Back To You

Cambugahay Falls, Siquijor

I’m in my hotel room in Siquijor. It’s the end of a very long day that started at 4:30am. We flew to Dumaguete City, rode an excruciatingly slow yacht, and spent the rest of the day on a drive around this island known for supposed sorcery and mysticism.

When I wasn’t preoccupied with work stuff, concentrating on keeping up with the vehicle in front of me in the convoy, or basically just getting lost in the calm and beauty of this place, my thoughts invariably kept drifting back to you.

I can’t help feeling guilty. I should be allotting space in my head for my dogs, who must be enjoying their stay at my parents’ house in Cavite, but must surely be wondering why I abandoned them yet again. I ought to start getting excited about my upcoming big trip, and making plans for all the things I want to do and all the places I want to see. And I should really spend more time contemplating a pretty huge milestone in my life that’s happening in a couple of months. (And that deserves its own entry).

Instead, I find myself just looking back at the littlest details of the last time I saw you. How I almost went in for a hug when it was always just a friendly handshake between us. The way you kept apologizing for being late, when I was just happy you made time to come see me at all. (Okay, I’m not exactly sure I was the reason you were there in the first place, but in my head, of course I was). And the shirt you were wearing that, crazily enough, made you look both old-fashioned and impossibly hip, either of which suits you just fine.

The way you laughed at the jokes at the table. How you listened and paid attention to the person talking that probably made them feel like they were revealing the secret formula for Coca-Cola. And how I imagined you were stealing glances at me while my head was turned, even though you were probably just turning your head as well, my face just another mundane object in your line of sight as you scanned the vicinity, perhaps looking for other, more stimulating targets.

But I didn’t have time to worry about that. You were there—all patient, polite and, well, pulchritudinous—and that was all that mattered. It took almost all of my willpower not to rest my gaze on you the entire evening. I engaged with the others, stood up to get a new bottle, and basically made excuses to look anywhere else but in your direction.

Oh but when I did. When I allowed myself those one or two seconds of just appreciating your you-ness; those atoms and molecules that come together to form your likeness and being—it made those weeks of not seeing you all worth it.

Even now, here in this hotel room in Siquijor, when I should be worrying about another early and long day tomorrow; when I should be panicking about stuff I have to do for work; when I should be thinking about a million other things in my life—my thoughts keep floating back to you.

It's strange, but thinking about you makes me feel morose and happy all at the same time. 

The Mid-30s Report

Walking the streets of Pisa, Italy

I wrote this essay when I turned 35. I still think much of what I said here is relevant, not just for those in their mid-30s, but for people of all ages. The platform I published it in is no longer online, which is why I'm republishing it here. If you're looking for some life lessons, you may or may not find it here. Either way, know that I'm rooting for you, wherever you are in your life and whatever it is you're going through. 

I turn 35 this Saturday. That’s two more years than Jesus, two less than INXS’s Michael Hutchence. Age is nothing but time, and time, as Einstein so brilliantly deduced, is relative. Depending on who I’m talking to, I’m either geriatric or still wiping breastmilk from my lips (no, I don’t think that’s a very pleasant image, either).

At least one good thing about being smack dab in the middle of my 30s is that it’s the perfect time to pause and consider the years I’ve been on this earth, reflect on the life I’ve been given, and assess the direction I’m headed. You only think you know what’s going on in your 20s, and by the time you’re in your 40s, everyone expects you to have figured everything out. Your 30s, then, is a sort-of buffer zone where you’re pretty much sticking to a life plan, but still given enough wiggle room to make mistakes, adjust goals, and even change course.

The tail-end of summer in Nice, France

It’s also a time when you can choose to share significant life lessons and realizations and not be so quickly dismissed. With age comes experience and while it may not be as extensive as someone who’s in the half-century mark or older, there is value in your words, because, believe it or not, you’ve earned it.

Here then are a few of the things I’ve learned after 35 years on this planet:

1. The only person you need to be at any age is yourself

Of course I’m paraphrasing Troy Dyer (if you don’t know who Troy Dyer is, never mind), but that doesn’t make it any less true. People put other people on a pedestal and practically kill themselves emulating their best qualities, hoping to gain similar achievements, or maybe even surpass them. But in truth, life hands out different fortunes to everyone. While one person is a millionnaire at birth, countless others will never experience wealth until they die of old age. Some of us struggle and toil, while others “ride their own melt,” simply hoping for the best.

Occasional jokes aside, I have no hang-ups about my age. I’m very aware that some of us left the starting line much earlier, and others much later. Everyone is negotiating life’s autobahn, and the sooner we realize that cars will forever be in front of and behind us, that we will never be first or last at anything, the sooner we can relax and drive at our own pace.

