Mina Deocareza

Sometimes, acceptance comes in a coffee mug

It was an ordinary morning at La Paz Public Market in Iloilo City, and just like any other day, it was business as usual at Madge Cafe. As soon as my husband and I entered the iconic coffee shop, we were greeted by a man who was all smiles. He then led us to an empty table and handed us the menu.

That morning was far from ordinary for me, though. While looking at the list of coffee beverages printed on the menu, all I could think of was how much I’d miss drinking coffee. My stomach had been acting up again in the last couple of days, and it was such a hassle that I thought I should probably put an end to my decades-long coffee obsession. But before giving it up, I wanted to savor one last coffee. Since we were already in Iloilo, I decided to have it at Madge Cafe.

Of course, the irony of it all wasn’t lost on me. I’d been dreaming of visiting that cafe for nearly a decade. In fact, when we started planning that very trip many months ago, Madge Cafe was one of the first stops added to our itinerary. Knowing the rich history of the place, which has been around for over 80 years, I saw that visit as a kind of pilgrimage—one I needed to complete to further affirm my faith in my favorite drink.

But what was I to do? I was growing more worried about my health each day, thinking that if I did not stop, I might soon experience the same level of pain that had sent me to the ER earlier that year. I was so afraid of that possibility that as soon as my husband and I agreed on what to get—puro tab-ang (mild black coffee) for me and iced coffee for him—I had to make a disclaimer that I might just have a sip or two of my coffee. I also suggested that we get some bread to soften the blow of the caffeine on my stomach, even though my stomach wasn’t empty to begin with since we’d just had La Paz batchoy and puto at a nearby Netong’s.

I almost cried when our orders arrived, but I tried my best to not let my tears flow, scared of what the people at the other table might think when they saw me, an overly dressed tourist crying while drinking coffee at Madge Cafe. Instead, I offered a moment of silence. I also took a photo of my drink while marveling at how ordinary it looked, from the stone mug it came in to the blackness of the liquid itself—reminiscent of the barako coffee prepared by my late grandmother in the chilly mornings of my childhood in Antipolo.

I don’t know what exactly happened, but that morning at Madge Cafe felt like a full-circle moment. And somehow, I found peace. All of a sudden, I was fine with the idea, even telling myself: If this really were my last coffee ever, so be it.

Comforted by this realization, I picked up the mug and took a sip of the now-cold coffee. Then I took another, completely forgetting about the bread that was also in front of me.

I succeeded at avoiding coffee the rest of the trip. That was a huge surprise, given the abundance of good cafes in the city. I didn’t become bitter, though, even though my stomach didn’t immediately get better despite the divine combination of my holy sacrifice, my newfound dietary discipline, and some doctor-prescribed medication. I even managed to accept the possibility that we might not be able to travel to nearby towns to see old churches because my stomach issues would probably make commuting difficult.

But then I had a burst of motivation, thinking that things should be okay soon because I’d already done my part. It happened while we were at Breakthrough in Villa Arevalo District on the last full day of our trip.

After a hearty meal of sinabawang isda, chicken inasal, and fresh buko juice, I decided that since we were already there, we should at least tick one item from our list: visit the Santo Niño de Arevalo Parish Church. I’d been wanting to marvel at its architectural beauty with my own eyes, alongside four other churches: St. John of Sahagun Parish Church in Tigbauan, San Nicolas de Tolentino Parish Church in Guimbal, Santo Tomas de Villanueva Parish Church in Miagao, and San Joaquin Parish Church in San Joaquin.

We did exactly that. From the restaurant, we took a pedicab to Santo Niño de Arevalo Parish Church, home to the third-oldest image of Santo Niño in the Philippines. Seeing it got me so excited about visiting more old churches—something I continue to be passionate about even though I now identify as agnostic.

But before going to the next one, we first dropped by Avanceña-Camiña Balay nga Bato, where we were served tablea tsokolate and biscuits after the tour.

My stomach stopped feeling weird entirely, and before I knew it, we were on a jeepney to the next church on our list, pumped with adrenaline and optimistic about the adventure waiting for us in the towns we were about to visit.

In the end, we didn’t just complete our mission; we also made a quick stop in Oton, where we saw the Parish of Immaculate Conception. It might not have been part of our list, but we were glad to also see it with our own eyes, given what we’d learned about it and the old church that used to stand just a stone’s throw away from where it is now.

While marveling at the new church’s facade, which is far simpler than its predecessor’s, I couldn’t help but be amazed at that day’s turn of events and how they had been made possible by my willingness to go with the flow.

Still feeling the high from our triumph, we booked a Grab car to take us back to Iloilo City. It was our the last night of our trip, so we treated ourselves to a nice dinner at Muelle Deli and Restaurant while enjoying the view of the river and the provincial capitol.

Here’s what I didn’t know at the time: It would take only 10 days before I’d start drinking coffee again. But the pain would not return. I’d limit my caffeine intake, give up alcohol for good, and take eating healthy more seriously.

Jul 20, 2025
Fellowship around the fire

Thick, billowing smoke alarmed the passersby on the alley between Coco Grande and Silliman University’s Davao Cottage that Sunday afternoon. One of them, a woman in her 40s, was visibly upset as the smoke engulfed her, likely leaving a scent of something burned on her clothes that looked so pristine. I think she was on her way to church.

I was looking out of the cottage’s chain-link fence at the time, and our eyes met eventually. Awkward. It then occurred to me that the woman might do something drastic like call the authorities. This idea frightened me, so I started walking away from the fence and turned to my co-fellows. I said we should probably do something about the smoke. I was not even sure whether what we were doing—grilling pork belly at the back of the cottage, our home for the duration of the Silliman University National Writers Workshop—was allowed. And considering the material the cottage was made of, plus the age of the structure itself, it was not hard for me to understand that our choice of cooking method posed serious threats.

“Aren’t we getting in trouble because of this?” I asked them.

No one seemed to hear me. But that wasn’t surprising. Amid the frenzy, they were also belting out Britney Spears songs—one of our many common obsessions.

Still concerned about the situation, I looked out of the cottage’s fence once more, this time to get a better view of the Coco Grande guests hanging out on the hotel’s veranda. Unlike the passersby who immediately showed disapproval in their faces upon seeing the smoke, however, they did not seem bothered at all. Perhaps they were already drunk, or maybe they were just too happy to care.

