One week

I was on my way home after changing my grandmother's NGT at her house one block down, when the lady from the old adobe house called me:

"Kumusta na lola at lolo mo, iho?" Yup, the WHOLE barangay could hear. So I came closer wo we could have a "private" chat, if that is what she wants.

"Kilala mo ba ako? Sabay pa tayo magsimba noon."

"Opo," I replied.

She asked about my family (whom she hasn't seen for quite some time), and my job. So I ended up chatting with her for a good 20 minutes or so.

"Huwag ka nang mag-asawa. Doktor ka na e. Ang babae, isang linggo lang yan sa kama. Tapos na."

I just laughed.

"Pasensiya ka na ha, sawa na akong kausapin ang mga santo dito sa bahay namin e."

We bid each other goodbye and I was on my way home again.

She lives on the old adobe house down our road that was built way back in 1846. It is a popular venue for shooting local horror movies and TV shows.

2019!

I was so nervous about my visa interview last Thursday. It was to be my third time to apply for one, and in 2005 and just this June I was only granted single-entries. Well, okay, I did not count that time I was denied four times within three months in 1986 when I was only six.

Anyway, in the days leading to my embassy appearance, I prayed hard, not exactly to be granted a visa, but to be given what I deserve. Further, if denied, then I will take my third exam here just so I can claim an ECFMG certificate. Perhaps I will pursue training abroad at a later time, or not anymore. And I would not have to explain to my parents why I would be giving up on my dream to train abroad. So I was nervous that morning because I knew that the visa I might or might not get will determine my next career step.

I arrived a bit later than I had planned - 5:40AM for the 7:00AM appointment slot. There were quite a number of people, but somehow I made it to the front of the line. I was then able to get a stub labeled number three at the pavilion. That was a good thing. The first time I was granted a visa, I queued up early, too.

There was an old guy who sat beside me. He seemed friendly and composed. Later, I overheard him talking with another applicant that his father had died long ago abroad. I got the impression he was just renewing an expired visa because of his age. And also because he was just wearing jeans and a shirt. For some reason, I wasn't in the mood to start a conversation with him, though at one point I wanted to ask where his final destination will be. I think it is common for many of my countrymen to feel the need to be snobbish when lining up for a visa interview. I don't know, but in all the embassies I've applied at, no Pinoy has ever been friendly or conversant, to me or anyone else.

We were called into the interview area just a few minutes prior to 7:00AM. We went for finger-scanning then were asked to sit down inside the hall. The first window opened at exactly 7:00AM, but a lady in a stretcher was accommodated first. Other windows did not open until around 7:40AM. These embassy staff were really adapting to Filipino time! Almost simultaneously, numbers one and two were called at two separate windows. In less than five minutes, the same window that called number two called me. I found it strange that I had already been called and I haven't seen the cubicle vacated yet.

I walked across the hall and queued behind the window. The old man who sat beside me at the pavilion was having an argument with the officer.

"I'm sorry to hear about your (close relative), and I do hope she makes a recovery soon," the officer said in very calm voice.

"But, I have here..." the man rebutted.

The officer interrupted the man, "I'm sorry but you are not qualified."

Attempting to bargain, the man said, "But..."

Then the officer raised his voice, saying, "Sir! I said I'm sorry but you are not qualified!"

At that moment I prepared myself for the worst. I somehow thought I would get a big fat denial this time for the simple reason that the officer was in a bad mood. I know it may be unprofessional, but it happens in a lot of different embassies, considering the volume of applicants they receive.

As I set down my fold in front of the window, the officer asked with an very intimidating voice, "What is the purpose of your visit?"

"I would like to take some examinations, specifically Test B1 and Test C," I replied.

He started typing immediately and while doing so, said, "I need to see your previous visa." He then immediately followed up, "How many times have you been to (his country)?"

"Twice," I said.

I thought he wanted to see my first visa so I reached into my folder then dropped my old passport into the hole. "My previous visa is on my current passport that's with you. Here is the old one."

He immediately grabbed my current passport, flipped it open and asked, "What exam are you taking again?"

"Exams B1 and C, sir."

"What? But it says here you already took exam B!"

"Um, that was Exam B2. And it says right there on my previous visa. I would like to take B1 and C this time," I said calmly.