Hanging out at "the world's most beautiful cafe"

2. It’s okay to break up with friends

If you’ve kept the same set of friends since kindergarten, consider yourself lucky. When it comes to relationships, the stars align so rarely that it’s become something truly special when you keep people in your life for any significant period of time. But I’ve found that it’s okay to let go, of things, as well as people. Just because you shared a table during lunch in the second grade, or made fun of the same girl’s dress during high school, or went out drinking all night where you shared your deepest, darkest secrets to each other, doesn’t mean you’re bound for life. You choose the people you want to spend your most precious time with outside of family or profession, so they might as well be people you like and who like you.

I’ve had my share of break-ups with friends. It’s not easy, and feels unnatural at times. It’s not like breaking up with a significant other, where things are more defined: you see each other, and then you don’t. The times I cut people out from my life were the times I’ve had enough and I didn’t want to put up with their shit anymore. I consider myself a patient, levelheaded guy; it takes an enormous amount of asshole-ry to get me riled up enough to drop years of association and forget any semblance of attachment. Choose people who are inherently good, who will not abuse your generosity, who are themselves selfless and kind, and, most of all, people who will encourage you to be the best person you can possibly be. Don’t give up on people too easily, but when your happiness, not to mention your sanity, are at stake, you may need to rethink the people who occupy prominent billing in your life story.

3. Your dreams are your own. Don’t let others dictate your desires

It’s so easy to get distracted by everything thrown at us through TV, movies, magazines, and social media. We see or hear something, and before we know it, we’re starting to yearn. There’s nothing bad about that; desire is healthy as it keeps us running towards a goal. But make sure it’s what YOU want. Don’t wish for a hula hoop just because you saw someone on the playground with it, especially when what you really want is a bicycle.  

People dream of things for themselves all the time—a new car, a house, a wife/husband and/or kids. A better job, a week in Paris, new shoes. Whatever it is, make sure it’s something that you truly want for yourself. Be happy for friends who get married, buy that bungalow inside a gated subdivision, or finally get that much-coveted green card, but if these aren’t your dreams, don’t spend your life chasing after them. Focus on your own needs and wants because life is too short to try to win other people’s trophies.

Harbor in Monte Carlo

4. Take care of your body, but don’t be your own slave

Dissatisfaction with our looks has reached epidemic levels. If you don’t believe me, think about the last time you hesitated getting dessert because of all that extra calories, or the time you splurged on a new pair of jeans because it was flattering to your figure, or how much you agonized about posting that photo because, well, you weren’t sure if you looked your cutest.

I can’t presume to know what goes in the mind of someone who has had to struggle with weight issues as, thankfully, I’ve never had that problem (although I have been told on more than a few occasions that I was “too thin” or getting dangerously “too plump”). But what I know for sure is that I’ve never had to deprive myself of anything in the name of dieting. I’m aware that practically all the science says that one needs to eat right and engage in some form of regular physical activity to be considered healthy, and I’m not disputing that. But the moment we let this obsessive need to look good in order to gain the approval of others occupy our every waking thought, is the moment we let go of our individuality and become nothing more than drones whose idea of happiness and contentment is hinged on how many “likes” our latest profile photo gets on Facebook.

5. Never believe your own hype

A healthy dose of self-confidence is essential. Who else will believe in us if we don’t believe in ourselves? But there is a difference between faith in our capabilities, and overstating our competencies. One is walking calmly onstage during a singing tilt, head held up high, knowing you’re ready to belt out that piece you’ve been practicing for weeks; the other is telling everyone that no one else in the competition is at your skill level.

I’ve never thought I was good enough at anything and am genuinely surprised when people appreciate, even celebrate, almost anything I’ve done. I know I need to work on that. But I’ve always thought it was better to err on the side of humility. Confidence can so easily morph into arrogance. How you respond to compliments is a good barometer of your personality. I’ve found that people who think too much of themselves are generally those with unresolved self-esteem issues. It’s something to keep in mind the next time someone’s being an ass.

Having a drink of water at a public fountain in Rome

6. Doing more for others is actually doing yourself a favor

The great thing about being more giving is that it provides you with perspective you would otherwise not be able to get. It’s no secret that I’ve grappled with depression. One thing that helped me get through it is focusing on the things that I have in my life that I am grateful for. And although it sounds a little morbid and mean, the gratitude only intensified when I realized how little many other people have.

