Lots and Lots of Rain

I’ve seen them, Brad and Angelina and Madonna with their kids. They are always on the news be it on TV or print. Every time they go out the door the paparazzi feast on them relentlessly. The reporters are not like the vultures. They seem to be more like zombies on speed, hungry to feed on these stars and their children.

I ask myself if they are true. Are they really helping these kids, setting a good example for others to follow? Or are they just helping themselves so they could always be in the lime light. I think it’s just for “show!”

Two days ago my wife frantically prepared dinner for our guests and we met them that night for the first time.

Lovelyn told me that she met a Baguio born lady in the web who had been reading her blog. She married a half Italian half Austrian gentleman and they settled in Austria for good. This lovely couple had a problem though. . . . they couldn’t have a child. So they adopted Christopher John.

Just months after Christopher was born, he was brought in to a hospital in Tarlac. Most probably the boy was sick. His biological parents wanted him to get well and wanted something more than that.

I bet it tore them into pieces. They prayed to God to protect their boy as they left Christopher there in the hospital in the care of nurses and doctors.

The authorities published in the paper and announced on the radio that a boy was left in the hospital. No one went back for the baby Christopher. So they transfered him to an orphanage at Pampanga and placed him up for adoption.

Our dinner guests, went through all sorts of trouble. Paid a fortune just to be labeled as “good normal people,” eligible to be  parents. It was a terrible experience they told us.

Christopher was four when he became thier son.  He was also aloof, scared, traumatized and cried always to things normal children would not cry to.

The cars frightened him along side with everything in the city or the outside world for that matter. He was afraid of people and even children of his age. He held onto his new parents’ arms and legs like glue.

When they ate, the boy would devour everything and would always put food in his pocket like it would like be the last meal of his life.

And then he got over it all.

The first time they brought Christopher to the beach, the boy said, “Wow ang dami daming ulan!”

I try to picture Christopher’s face, his first time with the ocean and I think he saw our Lord or felt Him that moment.

Then I took a good look at Christopher when we sat down for dinner. He complimented me politely for his plate of pasta which he finished with a smile.

Without a bit of trace from his past and a smile warm and bright as the sun, I saw one of the happiest boy in the world.

The family went back to the “Reception and Study Center for Children,” Christopher’s former home, some time ago. It was a good facility but in desperate need of serious funding. Mostly  good hearted “volunteers” run the center and they also act as parents for the children. Where ten children in every small house in the facility needs a papa and mama.

Christopher brought the lots and lots of rain he saw for the first time to his former mother at the orphanage. She was happy for her boy.

Christopher also met with his bestfriend at the orphanage and his friend was very sick. No one has adopted him yet. So Christopher asked his parents for a brother. Their answer was a painful. . . . “only if we could”.

I wonder how could this little boy, same age as Lukie now, could have brought the lots and lots of rain he saw for the first time here in our home and in our hearts too.

As the dinner and conversation drew on, Christopher, Lukie and Dylan played happily together, I thought back on the Brangelinas and Madonna and their children. They went through what our guests had gone through. . . . . and I was wrong.

The Weaverfish

The day I wrote down the previous piece for my teacher, my family and I went to the beach. At six in the afternoon the sun was low, only a few people were  there and it was great.

Lukie got the floating bed, Dylan had his arm bands on and my wife; always looked sexy in her two piece outfit.

I practiced my free style form while my wife tended our boys. When I got tired and winded, I decided to join them. When I got to where they were, I stepped on something and thought it was a piece of glass. I felt pain on the side of my left big toe. I tried to ignore it for awhile but the pain grew from bad to worse. 

I limped back to shore with much difficulty. Then I sat down the sand and inspected my toe. I found a small puncture. I pinched my toe and let the blood flow out and it felt like there was a piece of small glass inside the wound.

I got a piece of broken shell with a sharp point and started to open the wound with it. It only double my discomfort and found nothing inside.

Thirty minutes had passed and my toe had swelled plus the pain covered the entire toe now and it was shooting up my foot. The was the time I went to look for the life guard.

The life guard who was sweeping the cemented path didn’t know what to do. That made me wonder. . . a life guard could not help me. So I walked away and noticed he did a good job in sweeping. Maybe if I wasn’t breathing when I walked over towards him, he could have helped me.

