I’ll Say It: 2016 Wasn’t All Bad

Strasbourg, France

The way people have been talking about 2016 you’d think it was the worst year on record. Celebrities died, a demagogue was elected president (or were there two?), wars continued to rage, there were typhoons, plane crashes and earthquakes, and, well, more celebrities died. Given the circumstances, it’s understandable people would think that, although I don’t find it particularly logical to blame the year for a tragic but completely arbitrary set of events.

As for me, as much as I’d like to jump on the good-riddance-2016 bandwagon, it hasn’t been too bad. “It is an impressively arrogant move,” Tina Fey once said, “to conclude that just because you don’t like something, it is empirically not good.” That’s kind of how I feel about the year. Just because most everybody’s saying it’s been crappy, doesn’t make it automatically so.

I’m not being a contrarian; 2016 has definitely had its share of WTF moments, but I choose to be grateful for all the good things that have happened this year. I’ve always thought of myself as a cynic, but to look back and focus on the good is strangely pleasurable. It’s like finding something to like about a movie that everybody else hated. Somehow, it feels like an act of defiance.

Rothenburg ob der Tauber, Germany

I sometimes think about the significant things that happened during a specific year and I draw a complete blank (like what the hell did I do in 2008?!) but 2016 will always be the year that rekindled my belief in love. I’ve written about this twice already in the last few months, so it kind of feels superfluous at this point. But for someone who has often rolled his eyes at lovers’ open, uninhibited expressions of affection, I’m not ashamed to say that it feels weirdly satisfying to be on the other side. Again.

On the travel front, I couldn't be more grateful for the opportunities to explore more of the world this year than I have ever had in the past. Return visits to Beijing and Japan; multiple trips to Singapore; an unforgettable jaunt through Europe; and a first-time visit to Bali; this year was what was I dreaming about back when I thought that the farthest I could ever travel was to the local mall by bus. If more people could get the chance to see and experience how people from other places live and work and eat and shop and love, I truly believe there’d be a lot less hate and division in the world. (My naivete is all too real, but my indifference to what other people think is catching up).

A Mini Cooper Cabriolet in Bali, Indonesia

It was also this year that I got a much-needed ego-boost in terms of my writing. People who know me best are aware of my hesitation to call myself a writer, even though that’s pretty much what I’ve been doing as a profession for the last 12 or so years. From 3000-word cover stories I’m actually proud of, to an actual, honest-to-goodness writing award, this year is probably the most “writerly” I’ve ever felt in my life. To me, it’s not enough to string words together into coherent sentences and paragraphs; the job of a writer is to make sense of the world around him and to communicate it in a way that is compelling and true. Anyone with a blog or a Facebook account can call himself a writer, but to be a writer in the tradition of the greats—the Shakespeares, Rizals, Hemingways, Wildes, Hitchens, et al of the world—that takes courage, tenacity and skill. One has to earn it. I’ve never thought that I’ll ever get there, or that I’ll ever possess the confidence to append that honorific before or after my name, but this year was the first that made me really think that yeah, maybe I can, and I will. One day.

Lastly, 2016 was the year in which more bonds were formed and friendships were solidified. It’s never easy to part with people you’ve always thought would be long-term companions in this struggle through life, but a few loyal first mates is infinitely better than a 100-person crew of questionable motives. Investments in friendships don’t always guarantee an ROI, but human relationships are fickle, and you do the best you can. Past a certain age, you quit trying so hard to please people and just focus on the ones who treat you with the love and respect you think you deserve. No fucks given to those who don’t. I count myself lucky I get to grow old with a small group of people that I am proud to call my friends.

Me in Ryoan-ji, Kyoto, Japan 

I turn 37 today and these are the things I am most grateful for this year. Whether these are outnumbered by the bad things that happened is irrelevant. Natural calamities, genocide, fascist chief executives and dead celebrities aside, 2016 wasn’t so bad. If I can say the same this time next year about 2017, hell, that’d be fantastic. Until then, this is life as I know it and I intend to live it the best way I know how: always open, always curious, and, above all, always grateful.