There was no way for me to verify either of my suspicions, but their unbotheredness somehow assured me that everything would be just fine. And before I knew it, I was already busy helping my co-fellows with the grilling, completely rid of all the worries I used to have about the smoke emanating from our makeshift grill. Then all I could think of was feasting on those strips of charred meat with my newfound family.

*

I have always been drawn to the smell of burned meat and the sight of smoke rising from the grill. I know this fondness of mine goes beyond what science dictates. In fact, whenever I try to find out where it all began, I get a flashback of the celebrations our family had at our compound in Antipolo.

Grilled liempo was always a staple at these gatherings, particularly those held on New Year’s Eve, as my grandmother believed eating chicken at the start of another year could usher in back luck. This, according to her, is because of the chicken’s habit known as “isang kahig, isang tuka” (one scratch, one peck), a phrase often used to describe a person who gets barely enough to get by.

Our family’s version of grilled liempo is different from the ones usually served in restaurants and eateries around Metro Manila. It is seasoned only with lots of rock salt and looks rather pale in comparison to the ketchup-stained iterations sold by these establishments. I once asked an aunt about it, and she said it’s simply how people grill liempo in Eastern Samar. I have not been able to verify this, especially since I have not been to our province for more than two decades. And while I found it a little too plain to my liking when I was a kid, I now appreciate it. It is simple and straightforward, and it works like a charm with limited ingredients and low effort, as long as one is working with fresh meat.

My grandfather, who worked as a cook for a high-end Korean restaurant, drank a lot during gatherings, and he usually wanted this version of grilled pork belly for pulutan. No wonder he and his pals, my uncles, and other male relatives normally started grilling pork belly early into the day, in preparation for the drinking session that could last until the next morning. Sometimes, they would even begin passing booze around the open flame.

Grilled meat was not just for the drinkers, though, as it was also customary for them to share some with those who didn’t consume alcohol. This is why my grandfather always kept a separate plate by his side and on it piled strips and strips of perfectly grilled liempo until its contents were close to spilling. He would then call someone to take the plateful of meat to the main house, where hungry non-drinkers would usually wait for blessings in the form of ulam.

There were also times when non-drinkers would simply wait around the open flame, waiting for the plate of meat to be ready. I loved doing this because, apart from watching how the grilling happened, I was also fond of eavesdropping on the drinkers’ conversations. They usually gossiped about people in our sitio or our clan, and I found it so entertaining. This is probably why, to this day, I still love eating barbecued meat with a side of chismis.

*

Money became scarce after my grandfather’s retirement, and everyone else became busy with either work or school. With not a lot of cash to burn and leave credits to spend on special occasions, our family began to settle for smaller, simpler celebrations. Drinking sessions were no longer as grand as before, either, as some of the resident drinkers, as they were called, were now getting older and had been warned by their doctors against consuming too much alcohol and fatty food.

Gatherings grew even quieter after one of my uncles died of a heart attack. It seemed people were finally seeing the link between eating habits and mortality. Even New Year’s celebrations became a little too quiet than I’d been used to—no more merriments around the fire; just humble meals shared in front of the television.

This did not mean I simply forgot how fun it was to eat charred meat while having a great chat with other people, however. In fact, it was quite the opposite. As I embraced adulthood and began the search for my rightful place in the world, I also started to look for more circles around the fire that I could be part of.

The university was a perfect venue for this new quest of mine. It helped a lot, too, that I somehow ended up in UP Diliman, where I felt freer to become whoever I wanted to be. On the campus, I met people I’d also consider family, and of course, we all spent a considerable amount of time sharing food, including grilled meat.

One of my favorite eateries on the campus was the old Beach House Canteen behind the Main Library, which always reminded me of home as an undergrad. The sight of its staff members grilling batch after batch of pork barbecue on sticks underneath a huge tree while patrons patiently waited for their food reminded me of how busy people could get at home when preparing for another grand celebration. The smell it produced took me back to those gatherings, too. Then it made me realize that while the people I was about to share meals with at that canteen—usually friends in the writing program I was enrolled in—were technically not related to me by blood, they were family nonetheless. And I was right. To this day, many of those individuals remain and play important parts in my life.

I felt the same level of attachment to other places serving grilled meat on and around the campus: Mang Larry’s Isawan, where a good friend brought me once to try not only their isaw but also their pork BBQ; Maong’s in Krus na Ligas, from which my writer friends and I ordered pulutan while drinking at Sarah’s; and Grill Queen along Maginhawa Street, where the same friends and I liked having proper meals before drinking our worries away.

When I moved to Galas in Quezon City before the eventual death of a four-year relationship in 2018, it was also around an open flame that I was able to find a sense of belongingness. Although I knew someone in the area, I still felt somewhat like an outsider since it was a place where people practically grew up with each other. But as soon as I began frequenting the carinderias and the panaderias there, I became more familiar with these individuals. I started to form not only a transactional bond with them but also a sense of community.

Yet, I felt I was in the right place when I became a regular at the roadside ihawan right across the panaderia. I think it was because it required customers to literally gather around the fire while waiting for their food to get ready. The thing with this kind of setup is that it makes it a lot easier for people to connect.

One evening, while waiting for my dinner—two sticks of pork BBQ, one hotdog, and one tenga ng baboy—I overheard a conversation between two other customers about a TV series they were following. Also fond of the same show, I looked at them and smiled. They smiled back at me, and that was it. We did not say a word to one another, but it was so clear to me that at the time, they understood what I was thinking.

When traveling, I also tend to look for smoke coming from a grill. I think of it as a smoke signal, as though telling me that somewhere in that area, I can find my people. While visiting Cebu with my husband and some of our friends in 2022, for example, I felt at home at Sugbo Mercado in IT Park, where the sight of smoke rising from stalls offering sinugba gave me a sense of comfort despite the language barrier. And although I was expecting something different with the way meat was being grilled in that part of the country, I also got the assurance that something about it would be familiar for sure. For some reason, this sense of familiarity made it easier for me to feel a certain attachment to the place.

*

I was scared when I arrived at Davao Cottage days before the grill party. The idea of living under the same roof with strangers in the next two weeks did not seem appealing at all, especially after a global pandemic that had conditioned people to become a little too comfortable with their own worlds. I wasn’t even sure if I was ready to socialize with too many individuals in the next few days, so definitely, this setup seemed like a lot.

Luckily, I warmed up to them rather quickly. On our first night, over seven bottles of Red Horse Mucho, I already got a sense of how kind everyone was. Even when disagreeing, people remained respectful toward each other.

