Coffee country

Someone once said the Philippines was not a coffee drinking country. While my tongue itched at a retort, I bit onto it. The AE in me would not allow such an insolent reply lest the agency lose this client. It was practically our bread and butter in this small bakery of an advertising agency.

The discussion sprung during a presentation on a product relaunch to revive the ailing brand. Needless to say, the Philippines was Nescafe country. Loyalty was borne out of habit, really. The market knew only one brand in the last 50 years. Cheap, accessible, familiar. Credit a great distribution network, too. Nothing beats being first.

Apart from flavour, of course, which our ailing brand had. But, it carried the baggage of everything that connoted ‘ailing’ — old, forgotten, decrepit. It was the nice, old woman at the corner whom we would smile at, but refused to engage in conversation. The brand was that old woman. We recognized her great qualities, but couldn’t be bothered.

First, we took the old woman and dressed her up nicely. We innovated the stick packaging for the ready-to-drink powdered formula. Yes, the same packaging that people seem to associate today to Nescafe. Ahem, ahem…no.

Among the few other nips and tucks we did, there was a proposal to reintroduce the now hip old woman to the growing population of youngsters in the neighbourhood. The bright bulb was to sample at the beaches —- young, crowded, craving for a perk-upper, and foreseeing the rise of out-of-home consumption with the introduction of Starbucks in the Philippines.

Then, that someone shoots it down with a one-two punch — not a coffee drinking country, and too hot to take coffee at the beach. It was the response a grandstander with blatant ignorance of our barako roots, poor recognition of the oncoming Starbucks lifestyle, and a general lack of imagination. My mind couldn’t grasp how silly this person was.

But, I kept my mouth shut. And, that made me the silliest person of all because, back then, I lacked the capacity to push the envelope to insist and persist on what I could feel in my gut. Ces’t la vie.

Today, the coffee experience has evolved so much the entire experience has gone beyond the humble sachet poured into a Nescafe glass with hot pandesal. The siren song of Starbucks has tempted us away.

Now, we willingly wait like forlorn lovers courting the barista who cup our hearts in their palms, and orchestrate a melodious story to while away the time. We stand there hypnotized by the rhythm, scents and conversation. It really is a long, long wait for coffee that is merely too burnt to be taken black decently. But, hey, its fair trade beans. Let’s help the poor farmers. So we keep drinking.

Sometimes, we have it to go. On good days, you have the handy mug for a 5-peso discount. Sometimes, it’s totally on the fly, and you request to have it packed. You get a tape over the sipping hole, a wasteful bundle of napkins, stirrers, and packets of sugar in a carton holder nestled into a paper bag. And, let’s not forget that protective sleeve that has gotten so thin it’s better to totally do without it, and truly make a difference saving the earth.

But, Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf stole my heart. They had an amazingly thin protective sleeve that truly kept your paper cup hand-friendly. Plus, it came with this amazing stopper slash stirrer. Lovely, lovely detail. So unexpected, yet so thoughtfully considered.

A whole world of coffee shops opened up for me. Until then, I merely accepted whatever Starbucks had to dish out because it was simply the only one there. But, stepping out of Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf with this amazing package was just wonderful.

I sat down to my hot Turkey and Cheddar Cheese sandwich, and hot cup of Mocha Latte. We’ve truly become a country of global coffee drinkers. To think, we just started with the humble sachet-cum-stirrer in a cup of hot water, and repurposed glass jar.

Movement

I’ve been moving around the last few months. By readjusting the focus of my lenses on life, it relieved the myopia that pervaded the last few years. I had been living under the false existence of complacency.

Complacency is like still water that stagnates in a pond. It allows beautiful things like the quiapo and water lily to exist, but it also allows the clouding of moss and murkiness. When one becomes very still, there is only the fluid painless movement of time.

Time is what we make of it. Often, we lose track because the only task at hand is its upward movement cupped towards the mouth in an ironic two-step of feeding and shutting. We mindlessly feed to silence, and remain silent.

Silent with a hunger for the movement of words is a constant growl that will never be satiated. It is a brimful of agitation, change, freshness, new ideas rimming the top where sheer tension holds it precariously in place.

Place is neither a position nor a disposition. It is simply a moment in time. This is why time is never meant to be still like a pond, painless like complacency, silent like a mindless existence.