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.

A Note On Love

The rooftops of Rome from the Musei Capitolini

You grew up thinking you were funny-looking. You had bad skin, your hair wasn’t quite right, your eyes were weird and your teeth were far from toothpaste-commercial ready. You thought you were smart and kind, but you were also insecure and socially awkward. You did the best you could, but the only love you thought you would ever feel was familial. And sometimes even that seemed doubtful.

You did find love, or something close to it. There was joy, of course, but mostly what you felt was relief. The idea of a lifetime of loneliness suddenly seemed distant and fatalistic. It was comforting, and, for a while, you tried to convince yourself that it was for the long haul; that when it happens, it’ll be for keeps.

You were wrong, of course. But it was fun while it lasted.

You were optimistic, or tried to convince yourself you were one. With seven billion people on the planet, you told yourself that the odds were in your favor that maybe it was going to happen again. That love was going to find you again.

But a year went by, then two, and then two more. Those familiar feelings of inadequacy and panic began to resurface. Were you being too picky? Was there something fundamentally repellent about you? Had the world simply run out of people you could actually imagine spending the rest of your life with?

The odds, as it turns out, really are in your favor, and as soon as you explored universes beyond your own and allowed yourself to experience newer things did it finally happen: you meet a person who restores your belief in that most abstract of concepts.

Love, of course.

It manifests in the person who turns smoke into concrete; who makes what’s theoretical and vague into something rational and real. Now, love isn’t just a word you struggled to define: it’s the hand you reach for and the eyes you gaze into in the morning; the flowers that materialize in front of you when you least expect it; and those kisses, breathless and fiery, that accompany hellos and goodbyes.

Love is the person you can have an actual conversation with after that which is fun but fleeting. It’s when you appreciate your differences even more than your similarities. It’s what’s left after you strip away the physical and superficial and reveal the person behind the idea. It’s who’s on your mind when you want to share unexpected good news, or when you hear a cheesy love song that comes on at a random moment, or any time you catch yourself with a goofy smile. Most of all, it’s the person who’s supportive and kind, who can make you forget all your insecurities, and, as a bonus, who can make you feel like you’re cuter than a litter of golden retriever puppies. It’s an incredible feeling, and one you remember never to take for granted.

You realize, of course, that it’s presumptuous to assume that this’ll be it; that you can kiss your loneliness fears goodbye and start planning your honeymoon and the next fifty years together. You tread carefully and exercise caution, but you go with your gut and give it your all. It’s what this, or any other relationship, deserves. Cynicism is a ridiculously easy refuge, especially after past experiences, but that’s not you. You choose to err on the side of faith and embrace your un-ironic optimism. You owe it to your previously skeptical, hopelessly inadequate self.

You choose to be grateful, because love is a beautiful, amazing thing, and the fact that you feel it towards one person, and, more importantly, have that person return the feeling, makes it even more special. It's more than you could ever hope for, and perhaps, more than you deserve. 

Eulogy For A Friend

First, she was my boss. The workplace doesn’t exactly lend itself to the establishment of ties beyond the immediate and superficial, and when I met her, a friendship wasn’t exactly top of mind. She was incorrigible and demanding, but also pleasant and patient. She wasn’t the kind of boss you’d hate; more like one you’d tolerate. We worked together, and I didn’t think I could squeeze anything more out of that basic, banal relationship.

She left before I did. (The office, I mean). People spew out the generic and often meaningless “Let’s keep in touch,” but, surprisingly, we really did. She would text or call at odd moments just to say hello. She’d share stories about her family, how she moved one daughter to another school and how the other one was starting college soon. I’d tell her how things were going at my new job while we had ensaymada and hot chocolate at her new office. We’d make plans when we were in each other’s neighborhoods. She’d ask for contacts or bounce story ideas off me while I borrowed the occasional suitcase or ask her for career advice.