Still, I held back. Inside my head, I made up explanations for why they’d kept their cool: Maybe they were just being tolerant to avoid conflict, maybe they did not really mean it, and maybe things would be different the next day.

But that afternoon we shared around the open flame, grilling liempo under the most bizarre circumstances and exchanging stories and trading secrets, I felt I truly belonged.

Now, whenever I look back to that writers workshop, what comes to mind first aren’t the sessions in which we discussed each other’s works. Instead, it is that very same afternoon. I remember the smell of the charcoal burning and the sound of it as it crackled in the unforgiving fire. I remember how the meat hissed as it touched the grill for the first time, as well as how our laughter boomed through the cottage as we took a pair of tweezers from the first-aid kit because we needed something to pick up the meat with. I remember how we joked about being dugyot for making such a decision, especially because we did not even bother to sterilize the instrument.

I remember how the pork smelled on the grill, and how it reminded me of home. I remember singing to “Baby One More Time” while waiting for the meat to cook and how amazed and touched we all were as one of our co-fellows began preparing ensaladang pako and salted eggs with tomatoes using the ingredients he bought from Valencia that morning.

I remember how smoky it got inside the cottage that I started to worry about getting reprimanded by the workshop organizers. I remember how I almost froze as I looked out of the cottage’s fence, particularly when I was greeted by the furrowing brows of the woman who looked so bothered by the smoke. I remember becoming even more paranoid about the situation and how I lost care, anyway, eventually realizing that apart from the passersby, no one cared. Besides, my co-fellows were just happy. They were still talking, laughing, and looking forward to finally eating some grilled pork.

As soon as I stopped worrying, I began to fully enjoy the moment. Even my doubts about the people I was with went away—like smoke curling upward and disappearing into the sky.

An earlier version of this essay was published in Degustación: A Taste of Poetry & Prose, a 2024 zine released by the fellows of the 61st Silliman University National Writers Workshop.

Sep 26, 2024
How to bite back at grief

Grief is weird.

Anyone who has ever grieved the loss of a loved one understands how taxing it is not only emotionally but also physically.

I had not been aware of how physical the act of grieving could be until I experienced it recently with the death of my grandmother who had suffered a stroke and been in a coma for three months.

On top of being overwhelmed with intense emotions, I was also feeling all sorts of physical pain, ranging from tightness in the chest to headaches.

My appetite went haywire, too. But because I knew I could not starve, otherwise my hyperacidity would make things a lot worse, I had to be strategic.

The following are some of the things I resorted to at the height of my grief. Are they reliable? I don’t think so. But then again, desperate times call for desperate measures. I did what I had to do.

Besides, I could not just let grief consume me. I needed to bite back at it and ensure my body could still get the nourishment it needed.

Ask for food

One of the first things I did after finding out that my grandmother had passed was ask for food.

I no longer remember what I had, but I recall telling my husband that even though I wasn’t in the mood to eat, I knew I had to.

Dying, like most things in life, involves logistics. I was sure we were all going to have a long night. I also expected the next few days to be packed with movements and emotions. Things would be intense.

So, before anything, I had to prepare my body by taking in enough food to get me through what was about to come.

If there’s nothing to eat, ask anyone to buy something

Around midnight, I arrived at the funeral home our family had chosen for the wake. I was with my husband, and we immediately noticed that the table where food and refreshments were supposed to be was empty.

It wasn’t surprising since everyone was still shocked by what had happened. Family members had also been busy making funeral arrangements and getting in touch with other relatives.

Because I was starting to feel sleepy and knew I could not have coffee on an empty stomach, I sent one of my cousins to a nearby Dunkin’ to get coffee and donuts for everyone. He happily obliged, and in less than an hour, he and another cousin were back with two boxes of brewed coffee and a dozen donuts.

The donuts they got did not include any of my favorites since they were no longer available. I did not complain, though. I just needed something to fill my stomach with, and those donuts were perfect for the job.

Talk even when your mouth is full

One of the things that helped keep me sane was the support coming from the rest of my family. It also made a lot of difference that we talked a lot about our memories with my grandmother. It made us feel less sad.

Many of these conversations took place while we were snacking on something.

Everyone got the memo that no one could get hungry, as if failure to comply meant being haunted by my grandmother’s ghost. Each time someone would eat, others would follow suit. People would then form a big circle in which they would exchange stories about my grandmother who had had a very rich life.

Good thing, our family is not very strict about keeping one’s mouth shut when it is full. It’s quite the opposite. So, people kept talking even after taking a big bite of whatever they were eating: mamon, pancit, donuts, fries, cup noodles, rice cakes.

Take your time

There was a McDonald’s close to the funeral parlor. It became our go-to place whenever craving iced coffee or any fast food classic.

One night, after enduring a long commute from Makati City via an old, shaky UV Express van that seemed like it would fall apart each time the driver hit the brakes, I asked two cousins to accompany me to the said McDonald’s.

There, we spent around an hour just eating and talking. We recalled fond memories with our grandmother, including really funny ones, while sipping a cup each of iced coffee and sharing one BFF fries.

It felt like my grandmother was still alive.

It felt like our stories were keeping her alive.

It felt like the longer we remained there, the longer she kept living.

I will be forever grateful that we took our time.

When things get tough, drink lots of coffee

I don’t know why exactly, but it was only the day before the interment that it sank into me that my grandmother had died. When it did, I felt weak. My knees shook and I felt like I was about to collapse.

Of course, I turned to coffee—my go-to drug whenever things seemed to fall apart.

When my husband and I got to Antipolo, where the interment would take place, we searched for a cafe where we could kill time. We still had around four hours to burn before the funeral mass.

We ended up at Ellipsis Coffee along P. Oliveros Street. It was a small cafe with a limited number of seats inside. When we got there, there was a group of professional-looking adults who spoke so loudly about evicting informal settlers from a portion of land that had apparently been under dispute. They were so infuriating. Their comments about the poor made me so angry, but unfortunately, I had no spare energy to say a single thing to them.

I was so overwhelmed by my grief, which was so much bigger than what I knew what to do with. And so I just sipped my iced latte in silence. Luckily, the coffee was good.

A couple of hours before the mass, we decided to move somewhere closer to the cathedral. In short, the Starbucks in Victory Park & Shop.

There, I downed a venti glass of iced caramel macchiato while keeping my tears from flooding the entire cafe.

My efforts were not futile. The coffee did its job, giving me the courage I needed to face the reality—I was now living in a grandma-less world.

