Callie

I didn't know that there is a thing called heartbreak without anything.

This happened two nights ago. Maybe it was destined to happen a long long time ago, the first time I saw this person we will simply call, Callie (Jeffrey Eugenides' protagonist's namesake in "Middlesex").

I can't be sure when, but I'm certain it happened during my college days. Callie stepped inside my bus. I tilted my head to see who's boarded and there Callie was, in full regal splendor. Callie passed by my seat and a whiff of perfume fanned into my face, putting an exclamation point to an already screaming scene.

Like a ballet dancer, I managed to look nonchalantly despite the very strong urge to look to where Callie sat. I gave in. I whipped my hair as naturally as I could just to see the sunlight around to where my object of fascination was seated. Callie looked heavenly that day.

Everyday since that fateful day, I wished--no prayed--that the object of my dreams would board again my bus. And so Callie did, not often but it was enough. It was enough to send me flying above the distant blue seas beyond guapple bushes. It was enough to make me look and act silly for a blessed hour of the ride to school and later to the office.

Susan Bole wasn't popular back then, but if she would, I would've gladly taken my seat for a stage and sing: "I have a dream..."

I looked at Callie with awed eyes. Alas, I could only admire my object of desire from afar. Absolutely no touching, no talking and no smiles. It was like loving a flame: you could only look at it.

Just when all hope had nearly died and vanished I learned that Callie and I have a common friend. I kept badgering this friend, asking her nonsense.

I learned Callie's real name. The school Callie went to. Foods Callie ate. Jokes Callie tell. Callie. Callie. Callie.

I started to hope again.

Then, as the embers of my hope began to flicker, it was suddenly doused by cold painful reality. Callie could not be mine. Not never. But certainly not in the near future.

There is no pain like the pang of a hope lost, a love that could be but never will be. I was numbing. It was heartbreak nonetheless. Even from afar. Even from nothing.

"Anyone can love a rose, but it takes a great deal to love a leaf... it is ordinary to love the marvelous, but it is marvelous to love the ordinary." These are not my words, but I wish I could say these to Callie.

Wa-Sabi: My Introduction to Japanese Cuisine

Image from: www.pbase.com/uteh/image/45519946

Just like all first times, the stinging sensation of wasabi lingered on me even after three weeks of that Japanese cuisine immersion.

How could I possibly place my feeling torn between awe and that punitive dread of the unknown as I let Michelle drag me across Agoo to Baguio and then finally to Teriyaki Boy? How could I find the words that would fully describe the raw saltiness of crab sticks against the numbing knot of nori with underlying tones of wasabi in my inexperienced yet full mouth? Could I do justice to that near fainting--and gagging--experience which only my tears could express?

For I, with all that self-imposed arrogance and calm, for all the books I've read and the countless DVDs of Japanese animes, I am unquestionably, ignorant to that food they call simply as sushi.

So what does as ignoramus do in such a situation?

He lets his friend order for him. And so, Michelle did. She ordered a soup of seaweeds and tofu that tastes like my first swim in the ocean but surprisingly calming (I'm really nervous that Michelle would drive me to bankruptcy). Its name escapes me.

Then she uttered complete Japanese jargon that only made me nod (A sign that I'm really confused).

Next came California maki sushi. Its orange spelndor spoke of deliciousness I could finally taste. Michelle showed me how to dissolve wasabi in a saucer of soy sauce. Then the food touched my tongue. Initial reaction: shock. Wasabi is indeed shocking. I could recall vividly how the conflicting sweetness of the mango and the saltiness of crab sticks harmoniously punished my mouth. It was deliciously tormenting!

Yet the surprise of the day did not come from the maki. It came from cani sashimi (crab sticks). It was raw. It was salty. It was like chewing concentrated seawater diluted only by wasabi and soy sauce (An addition which could either make it taste better or worst--depending on your inclination). It is at this point that I began to cry and reach for my drink to finally rid myself of agony. Cani sashimi no more!

The good waiter finally served us our rice bowls. Michelle ordered ebi tempura for me and chiken whatever for her. At last, almost heaven; almost because their their sauce is again, too salty. The shrimp, however, is beyond delicious; it's to die for.

After a long burp (Figuratively--emphasis required), I was glad that I had finally came face to face to that famous sushi.

Michelle said that I'll never forget her because she made me do something for the first time.

Yes, I will never forget her or that moment, for amidst the pine tree-lined streets and foggy hills of Baguio City, I ate the sea.

Running In Baguio With Middlesex

I have never been a fan of Baguio City. I find it too crowded, too cold and too many Koreans.

But last Saturday, I was with my good friend, Michelle, and she showed be that there are still things to love about that city on the top of the mountains. One of them, my most favorite: boys.

The ride was sleepy, as always. The walks were long and tiring, as always. The boys were... as always. But enough about that male specimen which happens to be avoiding me and my kind a lot. Let us get on track: the purpose of the trip.

Every year, I pile up books for the summer. As early as December, I should have stashed at least two paperbacks hidden inside my drawers. I put them away because my dear nanay would be mad seeing that I have bought books again instead of clothes, and second, I may not be able to control myself. The latter happened last year. The book: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz looked so damned delicious that covering it with a week of folded shirts could not stop my voracious eyes from consuming it 'till its last page. Until now, I could always almost taste Oscar Wao lingering in my head. So I ended up with zero books come March.

My two weeks prior to the trip was spent on researching bestsellers and positive reviews in the internet. The most reliable so far is The New York Times bestselling lists and book reviews. In their list, I discovered the wonderful book of Khaled Hosseini, The Kite Runner, and the mastery of lyrical prose of Gabriel Garcia Marquez in One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera. I also discovered Diaz in their posts.

When I learned that Diaz was a Pulitzer Prize winner, I searched for the other winners. One of them was Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, which by its sheer controversial title made me want to by one (harhar).

So, two weeks later, I was strolling with Michelle in SM; stopping from shop to shop for her own summer necessities. While she was busy with her shopping collection (Peace!), I was likewise busy, not with the brief selection (although, that isn't a bad idea) but with environmental scanning: I was doing a "Watchmen" (those who haven't watched the movie, go home and watch it now!).

At last, book hunting has finally arrived.

My hands became sweaty. My eyes dilated. My heart started pumping. And, no, I was not seeing my soul mate for the first time, I just stepped inside National Bookstore.

There, I went gaga!

I went gaga over The Life of Pi. I went crazy over Kahka on the Shore. I went absolutely insane over After Dark. But Middlesex was nowhere to be found.

Not wanting to be let down by the sudden set back, I gathered the three books and consulted Michelle for her opinion. She just said: "Take them all."

Aghast, I moved on to another section of the books.

Heaven must be on my side that day because a lone copy of The Enchantress of Florence by Salman Rushdie appeared amongst the classic section. I was beaming with victory.

Then just when I thought it couldn't get better, a small paperback in almost golden yellow caught my attention. The cover was gleaming with attention. Its letters enticing my appetite for written language that I felt my mouth water. Its entire existence blinded me in delight. I screamed before anybody could grab it from the shelf: Middlesex was mine.