Every bit of my being constantly strums with movement. Agitation stirs the pond of ideas to allow more beautiful things to rise from its depths. Hunger allows the mouth to speak, and speak in volumes to weave the fabric of many, many truths together. Tension keeps the balance of contradictions in a constant state of smithing to shape new realities. Then movement.

For in new ideas do we find courage, perspective from many, many truths, and strength from new realities. Hence, do we find in our depths a stirring for change. We awaken from our complacency.

I opened my eyes.

Then, swept away the myopia, the complacency, the constant feeling of fullness, and the yawning silence.

It demanded the full stride of a warrior moving towards the sunrise where there was none yet in the dark, cold dawn. It was freezing and still and painful. On a long inhalation, I raised my arms up, secured the palms with intertwined fingers and steepled both pointers.

Every inch trembled. Slowly, unceasingly, painfully. Sunrise.

Inhalation…exhalation…transition.

Singapore Sling

My first international trip was to the Lion City. Even then, there was no touristy activity in the line-up. It was pure cosmopolitan agenda juggling between shopping all day and partying all night. There was very little local colour in the trip except for visits to Kopi Tiam for delicious fried chicken, and fresh fruit. After so much of the cosmo flavour, and the unique essence of Singapore in the food, fried chicken akin to Savory was a much needed respite. Tender with flavourful gravy and steamed rice. Hmmm…..dreamy. Indeed the frying and the fat was a great antidote to the previous night’s debauchery.

I loved the cleanliness, the organization, the sense of safety, the ease of commuting, and pretty much whatever conveniences a business hub could afford. That pretty much summed up my impression. Future trips were relegated to business purposes. There wasn’t anything extraordinary to the city.

But, Formula 1 Singapore Grand Prix changed that. Apparently, there was so much roar in the Lion City I had not uncovered before. With only the evenings for the main race events, I had 3 whole days to fill up. Being more familiar with the city, and having more friends to visit, I set up dates months ahead of the trip.

F1. First of first with an evening race in this city.

In between lunches and dinners, I traced the streets like fingers moving on a wall as you walk, and embraced whatever encounters came my way. There was always something tucked away in a corner, people to share new experiences with, cultures to explore, sights and sounds.

Poetry is written on the walls.

All aboard the express mosaic.

The underground movement is a tactile experience.

The local fire station is art in architecture.

I stared and stared, but couldn't get it.

Until I stepped into, first the red box, then the blue box.

Rest for the weary traveller with a delicious cooling, gentle and natural foot spa with fish.

It's never a boring walk.

Neither does it feel like there are back doors when images fill service entrances.

Images of local color lends character.

Chandeliers dance as though in the ballroom of Beast.

Singapore Sling became a beautiful and colourful liquid experience that had different nuances on its travel down to a deeper appreciation of the city.

Progressive dinner for one

One of my favourite people in the world is a lady named Leah Puyat. We met when I was a shiny and green graduate at her first job, and she was already the editor of a fashion forward magazine. The first thing that struck me was her unusual openness and warm smile. Moving between cubicles to find her was akin to moving around in a scene from The Labyrinth. But, she beckoned in a very welcoming manner. That was another thing I noticed her manners.

Over the years, we would bump into each other in the most unusual places. One of those rare encounters was at a function. By this time, she was already a columnist who owned a lifestyle boutique, and I just happened to read an article she wrote about dining at home.

We had a colourful conversation about how every meal should be a celebration — even for shabby condo dwellers like us. It was about making the usual take-out a good dining experience. Clear the mess off your table, unfurl the silk runner, bring out the lovely dishes, lay the heavy silver, and plate the food properly. Light some candles, switch off the television, put on some music, relax and savor.

Leah punctuated each point by picking out pieces from her collection presently on display at the function. She painted a lovely picture of a table for one in the privacy of your own home away from home. Once again I was a shiny and green condo-dweller striking out on her own, and she was this warm, lovely person sharing a wonderful experience.

As in all interesting conversations, we get inspired and make promises to ourselves that we will definitely try it out. But, sometimes we never really do. To that, I simply lift a shoulder.

Tonight, I ended up walking around the mall for a little end-of-week wind down. I decided to have a nice meal to cap off a good week. Perhaps it was time for some of my fave Seafood Au Gratin at Conti’s. Warm, creamy and cheesy seafood with a side of purple Russian potato salad. And, as in any proper Filipino meal, a cup of steaming rice.