When everything else seems to fail, make a sandwich

I was barely functioning after my grandmother was buried. There were times when I simply broke down while attempting to do the most mundane things—showering, eating, scrolling on social media, and trying to fall asleep.

My appetite hadn’t gone back to normal, either, and looking for food to entice me became an even harder chore.

But one day, I just got up and felt like making a sandwich.

I then went to the fridge and retrieved my go-to ingredients: sourdough bread, butter, berry jam, forest ham, and gouda cheese. I prepped everything like I normally would and started heating a pan. Like a machine on autopilot, I did my thing.

Before I knew it, a hot sandwich was right in front of me, waiting to be devoured. I did in no time and thought that wasn’t bad at all. It was a good sign.

Once things become a bit more bearable, cook a simple pasta dish

I knew I was finally coping well when I managed to cook my very first pasta dish since my grandmother’s passing. As usual, it was a cacio e pepe—easy to make, even easier to eat.

There was nothing spectacular about the way I prepared it, though, because I was still moving like a zombie.

Still, it was a win for me.

The fact that I now dared to prepare something more than a sandwich was an indication that I was slowly returning to normal programming even though, technically, things would never be the same.

Jun 2, 2024
From delulu to trululu

Magandang umaga sa lahat—sa mga bisita natin ngayon, sa mga guro, magulang, at siyempre, sa mga completer!

Nakarating na tayo sa exciting part! Congrats sa inyong lahat!

Sa mga magulang, kulminasyon ito ng pagsisikap para mabigyan ng magandang buhay ang mga anak. Sa mga guro, pagwawakas ito ng kabanata kasama ang mga estudyanteng ginabayan sa loob ng ilang taon. Sa mga mag-aaral, pagtatapos ito ng isang bahagi ng buhay at pagsisimula ng isa pa.

Marami sa mga completer natin ngayon, tutuloy sa senior high school. Ang ilan, sa kung ano mang dahilan, sasabak diretso sa kung tawagin ay real world. At siyempre, mayroon din mga tutuloy sa pag-aaral habang kumakayod. Sa anumang kategorya ka nabibilang, isa lang ang hiling ko para iyo: Ang magkaroon ka ng buhay na kasiya-siya o fulfilling.

Sa tingin ko, makakatulong sa pagkamit mo nito ang pagsiguro na nasa tama kang kuwento. Gaano man kaganda sa paningin ng iba ang mga nangyayari sa buhay mo, kung ikaw mismo ay hindi kumbinsido na nasa tama kang istorya, malamang, hindi ka masyadong masisiyahan.

Pero paano mo nga ba masisigurong nasa tamang kuwento ka? Mayroon akong ilang tips na puwede niyong sundan.

1. Take charge of your own story

Maging paladesisyon ka. Isipin mo, wala ka sa isang fictional narrative. True story ito, at hindi ka lang basta main character. Ikaw din ang writer. Kaya huwag kang maging extra sa sarili mong kuwento.

Natutunan ko iyan noong second year college ako’t nagipit nang husto ang pamilya namin. Imbes maghintay na bumuti ang sitwasyon, nagdesisyon akong magtrabaho. Sakto, 18 years old na ako noon. Na-hire ako bilang isang part-time academic tutor. Di nagtagal, pinasok ko na rin ang iba pang raket. Sulat-sulat, edit-edit, tutor-tutor para may pantustos sa pag-aaral at pang-araw-araw na pangangailangan, lalo na’t hindi pa libre noon sa UP. Hanggang sa di ko na lang namalayan, nasa finish line na ako. Pinagpatuloy ko lang ang ganoong mindset. Kapag may gusto ako, pinaghihirapan ko. Pinapangatawanan ko ang gusto kong daloy ng kuwento ko.

2. Take what you need, leave what you don’t

Habang isinusulat mo kuwento mo, makakarinig ka ng opinyon ng iba tungkol sa kung ano ang dapat mong gawin. Di ito maiiwasan dahil kahit sa mga literary work, uso ang pagbibigay ng feedback, solicited man o hindi. Pero kahit sa workshop pa iyan, malinaw na bilang may-akda, ikaw pa rin ang masusunod sa huli.

Ganoon din sa buhay. Kahit anong sabihin ng iba, ikaw at ikaw pa rin ang masusunod—kung anong landas ang gusto mong tahakin, kung sa anong paraan, at kung anong standard ng success ang susundin mo.

Mahalaga ang mga ito, lalo na iyong huli. Sa panahon kasi ngayon, madali tayong mabudol ng social media. Kaka-scroll natin at kakasilip sa kung paano mabuhay ang iba, minsan ang dali nating mapaniwala na dapat ganoon din ang buhay natin. Unhealthy ito dahil may iba’t iba naman tayong gusto sa buhay. Iba-iba rin ang mga privelege na mayroon tayo, pati na rin abilidad.

Noong bata pa ako, akala ko, may isang depinisyon lang ng tagumpay. Kaya noong magtapos ako bilang veledictorian noong high school, ramdam ko ang pressure. Dapat maging successful ako. Pero habang tumatanda, naisip kong hindi ko pala trip ang mga bagay na tipikal na iniuugnay sa tagumpay. Puwedeng iba pala ang meaning nito depende sa tao.

Ngayon, ito para sa akin ang tagumpay: Pagkakaroon ng buhay kung saan hindi ako nasi-stress kung may kakainin pa o kung may panggastos sa ibang pangangailangan. Pagtira sa isang lugar kung saan naroon ang lahat ng kailangan ko. Pagkakaroon ng kakayahayang maghanapbuhay sa paraang gusto ko—sa kaso ko, pagsusulat. Pagkakaroon ng sapat na oras na gawin ang iba ko pang gusto—paglikha, pagbabasa libro, pagtunganga habang nagkakape para magmuni-muni, at pagkakaroon ng quality time kasama ang asawa ko, ang dalawa naming pusa, iba pang kapamilya, at mga kaibigan. Sa madaling sabi, tagumpay na para sa akin ang pagkakaroon ng de-kalidad na buhay na hindi ko kinaiinisan paggising ko sa umaga. Di perpekto, pero hindi ko gustong takbuhan kahit may mga aberya minsan.

Marami pa akong ibang ambisyon. Bilang tao, hindi naman din talaga tayo natatapos mangarap. At siyempre, tagumpay ding maituturing ang pagkamit sa mga iyon. Pero kung ano ang mayroon ako ngayon, masasabi kong kuntento ako.

