No.9: The One With the Best Pho

The best Pho soup in the world was bought for 3500 Vietnames dong (about Php 7.00). That is a ridiculously negligible amount for the flavour and the punch of that pho.

The best Pho in the world was bought from a street vendor who set up tiny tables and chairs at the curbside, screamed at passing customers to persuade them to eat at her shop. It had small tubs filled with steel chopsticks; and did I tell you already that the tables and chairs were really tiny? I was practically squatting at the table.

The best Pho in the world had the best noodles in them : firm, a bit salty, a bit grainy. It had the best soup too. I can tell that the beef broth was made from actual beef boiled for hours, if not days, and not whipped up with Knorr cubes.

This Pho was eaten in tandem with unidentifiable viands. We had no idea what we ordered, truly. Thank God the language barrier can be overcome just by the simple act of pointing at the stuff you wanted to eat. I have to say you have to have an adventurous tummy because sometimes, you have no idea what you're pointing at or how they're going to prepare the dish. It's always handy to have a glass of water within reach, just in case you choke on the spices.

We were eating the Pho in full ambiance of the Old French Quarter, which is a strange mix of new and old, some streets crowded like Divisoria, some streets like ghost towns. Unlike in Singapore, where you are most likely to hear somebody speaking in Filipino every 2 minutes or so, Vietnam speaks Vietnamese, almost exclusively. Most of the time, you will only need the most rudimentary of English and a LOT of hand signals and acting, not so different from Charades. And I loved it. I let the foreign, indecipherable chatter wash over me as I mulled over my pho. I swear, it made the experience feel richer, the broth tastier, the memory lovelier.

I had the best Pho in the world with a colleague, who in the end turned out to be a good friend. Someone I can look up to and emulate, if I can. The best food in the world only turns out that way if you like the company you had while savoring it. That's why most of the time, I like eating alone. But that time, I was more than grateful for the company. I felt safe, and everything felt authentic.

The best Pho in the world is just an ordinary pho. But it was the compendium of experiences that made it the best.  Someday, I plan to go back to Vietnam, and find another best Pho and make new memories out of it.

#8 - The One Where My Whole Family Sleeps

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. I already spent way too much time inside my room and realized I have neglected my family for almost the whole weekend. I was strange like that. I could stay inside my room and read books forever, disjointed from the world. Looking back at it now, I am still happy how the books I have read has enriched my life. But I wish I spent more time with my family even if they were not doing anything. Even if it was just sleeping.

When I went downstairs, my parents' "light of their hearts" daughter (which is my little sister who used to be such a chatterbox when she was younger) were discussing some trivial matter, the details of which eludes me now. They were piled up on a twin-sized bed, just lounging around and chatting without much purpose. I remember still holding a book, pulling up a chair and sitting beside the bed (because there was certainly no space for me there). I was there, but I was not there because I was lost in a book. It was some time when I noticed the silence --- it was the quiet before the storm.

In my family, we are all snorers. So you can imagine the colorful symphony my three family members made that drowsy afternoon. My first thought was to go upstairs, back to my own bed where the music of their naptime won't bother my reading. But I had one of those moments I call "angel moments" where something taps you on your brain and tells you to pay attention. And I am glad I did.

10 years since then, and it is still my favorite memory of my family. I would have taken a photo, but back then, cameras were a fussy thing not found on cellphones. So I imprinted it on my mind instead. I remember thinking how lucky I am, truly. I have outstanding parents who have given me nothing but love. I have a sister who clearly adores me even if she is a pain in the neck some (most) times. But we were together, and I could not be richer and more satisfied.

I also remember thinking, someday I will lose this. And it just made me imprint the moment more desperately.

And now thinking about it, I am realizing that moment is a definitive one in my history. I am so affected by it that I can still paint it if I needed to. But there never was a need to. All I have to do is close my eyes and the image is there. Perhaps, why it affects me so much means something. Perhaps, my favorite moment on earth is trying to tell me that my purpose in life may be hidden locked in that moment and I just need to decode it.

If I could build a family as beautiful as the one in my memory, perhaps my purpose in life will be achieved.

Number 7 - The One With My Mother Telling me How to Find The One

My mother loved to putter around. When she does, I make sure to join her because almost always, I will get to hear a story or two about her favorite memories of random objects we come across. Like how a gold brooch was passed down from her mother, and she told me how she felt the first time she wore it; or a particular Chinese dress she was saving for me or my sister in case we will need such a costume (Ella wore it for her grad pic, whilst it barely fit my thigh).

During one of those puttering sessions, we were sifting through her old letters and notes, and I came across her compilation of love letters from my father. He called her Sunlight, she called him Sunshine.  And it was corny, but happy kind of corny, and I decided I wanted that kind of corniness in my life. Perhaps sensing my longing, my mother said, "Someday you will find your husband too, and you will know what it means to have your own Sun."

I told her I have a list of qualities I want in my husband, and I shared a couple of them with her. She smiled her quiet smile and nodded at each one. But when I finished, she told me, "It's good to know what you want, but you also have to be open minded about things you might not know you want."