Forty five minutes and still in pain, my wife told me probably it was a jellyfish. Upon hearing that I remembered Spongebob’s friend Squidward Tentacles who said “there’s nothing to do in Bikini Bottom but get stung by jellyfish.” But it was not a jellyfish.

I told my family to pack up. I went ahead and they followed.  The kids were having the time of their lives but I really need to get home and thought of calling an ambulance.

At home my son Lukie got his encyclopedia of animals. He flipped the pages where the fishes were and started to look for the fish who hurt his father. That melted my heart.

My wife suggested that I’d better go to Ed’s house, a neighbor, and he drove me to the hospital.

In the emergency room the nurse told me there is nothing she could do except soak my foot in hot water. So she got a bucket, I placed my painful foot inside and she poured hot water in it. After awhile the excruciating pain died down and we went home.

My friend Ed laughingly told me that I only had my calluses softened in the hospital.

The next day, while I was at work, I told my colleague Marco what had happened. We started laughing when he told me how he went through what I had experienced. He also told me it was a “pesce ragno” that stung me.

The weaver fish is a small edible fish and it’s correctly called Weevers. In the old days people who got stung cut off their fingers or foot in a desperate attempt to relive them of the pain (Wikipedia).

There was an instant where I thought I might die from the sting. And while I was at the beach cursing, twisting and moaning I remembered my teacher. My teacher who is very ill and in great pain lying on her bed. Who could only utter the words, “is it time?”

Two days ago I called her when I got hold of her number. The man I talked to politely told me that my teacher was resting and could not talk because of her cough. He added that I’d better try the next day and I didn’t.

I don’t have the courage to call her anymore, to talk to her and say “thank you”. I’m afraid I might make things worse for my Ma’m Clarita.

To relieve me from my cowardness, I had done what my teacher had taught me and that is . . . . . to write.

I guess the Weever has taught me a lesson. . . . that life brings us all sorts of pain. And that we learn from our sufferings, we grow from our agony, we endure the wrechedness even though it would mean that we might loose the ones we love.

My Morrie

During lunch break, after I finished eating, I went to check on my e-mail in the hotel. Maybellene Gapuz Galuba, a high school classmate of mine, informed me what our teacher Mrs. Sumahit is going through now. As I logged out I successfully fought back my tears from falling then I went back to work.

I was alone inside the service elevator and when I pushed the button for ground floor, I broke down and cried.

The last time this happened to me at work was when the children of Gaza were dying. I wrote a piece for those children to ease my pain. And here I am again trying to ease my pain.

Mrs. Clarita Sumahit was our Journalism teacher in first year at University of Baguio Prep High School. She had long hair with curls, dressed neatly everyday and she was one teacher who never raised a voice or got angry at anybody. And that made her one of the most beloved teachers at UB high.

Ma’m Sumahit was fond of giving us pop quizzes. Where she would say the meaning of ten words and we would try to write down what those words were. It was tough and no one would get pass by three correct words. She praised me one time when I guessed the word “confetti” even though I spelled it wrong.

It was during my sophomore year where depression hit me. I couldn’t tell where it came from or why. One day I woke up then “BAM” I was blue. I couldn’t shake it off and didn’t tell anybody.

One day while I was climbing up those steep step at UB high, I saw Ma’m Sumahit coming down for her P.M. class. She said hello and asked how I was doing. I don’t know why, but I told her the truth.

Whatever she said to me that day were long forgoten. But I thank her for listening, caring and giving advice even though she was all ready late for her class.

Probably it wasn’t only for my family name that she took me to become a reporter for the school paper UB Newslite. She didn’t ask me, she just said I’m one of the reporters.

I wasn’t good at writing. I wasn’t good at any subjects back then. In fact I struggled with my grades. But as an adviser for the school paper, Ma’m Sumahit took me. I think she was the only person who believed I could write.

But it would take many years before I could find my “quill” and start to write.

I’m happily married with two boys. I’m a porter at a hotel here in Italy. A part time maid and I write, thanks to Mrs. Sumahit.

I thank her for believing, at a time where I only took the job as a reporter for kicks.

