2011's Top Ten

What a year it's been.

But since I say anyway every year how this year was so different and extraordinary compared to every other year bla bla bla, I'll just get right to my top 10 for 2011 -- and let the list speak for itself.

10. Mumbai. My work brought me to this city, in all its maddening, overpowering, and overwhelming glory. But unlike other places I've been that merited such adjectives (and wanted to leave just hours after I got off the plane), Mumbai left me fascinated at its foreign-ness; awestruck that the city actually worked, in spite of the chaos; and hungry to experience more of India. I look forward to my next visit -- and next time, I hope I'll have the guts to actually ride the train.

9. Writing. Few people know I was writing long before I was playing the piano -- writing, in fact, was my "special talent" in grade school. I'm glad I was able to go back to it this year -- not as regularly as I'd like ("ang haba mo naman kasi mag-blog", as James once told me), but at least, sufficiently recording what probably will be, when I look back a few years hence, one of the most important years of my life. And who'd ever have thought my editor parents would actually become fans of my writing? -- occasional comments such as "Paulo, there's a dangling modifier in the second paragraph" notwithstanding.

8. "My pretties." Give me a break and let me have a rare moment as a gym bimbo. After all, for the first time in my 10+ years of working out (who'd have guessed, right!?) I finally have deltoids. And biceps. And traps. And you get the idea. Sure, the six-pack and the Davids are still a long way off... but for someone who's never been able to shake off "chubby", this is a big deal.

7. Boston and New York. I already wrote pages and pages about my adventures in these two cities (and my first winter!) last February -- old and new places, old and new friends, and all in all a glimpse of the year(s?) to come.

6. Work. I've said it so many times, and I don't think I'll ever get tired of saying it: no job I've had has been as fun and fulfilling as the one I have now: leading P&G Philippines' army of In-Store Ambassadors. With its unique combination of marketing and human resources, the role finally answered my long-time question, "Why the hell did I spend so much time in HR before discovering marketing was the path for me?" And I don't think anything can ever compare to the creativity, the detail, and the autonomy of the role -- and in 2011, the program's business impact; the opportunity for organization-building; the many recognitions for the program, the team, and the agencies involved; and most of all, the unbelievably talented and hardworking people whom I'm so fortunate to work with, and the many ways the program has helped individuals thrive and grow. Add to all that, having colleagues who are also some of the best friends you'll ever find, cheering you on through successes and support you when things don't go your way, both in the workplace and in life -- and you've got a job that's one in a million, and one that definitely made the "to Berklee or not to Berklee" question much more difficult than it should have been.

5. Family time. Like with writing, not as regular as I'd like -- but still, a huge improvement over past years (Inay and Tatay have gotten accustomed to unanswered texts and calls), with a family trip to Baguio, a whole-family movie date (celebrating the role of Tintin in our childhoods), visits to Pinto Art Museum in Antipolo, and another New Year in Boracay (minus Tatay, unfortunately, who at the last minute had to volunteer to be taong-bahay). And inbetween, much less high-effort but much more meaningful were my parents' overwhelming patience and support throughout my to-Berklee-or-not-to-Berklee episode; and in the end, me actually getting along with -- okay, fine, liking -- the kids.

4. This Time With You. I have never been prouder of Hangad, than during the production and launch of the group's eighth album. First, the content was 100% Hangad-created, except for one track (which was an existing arrangement), unlike past albums for which we always had to ask for material from other musician friends. Second, so many Hangad members were eager to pitch in -- beyond the "given" of being vocalists -- as writers, artists, photographers, composers, arrangers, coordinators, or whatever else. And third, the output was, in my opinion, Hangad's most personal and powerful ever -- in Louis' words, "the kind of music Hangad was born to make." Hopefully, our four launch concerts -- two in Manila and two in Singapore -- are only the start. I would love for this music to reach more and more people in the coming years.

3. Ken. Just over a year and eight months after my last relationship ended, I entered into a new one -- with my best friend of four and a half years. Soon after one especially crappy set of dates, I reminded myself that I had told myself some time ago: "I have to be with someone I can be a fan of, and not just some random nobody." And sure enough, there was Kenneth, always ready to perk up my day since my breakup with James, with his extraordinary talent in music (from Chopin to Schwartz), in the kitchen (already great, and getting even better with his studies), and at making me laugh (from amazing wit to impromptu tap dancing). I initially told myself, he's too young, and he needs to date other guys first; until I realized, he'll have a lot of growing up to do during his six months in Paris, and besides, why let someone else grab this prize catch. And so, over the past few months, we have adjusted to each other and met halfway: my typically emotionally needy self ("the girl", my friends call me) has transformed surprisingly easily into a low-maintenance partner; while his stoicism has been giving way to pleasantly surprising bursts of sweetness ("Have you eaten? I made char kway teow, I'll bring some to practice for you"). In hindsight, I was lucky that nothing ever worked out with any of the guys I dated and tried to convince myself were "the one." Icky romance novel-ish as it may sound, the one I was waiting for was there all along.

