Kalualhatian
it was a nice country. pines and pines and lakes and pines. fresh air. no traffic. it bored me. there wasn’t any beauty in me. i thought, I’m not a very nice fellow. here’s life the way it should be, and I feel like I’m in jail.
Henry Chinaski
What I Saw in the Water, 1938 by Frida Kahlo
I’ve been having a lot of flashbacks recently about my trips. When traveling, I prefer seeing both the ugly and beautiful in a country. I remember walking late at night in the streets of Barcelona and seeing a ton of things that reminded me of home. I remember walking after midnight with my friend Mami, this innocent small Japanese scientist who has been living in Barcelona for almost a month. Although she stayed in Spain longer than I have, she was clearly clueless. She was older than me but I had to watch over her because she hardly noticed the gangs lurking behind us that night. I didn’t know how to convince her to walk faster without scaring her so I lied and told her I needed to hurry back to the flat because I needed to shit. We got back home safely but I wouldn’t know what to do if someone attacked us that night. Although I know self-defense, I knew we were so vulnerable being small Asians in a foreign land.
I remember starving myself when I was in Europe. I usually didn’t eat breakfast unless I had some take away from the meals they served me in the conference or I’m at some friend’s house with a kind mom that make me good food. In cases like those, I had to pretend to be really nice and cute to get free food.
Some nice Italian scientist gave me a bottle of Chardonnay for free, or at least I thought it was for free but I took it home and it lasted for about 2 days. I once had a fine breakfast.
I went to this café-bar and the incredibly attractive bar tender with curly blond hair served me his finest vermouth and some empanadas, some olives and orange juice. He was generous. But I preferred some other sausage fest for breakfast.
Girl with Death Mask, 1938 by Frida Kahlo
The gothic quarter was near some urban settlement. Inside the dirty and filthy streets of the gothic, I met some young friendly junkies biking around the park with knives in their pockets. They were right next to the police station but the beauty in Barcelona was that no one cared about these dirty gypsies. They go around patrolling the city pick pocketing senseless foreigners. There were also a lot of prostitutes but they usually go for the old blond Americans. If you stop by their parks and listen closely, you can hear the moans of junkies having public sex. Oh Raval. Oh Juan Benítez… There were a lot of political demonstrations too. A lot of immigrants and ex-cons and thieves taking advantage of the mass of people in the streets. A lot of running and screaming and moaning and singing and dancing. Now that is living. It is a bliss to remember Barcelona for more than Gaudi’s work.
The ruggedness and rawness of a city or a person always get me hot. Stripped off from all pretentiousness. Just like the one afternoon I attended Kundalini. Never in my life have I shared my energy in a room full of women in their tights and sports bra ready to get raw and uninhibited. Or have I?
The master taught us how to fire up our chakras. She made us snore loudly, beat the floors, get angry, slap our faces and beat gongs. Apparently, we were supposed to have some sort of epiphany of our enlightened selves. All I can think about that day was how little alcohol I drank last night. And how much consuming both the light and the dark were. Few people realize this. I think that’s why we live in this country where people are so obsessed with becoming happy without understanding what it truly entails. As much as I want to love my country, there’s just so much I hate about it too. It is a gateway to hell but people pretend it’s heaven. People in the Philippines are incredibly insane.