If the author Mitch Albom’s greatest mentor was Morrie Schwartz, mine is Clarita Sumahit. She is my Morrie.

Something I Would Say

Charice Pempengco wasn’t on my mind when I welcomed Andrea Bocelli and his partner Veronica Berti into the hotel. When the Italian Tenor was getting off from the water taxi, his fiancèe said he didn’t need help and stepped out holding onto Miss Berti’s hand.

Our Hotel trained us to converse with our arrivals. But that day all I could say was ” Buongiorno Signor Bocelli. I should have mentioned my “pizana”, who sang with him sometime ago.

My colleauge and I brought up the suit cases into their room and Veronica Berti thanked us and got no tip.

That was the first and last time I saw Mr. Bocelli. He stayed inside the suite, room 308, most of the time till the next day for his concert at Piazza San Marco.

During lunch time, the day the singer came, I bragged to my workmates, like it was a big deal, that I brought in the famous tenor. Our female met came in and saw Fabbio, a waiter for breakfast,  had filled his plates with so much food. The Met irked by what she saw  began bashing Fabbio and his food with words.

“You do not fill your plate with that much food” she lamented, adding that he should also think of the others who will be coming in late to eat. “What if they won’t find any thing more for lunch?” the met ended.

Deeply embarrassed, Fabbio mumbled, “Si va bene.” Lowered his head and ate slowly.

Like the rest of employees in the mess hall, I was shocked by what had happened.

“Fabbio” I blurted out, “Eat all you can eat. The whole world is in economic crisis, children die in poor countries and we throw food like garbage in this hotel. The ones who will be coming in late won’t die of hunger, they can eat at the next turn or the third”.

The met left. The room fell in silence and I was the only one who heard what I said.

Then I heard a voice saying the word “COWARD!” and I heard it loud and clear.

At half past three in the afternoon, I helped a taxi driver unload six heavy luggage off the boat. Then helped our three guests get off too greeting them warmly even though it was burning hot that day and made small talk.

A married couple, maybe past their fifties, and their adult son were from Canada. I figured that out from the maple leaf design on the tags of their bags. The taxi boat was pre paid and the wife handed out a 50 euro bill to the driver as a tip.

“Holy cow, mother mary, what the hell. . . . . a 50 euro tip for a taxi driver! Boy they make more money than the doctors here, have second homes near a beach or in the mountains, have two i-phones on their dash boards and a big tip!”  I kept on muttering these words while I was pushing and pulling the heavy bags inside the hotel.

I took care of the bags professionally, brought them in the room and placed them perfectly on the racks. The husband said that his wife was in another other room where their son was and she would give me the tip.

I rushed quickly to the other room on the next floor and met them on the way as they were heading back. After placing  the son’s bags in his room, I returned once again to the other room and found the door closed.

Thirty minutes later, putting on my thickest face (like the Ilokano saying: “puskulam ti rupam”), I rang the room once. But no one answered, they must be out on the terrace. I got back to work on the same floor carrying out the laundry and tried to forget all about the tip.

The wife gave me a fright when she came in the stock room and asked for more pillows. I got two normal ones and a pair of feathered pillows. The chamber maid came as I was slipping in the pillow covers and said, “that’s my job”. I told her I was just helping and she thanked me.

I brought them in and laid the head cushions on the sofa and just as I was about to leave I asked, “I’m very sorry Ma’m, I brought up your bags earlier and your husband said you were to give me a tip?”

“Oh, I’m sorry” she said and countinued, ”Ooh, I can’t find my purse.”

She was out of sight for a moment and said something to me. Then she handed out 40 euros. I took them with a wide smile on my face. I said thank you very much and she closed the door.

As I walked through the corridor, I wondered what she meant when she said to me, “That is something you would say.”

The Blue Year

I wish I could remember some of the memorable happenings when I was a sophomore. My memory fails me now as I try to recall.

As we climbed up a level, our classroom was better lit this time. Now we had real windows and could see the sky.

When christmas party came, our adviser Mrs. Jacaban, got in trouble with the faculty and head of school.

We made a fruit punch and thanks to our teacher, she let us spike up the drink with gin. We held our alcohol well and no one vomited (I think). But Mrs. Jacaban had made her mistake.

