Tag Archives: Story

The Tale of and from Home

Earlier during the day, I commented on The Mostly Confused Teenager’s blog post about her home. Now, she’s asking me to tell her about the neighborhood where I grew up since it kind of slipped on me that the same as her place my hometown is somewhat historical. Then I realized that I made mention in my previous entries that I actually came from a place that is six to eight hours away from where I am staying right now (it depends on the traffic as well as the speed that the driver is willing to take). Although I have spoken about my hometown several times I never really pinned its location nor did I ever describe it. Due to the polite request of my new friend, the Confused Teen, I will write about my home for the first time.

Relative to my location, the little piece of soil I call home is 230 kilometers far and is found somewhere north. It is surrounded by this well known mountain range that runs like a snake coiled around a piece of solid matter with no clear form.

On the eastern side of my town, the ocean cradles it with lukewarm water and greenish gray sand. Since I practically grew up near the bay I have seen the color gradient of the sky slowly change every morning as the sun peeks its head and reveals itself to the world. As such, I learn to appreciate the beauty of mornings and the ray of light that it brings as the sun wakes up from its slumber.

Not only did I grew fond listening to the music that resonates in every splash of water as the waves fold down and marry itself with the shore, I also learned to dance with it. Seeing many of my town’s folks grooving with the wave I had no choice but to respond to the call to join them ride the sometimes scary water. Thus, I learned to surf.

Aside from having really picturesque scenery, my hometown also boasts a pretty good share of history written all over its people and its soil. History books might have some things to say about my little home, but the only true remnants of the past can be read and seen in the imprint that it left in each individual that live in there. The real tale is engraved in us, the town folks, which the whole history can never really capture.

My place is far from the city and was first established as a settlement by some Spanish friars who arrived there. Like any other Spanish colony, the Spaniards built infrastructures and developed the place. However, sometime in 1735 a huge tidal wave devastated the town (this story had been handed down from generation to generation and is probable) which wrecked the whole place. Hence, the families that survived had to move farther from the sea.

During the latter part of Spanish conquest in my country, the Spanish soldiers used the Church that was built with egg and lime as their barracks. It has the best line of defense against the revolutionaries and the walls are pretty thick which makes it impenetrable. The church became the last Spanish garrison in this country which sheltered the remaining 54 soldiers from the platoon. Over the years, it became the safe haven and refuge at times of natural disasters. [The church stood the test of time and it remains to be one of the oldest infrastructures built in this country].

When independence was declared the Americans came to the place. Around the 1900s they were practically rebuilding the place and teaching the people their own culture. [In some old photo album I excavated yellowing photographs of nameless faces of females wearing dresses and males in suit and tie attending events held in my great grandparents’ house as well as in other functions in other places with them during the time far from mine].

One of the presidents of this republic with a face printed in the money that I use every day came from my little town. It is hard to believe that the place which is really unheard of produced such a man and his philanthropist wife.

In the Second World War the place suffered so much pain and bloodshed. The primary school where I graduated from witnessed the misery of my town folks back then. [Rumors circulate that my elementary school had been haunted ever since. Well, I never experienced anything eerie when I was a student there but I do believe that the main building that was erected there long before World War II saw unimaginable agony and deaths.]

Years after the war, my little hometown was able to recuperate. The wounds that had been cut slowly healed, yet the memory remained– a story that is to be passed on to the future.

Few know that my humble hometown made it possible for one of the well acclaimed films of the famous director and producer Francis Ford Coppola have one of the best battle shots in action movie history. Every time I pass by the area where that movie was filmed I cannot help but smile as to how great Coppola made use of that place and transformed it into a battlefield that makes some people delusional, believing the movie was staged in the real setting of the real story.

I just wrote down all that I can say about my hometown. In the end I’m not really able to say everything that can be said about it. Well, this is the chronicle of my humble place where my heart remains, and will always be.

I hope I made it clear, I’m from Middle-Earth.

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Oh! The Things I Do

What is the point of living if everyone will just follow the usual trajectory that the first human beings had set forth?

[I’m not here to take the same path. I am here to make my own– the crazy things are part of it.]

I may not be the first to have done such insane moves, but I want to believe that I am one of those few. I like to think that I am an adventurer and an explorer, that’s why I try to do things that might sound absurd and ridiculous for the most number of people.

For others, I don’t know what their opinion is about the strange things I do. I don’t care anyway.

[Strange? Who is strange?]

Back in May of 2009, before I officially got to become a senior in high school, I attended a summer camp composed of youth from different regions of the country.  Young leaders of different ages from high school up until college level were gathered in B*****, a place with a cold weather despite the summer season. The main agenda of that summer camp was to talk about the environment.

It wasn’t really much for a summer camp. However, because of one foolish idea it became such a piece of treasure in my crazy collections.

I got to meet a lot of other young student leaders from different walks of life in that summer camp. But most of all, I got to enjoy looking at fresh, young, handsome faces. It’s a talent that I am blessed with– spotting the hot guys. My friends often say that it’s like I have a sensor whenever there are beautiful gents around, I can easily spot where they are. A natural tracker I am.

Inside the hall where everybody was having a good time with the game the group was playing, Anne and I were busy finding our way to the stairs. We were supposed to be going to where our friends were– upstairs. On our way up, there was this really cute guy with a radiant smile walking on the opposite direction. I was so captivated of course, so I asked Anne to come with me and follow the guy back down.

She said I was crazy.

We were just following the guy, last thing I know we were standing in front of a group of handsome men. The tall white guy, Bryan his name was, captured my attention. For me he stood out from the rest of them.

I was 15 and nuts. I guess my hormones just rushed in my system and whispered in my ears, ‘jump into it’! I pulled Anne’s arm and said, “I want to kiss him”. Her only reply was, “Wait. You’re crazy!”

I walked towards Bryan, flashed the best smile I could manage and delivered my request in the most charming way possible [*blink. + another blink. + puppy dog eyes. = magic*], “Hi! Can I kiss you?” I know it sounds pathetic but that’s how it happened. He was taken aback, I remember him revealing his porcelain white teeth and pausing for a moment.

Well, he’s a nice guy. He bent forward [he’s pretty tall] for me to be able to reach his face. Still keeping his smile, he moved a little closer and the last thing I know was his cheek was already in front of me saying hello. Filled with erratic excitement I rested my lips on that soft flesh.

Oh gosh! I just kissed a random stranger!

He has a name and I know it, yet the chances that our paths might cross again is really slim. We don’t have communication nor did I bother to get in contact with him. The first and last conversation we had was when I asked his name and I stole that one kiss from him.

So yes, I kissed a total stranger. 

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