NOTE: This is a humor post. Do not take this too seriously. :)

One windy summer day along 104th avenue:

(In Tagalog)

Filipino1: Oh look at these Indians, bring them to Canada and they still wear their Kurta and Sari.

Filipino2: Maybe they don’t have shirts and jeans in India.

Filipino1: I guess so. They’re very out of fashion.

The two Indians walked past the two Filipinos…

(In Hindi)

Indian1: You know what, I can easily recognize which one are the Filipinos here.

Indian2: How?

Indian1: Bring them either to Saudia Arabia, to Canada, or to any part of the world, they’d still wear denim jackets.

Indian2: Ha! ‘Must be their national costume.

:))))

Canada is one of the world’s largest immigrant countries, which means that people here come from all over the world. I don’t feel like I’m different here. All of us in Canada are different.

P.S. Earlier today, a good friend from the Philippines who happened to be on vacation in Seattle visited me in Vancouver. It’s very funny that we met on the other side of the world just to eat at Goldilocks in Downtown Vancouver. LOL

Here’s my friend Allan, a good friend back in college who helped us on our trip to Zambales last year.

There was an unusual silence the moment I felt the plane lose altitude, a silence that came with a weird feeling that I have never felt before. It’s like the drums from the other end of the battlefield started to roll as a signal that the war is about to commence.

When I saw the snow-capped mountains below, I realized that I’m already 6500miles away from home. I have arrived on a new city in a new world.

This city is a lot different than where I come from. You can barely see people walking on the streets, no heavy traffic and before you can cross a street, you must push a button on a pole. People come in different colors, shapes and sizes, speaking languages I have never heard before. The day is a lot longer here and the wind is chilly even on a hot summer day.

My mind has been flooded by the word “change” since I came here.

As I was walking away from the Immigration counter, I was thinking about home. What time is it there? What are people doing? What are they thinking of?

There was a rush of ideas, a sudden need to go back home. But when I saw my mom waving and calling for us, happily bouncing of excitement, I realized that this place COULD and SHOULD be home.

So here it is. Barely 24 hours before I leave the Philippines. I’ve been restless for the past few days because I didn’t expect that saying goodbye to all my friends could be this hectic. I had to be with different groups everyday.

But I enjoyed it, of course. Friends are among the best gifts God ever gave me. And to those who I haven’t had the chance to meet and talk to for the last time, I’m pretty sure there’ll be more to come. Thank you for being good friends.

Earlier today, I tried to ride all of Manila’s MRT/LRT lines in one hour. I’ve never done that before. It’s pretty crazy but trains were the first things that made me love Manila, so I had to give it a little farewell too.

I went home at around ten tonight and it must have been the saddest night of my 5 years of stay here. It’s as if I’m not coming back again. But I’m sure I will. It’s just that I’ve been so attached to this place that I couldn’t let go of it anymore.

But maybe there’s something good to where I’m going. Thank you Philippines for being my home for two decades. I will be back, and when I do, I hope we’ve both grown better. :)

..on my way home, I wanted to take the train again but I was too late. It’s already closed. Even the malls and the small stores are being boarded up already. It’s as if everything in this place is closing down on me and I realized, it really is time to go…

Just before the elections, while everyone was busy campaigning for their own candidates, I posted a status update on Facebook saying that if Manny Villar wins the presidency, I will leave the Philippines. Now that Noynoy Aquino was finally sworn to office, I never thought something worse would actually happen. So I’m leaving the Philippines. Kidding.

Yes, my friends. I’m moving to a new home and will be joining the rest of our family there. I’m leaving for Vancouver next week.

As much as I want to stay, I can’t, even if it means I have to leave so much behind. So instead, I’d like to extend my ‘thank yous’ and ‘goodbyes’ to all of you who made my life in the Philippines something I cannot forget and regret. I didn’t expect that saying “Goodbye” could be this hard. But who knows, I might be back before you know it.

This will be a new chapter in my life and I hope things will be okay. I’m off to a new beginning. :)

When I was a kid, I used to go to church with my whole family. Me, my brother, my mom and my dad. We lived in a small village where everybody knew everybody so we were used to going to mass every Sunday as a whole family. That’s how I was brought up. One time, I went with my mom to line up for the communion. I was 4 that time. She held my hand and led me towards Father Pio Savonarolla, the parish priest. When we reached him, Father Pio gave my mom something like a white biscuit and she ate it. I thought I was going to get one too so I stepped towards him and held out my little hand. To my dismay, he put his hand on my head, gave me a nice pat and a very wide smile. I didn’t took that smile very nicely. Why didn’t he gave me that white biscuit he gave mom? Was it because I was a bad kid? Did Papa Jesus told him that I broke Kuya’s robot toy and hid it somewhere? Or did Papa Jesus told him that I secretly threw away all the contents of my lunch box because I didn’t want to eat rice?

So my mom dragged me away from him. I was crying maybe because I either felt neglected by the priest or guilty by what I did that week. I was literally crying while walking to the pew, both tears and snot dripping all over my shirt. My mom told me to stop crying as it was embarrassing for my teachers who were also there but I didn’t listen. I wanted that biscuit from the Priest. I wanted to be like everyone who received it.

When I reached dad, I hugged him and he carried me out of the church to buy me some bibingka.

That was 16 years ago. Now, I’m all alone sitting at the pew, listening to the gospel recited by this unknown Priest. I’m half-listening, wondering what happened that I’m all alone now. I can’t remember when was the last time we went to Church together. I can’t even remember when was the last time all four of us rode to Church aboard my Tatay’s motorcycle.

But maybe that’s just the way it is. No matter how hard you try to stick together, you’re still bound to be separated.

When I have my own family, I’ll make sure that I’ll take my kids to Church and when they cry about not getting the communion, I’ll also take them out for a walk around the church or probably buy some puto or bibingka for them. Then I’ll tell them it’s what their Lolo did to me when I cried too.

P.S. Thank you for the birthday greetings. I am very much overwhelmed. :)