If there was one teacher who loved to drink, it was Sir Bagnus Cudiamat. A seasoned journalist whose collum at the city papers untitled, “Apros ken Kudkod” is still missed and of course he taught us journalism. Mr. Cudiamat would come into class, recess time was still an hour away, with a scent of a saint; San Miguel, in his breath. He would begin the class and talk to the blackboard.

At this year I had my second fight, this time it was serious. We were all at the Athletic Bowl practicing our cheering routine when the fight was set up by the promoters.

Outside the bowl my adversary quickly brought me down, sat on my belly and rained his fists down on face. He only stopped when I poked a finger in his eye where he got off me and we both stood up. I was ready to get back at him when all of a sudden his promoter stopped the fight.

I was black and blue, red with a nose bleed and a cut on the lip.

When we got back at the bowl, my backer told me I could still win the fight. He pointed at my enemy who sat at the rim of the oval with his back against us. I ran, then jumped and kicked him hard on the head. The blow got his face burried in the ground. Then I ran again.  Away from my opponent this time.

He chased me with a big rock on his hand and I found Sir Bagnus under a tree and sat with him. When I told him what had happened, my teacher stood up and shielded me from a possible flying rock.

Later, when my father got news about the fight, he told me that my opponent is his “ina-anak” in baptism.

I should have listened more to the lectures of Mr Cudiamat, I owe him that. I could have been a better writer now. But that is beside the point. He was there for me when I was in danger but I wasn’t there for him when he always tried to teach me at class.

I dedicate this to our teacher Sir Bagnus Cudiamat who is now in heaven teaching journalism to angels.

The Green Year

Mr. Lopez could bring the house down without even trying. He was funny enough to be one of the most popular teachers at UB prep. Small, dark, chubby and well groomed; he was our class adviser at first year.

One time he asked the class what do our parents tell us before we go out the house. Without even raising my hand I blurted out, “drink moderately”. My classmates’s laughter stoped when Mr. Lopez’s face went into a serious mode and asked the same question again.

There was nothing fresh about being a freshman at UB prep. We were held way down the high school building near the Dangwa terminal. It was like a dungeon and our classroom was poorly lit. The smile of Carmela Batil, one of my classmates, was way brighter than the dim flouricent lights. Carmela was small but her looks took her to compete for the school pageant. One teacher advised her to eat plenty of potatoes, to make her tall. I thought milk was better because to a Benguet beauty like Carmela, potatoes would only make her legs bigger.

The ones sitted near the wooden wall that divided us from the next room, had dificulty in concentrating on what whatever that was being taught, because they could hear the other teacher in the next room lecturing another subject.

Geofrey Dagarag nominated me as class vice president and he became my friend. I won by a mudslide. All those who voted for me didn’t know that I was as dumb as a rock. In the suceeding years to come no one dared to nominate me again for any position.

We also elected for our muse. And I remember one nominee who wore a yellow skirt. She kept covering her mouth with her hand when they were presented infront for class viewing. This nominee became my first.

The dark and deep stairs that led to Dangwa had some graffiti on the walls. The names of some students; Jodrix, Madrix, Orlix, Hodrix and so on were visible in silver glittering spray paint.

The names of my classmates that sounded nice and cool were Shedrac Ciriaco, Van Clayton Pagaduan, Yvette and Monday Wagis.

I had my first fight with an afternoon kid name Mavin Diocares. It all started when we both knew we had the same liking for a girl. The referee, Ronald Quirimit, another classmate of mine, took all the punches and kicks and spit that we threw at each other. It was declared a draw after and Ronald survived the beating. 

The brians of the class were mostly males. Geofrey was one, then there’s Jonathan Montemayor, Micheal Ochoco and Julius Paduyao. The only girl I knew who topped back then was Minerva, but she was with the P.M. class.

I think it’s safe to say that the first person to believe I could write was Mrs. Clarita Sumahit. She taught us Journalism and was the adviser of the UB Newlite school paper. Mrs. Sumahit took me and Edwin Oligo as reporters.

