run errands or meet friends, and I just couldn’t – wouldn’t – let her go. I cried until watery snot flowed out of my nose and screamed so loudly neighbors would crane their necks and peer out of their windows, probably wondering if what they were witnessing was tantamount to child abuse. It got so bad sometimes that after my mom managed to finally break free of my clutches and run outside, cousins and titas actually had to chase me down the street and hold me down while I was thrashing about like some sort of lunatic.

God I was pathetic. 

It’s a good thing I grew up. Now I don’t chase after anyone, much less cry and scream and thrash about. Last I checked, polite society doesn’t look too kindly on grown men grabbing onto peoples’ ankles, bawling their eyes out while begging for them to stay. If people have to leave, I just let them go. 

Of course, I mean that in the most literal sense. This isn’t some overly dramatic entry about the kind of leaving associated with break-ups; when you have to say goodbye and sever a relationship for one reason or another. Instead it’s about the simplest kind of departure: when people you know have to catch a flight to go somewhere for a few days.

“Have fun! Enjoy your trip! Pasalubong!” is what I say.

It’s a bit different, though, when you’re the one who has to walk out the door. 

Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany

Like many people, I love to travel, and I’ve never had any problems packing a suitcase and jetting off to the next dot on the map. But what I’m having trouble with these days is leaving somebody behind who doesn’t want me to go. I dread those few minutes when I finally get myself dressed, zip my suitcase shut, and answer the call from the Uber driver who says he’s waiting outside my front door. That’s when I know that the inevitable has arrived: that I actually have to be physically away from someone who, in recent months, has become a constant presence in my life.

It’s not like there are tears and screams and snot (thank god), but there is an actual tightening in my stomach and gaping cavity in my chest when the time comes to say goodbye. The hugs are uncharacteristically tight, and for a split-second, I actually consider changing back into my pajamas, calling the Uber guy to cancel, and crawling back into bed. It’s like saying goodbye to a puppy and no matter how often it happens, it still breaks my heart every time. And I hate it.

I’ve become my own mother and not in the way that I expected.

On hindsight, I suppose that’s how you know that your feelings for this person are completely genuine. Traveling is its own reward, and I honestly feel that if people do more of it, the world would be all the better for it. But when you find a compelling reason to stay, even if you have to get up and leave anyway, I think that’s all the more remarkable. If nothing else, the thought that there’s at least one person eagerly waiting for you to come home is just one other thing I love about traveling.

Throw The Gatecrasher Out

Image from Reuters (no copyright infringement intended)

My parents are from Leyte, which is also the home province of Imelda Romualdez-Marcos. It’s hard to talk politics in a household where people still hold her and her family in high regard. “Shempre kelangan sila suportahan, kababayan e,” I remember my mom telling me once. What can you do? It’s not like you can hold your mother down and shake her until she comes to her senses.

But after hearing about the surprise Marcos burial earlier today, I figured enough is enough. The next time I see my parents at home, I’m gonna have to have The Talk, and this is what I’m going to say:

The Libingan ng Mga Bayani is so-named for a reason. It’s not like people just decided to call it that on a whim. It’s supposed to be the ultimate honor we can bestow on people who have given more of themselves for the country than what is required or expected of them. They’re heroes because they did something in their life—or even dedicated their entire lives—to a cause greater than themselves.

Ferdinand Marcos is NOT A HERO. Ergo, he has no right to be buried there. That’s the simplest way to put it. If he was, then what was the EDSA Revolution for?

Burying him in a place reserved for heroes is a bit like some loser gatecrashing a party. He might think highly of himself and feel like he deserves a place at the cool table, but think of the last time you saw somebody hopelessly out of place at a by-invite only gathering; it’s actually just pathetic and sad.

I don’t blame Marcos’s heirs for pushing the burial in the first place. We’re often so caught up in our loathing for the Marcoses that we forget that they’re just like any family who will insist to their dying breath that their patriarch was a decent and honorable man. How many of us would willingly choose to turn our backs on the people who gave us life? And even if the Marcoses know for sure that he committed some pretty horrific things, or even that he was the devil himself, I bet they would sooner die than admit to his faults enough to betray his “good” name. Most every father is a hero, and, to his children, Ferdinand Marcos is one no matter the countless voices screaming to the contrary.

At the same time, I have nothing but respect and admiration for those who are voicing their anger and disgust now that such a travesty was even allowed to take place. Whether it’s a tweet, a Facebook post, a passionate discourse over lunch at the office pantry, or their presence at a demonstration opposing the burial, it’s heartening to see our vibrant democracy on visible display, particularly among the young.

(It’s not lost on me that we only get to enjoy all of this thanks to those who fought to overthrow the dictator whose waxen remains are now taking up space in the resting place of geuine heroes).

So here’s my proposal: let the guests with actual invites enjoy their party without the undesirable gatecrasher. Throw him out now. Or if that’s not an option (because the honorable justices of the Supreme Court said so), let’s move to plan B. It’s going to cost a lot and will be a tremendous burden to the heirs of legitimate heroes, but I propose moving every single one of those buried at the Libingan ng Mga Bayani to a new location and leave the dictator to rot in a field all by himself. It’s the ultimate bitch move, but the gatecrasher who sneaked past the velvet ropes certainly deserves it.