2. Music. "In Your Own Way", "Wonderfully Made", "Let Me Be Your Stillness", "Through This Song", This Time With You", in my mind some of my most powerful songs yet; "Di Matinag Na Pag-Ibig", one of my most adventurous (yet effective!) vocal arrangements; "All That I Have", my first collaboration as lyricist (with no less than #3, above, heehee); "Tungo Sa 'Yo", my first string arrangement. And even as I thought my creative energies were all spent on This Time With You, along came "On This Day" for Teej and Teen's wedding, and a new "Traditional Christmas Medley" for Hangad, finally replacing the well-worn First Call Medley the group had been singing for almost 20 years. Add to all this a new level in piano playing; I don't know if anyone noticed apart from me, but as an accompanist, my countermelodies and embellishments have become more melodic and expressive, and my rhythms and arpeggios have become more daring -- maybe because of all the practice and preparation that went into my "Cinema Paradiso Suite" for the Berklee audition. And lastly, who would ever thought I would have the gall to put my own videos as vocalist online? I said it some months back -- it's when you stop second-guessing yourself, and embrace yourself as musician, that you truly let yourself shine.

1. Berklee. Was there ever any doubt what #1 on my list would be? I talked about Berklee so often this year -- in my blog, on Facebook, on Plurk, with my friends, at Hangad prayer sessions and retreats -- that everyone's probably so sick of hearing about it already. But what do you expect, with a dream of seven or so years coming true, only to reexamine and revalidate itself before finally convincing me to take the leap of faith? From application to audition to acceptance to discernment -- and everything inbetween -- it's been an amazing, amazing ride.

As awesome as this year was, I can't help but remind myself that it's a mere transition to an even more awesome 2012: Wicked in Singapore with Kenneth; a return to Bikram Yoga (still fighting against "chubby"); moving back in with Inay and Tatay, and taking them to Angkor Wat; final touches to my work in P&G and Hangad before I pass them on to my successors; cramming as much Hanon, songwriting, and music theory self-study as I can before May; and finally, the big move to Boston (just as Ken flies off for his culinary internship as well) -- and all the new music, friends, experiences, and writing it promises to bring.

Thank you, 2011, and everyone who was part of it; and best wishes to all in 2012! :D

Two Years Later

Today is December 30, 2011, and I’m at Hama in Boracay’s D’Mall. I just finished a big Japanese lunch with Inay, who’s now sitting to my right, reading a magazine over a watermelon shake. The sky is cloudless and the sun is out; luckily Inay and I got here early enough to grab a table under one of the restaurant’s ceiling fans. The restaurant is quite busy, even if it’s already 1:45 PM—late risers, I suppose, from partying the night before; or families who couldn’t pry their kids away from a golden morning on the beach.

Exactly two years ago—early afternoon in Boracay on December 30, 2009—the sun was shining just as brightly and the sky was just as cloudless, and I was also seated at a table in Hama below a ceiling fan, and had just finished lunch. Unlike today, though, the restaurant two years ago had much fewer diners; there were no magazines, and I had no laptop for blogging; and instead of sharing a table with Inay, I was alone with James.

And across the table from each other, with dry eyes and calm voices, we agreed to break up.

I don’t remember what exactly was said that afternoon. What I remember was that it culminated two weeks of not talking. More than that, that afternoon wrapped up a cumulative eight or so years of living together, and our 12 and a half year relationship.

“OMG, 12 and a half years!?!” is people’s inevitable reaction when I tell them how long James and I were together—which inevitably segues into admiration (“wow, that’s longer than some marriages”) and sympathy (“sayang naman”).

It was tempting for us to say “sayang” as well; with so few lasting relationships these days—gay relationships, especially—12 and a half years was an achievement. But we both acknowledged that there should be more to a relationship than the numbers game, and it would be pointless to rack up the years at the expense of growth, completeness, and joy. As a respected friend said: “Just because a relationship ends doesn’t mean it was bad; the quality of a relationship isn’t measured by how long it lasted, but by what it did for the people in it while it was going on.”