One of the coolest places to hangout was at the Dap-ayan hall. With its red carpeted steps and pine wood furnishings, I fell in love with this place. The view from there of the city market and the disaster waiting to happen condemned building of the Hilltop Hotel, was breathtaking. There was a black grand old piano on the stage. And we held leadership seminars and afternoon dances at the Dap-ayan.

The secluded steps of the RnR canteen, that sold us corned beef sandwich on a bun which was 99% potato and 1% corned beef, was another site.

At the side of the downward road that lead to the high school building from Asumption road, stood Alnos trees. And students sit at the ledges where the Alnos gave shade was a nice hangout too.

Campomanes where no one played chess at those chesstables. The library at the Commerce building. The scouting office of Sir Jorge Borja and I remember there was a makiwara there. All these were nice “tambayans”.

Finally the morge at the top of the Engineering building. With the foul smell and dead bodies laying around, there I had my first kiss with the nominee earlier. We also puffed and smoked Marlboros there.

All these places are gone now and these led me to do this piece. To remember and at least preserve the memories of being a freshman at UBHS.

Black Ribbons

On Good Friday I was assigned to tie black ribbons made of cloth on the flags we have here in the hotel. We couldn’t pull down the flags in half mast because the poles are to short. So the ribbons would give gesture that we are in mourning like the rest of Italy. It was my first time to do this.

I thought of the people who lost their lives in the earth quake while I was making an overhand knot with the black cloth. I went back to the 1990 quake too, back home. Then I remembered how Diego, my wife’s patron, told her one day how embarassing was the Prime Minister Silvio Brulusconi’s comment on the in coming President of the United States Barrak Obama. Saying that Mr. Obama is “tanned”.

I’m amazed by the innocence of the PM’s observation on the disaster this time. He said that the devastated area “loks like a camping site” (for tourists). Diego won’t be here to talk about this to my wife because he killed himself.

Lukie saw that my wife was crying when she got the news on the phone. When he understood what just happened, Lukie placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder and said, “It’s okay Mama you will still find another job”.

I’m so relieved on how innocent my son took this loss.

Lovelyn cleaned, washed, ironed and cooked for Diego and his family. She visited, more than once, his employer when he was in the hospital. She often told me that he was a good man. Then when Diego got his first brush of death, due to a heart attack, that’s where things started to crumble.

Diego got depressed, felt lonely and useless. He talked about his two children and how they changed and also about the divorce that was mutual. He often times told her about suicide.

Lovelyn tried to help even though she didn’t know how to. She talked to Diego and listened to him too. Then one night she had a dream, it frightens me when she has this nightmares because she sees dead people and sometimes she fells them too, she saw a coffin but couldn’t know who died. Lovelyn knew, that night when it awakened her, that someone will pass away.

The last time Lovelyn talked to Diego, she wondered why he was only taking a brief case to Piemonte, Diego’s home town for a week, and left it for my wife to see it near to where she was ironing. Lovelyn was worried so she sent him a text message and Diego assured her that he made the five hour drive safely.  

When we talk about it, it made sense to everything but it’s over now.

It would be hard on my wife these following weeks maybe months, where she wouldn’t have to wake up early to get to work. Where she wouldn’t have to chase boats and buses to get in time to Diego’s house. Where she would only have our house to clean, cook and work on. She will miss her good patron.

She cries a lot but I know she will get over it. Lovelyn is one tough cookie much stronger then me. And I know she will also find time to untie the black ribbon she has on her and forgive herself.

In Service for a Better Life?

I think Mr. Chip Tsao is addressing the Fillipino fashion designer Boyet Fajardo on his peice he wrote. Probably it dawned on him, when he read about the news on the fashion designer, that Filipinos could now really be a threat in claiming the disputed Spratly Islands.

Filipino workers here in Italy must always flex their muscles at their patrons to show them that they are capable of scrubbing toilets day in day out.

Many Filipinos were outraged, running amok on the web criticizing  Mr. Chip on his article. The Philippine government shouldn’t be preoccupied too much about this, the Chinese government should.

The Overseas Filipino Workers of today are called “Heroes” (Mga Bagong Bayani ng Bayan). I don’t know why they call them “heroes?” Maybe because the OFWs have something in common with our World War II veterans, who are still fighting to claim for their pensions or benefits from government agencies. The veterans are luckier than the OFWs, because they can always show their war medals at any government office to prove they are WW II veterans.