He then faced his computer again and without looking at me asked, "Oh.... Um, and did you pass?"

"Yup. Wanna see my results?"

"Right." He said, without interrupting his typing.

I reached into my folder again and as soon as I was ready to drop my score report on the hole where my old passport still was, he said, "Sir, your visa has been approved."

There was a second of silence on my part and I could not believe what he just told me. In my disbelief, I replied, "I thought you wanted to see my score?"

"We don't need that now. You can go and arrange for the delivery with the courier."

"Okay, so I'm done?"

"Yup, just go to the courier."

"Thanks. Have a nice day."

He smiled, "You, too!"

I can't believe I was done in less than five minutes!

I got my visa today and it's a multiple entry good for X number of years! Now I have to study hard for these [two] exams!.

Dead Weight

I woke up this morning quite late as I've been up late last night reading for my exam. As I prepared myself some breakfast, my aunt (sister of dad) came up to me and said I should pay my grandfather's sister a visit. A distant aunt had mentioned to her over the phone that my grandmother had complained of headache the night before and that the caregiver had a hard time lifting her to the toilet. Those problems aren't really new so I wasn't really that worried, but I knew I should pay her a visit as I hadn't done so in a very long time. And she lives just two blocks anyway.

So as I spread garlic butter on my toast that morning, I just nodded at my aunt. That was supposed to be the end of our conversation. But she kept going, "This might be dead weight!"

"Huh? Dead what?" I said

"Dead weight! Dead weight!" She was frantic.

"What are you talking about?" I was really irritated at that point. I knew she was talking about another one of her magical or mystical beliefs again. You see, my aunt is a spinster, a former nun and has a schizotypal personality. Yes, the type who believes in mysterious spirits and demons lurking in dark places to prey on children. She claims to have performed some exorcisms. She claims to be well-versed on the doctrines of the Church yet her beliefs are compatible only with those from the time of the Inquisition.

"You don't know about dead weight?" Yes, she was now questioning my medical education.

"What are you talking about? It's the first time I've heard that term used on a person." In my head, I kept thinking of this empty container on a weighing scale. An internet search later revealed that dead weight and empty weight are not synonymous.

"It is when a person is about to die, she cannot be lifted from her deathbed by any number of able-bodied persons. One of your distant uncles...that happened to him before he was pronounced dead. It is a sign of impending death."

Three seconds of silence followed. I did not know whether to laugh, or cry in pity for my poor aunt who keeps clinging to her otherworldly beliefs. She has her own dictionary in her head, apparently. And it would be of no use to bring her to a Psychiatrist. She believes that they are rogue people pretending to know how to exorcise demons.

I paid my grandmother a visit and it turned out she just had a neck muscle strain and mild constipation. I instructed the caregiver and asked them to update me about her progress.

But I really don't know what to do with my aunt. For the past 20 years, she has refused to work because she believes she will one day unearth tons of gold, or just wake up with billions deposited in a yet to be opened bank account. Mind you, she used to be a very successful personnel manager. But something must have happened when she started attending all those charismatic seminars. She is dead under the weight of her own beliefs.

The Faucet

As a young kid, there were two trips I always looked forward to: a trip to Baguio, and a trip to the beach. The former was mandatory since my spinster aunt always declared that we have this "responsibility" to come up to our grandparents' rest house, and spend Lent contemplating about our year’s worth of sins in the company of pine trees. She would often make us walk the full kilometre around Quezon Hill. Thank goodness Baguio had ambient weather even during the height of summer. And the pollution was much less then. On occasion, Good Friday would come early (or come every other day) if she decided we should fast then walk all the way to St. Vincent parish. I loved Baguio for its weather and the strawberries. These almost made up for what the Gestapo made us go through.

One could say that the latter was the trip that I really looked forward to. My dad and siblings would leave the Gestapo behind and go to a different beach every year. We would always stay at a native hut, but the character of these differed from place to place. It was something different. No air-conditioning, no heated showers and no television. Probably the only time each year that I could survive without any TV! What I looked forward to even more was the seafood, the fishing trips and mangrove explorations.

One summer, our well-off cousins decided to stay in the same beach we were vacationing in. They billeted at the fancy resort which had air-conditioned rooms. I was envious though I could not complain to my dad since we all got used to the same humble accommodations year after year. It turned out I was not the only one envious of them. The following year, my dad saved up and we stayed at that same place.