"Hanapin mo yung parang Daddy mo. Yung ramdam mo ang kabaitan hanggang puso. Iwasan mo ang mga mayayabang, pero huwag din yung masyadong mahiyain. Kailangan may sariling talino, yung kaya ang sarili at kaya ka. Yung iba, dagdag na lang, gifts na ni Lord. Pero humanap ka lang ng mabait, mababa ang loob at matalino na sasamahan ka sa buhay."

I don't know if any piece of advice can get better than that. I am thankful I got to share those moments with her before she passed away, and I am recording it now so that I get to share it with my sister too. Looking at her list though, I think I did well in choosing the One. It's true, what they say about mothers knowing their daughters' hearts. I miss you, Mummy.

No. 6: My Little Sister Wears a Badge saying Burgos for President

I was in fifth grade, my sister was a first-grader. I was running for student council president and making the rounds of our school corridors. My Dad thought up a campaign tagline I learned to say enough to sound believable: "Think Big! Think B for Burgos!"

But no one can deliver it with as much conviction as my little sister did. She made those rounds with me tirelessly; her size 4 shoes squeaking in the clean hallways, her hair tied into 2 braided pigtails, wearing her P.E. uniform and carrying a basket full of badges. She will chirp out the tagline and hold out the basket to everyone we meet.

There were times I felt like she was enjoying the campaign more than I ever did. I am sure though that without her, I would certainly be less enthusiastic about running for a post. Because in all honesty, I didn't care for it. I have no calling for politics, but it was there for me to win and I felt obliged to take it. I would have been happier in the school newspaper, but back in those days, my niche seemed to be in the student council and everybody agreed I was perfect for it. And my sister wholeheartedly believed I wanted to win, and so she keyed her whole heart and soul to the pitch of my ambition.

So if you want to know a secret, here is one: I did not want to be student council president. But I wanted my sister and Dad to be happy. It is a completely selfish reason, one that has nothing to do with service. But I did it for love, and in the process, I learned to love what I do, and who I can be when propelled by such overwhelming belief and support from people like her. It took me time to finally know what I want for myself, and when I did, I wasn't scared. Because I know I am loved and supported every time. Because there is my sister.

It is a comfort ever since, to know that some one, even if it is just the one, who will always believe in me. So to you, your pigtails and crinkled smile, thanks, little sis.

Happy Memory #5: The One with the Boy who Gave me the Sea

The Sea and I have always had a tenuous relationship. I don't think I have ever loved and distrusted anything at the same time as much as I love and distrust the sea. Its breathtaking beauty manacles your heart, but you can't let yourself fall into it because you know that it is a terrible beauty. It can swallow you whole and never let you resurface.

For almost half of my life, I was just a toe-dipper supplicant to the heartless, flawless ocean.

I can't seem to get the hang of swimming. Many people have tried to teach me on so many different occasions, but my limbs refuse to move as they ought to. I know that this is mostly brought about by fear. I do not understand the water; I do not understand what is in its very heart. So when people invite me to go to the beach, I am filled with equal parts dread and excitement. Until one day, some one gave me the tools to overcome my fear. What best motivation to face a fear than to be made to understand what is waiting for you beneath?

One summer day, our whole work unit went to the beach. It was as much fun as office activities get, in that awkward do-I-laugh-or-do-I-not way. It was threatening to be a memory lost in the annals of history if it weren't for one incident that changed my whole perspective of the sea, and then some. The new boy, whose skin is like chocolate, is a diver. You can see by the way he paddles and frolicks in the water that he has a romance with the sea. He could be dancing on dry land, except he was in water. He was the only one who dared to swim farther than the rest of us, itching to know what could be seen in the depths of the cove. Perhaps he saw that everybody else didn't have the facility, or maybe, the courage, to go where the corals are, so he offered to ferry those of us who would like to take a peek through his snorkeling mask. He told us we could hold on to his shoulder as he swims, while we try to float, because the view out there is fantastic.

I wish I said I was the first volunteer. No, I'm a reasonably brave girl, which means, I let others go first to observe if they survive the ordeal. The first, the second, the third went and came back with rave reviews. Surmising i have a big chance of doing it and go home alive, I decided to go next. Me, who had never been in waters too deep for my toes to reach if I stretch my body taut.

I remember getting too scared to remember to kick my feet to help propel my weight, but the Boy reminded me in his gentle voice, reassuringly that i could do it. When we sailed towards the middle of the ocean, I think I died for a few seconds. But when I saw what was underneath, I realized, no, I have never felt more alive than this moment.

How do i describe the bottom of the sea? There are no words, except beautiful.

And it was that exact second, I told the Sea, "I am not afraid of you anymore."

When we got back to shallow waters, the sea has changed. It was no longer an inscrutable mistress. It was a welcoming, waiting mother who longs to cradle me again and share her precious treasure.

And the Boy has changed too. He was no longer the new boy with the chocolate skin. He has become an inscrutable mystery, to be solved. I realized I have exchanged one deep water for another. And this one, I have never resurfaced from since.