Here the OFWsare suffering from the same problems they encounter back home. At Philippine embassies and consulates, when they ask for assistance, the government employees run OFWs in circles.

The price of being an OFWhero is a broken family. The core of Filipino family values are often harshly tested by working abroad. And when you hear their stories it will only break your heart.

Like the “TNT” who was frantically searching for fellow Pinoybalikbayans to take an extra person with them. It’s difficult for her situation that’s why she is sending her months old daughter back home.

There’s the father who only takes five euros from his monthly pay for a pack of cigarettes and the rest he sends back home.

The wife who confessed to her husband that she had an affair. Every time she comes home from work she was tired, lonesome and depressed. One day she met this guy who filled the void in her life.

The Italian police labeled a letter writenby a Filipino teenage as evidence when they investigated his death. The boy wrote that he was being bullied and taunted at school because his peers said he was gay. Case closed.

Many OFWparents are worried about their children back home because the money they send isn’t enough to comfort and guide their kids to the right path to growing up.

A father in the Philippines tries to be a mother to her adolescent daughter who had just had her first menstruation.

And how about the teenagers who spends their parents earnings on wrong and destructive vices.

Filipino care givers here often times are paid more than any other immigrant workers. Maybe because Filipinos add a special ingredient into their work.

Tiyay, a native of Iloilo, took good care of an old Italian lady till her death. When her employer was sent to live the rest of her remaining months in a hospital, Tiyay stayed with her even in the nights where she didn’t even had a bed to rest on. Tiyay was the only person at the old woman’s funeral who cried like rain and wailed uncontrollably much to the amazement of the deceased family and friends.

Rebecca Stepenson, an English woman who lives and work in Venice, always let her Filipino part time maid and family use the masters bedroom to sleep in while Rebecca and her husband are out of the country for a month or so.

There’s Boy, a good cook and driver. He was worried about his employer’s health because everything he cooks they eat and want more. One time he told me that he thinks his patrons have Filipino blood in them now because when he served them Orate (a Mediterranean fish) in Paksiw, he could hear their slurps in the hall way salvaging what is left on the fish’s head.

Filipino care givers keep their employers families in tack while their own families are in pieces.

And like any other Filipino parent, I know when my sons will tell their children and grand children what line of work their mama and papa had, they will be proud of what we did. I know this because we are Filipino.

A Dose of Home

THE PHILIPPINE CONSULATE GENERAL Milan

I went to the Philippine Consulate in Milan two days ago. The office used to be at the heart of the city, near Duomo, then it transferred somewhere else.

The directions given to me were easy. First, take the sub way from the Central Train Station and get off at S. Ambrogio. Then walk a few yards to a bus stop and take the bus that goes to Piazza Vesuvio. Finally at Piazza Vesuvio look for Via Stromboli no.1. Piece of cake, no. . . . .? so I hailed a cab.

A Filipina filling up a form

I was greeted warmly by fellow Filipinos outside the building. Everybody offered me food. From siopao, hoppia, langonisa, to red eggs and etc. I told them first things first. 

In another building I got my picture taken then I filled up the form, got my documents photo copied and then went back to the Consulate building. While walking I noticed that I looked stoned in my photo.

The guys hanging outside offered me food again. I have to get inside I told them.

There were two women working at the three counters for releasing, processor and cashier. Both were not smiling. The Processor checked my papers and the cashier took my money and told me to wait in the processing room.

At the processing room, a guy wearing a suit typed my documents in a computer. He looked like a comedian and I saw that he married twice because he wore a ring on both ring fingers. A girl came in and asked him where she can get a number.

“What number?” he asked back. “The numbers for lotto?” I was right he was a comic!

Then I went to another desk. The guy behind it wore a suit too. His glasses made him mush more professional. He asked me the correct pronunciation of my name, if my mother is a foreigner and where I’m from here in Italy.

A young Filipino walked in and conversed with another male employee at another table. The young man left then came back again to ask the same question he had earlier.

The employee said, “Second floor. Look for Virgie but just call her ’Gie’. He was about to explain the name calling when the guy with the glasses cut him off.