Setting the table

Seafood Au Gratin

Plated yet casual

On my way there, I saw Bizu. Perhaps it would be good to have some Strawberry Chiboust as well.

Paris in a beribboned box

Hmm! Last had that 2 years ago. Creamy and fruity with a sweet glaze over it and lined with fresh strawberries sitting on top like lovely peaks. No, Strawberry Chiboust in the display though. Decided on Babylon instead. By it’s name alone, it sounded like a wonderful downfall from one’s first choice. Still a fruity, creamy raspberry option, but with a hint of chocolate.

That would go perfectly with hot tea to clean the palate, and allow warmth to digest such a rich combination. My hand craved the tender cupping of a hot brew. While I was slowly trying to quit the habit, sometimes a good meal made the palm itch for the soothing perfect fit of a Starbucks cup. It spelled comfort, good books, good conversation, good company. It was about belonging to a community.

Pour into a fresh warmed mug

Not tonight.

Tonight, I took all my goodies home, cleared the table, brought out the red silk runner from Surabaya, heavy plate collection from America, graceful silver from Thailand, and plated everything. I went barefoot, washed my face, shook the tresses and smiled at the mirror. I was looking forward to dinner for one.

I lit the candles, switched off the television, put on some music, sat down, relaxed and savored the experience.

Delicious.

Mic Test

Hello. Explorer #2 here. It’s been a while since I last poured my personal thoughts on paper, so this feels a bit awkward. Like your shaky-but-trying-to-sound-like-a-diva voice singing the intro of the first song you punched in the videoke machine. It doesn’t help either that the Magic Sing mic is not exactly the greatest invention in sound engineering.

By the time you reach the second stanza, the volume of your voice naturally picks up and your right foot is beginning to do its little tap. Slowly, you comfortably ease into the familiar beat. This is your song, afterall, and it tops the videoke songlist conveniently saved in your cellphone outbox. Repeat stanza: This is your song.

Ofcourse it is. And the chorus is your favorite part- SING WITH ME, ALL MY FRIENDS! Doesn’t matter if you’re half an octave short, or if you’re barely sober. What matters is that your voice is heard.

I guess that’s why this mic test is crucial. I gotta check once in a while if I am still heard. If the voice I am hearing is still my own.
If I am still sound.

Sound check.

Born on the fourth

Imagine being born on a leap year.  I always believed it had some magic.  You get three extra years over the rest of the ordinary people.  As a kid, I figured that date was far more special than the other Hallmark dates.

It certainly wasn’t a New Year’s when you couldn’t have a party with friends because everyone was celebrating the coming year with their families.  Definitely not like Valentine’s which will always be celebrated au pair.  Just like all the dates that have gained commercial popularity, it simply wasn’t that special anymore.

But, leap years were special.  It stood in the same company as the Olympics.  One could celebrate each true year in, at least, 16 different host countries amidst revelry, excellence and an interesting culture.

Amidst the musings, I realized then that when you think about it, leap year wasn’t really that special over the other dates.  At the end of the day, if trips were never going to be taken, dreams were never to be created, and choices never to be made, then it only made the day ordinary.  As ordinary as those born on a regular day.

So, I embrace my own birth date because there is no magic that makes it extra special like elusive fairy dust.  It doesn’t become extra special because of the countries that I will visit every year, or every four years.  It isn’t made more fun because I have friends, couples, family celebrating it with me.

It is special because I am.

Blank

I cannot write today.  Staring for hours into emptiness doesn’t bring any glimmer of inspiration.

Emptiness. Photo taken at the Filipinas Heritage Library.

Is the flame of creativity merely a matchstick after all?  One with a big burst of blue red fire that lasts only through a few short pieces then fizzles out?

I have been staring at this beautiful young man for hours.  He’s been sitting directly across where, with a mere flick of an eyelash, I can pore over his fine features.  Just as hands and feet can explore the universe, eyes can too.

Because he was too engrossed in his work, I could unashamedly roam the planes of his face, the curve of his mouth, the uphill travel on his nose, and the slant of his eyes.  It was pure visual pleasure as all explorations are wont to give.  I waited.

But, no spark came.  He is no muse.  He is merely beautiful.