In a previous blog post, I described December 30, 2009 as “the day my 12-and-a-half-year relationship came to a screeching halt.” Looking back, it wasn’t as dramatic a halt as I once thought. In fact, the breakup had been years in the making. “People change” was one of the press releases James and I thought of when we finally agreed, three months later, to tell our friends about our breakup. Trite and vague and showbiz as it sounded, the fact is, we had changed. Over a span of 12 and a half years, how could anyone not? For one thing, in 2008, I significantly shortened our list of “quality-time-as a-couple” activities when I struck fast food, snacks, sweets, dessert and alcohol from my diet in my resolve to lose weight. Around the same time, his identity and sense of fun were starting to reshape themselves as he drew closer to and spent more time with a new set of friends which, for once, I wasn’t part of.

Moreover, over a decade into the relationship, we started to learn that we didn’t have as natural a dominant-submissive dynamic as we (and everyone else) thought; rather, it was becoming apparent that we were two very strong, very distinct personalities, with solid opinions on the same things—except one had to submit in the face of the other.

With these changes taking place, what once was a seemingly effortless submission was becoming less and less natural. As that happened, I resisted the autonomy and adventurousness he was starting to assert; and he began to resist the control I had always exercised on us both. Soon enough, we found ourselves becoming uncomfortable with each other, arguing more, having less in common, enjoying each other’s company less—so much so that it came to a point when each of us was no longer what the other needed at that point in our lives. In other words: it was time to stop just adding up the years.

As easy as it is to talk about in retrospect, figuring it out and coming to terms with it at the time was not straightforward in the least. It might have been easier if we hated each other, but we didn’t. We would often upset each other; we were unable to get along quite as well as before; there would be tears and heartache; but we never hated each other. All we knew was that we had to start untangling our interwoven lives—a task which, depending on the day, was one we wanted and didn’t want to do. So, after that day at Hama, we went from talking to not talking, to talking again; from promising to work things out to asking for more time; from becoming sentimental to making each other angry; until, four months after the breakup, we finally gathered up the courage and willpower to physically separate—and more than that, to rebuild our lives, now that the constant center of each of our lives for the past 12 years and for the futures we had envisioned for ourselves, was no more.

Needless to say, it took both of us several months to each tell ourselves, “We’re okay.”

So how come we’re okay? And, how come James and I are still friends? These are people’s standard next questions, following the mix of admiration and sympathy stemming from the 12-and-a-half year figure. Whenever I’m asked this, I always clarify—we're not friends, we're good friends. And that’s not just me talking—with neither malice or hidden meanings, James and I have both told each other how grateful we are to still be one of each other’s dearest friends.

James and I occasionally text each other, and have even met up for coffee a few times since the breakup. We become extremely proud of each other’s successes, and wildly happy at good news for each other’s futures. We’ve let go of our resentments, forgiven each other’s faults, forgotten who's to blame for what, and are able to laugh at everything that transpired, the way we were always able to. So, for those who click their tongues at the “sayang" 12 and a half years—well, though the romance is no longer there, the mutual concern and depth of understanding each other, built over 12 and a half years, lingers on in our being friends.

So today, two years later, I have no regrets. (Neither does James, as he told me some months back.) There’s no reason, after all, to regret our time together—surviving two years of long distance, building a home, traveling around Asia, making music, becoming a part of each other’s families, being there for each other through highs and lows, me learning to be more easygoing and spontaneous, and him being exposed to different cultures and cuisines. Neither is there a reason to regret what has become of us since we called it quits—his career taking off, and being able to build his own home without me stifling his design sense; and my writing some of my best music ever, and finally having the freedom, clarity and courage to set off for Berklee; and both of us now each being in our own new relationships, ready to share our lives once more, and guided by relationship wisdom gathered over 12 and a half years.

Today is my first time back at Hama since the breakup. One would think I’m back here to confront and conquer my demons from two years ago. But there are no demons to conquer. On the contrary, I’m actually grateful for that day. In hindsight, had we not decided to part that day, our relationship would have likely gone so rancid that we would not, could not even be friends now. As messy and ugly as things got back then, the clarity gained over two years tells me it was for the better. Inay would say, “it’s very Hollywood”—but yes, we’ve embraced the fact that we make better friends than lovers.