I’m not rich (far, far, from it), and I come from a simple family, but we live in a country where beggars on the street are a common sight, where people live in wooden shanties beside polluted rivers, and where hunger is a serious issue. The moment we stop to give more of ourselves to others is the moment we understand how privileged we truly are. It works both ways, too: try focusing on everything in your life that you don’t have, and you’ll soon realize that you’ll never, ever have enough.  

7. Reading books and listening to music is never a waste of time

This one is pretty much self-explanatory. I haven’t read nearly enough books as I would’ve liked to this year, but music has been a constant presence. At this point in my life, weeding out non-essential people is as simple as asking them whether they like to read or listen to music. If the answer to either is “no,” then I can already tell we won’t have a lot in common.

Books and music are also a good way to expose yourself to the experiences of others and figuring out what you can use in your own life. Because no matter how unique you think your life is and how spectacularly interesting things have happened to you, chances are, someone else has gone through the exact same thing and have written or sung about it better than you can possibly imagine.

The Dream of Someone

Taal Volcano and Lake from Tagaytay

The past couple of weeks, I saw a couple of concerts, got to go on a long drive to Nueva Ecija and La Union, hung out over drinks at my home with good friends in the industry, and almost won a New York-themed Quiz Night. All of these represent things that I love—music, cars, friends and, well, Quiz Nights. But none of them generated the same level of excitement as when I get a text or email message from you.

I was involved with someone for so long that I had almost forgotten what it was like to like someone new—the yearning for even the slightest bit of attention; the thrill of getting it; figuring out the appropriate thing to say without sounding too obvious, too blasé or too needy; and basically just basking in the glow of a fresh, innocent little crush.

And it IS just a crush. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. I mean, I  think I’ve liked you since the first time I saw you at _______ waiting for ______. Back then I couldn’t do anything because of the aforementioned involvement, but since the break-up, I’ve gradually started reaching out and testing the waters, so to speak. Circumstances have made regular communication convenient, and for that I’m grateful. But I long to be more forward and daring.

For most of my life I’ve been so conscious about what other people thought of me that I’ve become meek and perpetually agreeable. But I’ve been trying this new thing of being more expressive of my emotions and letting the chips fall where they may. I’m still not argumentative and confrontational, but at least now I’m more assertive and vocal about what I think and how I feel. It’s cost me friendships and professional pitfalls, but I think, overall, I’m all the better for it.

Which is why I’m not sure why I haven’t asked you out yet. Maybe I’m still waiting for the right time, or maybe I’m still trying to “build a foundation” so you don’t think I’m a complete loser. Or maybe both those reasons are complete bullshit and I’m just too chicken to jump off the ledge and tell you how I think you’re smart, sophisticated and funny. That I enjoy our chats—on and offline—and that hearing from you is a definite highlight of my day. That I value your opinion on things and am supremely flattered that you value mine just as much.

Basically, too chicken to tell you how much I like you.

I’m sure that moment will come. I’ve done it before and faced varying degrees of rejection and acceptance. I mean, that’s how it is, right? If you don’t take risks, you’ll never get anywhere. That’s what all great philosophers, leaders and businesspeople say.

Somehow, this time, things feel different. It feels fragile and precious. Like a bubble floating in the air, reflecting the colors of the rainbow as it catches the afternoon sun. I’m afraid to touch it and have it pop in my hand.

I don’t want to mess it up.

A Visit to the Neuengamme Concentration Camp in Hamburg, Germany

"Your suffering, your struggle and your death should not be in vain"

(One of my more memorable side trips in Hamburg. I wrote this as an assignment during my monthlong course for InWent-International Institute of Journalism in 2009)

Sunlight peeked out of wispy-thin clouds in a vast azure sky the day we went to Neuengamme. The bus ride was a little long (longer than usual, at least), but the green fields and charming suburban houses on the outskirts of Hamburg made the journey bearable, even fun. The group was in good spirits: a field trip to a visit a historical landmark was a welcome change of pace after days of lectures inside the Elsa Brandstrom house.

But the mood quickly shifted when we arrived at our destination. Raucous laughter and idle chatter among the Summer Academy participants were replaced by a hushed reverence as soon as we stepped into the box-shaped building in one corner of a small grassy field. It was the museum that housed a list of the victims of the concentration camp Neuengamme during World War 2. The names were written on gigantic scrolls that hung floor to ceiling around the four walls. The museum guide announced that not all who perished in the concentration camp were on the list: it was impossible to track down and identify everyone who suffered and died after passing through the horrors of Neuengamme.