Sana, mahanap mo rin kung anuman ang makakapagbigay sa iyo ng ganitong pakiramdam. Kaya sana, huwag mong hayaang ibang tao ang magdikta sa iyo ng kung ano dapat ang maging batayan mo ng tagumpay. Kaya kapag may naririnig kang opinyon ng iba, kunin mo lang ang kung ano sa tingin mo ang makakatulong sa iyo. Ang hindi, iwanan mo.

3. If you’re happy and you know it, don’t be afraid to start over

Hindi totoo na kung nasaan ka ngayon ay di ka na puwedeng umalis. Gawa-gawa lang iyan ng illuminati. Sa karera man o sa personal na relasyon, hindi kailangang magpaka-martir.

Gets ko, hindi lahat ng tao at di puwedeng sa lahat ng oras, puwedeng mag-walkout ka na lang basta. Lalo na kung may mga taong umaasa sa iyo. Pero sige, ganito na lang: Kung hindi man kaya ngayon, edi sa susunod na pagkakataon. Ang mahalaga, hindi mo nakakalimutan kung ano yung sa tingin mo ay deserve mo. Isa pa, magandang simula na rin iyong alam mo na may iba ka pang gusto. Huwag mong bitawan ang kagustuhan mong iyan dahil iyan ang sasagip sa iyo kapag tingin mo ay susuko ka na.

Ilang beses na rin akong naligaw sa maling kuwento. Buti na lang, kahit medyo natagalan, natauhan pa rin ako’t nagkaroon ng lakas ng loob na umalis at magsimula ulit—bad breakups, resignation sa kumpanya na matagal nang pinapasukan, pati pag-drop out sa master’s program kahit thesis na lang ang kulang dahil iba ang gusto kong gawin. Grabe ang kaba ko as mga oras na iyon, pero hindi naman ako makakarating sa kung nasaan ako ngayon kung hindi ko nilakasan ang loob ko.

Kaya huwag kang magpadala sa pressure ng lipunan tungkol sa mga imaginary guidelines at deadlines na naglilimita sa tao, lalo na kapag babae ka. Respect your pace. At, hangga’t maaari, doon ka sa gusto mo. Mas madaling maging magaling sa isang bagay na gusto mong gawin.

4. Focus on characters that value to the narrative

Sa kuwento mo, may karapatan kang magdesisyon kung sinu-sino lang ang bibigyan mo ng oras at atensiyon. Malaya ka ring huwag bigyan ng airtime sa ang mga taong toxic na walang ibang ginawa kundi iparamdam sa iyo na hindi ka sapat, o kaya iyong mga marites na mas marunong pa sa iyo kahit walang ambag.

Na-bully ako noong high school. Akala ko noon, normal lang iyon kaya kailangan kong magtiis o maghintay na lang hanggang mawala ang inis nila sa akin. Pero pagdating ko sa kolehiyo, nakakilala ako ng mga tao na tanggap ako at kayang sakyan ang mga trip ko. Doon, nagdesisyon akong sila ang mas bigyan ng oras, lalo na’t pakiramdam ko, mas makakatulong sila sa personal growth ko. Hindi naman ako nagkamali, dahil malaki talaga ang naitulong nila sa akin para mas mapayaman ko kung ano ang mayroon ako. At hanggang ngayon, bahagi sila ng support system ko.

Applicable din ito sa mga kaibigan at pamilya. Gaano mo man sila kamahal, kung hindi sila nakakabuti sa iyo, baka kailangang dumistansiya ka muna. Baka ito na rin ang magbibigay sa iyo ng sapat na espasyo para maisulat mo ang istorya na gusto mo.

5. Be comfortable with roadblocks and loose ends

Di madaling maging kabataan ngayon. Ang daming problema sa lipunan at mundo. Mahirap din talaga ang buhay. Ang mahal ng lahat. Kaya kung mahirapan ka man kahit grabe na ang kayod mo, isipin mo, hindi ka nag-iisa. Hindi ka failure. Mahirap talaga kapag sistema ang problema.

Pero di rin ibig sabihin nito, susuko ka na. Magpatuloy ka pa rin habang nananatiling mulat at may pakialam sa lipunang ginagalawan mo. Para hindi ka masyadong mapagod, kailangan maging komportable ka sa ideya na hindi laging aayon sa plano ang mga bagay. Kumbaga sa pagsusulat, kailangan mong tanggapin na minsan may mga roadblock at loose end.

Kahit sa kuwento ng buhay ko, may mga bagay pa rin na hindi ko pa napi-figure out. May mga oras pa rin na pakiramdam ko, hindi ko alam ang ginagawa ko. Pero laban pa rin! Wala namang perpektong manuscript. Kahit iyong mga published na, minsan, may flaws pa rin.

6. Root for your own character

Napansin mo ba, uso sa ating mga Pinoy na kapag may pumuri sa iyo, di mo dapat i-claim? Kapag sinabihan kang magaling, isasagot mo, “Di naman!”

Ganito ako noon. Pero, habang tumatanda, natutunan ko na kapag may pumuri sa gawa ko, ang mas dapat ko palang sabihin ay, “Salamat!” Anong gagawin ko kung talagang pinaghirapan ko naman talaga ang output ko kaya maganda? Sasabihin kong hindi para lang masabing humble?

Dahil sa ganitong mindset, naging mas magaling akong cheerleader ng sarili ko. Lagi kong ina-assess kung kumusta ang gawa ko, at kung sure akong pinagpaguran ko iyon at maganda ang kinalabasan, ike-claim ko talaga. At dahil alam kong ginalingan ko, kahit walang ibang makapansin, at least, malinaw sa sarili ko na deserve ko ang magandang outcome.

Alam ko, minsan, iniisip ng iba, ang delulu ko. Pero sa dami ng nega sa mundo, pati ba naman ako, magiging hater ng sarili ko? Oo, di maiwasan na maging kritikal sa sarili kung minsan. Kailangan din naman iyon. Pero, malaking bagay talaga na alam ko kung kailan magbubuhat ng bangko. At sa totoo lang, sa mga pagkakataong pakiramdam ko ay walang ibang naniniwala sa akin, okey pa rin ako dahil kakampi ko ang sarili ko.

Sana ikaw din. Root for yourself. Maniwala ka sa kakayahan mo, keber kahit isipin ng iba na feelingera ka. Dahil bukod sa pagiging mabuti at patas sa kapwa, mahalaga ring maging mabuti at patas ka sa sarili mo na main character sa kuwentong nililikha mo.

