Sunday musings
On Urgello St. in Barangay Sambag 1, nestled between an establishment that caters to lovers on a budget and a dormitory run by nuns, are two two-story structures that have seen better days.
One houses an eatery that has served the neighborhood for over four decades, dishing out signature dishes like humba and beef steak.
The other bears a facade common among residential homes built after the war, a confused mix of the modern and the old with intricate details that could only be seen on closer inspection, hidden under layers of dust and soot.
An architect and his family used to live there before they sold it to my grandparents in the 1960s. My grandparents later turned it into a ladies’ boarding house.
Today, it has become a repository of some sort, brimming with old books, broken beds, disfigured chairs, a hodgepodge of items collected over the years.
The property may not be what it used to be when my grandmother was alive--immaculately clean, surrounded by pots of plants and fishponds filled with her goldfish and Koi--but it continues to be my go-to place after work.
It’s where I unwind. Where I try to leave or forget the stories I encounter at work.
News of children being pimped by their own parents. Of government officials brazenly trying to defend indefensible acts. Of individuals under the influence of illegal drugs running amok. Of bandits terrorizing others parts of the country. Of families losing their homes to fires caused by children left alone to play with matches.
These are thoughts I do not want to take home with me in Banilad. I don’t want them to be the last thing on my mind before I call it a day.
And so I have become a de facto sentinel at my grandmother’s house on Urgello St.
I stay awake while most of the neighborhood sleeps, armed only with a pen to solve crossword puzzles; a tablet to listen to Jose Jose, female jazz greats and Manila Sound on Youtube; and my ubiquitous “milk.”
Sometimes I have company—mostly younger cousins who think they can outdrink the master— but more often than not, I am alone.
I know, to most Filipinos the thought of not having any company is almost anathema, but I actually prefer it that way.
So I’m out there. For everyone to see. I may be partially concealed by a wall but the grilled gates cannot hide me from the many passersby.
And yes, there are many. Even in the dead of night. I thought their numbers would dwindle when Davao City mayor Rodrigo Duterte became president. I thought the streets would be quieter past midnight. But who am I kidding?
It’s Urgello. Where foul-mouthed girls and boys, who just reached puberty, roam. Where college students drink and puke by the roadside. Where couples wash their proverbial dirty laundry in public. Curfew? What curfew? But guess what, though? I don’t want any of that to change.