I never really thought about why we were in each other’s lives: she was a fortysomething wife and mother of two daughters, whose greatest joy in life was spending time with her family, and I was a thirtysomething single guy whose Saturday nights were spent in rock concerts or greasy bars with cheap beers and a cloud of cigarette smoke perpetually hanging overhead. But I always picked up when she called, and she did the same for me. Always, no fail.

The meet-ups became more infrequent, as these things often go, but each one was a welcome respite from the toils of everyday life. Her presence was a safe space, where I could exhale my troubles and inhale good-natured ribbing. “Peeeej, kilala mo ko,” or, “Peeeej, alam mo na yan” constantly escaped her lips, as if we had known each other all our lives and I was supposed to already be aware of the advice du jour.

When she called to tell me about the disease, she was crying and I was dumbstruck. Speechless. What else can you say in a situation like that? No, I don’t know that everything’s going to be all right, and no, I don’t know that she can beat the crap out of it.

Cancer. My least favorite zodiac sign, invading the life of a person who least deserved it.

It came and went, and there were good days and bad. Not much changed in our relationship: there were still the unexpected calls and texts about this and that, and the effort to see each other despite the distraction that is life. There were updates about chemo, and I saw her a few times when she was completely hairless because of it. At her suggestion I even did a story about a foundation for people fighting the disease. She got better, and for a while I could almost pretend the cancer was just a bad dream, because there she was in front of me, full head of hair, all-smiles and animated, telling me how proud she was of her now-in-UP daughter.

But then she got sick again. And sicker. Apart from the occasional visits to the hospital, she never told me about the bad days. When we talked it was almost always about some random thing; an opportunity to do freelance work for a visiting international broadcast network, names of people she could possibly feature, industry contacts. She would call and she never let on that anything was out of the ordinary. And so I became complacent, settling back into the routine of our familiar, comforting relationship.

And then she died. A mutual friend, Dennis, called to tell me she was looking for me. I had some free time that day and asked him where she was and that I would love to see her, too. “Wala pang place e,” he said. I didn’t understand and asked again if she was at home. “Yun na yun,” was all he could say. And then I knew.

Condensing a rich, remarkable life into a few words and sentences—it just can’t be done. Volumes of full-length books aren’t enough to capture the essence and beauty of a soul, especially one as good and as pure as hers. We sometimes wonder how completely arbitrary life and death can be, and make feeble attempts to rationalize the order in which we all, well, “move on.”

I won’t do that. Instead I just choose to revel in the memory of an extraordinary human being. She radiated kindness, joy and enthusiasm; a constant reminder that truly good people exist and that when you find them, you hold on to them and do everything to keep them in your life as long as you can. Until they let go, and then you let them go.

Arlene was a mother, wife, daughter, sister and colleague. How lucky I am to have called her friend.

Like Old Friends - Death Cab For Cutie in Manila 2012

This story first came out in The Manila Times in March 2012. The original version has since disappeared from the web, which is why I'm reposting it here.

Ben Gibbard in Manila, 2012

The line to get inside the NBC Tent last Monday night for the Death Cab For Cutie show was so long it snaked past the 7th Avenue curb all the way down 26th Avenue. It moved so slowly a jogger completed three laps around the perimeter of the venue before I finally saw the main entrance.

The wait was well worth it, though. I have been to a lot of concerts over the years but the first Manila show of the Seattle, Washington-based indie rock band was by far one of the best in recent memory. It was an example of how different elements of a live stage show—lights, acoustics, band, audience—could come together to deliver a first-class concert experience that I suspect will be long-remembered by those who were there.

My first and only gripe about the show was that the opening act, local rock outfit Never The Strangers, started playing when a significant number of attendees were still in line outside. I’m not sure how that happened, but organizers should have anticipated the sheer number of people who came out and either opened the doors earlier or waited till everyone got in. Still, it’s a small grievance about the production that was otherwise perfect from start to finish. (Besides, people were really there for DCFC, natch).