Maganda pa rin ang daigdig. I-romanticize mo ang buhay paminsan-minsan. Celebrate your wins, big or small. Huwag mong pigilan ang sarili mo na sumaya. Dahil ang taong masaya at kuntento, mas may kakayahang maging mabuting anak, kapatid, kapareha sa buhay, kaibigan, kapwa, at produktibong mamamayan.

Kung fulfilled ka dahil alam mong nasa tamang kuwento ka, mas may energy kang mag-ambag ng kabutihan sa lipunan at mundo. Mas kaya mong ipaglaban ang mga adbokasiya na malapit sa puso mo. So, may your delulu come trululu!

Maraming salamat sa pakikinig at isang mainit pagbati muli sa lahat!

Ibinahagi ko ang talumpating ito bilang panauhing pandangal sa Ika-9 na Palatuntunan ng Pag-Angat ng Antas sa San Isidro National High School, Antipolo City, na ginanap noong Mayo 30, 2024.

May 31, 2024
What hunger has done to me

When I talk about hunger, I don’t just mean that feeling a person gets when they forget to eat or intentionally skip a meal for whatever reason. What I mean, instead, is that emptiness that burns in one’s stomach—something that comes with fear and desperation—when they are too broke and helpless to do something about it.

This hunger changes a person in more ways than they can imagine. It trains them to be on red alert at all times, so they pay attention to every sign that scarcity may occur again very soon. It teaches them to lose their mind as the canned goods disappear from their cupboard one by one or as the fridge seems emptier each passing day.

It has done the same thing to me.

It is the reason why I still feel uneasy each time I notice that our rice container is close to being empty. It is the reason why I still slice luncheon meat very thinly as if this mere act could magically give me more grams of it. It is why I still feel guilty whenever I finish a can of corned beef by myself. It is why I still get so emotional about a pack of ramen or a can of sardines, as though I were meeting an old friend who saw me through the toughest of times. It is why I still get a sense of high whenever I come home with a bag of groceries.

It is to blame for my problematic relationship with food. I think my body remembers everything, so to this day, it still urges me to eat more and more and more. It’s like my hunger never ends.

Hunger is like a hole in my gut that simply doesn’t disappear no matter how often I try to overeat or even if I consume the fanciest food I can afford.

But I continue eating, anyway. It won’t miraculously make my hunger disappear, I know, but at least it can give me a brief moment of satisfaction. I feel full and happy even for just a short while. My stomach stops growling. I don’t feel as empty as I did.

It does not take long, but I will take it. I will cherish it before I start feeling bad about having consumed so much again. I will hold on to it before my hunger burns in the endless pit in my gut once more and before it urges me, again, to eat some more.

Jul 9, 2023
Watch me eat my feelings

Food is so close to my heart that almost every memory tucked away inside my head is anchored to a particular dish or food item. When I look back to a memorable meal, what I mostly recall is the way it made me feel as I was devouring it.

I also remember people by the food I associate them with, like what we ate the last time we spent together. Moreover, I believe that one of the best ways to show someone how much you care about them is by making sure they are fed.

Obviously, I am very emotional when it comes to food. I think this has to do with some mental health stuff.

When deciding what to eat, for example, I usually go for whatever feels the most comforting at the moment. I can be at a fancy buffet and still crave a bowl of instant ramen just because it reminds me of when the same cheap noodle soup kept me warm on a cold, lonely night.

Sometimes, I choose junk food despite being aware of how badly my body would react to it simply because I’m feeling nostalgic and want to reminisce about an earlier time when the only problem I had was I couldn’t convince my mother to let me buy my favorite chips.

At this point, I think it’s already clear how fascinated I am by the intersections and overlaps between food, emotions, and memories. And yes, you got it right; I wish to talk about these things—and more—in my newsletter called “Eating My Feelings,” which can be viewed for free at minaeats.substack.com.

I am in no way promoting unhealthy eating habits. In fact, I have been trying so hard to change my ways. It’s just that I know transforming one’s relationship with food isn’t something that can be easily done overnight. It is so much more complicated than that. But maybe, talking about these complexities can somehow contribute to my healing that could, in turn, help me change for the better.

Who knows? Perhaps, in the course of posting updates here, I can truly make some progress. That would be a great outcome for me.

Finally, I hope that you can get something from this, too. I hope you join me on this journey.

Jun 16, 2023
Our cats are better than yours

I don’t know about you, but where I am from, people take bragging about their children very seriously. No wonder, when I was young, I sometimes thought that if I would ever become a parent someday, I’d definitely be the most annoying one who simply wouldn’t shut up about her amazing kids.

But since I don’t have human babies and don’t plan on having any, I’ll brag about our cats instead. They are so cute and adorable, after all. I mean, have you seen them?

The first one’s Dubu, who got her name from Dahyun of Twice. If you are not familiar with the singer, her skin is so fair that other Twice members and fans sometimes call her Dubu, which means “tofu” in Korean.

Dubu arrived in March 2022, about a month before our wedding. She was barely 3 months old then. And while I grew up with lots of cats, I was still very nervous about her arrival. I knew taking in a pet meant making a lifetime commitment, plus having one in a condo would be a challenge. For one, I had to submit certain requirements and pay a non-refundable fee just so our building admin would allow me to bring an animal in. I also had to take note of a lot of rules.

I was also a bit concerned about finances. Although I was confident Tim and I could always provide for a pet, I was also aware that we may still have to make certain sacrifices to be able to give them the best care possible—especially in this economy.

Despite all my worries, however, things went smoothly. It was also a huge plus that Dubu was so kind and easy to deal with even as a kitten. She was already litter-trained when we got her, and she didn’t have any poop accidents. It was so easy to feed her, too, so there was no drama in that department at all. And she was a healthy kitty, something Tim and I were really thankful for.

We were also very lucky that we found a good vet to help us take care of her. They told us about all the tests that had to be done as well as the vaccinations our baby had to get as soon as possible.

More than a month after Dubu arrived, we realized we were actually doing great as fur parents. And so we asked ourselves: Why don’t we get another cat?

We did, and this time, we chose a 4-month-old male kitty. We named him Kimchi because he’s orange. It also made a lot of sense since, his and Dubu’s name, when combined, would be Dubu Kimchi, a Korean dish.

We were already more confident fur parents at this point that we knew what to do as soon as we got him, from having him screened by the vet to setting up his nook at home and preparing everything he would ever need.