The memorial was meant to look like a furnace chimney. You figure out why

Almost 100,000 people were held at the concentration camp from 1938 until the end of the war in 1945. They were held mostly for their religious and political beliefs: Jehovah’s Witnesses, Jews, communists, dissidents, homosexuals and other minorities the Nazi deemed “undesirable.” Forced to undergo hard labor in the most punishing conditions, about 55,000 inmates never made it out of there alive.

My familiarity with the events of World War Two, particularly the Holocaust, are limited to films like “Schindler’s List,” television shows, books and online material. The information is both fascinating and sickening: there are no words to describe the incredibly heinous acts committed by the Nazis, particularly the Schutzstaffel or SS, against their fellow human beings. But to actually see the place were those crimes were perpetrated, to walk in the same grounds where thousands of people were whipped and beaten and perhaps even shot to death, to actually be in the midst of all that pain and anguish all those years ago, I couldn’t help but be overcome by a wave of sadness. We learned history from the books at school, but absolutely nothing can prepare us when history (especially of the unbearable, horrific kind) is right there in front of us.

A sculpture meant to symbolize the loss of all hope 

Outside, a tall monument stood next to a sculpture shaped like a human lying on the ground. Its body twisted in an odd angle and shape, the sculpture represents the suffering of the inmates of the concentration camp. Our guide said the artist captures the exact moment when the person loses all hope and surrenders his or herself to his fate. It is a heartbreaking sight, and it is an image that will remain with me for years to come.

We took a quick tour of the victims’ exhibition in one of the buildings on the grounds. Their stories might be different, but they all shared the experience of being subjected to one of the worst atrocities committed by man the world has ever seen. Seeing their living conditions, what they wore and how they were treated only intensified the feeling of loss and despair. The sun was still shining brightly as we turned our back on Neuengamme, but a cloud of grief hung over our collective heads. It was a difficult visit, but one that anyone needs to make in any attempt to understand one of the darkest chapters ever in human history.

We Talked About Books That Brief Ride Home

 We talked about books that brief ride home. From the passenger seat, you spoke of your fascination with a title about finance or economics. I wasn’t sure, I can’t remember. I was too busy concentrating on the road and stealing glances at your profile hunched over your phone. My heart is beating strangely as I remember it now: your excited drawl, your thin legs protruding from the slightly sunken seat, and the way your hair fell down one side of your forehead. I found myself memorizing those little details without meaning to, perhaps as someone making his way through a maze instinctively looks back and remembers where he came from.

“What about you?” you asked. “What are you reading?”

Panicked, I searched the air in front of me for the book on my nightstand. Something about a young German soldier recruited at the beginning of World War 2, and a young, blind French girl living with her great uncle and an elderly househelp, who had just died four or five chapters ago, in the walled French city of Saint Malo.

“It’s called All the Light We Cannot See,” I finally said, telling you as much about the plot.

Was I convincing? I didn’t want you to think I was making it up. I really was reading that book at the moment. Do you look down upon literary fiction, preferring the more cerebral, more practical benefits of academic non-fiction? I prayed my voice sounded casual, nonchalant but not dismissive, enough to mask the deep uncertainty and hopelessly juvenile feelings of inadequacy.

Which was weird because the years were on my side, insofar as I had more of it compared to you. I was supposed to be the one playing the self-assured, disinterested character in this charade, and yet swimming in my head were all of these thoughts of trying to impress without making it obvious. I was an awkward, acne-scarred 14-year-old doing his best impression of a dignified, put-together thirtysomething.

“We turn right here,” you said. “It’s a one-way street, and my place is on the left.”

The minutes were galloping stallions, as if life itself hinged on how fast they got to the finish line. Carefully I maneuvered the car to the side. This can’t be it. It wasn’t even 20 minutes since I made the offer to drive you home. Where was the goddamned traffic? Why wasn’t there a stalled bus blocking our view?

“Thanks again,” you said, as you looped one arm around your leather satchel, and shifting ever so slightly in your seat to signal that this ride had come to an end.

“Very welcome,” I managed to say. I reached for the hand you extended for a friendly shake. A thousand words were trying to push themselves out of my lips, but all I could manage was a toothless grin.

You opened the door and climbed out. There was a piece of paper on your seat and you reached for it, thinking it was something that fell out of your pocket.

“It’s just a parking receipt,” I said, mentally kicking myself for being so damned messy. I snuck a quick glance at the back seat, where stray dog hairs waited for the next person’s back to stick themselves into.

“Oh okay. Well, good night!” you exclaimed as you closed the passenger door and walked to your building.

I drove away lost in my own thoughts about how the evening went. That somehow, I didn't seem too eager, too creepy, too boring, too ambivalent or too obnoxious. And that somehow, in that brief ride home, through all the messed-up words, you understood what I was trying to say.