At around 8:40, the lights came down inside the packed NBC Tent (I’ve seen a few shows here and this is the most full I’ve seen it). The familiar screams of anticipation rose to deafening levels when vocalist Ben Gibbard appeared onstage. Seconds after the recognizable opening guitar strains of “A Lack of Color” carried clearly and confidently through a crystal clear sound system, a swell of whoops and shrieks threatened to drown the frontman out. Not 30 minutes earlier I was wondering if they would play the song, one of my personal favorites, and suddenly, there he was, singing it as well as he does on record. It was as if Gibbard knew, and as if he was singing it to me, personally. I suspect I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

The poster for the first DCFC show in Manila

The band, composed of Nick Harmer, Chris Walla, Jason McGerr and Gibbard, segued seamlessly into “I Will Possess Your Heart,” one of their biggest hits. The long bass intro thumped and throbbed and sent the audience into a frenzy. Gibbard moved around the stage a lot. In his collared button-down shirt tucked into slim fit jeans and his dark brown hair that swept across his forehead, the frontman looked like your average comic book store geek. The band played nonstop like an LP; after one song they launched right into the next. “Hello Manila,” Gibbard finally said about four songs in. “We are in your lovely city because we have a new record out, it’s called ‘Codes and Keys.’” They played a good mix of material from the current and older releases, including “We Laugh Indoors,” “Photobooth,” “Doors Unlocked and Open,” “You Are A Tourist,” and “Long Division.”

The crowd went wild when the band started on “What Sarah Said,” a plaintive song about waiting for someone to die. “So who’s gonna watch you die?” Gibbard wailed. It’s simple, extraordinary refrains like this—coupled with the frontman’s high-pitched, emotionally charged singing—that elevates Death Cab from other, run-of-the-mill bands.

During the long, two-hour set, the band carried the crowd to peaks of ecstasy, brought them down to valleys of sobriety and plunged them to the depths of sorrow and nostalgia. Throughout the show, Gibbard was bathed in pink, blue and white lights, enhancing the overall mood. The song “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” starts with the line, “Love of mine/ someday you will die/ but I’ll be close behind.” The songs may be mournful, but a sliver of hope always shines through. Even the dance-y, energetic “When Soul Meets Body” and the thoughtful “Cath…” bear this DCFC signature.

There was a long, extended instrumental jam towards the end of “We Looked Like Giants,” when Gibbard showed off his drumming skill, but it was when they transitioned flawlessly into “The Sound of Settling,” that the crowd just about lost it. That chorus of “Pa pa/ This is the sound of settling/ Pa pa/ Pa paaa…,” with a tent-ful of fans singing along, must’ve been heard outside the venue and halfway around the world. After the main set, the band came back for four more songs, which included “Home Is A Fire,” “Meet Me On The Equinox” (from the OST of “Twilight Saga: New Moon”), “A Movie Script Ending,” and the big finish, “Transatlanticism.”

Nick Harmer, Ben Gibbard, Chris Walla and Jason McGerr. Walla has since left the band and has been replaced by touring members Dave Depper and Zac Rae

“On behalf of my bandmates,” Gibbard said, “I have to apologize. This is the first time we’re in Manila. If we’d have only known you guys would be this awesome we would’ve come a lot sooner.” Expectedly, the crowd screamed their approval and I nearly went deaf. “I have a feeling this is the first day of a long and beautiful friendship,” he added. 

Somehow, onstage and in songs, the sensitive singer-songwriter always seems to know what to say. Funny that this is the first time Manila and Death Cab For Cutie have met and already the relationship feels familiar and fun. We can only hope it won’t take long before we welcome our old friends back.

Death Cab For Cutie will headline this year's Wanderland Music Festival, happening this Saturday, March 5, 2016 at the Circuit Grounds, Makati. Doors open at 12nn. For more information, visit <wanderlandfestival.com>

Email pjcana@gmail.com or follow me on Twitter and Instagram @pauljohncana