trip to cubao

Three years after - different apartment, different occupation, different music, different books - Cubao is still the same for me.



October 19, 2005/ Sa Overpass

It has been alternating days of waking up late at ten in the morning or waking up early at six. Aside from the waking hour there really isn’t much difference between the two. I still make myself a cup of coffee as soon as I wake up, check my email and afterwards decide what book to read. I’m usually too lazy to go out so I don’t move from my seat until after twelve when I fix something for lunch and wolf it all down in five minutes. I have another cup of coffee after that and resume reading. I swear, if I were man I would be a terrible, terrible slob. As it is, I’m already on the way to getting there.

The other day I managed to get myself out of bed early, take a shower and get out of my apartment before noon. I found myself at Cubao after an uneventful ride on a bus that smelled faintly of mangga and bagoong. I’ve never crossed the overpass near Farmer’s market in the day before. Usually it would be at around 8 or 9 in the evening when I find myself crossing EDSA, waiting to have dinner with a friend. Why Cubao for a dinner date? Simply because it was the most convenient, just a single bus ride both ways.

Late in the afternoon, holed up in one corner of Mister Donut having a cup of coffee and pretending to read a book, I watched as the pedestrian traffic traversing the mall increased. Here were all the men and women going home from their day job, getting off the MRT, crossing the mall to get a ride somewhere else. I watched for hours as all these beautiful people go through the rituals of daily living. I think to myself, aside from the people minding their stores around the area, no one really stays at Cubao for long during the day. But between 5 and 8 pm Cubao seems to be teeming with life. It appears to be at the heart of everything until one realizes that it serves as nothing but an unremarkable stop on the way to one’s destination. Just like an airport. An airport is never really a destination in itself, it is just a means to get to one. I think to myself: if I was here earlier there would be an entirely different set of people passing through.

And I watch as the people shuffle tiredly along.

Listening to: Wine, Women and Song (Harvey Danger)
Reading: The Tesseract (Alex Garland)