The Old Neighborhood

This must be how oranges feel when they’re juiced.

We had very late breakfast at ten in the morning. Then, we had a quick dip in the pool for two hours. Because we had earlier informed the yaya not to make lunch, we stopped for food at Cheaverz. Talamban has changed so much. Wett and I looked around, marveling at how different the neighborhood has become in so short a time.

In the old days, there were very few stores and carinderias. Watering holes were literally hole-in-the-wall places; they’re small, dark, and cheap. Today, they’re bigger and are air-conditioned. The young, it seems, has learned to drink in style. It feels odd to belong to a generation that views beer and drinking differently.

You can tell a person’s age group according to how he sees drinking, Wett observed casually.

How so?

Our grandparents drank in defiance of social norms. Our parents drank for escape. We drank for witty conversations and to while time away. This generation drinks to be seen.

You exaggerate. Not all of them are aspiring fashion plates.

True, but most of them think it’s cool to drink.

I point to his can of Strong Ice. Why do you drink?

It’s the easiest way to fall asleep.

Working for a call center has skewed the hub’s sleeping pattern. He starts work at ten in the evening and comes home at seven in the morning. It takes him forever to get his shut-eye because he has to do this while the house and the rest of the world hum with activity. When desperate for sleep, he chugs beer. That afternoon, he decided he needed help fast-tracking his way to the sandman’s little village. So, we brought my sister and the little one home, and went back to Cheaverz.

By the time Wett got plastered, he decided he was feeling sentimental. We took a walk around the old neighborhood, making stops at the places we used to frequent. It’s impossible not to feel sentimental about Talamban. Every corner is fat with memories. No matter how familiar the place may be, however, it isn’t really the same. Sure, it’s the same spot, and sometimes, it may even look exactly the way you remember it. But it’s not the same place anymore because you are no longer the person you used to be. Memory, Wett and I decided, is kinder than sight, and the best way to continue loving the places you hold dear is to avoid going back to them, especially when you’re feeling tipsy and nostalgic.

We went home at 4:30 in the afternoon and discovered bold, yellow swirls on the bedroom walls. In the time it took us to eat, drink, and go maudlin, our three-year-old morphed into van Gogh, turning her crayons into a weapon.