However, we were still worried that the two cats may not get along at all. Cats have always been known for being territorial creatures, so we knew there was this possibility that they would hate each other forever.

Thankfully, they got so close after just about a week. I honestly don’t know how it happened, but they just became besties. But I think their ages helped a lot. They were born less than two weeks apart, so they were pretty much the same age when we introduced them to one another. The same level of energy and playfulness, I guess. And maybe we just got so lucky.

I also liked the fact that they complemented one another in terms of their personalities. I noticed right away that Dubu was curious and clever and would always take the lead, while Kimchi was more passive and sometimes even dumb (one orange brain cell, yes). He also liked to follow Dubu, the leader of the duo, so maybe they really made a perfect pair from the very beginning.

Now, they are inseparable, and we cannot ask for more.

Dubu and Kimchi both turned 1 last month, which means they are adult cats now. And while I sometimes get emotional upon realizing how fast these two babies grow, I also feel so happy that I get to witness them transform into even more amazing cats each day.

In fact, I think they are the best. And given how cuter they become as days go by, I know no other cats in the world would ever rival them. No one would ever come close.

So don’t even try. Your cats are a no-match.

Mar 1, 2023
My type of clutter

More than five years ago, I learned about minimalism.

It all began when I chanced upon a documentary on Netflix about the beauty of owning less. Just a few minutes into it, it dawned on me how burdened I had been by all my material possessions, especially the hundreds—or maybe even close to a thousand—of books I’d desperately been holding on to.

Because my willpower was strong and I was craving some kind of do-over, I managed to drastically lessen my stuff in just a matter of months. I threw away things I was no longer using, sold and donated a huge portion of my book collection, and got rid of clothes I had no plans of wearing again or at all.

At the same time, I started a tradition of purging, during which I’d simply ask myself whether certain things inside my home still sparked joy or not anymore. Anything deemed unnecessary would be let go of.

Things went on so smoothly that I was able to welcome 2019 with only a few possessions.

It continued to the point that Tim and I needed only one van to transport all our things when we moved into a new apartment in early 2020.

But then the pandemic struck. Probably bored with the lockdowns, I suddenly became interested in a lot of things, including fountain pens.

At first, I thought one would be enough. However, just a few weeks after getting my very first fountain pen, a matte charcoal Lamy Safari with a fine nib, I caught myself looking at other fountain pens to buy. And the rest is history.

I also realized that such pens required special notebooks, so I had to get new ones, too. At some point, I heard of the Traveler’s Notebook (TN). It didn’t take long before I got one for myself.

Before I knew it, I was already looking at photos of TN spreads on Pinterest. They all looked amazing and I thought I should make my notes and journal pages look great as well. How? Well, by using stickers and washi tape.

I already had some washi tape samples at home back then. A few months prior, I volunteered to buy washi tape rolls and a nice washi tape organizer for my partner’s friend. They were having an exchange gift in their college org and the person whose name he had randomly picked turned out to be a huge washi tape fan. Since I had just gotten into online shopping at the time and was very excited to explore Shopee further, I thought scouring the platform for the best washi tape deals would be fun.

However, I made a huge mistake at some point and ordered some washi tape samples instead of getting full rolls. Unfortunately, I could no longer cancel my order, so I just decided to keep them for myself. They had nice designs, anyway; using them on my notebooks would not hurt at all. Little did I know, I’d also fall into the washi tape rabbit hole in a few months.

My newfound love for washi tapes rekindled another passion I never thought would emerge again: stickers.

I had a wild stationery and sticker collection as a kid. Although we were always struggling financially, my father, who at the time was living with his second family and holding a high-paying job in a bank, spoiled me with school and art supplies, and stationery sets. He also let me buy a lot of sticker flakes and sheets. I can’t remember how I lost interest in my collection, but it just happened. I guess I just became so busy with school and extra co-curricular activities, particularly those involving our school paper, that it slowly lost its magic on me. Or, perhaps, I just became more dependent on computers and fell in love with the simplicity of plain notebooks and pads.

Now I can’t believe I am crazy for stickers again. There are even moments when I feel like an elementary kid again, marveling at all the sticker designs available at the stationery store. The only difference now is that I’m already a grownup with a regular source of income and a stable Internet connection that allows me to order whatever I want with just a click. In other words, I can easily turn all my sticker fantasies into reality now, and, considering all the stickers I now have in my collection, I can tell that I’m on the right track.

All these things are making me happy, especially now that I’ve been stuck at home and mostly bored with the repetitiveness of everything. It is also nice to be excited about things that are new to me as well as those that I used to love as a kid. However, I also acknowledge the fact that what I am doing is against the very thing I started embracing just a few years ago. In fact, I’m pretty sure my wannabe-minimalist self from over five years ago would cringe upon the sight of all the fountain pens, notebooks, washi tape rolls, and sticker sets I’ve managed to accumulate these past few months.

At the same time, I won’t deny that though the things I’m so crazy about right now are against what I used to believe in, they actually help keep my sanity intact. They keep me away from the computer, too, which is a good thing because the first lockdown really kept me glued to the screen almost 24/7. And, most importantly, they remind me that no matter how shitty we may feel about ourselves and our current circumstances, we are still capable of creating something beautiful—even just in the form of journal pages that are decorated and written on.

So I guess, for now, I’ll just go with the flow and be a little kinder to myself. The things I’m currently fond of—or obsessed with—may be considered clutter, but they are my type of clutter. And they continue to spark joy in me amid these trying times.

May 18, 2022
The day I stopped living dangerously

My family loves to eat so much that its members think of food allergies as gentle reminders instead of ultimatums. No wonder, when everyone learned about my shellfish allergy when I was 5, they told me not to worry because I would eventually “develop immunity” by still eating a little bit of all the food the doctor had told me to avoid.

I was an obedient child, and I didn’t know any better, so I just did as I was told. Besides, it seemed like the most logical thing to do. Back then, I was still living in my grandparents’ Baclaran home, where food was always abundant and almost everyone knew how to prepare elaborate meals.

On Sundays, for instance, my grandfather, who used to work as a head cook for a high-end Korean restaurant in Makati, would prepare dishes that usually included shellfish. He would buy fresh crabs and prawns from the nearby wet and dry market and come up with tasty dishes like ginataang alimasag na may labong and garlic butter shrimp.

Judging simply from how my family members’ eyes would light up soon as they smelled the scent wafting from our kitchen, I could already tell it would be such a shame to pass up on Lolo’s cooking. And so, at lunchtime, I’d eat to my heart’s content.

