Give it to an old man-aging if you wish-to pine for the perfect breakfast.
I am in the far-off South as I speak and yesterday, I struggled with a set breakfast in this small hotel. The choice was the usual fried rice with sausage or corned beef, predictable fare until the steward began explaining the added spices, which when queried, presented with details that would pose a challenge to my morning frustration.
I am a bread guy. The most basic pan de sal makes me happy and when butter, salted and of good hotel variety, at least, presents itself, I am happy. Lately, I have realized the unsalted butter has yielded itself as common in most hotels. Uncertain as to where this fashion is coming from or if this is part of any sumptuary law, the unsalted butter has become one of my frustrations anywhere I go.until this very morning when I found out that there would be a morning when I would be facing down my plate of omelette, and contemplating how gross vegetables can become when one does not like the presentation at all.
Then and there, I promised to look the next day for the best bakery. There should be at least a few meters outside my hotel. Or some pastry shops.
Ever the person with the positive view of things, I know myself. I have the ability to find, well, eternity in an hour. More or less. Already, I began this journey to the south with the most bureaucratic route, completing what my airline ticket tells me to do, which was to fly at six in the morning and wait it out in the airport for the next six hours for my next flight. This means meditating over cups of coffee and in between subsisting on porridge and salad and, after much digressing, giving in finally to the desire of my heart-a sip of Coke Zero.
The guilt notwithstanding, I could hear my endocrinologist and cardiologist and my sister and all their fair warning but I am all keyed up for an adventure. I am much braver now, I tell myself, I should be having fun. I should be a bit laid back, bored even, insouciant, weary for the world, a little bit bohemian, altogether pretentious, oh but why not, throw caution to the four or even five winds.
I file away my thoughts and scramble for memories. I searched online and found old photos. There was one tucked somewhere, a quiet scene of Ticao Island. I quickly posted it. A cousin noticed it immediately and commented when I made the visit. I was candid. It’s an old photo.
Something happens when we travel far-we begin to miss our islands, our birthplaces. We feel we are moving far from where we were born. We are almost afraid of not being able to return to our roots, to the beginning.
Here in this hotel, I was looking out into the hills and mountain ranges in the distance. Those are towns and villages. Those mounds hide gold and wealth. They are far and they do not have my memories, nor my childhood. They are far away. We are far from them. Even if I close my eyes, I will have a hard time imagining the island of my birth. Something hides the enchantment of my remembering.
There are new trees, new growth in front of the hotel. These are sad trees because there are no birds. The leaves are very sparse and no bird could hide from these thin leaves. The birds could be somewhere else.
This must be the face of solitude, when one is not able to find the right moment for the ideal morning coffee. Nothing makes sense, not the bitterness in the cup. And so, we go through the ordeal of looking around for the right bread. We walk the extra mile, or at least a few meters. Indeed, I searched high and low for good coffee and in one of the stores, the store manager was solicitous enough to present me with cappuccino. Instant! She went out of her way to temper the instance with the right infusion of water, hoping not to dilute the already artificial version of what I think she was imagining my coffee to be. After the scent from the brew suffused us both, she offered their bread. I politely refused as I already saw the bakery next door.
I went out with my instant Cappuccino, walked to the bakery and bought two pieces of bread. I sat down outside, contented at least, for that morning, as trucks lumbered to eternity past me, bearing all my sorrows and joys till the next mornings of my old life.