James and I have a pair of photos from June 1997, in which we shot each other from opposite ends of a see-saw: first, I went up in the air, and he shot me; then, he handed me the camera, he went up in the air, and I shot him. Given the strong and conflicting personalities we both turned out to have, I realize now that our relationship was a lot like that see-saw ride: always one up, one down, never in the same place. But now, with no more beam joining our seats, we’re able to move as we please, and for sure both of us are now up—and without a beam keeping us apart, we’re able to meet in the middle, in a better way than we were able to before.

How’s that for a metaphor.

Two years later—thanks for everything James, and good luck. See you around, my friend.

A flight update, almost a year later

Almost a year after Flight PKT 2011 took off, where the flight is today can easily be seen as a letdown.

After all, if all had gone according to my original flight plan, I would already be on my fourth month at Berklee. My days of P&G marketing would already be a fond memory; I would already have taken my first classes in music theory and production; my blog would already have stories of my adventures as a music student in Boston; my Facebook page would already be full of photos of new musician friends from all over the world; and I would be having my first white Christmas.

The thing is, Destiny wasn’t as straightforward as I expected it to be when all this started. From the “following my dreams” fanfare in the early part of this year, in more recent months I’ve swung between “going” to “kinda going” to “not going” to “I have no idea”—so much so that most of my friends ask me, ano ba talaga?; and I myself have lost track of what I’ve told each of them.

But what do you expect? I was accepted into the semester after the one I’d planned, and received no scholarship either—both of which made me doubt my musical ability, and rethink my willingness to enter into a lifetime, professional-level commitment to music. Adding to the urge to turn my back on Berklee was a series of lukewarm dates (which, luckily for me in retrospect, all eventually went bad); and the piece de resistance, a truly mouthwatering career plan, crafted just for me. For a time, everything added up to a resolute pronouncement that I was no longer going to leave.

Thankfully, signs continued to come, and as much as I tried to resist at first, I fortunately continued to listen.

My Berklee idol GP didn’t mince words as he chided me, “Getting no scholarship is just making you retreat to a place of comfort and compromise.”

Inay and Tatay were extremely patient as I shifted between “going” and “not going”, and were unbelievably supportive as they assured me that throughout my decision-making, money should never ever be an issue.

An unprompted visit to the Berklee website made me realize that options for studying at Berklee for less than two years (as I had originally planned) existed.

An image formed in my mind of an older self, successful after a decade-long marketing career, but forever wrestling with the regret of foregoing a chance to experience Berklee.

And Gloria, my ex-boss and dear friend who somehow always has the right thing to say, wrote from across the globe: “In life, people usually regret what they didn’t do more than they ever regret anything they did. You don’t have to go for an all black or all white approach; get your feet in the water, see how it feels and then play it by ear. You can always go back and get a job, whether with P&G or with another company; at the very least, you will have had a great life experience. And at the very best, you will have found your life’s true calling, whatever that may be.”

So, for everyone who’s been asking ano ba talaga?, I think it’s clear which side won out. Yes, I’m definitely going. I've closed a deal with a buyer for my condo and move back in with my parents by mid-January; I spend the next few months working on my student visa; I leave P&G at the end of April; I fly out around the third week of May; I attend new student orientation on May 22; and I start school May 29. But rather than dive headlong into a radical career shift, I will first attend Berklee for a year—immersing myself and making the most of the experience—and then see where everything goes from there. After a year, if I decide I love the field enough and see enough of a future in it to go professional, then I finish the two-year course I originally wanted and go on to full-fledged musicianship. But if I realize its role in my life is really just a passion on the side—but a burning passion nonetheless—then I come home, pick up my where I left off in my career, and continue to make music, but a much better musician after the year I spent at Berklee. Yes, what happens after a year is a mystery; for now, all I know is that is rare opportunity I just have to experience. And as controlling as I am, the thought of a future so ambiguous, so open to possibility, is giving me a huge, crazy thrill.

Do I have any regrets about the detour Flight PKT 2011’s took this past year? Not in the least. If things had gone according to my original plan, I would have missed the launch of Hangad’s eighth and best album, and Hangad’s Singapore concert. I would have missed the local, regional, and global recognitions my team at work has received, including the opportunity to fly to Mumbai to share some of this work with the rest of the world. I would not have been able to start building a new relationship with someone I’ve admired and loved for years (and who, in answer to people’s questions about what will happen to this budding romance, will also be studying abroad around the same time as me). I would have missed this one last Christmas with Hangad, P&G friends, and family. I’d have forgone my own improvements as a musician these past months, as I’ve started to gear up more seriously for an intense year at Berklee. And with all the signs I’ve been lucky enough to read, I approach this milestone now with more wisdom and pragmatism—but with no less (and maybe even more) wonder, optimism, and excitement.