No. 4: The One About Sisters from other Mothers

This one will be short, but not less vivid.

Freshman year in college, I had an intense crush on a guy named Joseph. He was tall and fair, solidly built, and with the nicest dimples ever (or so I thought in 1999). He never spoke in class unless directly confronted by a teacher or our classmates. He was a bit of a mystery to me, and my crush on him was built on nothing except his looks. I'm not going to sugarcoat it, it really was a pretty dumb reason for liking a guy, but hey.

My happy memory happened on the day I saw him walking around with a pretty chinita girl. Him with the girl was devastating, make sure of it. I’ve heard of rumours before then, but Joseph’s hand at the small of her back confirms everything.  However, I was lucky to be with two of my closest girl friends, Andrea and Mariel. It’s almost silly how they unequivocally banded together to defend me, and when that didn’t work, to cheer me up.

Mariel said, “Baka cousin lang naman.”  (Which the hand at the small of the back denied). One after another, they came up with reasons, each one more plausible than the last, as if gradually helping me accept the reality that Joseph ris taken and probably cannot even remember my name. Finally, Andrea, shot her hands up in the air, and proclaimed, “His loss.”

Years later, I found someone else with even more perfect dimples than that guy. Joseph has become a footnote in adolescent history. But those two girls who helped me get over that first of many tiny heartbreaks never left my side until today and will always be thought of with fondness and love.

No. 3: The One about my Bestselling Fiction feat. Boyzone

When I was in high school, writing was my "thing." But I didn't have the discipline for journalistic writing, which I found constrictive. I had a lot of authors I wanted to model myself on, not least of them is Jane Austen. But when you're a teenager in an all-girls convent school in the early 90s, Jane Austen doesn't sell. What sold were those Sweet Dreams books, a teen romance series (before it was coined its current term Young Adult or YA).

I tried writing those sober, gothic stories. But once, I translated one into a play for English class, and it didn't go over very well. It could be because of the trite writing, or maybe because of my hammy acting of the hero's dying mother. Which ever reason it may be, it made me want to see if I could write anything my own age-group would appreciate. So something like Sweet Dreams mixed with something popular, maybe. And what was popular that decade were boy bands. There were tens of thousands of them doing the duck-face pose before any girl on Facebook ever did (check pic above). So I wrote one about Boyzone who happened to be my world as well.

I knew I needed research to make a strong, believable plot, and thanks to being a teenager, I knew that I know all about:
1. True Love, obviously
2.  Pimples, Cramps and PMS
3. Mean girls
4. 200 alternative words for crush
5. MTV (back when it was cool)
6. Boyzone's whole discography
7. Every minutiae of what the band members made, ate and pooped for the last 3 years

Of course I was qualified to write a teen romance!

And so when I was 14 years old, the short novel "More Than a Fling" was born. (oh geez, I am cringing as I type this).

It was about Liv (duh!) our heroine who is an MTV Video Jockey who got to interview this hot new boy band called Boyzone (double duh!). Liv is like She's-All-That, but getting really tired of the fame and popularity and the tons of money she makes while doing pretty faces and sounds in front of the camera. (I didn't know how mortifying this was going to be when i set myself to write this).  But meeting Boyzone, Stepehen in particular, changed her life. She fell in love with his quiet, unassuming ways, and he loved her energy and smile. They had some problems as love stories go, but they overcame it and lived happily ever after.

To make it more interesting to my classmates, I made sure I used their names and paired them up with their crushes. So V was partnered to Ronan Keating, J was partnered with Nick Carter when the Backstreet Boys made a cameo in the story, etc... you catch the drift. If it makes sense for them to be there, I put them there. And sometimes, even if they don't. What the heck, put it there anyway.

And oh boy, was the short novel a success. My Dad printed it up all nice and bound it up (oh God, I am just realizing what if my Dad read that story? Wait, what if his staff who printed and bound it for him did?) People who wanted to read the story wrote their name on the front page, right under the credits, as a system. My happy memory here is this: my last glimpse of that novel was a 3-column list in front of classmates and batchmates, and at the back, a name of one of our teachers among the list of borrowers.

I don't know where that novel is now, thank heavens. I can't remember if  it was ever returned to me. That novel was utter crap. It's worse than Twilight, which you know I totally abhor. I don't even know if my classmates liked it. I don't think they would've told me anyway if they didn't. I was the tallest and biggest girl in the class after all.

But I wish I still have it. It can remind me that... well, I am capable of selling out, is one thing, but not really the point here. Remembering it reminds me that I can do whatever I set my mind to do. Taught me some marketing strategies too, which came in handy later in life.

1. Ownership -- my most loyal fans who promoted the book til their dying breath were those whose name were mentioned at least once, in the story.

2. Context - it helps if you know your audience. It helps if you can get them to relate to your story. Empathy is key.

3. Accessibility - I wonder what would've happened if there was more than one copy circulating in the school?

4. Opportunity - I really should start getting paid doing this creative stuff. Dang it.

And by Jove, it was surreal seeing this picture again. Rest in peace, Stephen. Have fun up there, girlfriend. 

Tuh-muh!