Normally, I would start feeling itchiness on my lips shortly after a meal. There were even times when some bumps and rashes would appear on my skin, particularly on the folds behind my elbows and knees. Whenever something like this would take place, I’d simply apply some Chinese ointment to the affected areas and, before I knew it, the itching would stop then my skin would be smooth again.

I continued consuming shellfish in the years that came. In fact, my list of favorite food included a lot of dishes that had crustaceans in them: my uncle Leo’s prawn tempura, my aunt Irma’s binagoongang baboy, and my grandmother’s sinigang na hipon. Of course, I still loved my grandfather’s ginataang alimasag and garlic butter shrimp.

Even when I began living in my mother’s home, where food was always scarce, my love for shellfish didn’t die. Whenever we could afford it, we would cook binagoongang baboy and make it so salty so we could stretch it for days. We also added alamang to almost every ginataan dish that mainly involved vegetables, ranging from langka to puso ng saging.

I got even bolder when I was in college. It was as if my shellfish allergy did not exist at all. When a close friend invited me to her birthday celebration in a private resort in Bay, Laguna, I simply indulged and had as many grilled crabs as I wanted. When I look back to that weekend now, all I can think of is how I laboriously took the grilled crabs apart and scraped off all the meat I could get from every crab I could get my hands on.

Back then, I was already aware of how fatal allergic reactions could be. But for some reason, I just went on and indulged in crab meat. I didn’t stop, even when I started feeling itchiness around my lips and on the folds of my skin. To be fair, things had not gotten any worse than that, which somehow assured me things would always be fine.

I did something similar when I traveled to Bacolod for work in 2015. One night, my colleague and I had a late meal at Diotay’s Eatery, which had been recommended to us by a cab driver. Instead of playing things safe and thinking about how difficult it would be to access health services in an unfamiliar place in the event of an emergency, I gave in to my desire and wolfed down half a kilo of garlic butter shrimp.

My brevity didn’t last that long, however. Several months later, my body finally decided to betray me. After downing a serving of binagoongang baboy from one of the eateries near the condo I was living in, bumps began appearing on my skin.

At first, there were only a few of them, and they were all so tiny and thin. But eventually, larger and thicker ones appeared until they all covered my entire body. They were all so itchy, too, which kept me from sleeping that night.

I went to see a doctor the following day, and one of the first things she told me was, “You’re lucky, you can still breathe properly.”

I suddenly had a flashback of those countless characters I’d seen in TV shows and movies die after accidentally ingesting some pastry or cookie that had nuts in them. It was then that I finally accepted that the whole immunity thing was a lie. I’d just been lucky all along, and I didn’t know when my luck would finally run dry.

“Should I take more risks?” I quietly asked myself while waiting for the doctor to hand me the prescription.

I didn’t even have to think about it; I already knew the answer.

Mar 31, 2022
On inn and hotel rooms

Sometimes I turn on the television in our bedroom while waiting to fall asleep, switching from one channel to another, and eventually settling for some news program. But I don’t pay attention to the reports at all. I just like having them in the background because they remind me of the nights I spent in hotel rooms back when people could still travel without having to worry about the deadly virus.

*

I’ve always been in love with inn and hotel rooms. There is just something charming about their unfamiliarity, especially if they are located in a city or province I don’t know much about. I like the fact that they perfectly symbolize transience, too, like a brief affair you know you have to enjoy because it will be over soon.

*

Staying in hotels and inns is one of the things I miss the most about traveling. In fact, one of my favorite parts of every trip is when I check into my room, unpack my stuff, take a shower, and enjoy a brief rest. It’s a time when I get a feel of the place I’m in and start to make more concrete plans for the days to come, and it’s usually filled with anticipation as I am left wondering what the rest of the trip has in store for me.

*

There were times in the past when I’d rent a room in a nearby city for a night or two just so I could sleep in a place that wasn’t my own. I liked doing it on days I had to work on something important like papers for grad school and literary pieces. And once I was done with whatever task I came there for, I’d simply lay down and watch whatever show I could find on TV, usually lifestyle shows on TLC or Filipino movies on Cinema One. Then I would take a break by having coffee, whether by briefly going out or having some delivered to wherever I was staying.

*

I once tried celebrating Christmas in a small hotel room in my country’s financial district all by myself, and I must say it was a magical experience. I had booked the room before the holidays and ordered a special Christmas basket containing pastries and a bottle of cold brew then had it delivered to the hotel on my check-in day, which was a day before Christmas. When the special day finally arrived, I just remained in the room, eating cookies, drinking coffee, and listening to The Carpenters. I sat on a comfy bed positioned right beside the window, through which I could see the city’s impressive skyline. I was at peace.

*

Perhaps one of the things I also like about staying in hotels and inns is the sense of anonymity it gives me, not that I need to hide from anyone. It’s just that, when I am in a hotel or inn, I can briefly pretend I am someone else. I can deviate from my routines. I can mess with my schedule. Plus, I’m in a place where no one knows me, except, of course, the personnel at the front desk, who usually checks guests’ IDs. Regardless of that, though, I know I’m just a mere customer to them.

*

In in and hotel rooms, I am not forced to make my bed. Someone else can do that for me. And though I try my best not to leave a lot of mess during checkout, I am also comforted by the fact that no one’s going to pressure me to tidy up.

*

I like scaring myself in unfamiliar places, and of course, I sometimes do it in inn and hotel rooms. I ask myself, “Did somebody die here?” I also think of some stories I heard and films I watched about haunted places. In the end, I sleep with the lights on.

*

I used to live in an inn. Well, technically, it was a boarding house that eventually became an inn. Its owner used to operate an inn in a separate building located on a nearby street. I don’t know what happened, but I just came home one night and one of the staff members told me the two ventures were merging and the inn would also be in the same building where the boarding house was. Staying there was fun.

*

I think motel rooms have their own charm, too. Sure, they are associated with sleazy stuff and they are usually super sketchy, but I think there is also something fascinating with them. I already tried staying in motel rooms by myself. Several times. Maybe I was just bored during those times.

*

Some of my favorite shows are about temporary accommodations: “Hyori’s Bed and Breakfast,” “Korean Hostel in Spain,” and “Youn’s Stay.” I really enjoyed them mainly due to the stories of the guests and their interactions with the hosts. Watching them made me feel as though I were traveling, too, which was perfect, because I saw them all at the height of the pandemic.

Jan 18, 2022