“She doesn’t like to be called Virgie because she is not a virgin anymore.” he said in a serious tone.

I answered and signed my name on a document without understanding it. The guy with the glasses didn’t explain anything to me and I didn’t ask. 

Then everything  was over in an hour but my new passport will be “released” on the 29th next month.

THE ROLLING FILIPINO FAST FOOD

It was lunch time when I left the Consul edifice. The guys were still out there so I ate, no, I swallowed a siopao on by the side walk. I made them laugh when I told them that I was an Igorot. After I bought more siopaos and two packs of langonisa for home, I went to the Filipino Fast Food nearby.

The Rolling Filipino Fast Food

I was happy clicking my camera away when all of a sudden a Filipina confronted me saying that I should ask the owner or the employees of the fast food first before shooting. She was right, dead on. And when she asked my purpose for shooting, I told her it’s for my blog. That’s where we went into this little argument.

This left me a little embarrassed and felt the apprehensiveness of some of the Filipinos there but didn’t understand where it came from. I’m not there to report on them and tip them off to the police, “they’re not violating any laws!” and I’m not doing them any harm. I didn’t ask because we were all Filipinos there. Anyway I let it die down and stood there observing.

While some employees of our government went in an Italian cafe, all the Filipino immigrants there had lunch at the side walk or in the park where the fast food was.

Someone lifted me up from my mental discomfort when she said that she will also take pictures of the “FFF” and upload it on her friendster. I smiled at her and later she wrote down her e-mail when I requested so I could add her at friendster. Her name is Liezl Gonzales.

I saw a man who was sifting through the garbage. He took out styrofoam plates out and placed them on the other yellow grabage sack. Later he lit up a cigarette. He looked haggard and that meant only one thing, he’s hard working and industrious. I gestured to him for a cigarette and he offered without hesitation. While we smoked I asked him where he’s from, he told me Santiago, Ilocos Sur. I told him I was from Baguio and I am an Igorot, he laughed heartily like I was joking. His name is Edward and he owned the “FFF.” His wife and daughter were busy serving the hungry Pinoys.

I connected well with Edward. We traded jokes and he mentioned that the police often comes by to respond to calls from very concerned Italian citizens. He nearly sacrificed an arm and a leg to get a piece of paper that would allow him to feed hungry Filipinos.

Edward’s daughter came out for a break and asked where I’m from. His father answered for me and added that I’m an Igorot. Edward’s daughter laughed and slapped him on the side of  his shoulder saying, “Si Daddy naman!”

Wow! I was really making a “killing” by being who I am!

I didn’t know how to get back to the train station, but a young woman from Batangas made it sure I didn’t get lost. Karen Gonzales guided me till I took the right subway train. She also wrote down her e-mail for me and would probably invite my family and I on the christening of her first baby. Karen is happily married and three months pregnant.

As the train for Venice moved on, I stared out the window and appreciated all the things that happened to me to that day.

I made new friends and they gave me a wonderful feeling of being back ”home.”

I also learned one important lesson.

Give respect to your own people just like what you give to the citizens of your host country.

The Gas Bill and the Pidocchi Pets

THE GAS BILL

Yesterday was the start of my “ferie” or holiday. I don’t have work for a week so I took Dylan out for a bicycle ride this morning and run some errands.

Here in Italy, we pay the bills for water, gas, electricity and so on at the post office. The Poste Italiane also serves as a bank. So we went there and I paid our monthly rent of the house and that slices my monthly salary into half. I also took care of the phone bill and Internet.

I think Dylan enjoyed the ride, the sun was out and it was really a nice day. When we got home I checked the mail box and took out a letter. It was from the Gas, Water and Garbage company. Yes, they’re all rolled up into one. I prayed, before opening it, that it won’t ruin my day with my son. The envelope was thick and I quickly shuffled the papers to look for the sum total to surprise my self. When I saw that there were four digits, excluding the two digits for the cents, I nearly fainted. I really almost did.

As soon as I placed Dylan down the bike, he ran towards his plastic toy dog with wheels that he rides and pushes around. I said to myself they probably made a mistake or at least they should have made one. But the records were clear and true.