The first night, I woke up thirsty. My dad then suggested I take a drink from the faucet. This was, after all first class accommodations. It was unusual during the 80s not to have potable tap water, especially houses in the urban areas. I know this was no urban area, but the sophisticated facilities gave you impression they were fitted with home-style fittings. The following morning, I opened the faucet to take another drink. So I was surprised to see that the water was muddy. I let it run for a few more minutes but it never turned clear.

So at a young age I learned how to be mistrustful. I never drank straight from any faucet ever again. Not in Japan, in Hong Kong or in Singapore. Neither when the hotel says that tap water is potable. I’d rather drink the overpriced Evian from the mini bar or cross the street in the middle of the night wearing my pyjamas to buy some bottled water from 7-11.

The experiences outlined above are true and factual. But this blog entry is not about faucets per se. But a metaphor.

When you’ve drunk mud from a faucet, you’ll be mistrustful even of water.

An American in Munich

It was cloudy and was already beginning to drizzle. My co-intern Ida and I had been waiting almost an hour for the bus to Fussen. It was a Sunday (in 2006), and like all holidays in Germany, most stores are closed and all means of public transport are running a very limited service.

Two German teens were ahead of the queue. A group of old Chinese tourist were behind us, then some German families with children.

On the way down from Neuschwanstein to the bus stop, Ida could not stop talking about the reason why she volunteered to show me around her town. “From an early age, we Germans have always been taught that we are by nature snobbish. Hence our parents and teachers always said we should try our best to be very outgoing to foreigners whether in Germany or outside.” Her story only reinforced my impression that Germans, or Caucasians from industrialized countries for that matter, are cultured people – learned and well-mannered. Definitely much more civilized than the small group of Chinese tourists who did nothing but shove other people inside the castle.

As it continued to drizzle, a group of Americans went in front of the queue. They looked up the bus schedule and loudly discussed which bus they would take. They looked at the long queue. The big guy, (football player physique), then continued talking to his companions about the “wonderful and laidback life” he has in Munich. Everything about the East coast, according to him, was rubbish. Intermittently, they would pop the question as to which bus to take to Fussen. As the bush arrived ten minutes later, they were still at the front of the queue, loudly discussing (again) which bus to take. Mind you, there was only one bus for the next three hours and everyone knew it.

As expected, the loud bunch jumped the line. They got a whole row for themselves. The two guys occupied one seat (which should have accommodated three). The lady occupied her own seat with her dog beside her. The bus was packed – all other seats were taken, and the aisles were full of other tourists trying to escape the gloomy weather of Neuschwanstein. The American guys sitting in front of us then continued, “I just love my life here in Munich. I could go to the park or river with a six-pack and not get arrested. It is so laid back.” The other guy replied with envy. And yes, the whole bus was listening to all the stories they had to tell. In fact, their conversation drowned out most everything else except the roar of the engine of the fully packed bus.

Then Ida asked me out loud, “So how is the public transport system in your country? How do you flag down, say a bus?”

“Of course there are lines. And a ‘conductor’ is always there to ensure all passengers are accommodated.”

“I imagine there are also people who jump the line,” Ida said out loud, and I noticed the American in front had turned red…and all of a sudden quiet.

“Yes,” I said.

“It is the same here in Germany,” she replied. “People jump the line just because they can. People break rules just because they think they can get away with it.”

It was at that moment the three Americans looked at us, with their faces all red. The big guy said, “Sorry we didn’t know there was a line.”

“Excuse me, I’m not talking about you,” Ida said.

“No, I’m just saying I didn’t see there was a line, and I thought I was at the end of the line.” The people at the aisles were shaking their heads and the lady American shoved her dog off the bench and coaxed it underneath the seat in front to let an elderly Chinese man sit. The Americans’ faces were all red, and they were silent from then on.

The bus arrived at the train station in Fussen and Ida and I made sure we occupied a different carriage to Munich as the Americans. As we settled down, I asked Ida, “Didn’t you say you Germans are supposed to be the most snobbish, proud and ill-mannered people in the whole world?” She could not stop laughing.

Lemon Squares

I used to blog over at multiply. But their second-rate good-for-nothing interface is a chore to deal with.

I'll be blogging here from now on.