Poor little Dylan, he went to play alone as I just stood there watching him. My mind never fails to do its job of thinking of other problems to connect to the gas bill. Like, we will likely postpone our trip back home this year again. The next was that I don’t have the tips from work this week because I’m on a holiday. Another was, this is the most troubling one, that our labor union at the hotel thwarted an attempt by the managers to hold a meeting, with us the dependents, about probably some lay offs this month and the next. The union wasn’t given the proper notice for this meeting so they succeeded in stopping it.

The word lay off is a frighting word specially in these times. I’m predicting that the first person to go is no other than yours truly! Because I have a seasonal work contract and not a fixed one.

I would like to add just one more problem from my mind’s list. Just for the sake of prolonging this entry. On Wednesday we have to go to the immigration office to renew our papers. I religiously pay my taxes but here you need to spend more for your work permit.

Suddenly my mind miraculously thought of one good idea, thank God! I left my son for a minute to run inside the house and turn off the damn thermostat.

The Pidocchi Pets

Two days ago my seven year old son, Lukie, happily pulled out a wiggling tooth. At bed time he placed his white precious gem underneath his pillow and went to bed with a smile on his face. When he woke up the next morning his tooth disappeared and he found a ten euro bill instead.

When he got home from school yesterday, while we were having our merenda, another tooth fell. Boy! Was he lucky or what! He did the same ritual and in the morning the tooth was gone and he got another ten euros.

Today coming home from school again, Lukie wore the sweetest smile when he came in the door. With the two missing tooth amplifying the “TH” sound, Lukie joyfully informed us that another one of his gems was wiggling. Oh brother, I told my self, enough already with this. There’s a financial meltdown for christ sake! He was scratching his head when he told us. For once, just once, I hope the Tooth Fairy would pick up the tab for this one! What we didn’t know that he also brought home some “petS”. Mind you that’s with an S.

When I was slightly older than Lukie, I brought home stray puppies. Now that I’m a father I’m still sure the puppies were stray. Anyway those were the  problem free days where life was simple. In our time now we can’t have a dog or a cat. We can’t afford to rise any pets. Don’t get me wrong I want me kids to have pets but now is not a good time. Let me repeat that again “NOT A GOOD TIME”.

While we sat all together on the table having tea and cookies, Lukie still kept on scratching his top. My wife, annoyed with the head scratching, quickly inspected our son’s head. Like a concerned mother ape, she combed using her fingers, Lukie’s hair. In a split second she screamed “PIDOCCHI!” And in an instant she ordered me to buy an anti pidocchi shampoo.

The anti pidocchi shampoo burned a hole worth thirteen euros, “13 euros,” through my wallet. It burned through the thick receipts I had in there, if you really want to know the truth! Killing them pest petS cost money these days.

Lukie would have to wait after dinner to wash his head. In the mean time I was curiously crazy about my son’s pidocchi. I wanted to see them petS with my own eyes. So what I did was search the house for a comb with teeth that have very narrow gaps between them. I found one and took the most white bond paper I could find, placed it on the table, asked Lukie to bow his head facing the paper and I combed him down. Several strokes later, WALA, one gray pidocchi fell on the bond paper. It wriggled while I continued and another one, a smaller one, fell.

My wife went running out the bedroom when she heard us rejoicing in our hunt. We only found two but that was enough to put us all in high. It was a good killing. Squashing the tics and hearing the loud tic beneath my finger nails, my finger nails I remind you, not my wife’s finger nail, was . . . . . . I’m lost for words to describe  the feeling. Wow, is all I could think of now.

Before bed time my wife shampooed Lukie’s hair thoroughly, rinsed it well then blow dried it. She inspected it again and spent quite awhile with him that night.  Finally she came in our bedroom as I was reading Dylan his favorite book entittled Spot. It’s about a dog. Moving on, she told me that there were still a lot of pidocchi eggs in our son’s hair. I think she was a bit delighted that the eggs were still there so she could spend some extra quality time with Lukie. Being a Filipino we simply love this pass time. Then she took Dylan for breast feeding and all of us got a good night’s sleep.

It’s kinda funny how these little creatures made us forget about the gas bill and ending our day with a smile in our hearts.