So then, Flight PKT 2011 wasn’t a letdown after all, having turned out to an internal, introspective journey rather than a physical one. What pride, in fact, when Sr Bubbles told me after I related this whole story at Hangad’s advent retreat last November: “You really know how to discern. I’m so proud of you.”

Time to see if I can change this blog’s title. Please return to your seats, we will be taking off momentarily.

Six months of secret, sacred time

It’s been almost six months since my last blog entry. During these six months, I focused on This Time With You, Hangad’s eighth album, which we launched yesterday. In my opinion, This Time With You contains my most powerful works to date—six new full songs, one collaboration as lyricist, three collaborations as arranger—and the album itself (again, in my opinion) is also Hangad’s best to date. Without a doubt, my six month absence from this blog was worth it.

Today, I return to my blog; and to cap off my absence, my return entry is the reflection I delivered to Hangad right before yesterday’s launch concert. I hadn’t had time to write it down yesterday so I extemporized from an outline; but much of it is still so clear in my mind, that I might as well have been reading it from paper.

* * *

Many times over the past few days, I have fantasized about dying.

For one thing, what a deliciously ironic Jonathan Larson-esque exit it would be, to go out a few hours before launching your best works yet.

More than that, in rare moments such as this when everything just fits into place so perfectly, you’re tempted to grab the opportunity for a perfect ending, rather than lingering on in this life and risking screwing it up. Stop now, while you're ahead, while family, career, love, life direction, and Hangad, with this album, all fall into place so perfectly.

But while we can easily think of this launch as the culmination of many months’ outpouring of energy, talent, effort, and time, the word “launch”, in itself, also reminds us that this is just the beginning. Besides, as Louis said in his reflection earlier this week, with this album we have chanced upon exactly the kind of project Hangad was meant to undertake—the songs and stories of ordinary people with barely any training in music or theology, who simply have an uncontainable need to share the Love they have experienced.

So, after six months of work—and 20 years of Hangad—we find ourselves at yet another beginning.

Personally, the creation of this album served as the backdrop against which much drama in my life unfolded. In the language of the album: six months of secret, sacred time.

* * *

First, against the backdrop of this album, God revealed music’s place in my life.

At the time this album was just being planned, I was psyched to try out for Berklee College of Music, study film scoring and songwriting for two to four years, settle forever in the US, shift careers from marketer to musician, and become a Broadway hitmaker or (maybe even and) Oscar-winning film scorer.

I auditioned for Berklee in February; in March, the school told me I had made it. But Fate sent two twists. First, I was accepted into the January 2012 semester, rather than the August 2011 semester which I had applied for (and which would have meant missing the launch). Second, I didn’t get a scholarship, like I had hoped (and yes, this is the first time I'm announcing it broadly). With these circumstances, I got to see the whole album through from start to end; and also got to think harder about what I really wanted for myself.

During this time of reflection, I realized that as much as I love music, and as much as I want to learn more about it, it’s not simply the music that I love, but the purpose behind it. My joy and fulfillment do not lie in simply making music, but making music for a higher reason than myself: that is, not to earn, not to win awards, not to become famous, but to witness, to inspire, to enlighten, to share what I’ve seen.

With this, through the past six months, I’ve gone from impatience above moving to Boston; to choosing to scrap Berklee, telling myself I’m already blessed with an enviable blend of a comfortable career with P&G and enough music with Hangad; to realizing that though I may not want to be a professional musician, acceptance into Berklee is still a rare gift, and a learning and broadening experience I’ve dreamed about for a long time and which is still worth having.

Hence my plan, today—not to stay two years, but to just try it out for a semester or two; not to rush into it, but to start mid-2012 or later; not to shift careers, but simply to learn what I can; not to stay in the US for good, but to come back to the Philippines; and not to become a musician in search of fame, but to continue making the meaningful, purposeful music which fulfills me—which, incidentally, has made me the musician I am today.

* * *

Second, against the backdrop of this album, God unfurled the story of my musicianship.

Those who have known me long enough know that one of my longest-running themes is chosen-ness. Through the years, the lines from Amy Grant’s “Breath of Heaven” have resonated tremendously with me: “I am frightened by the load I bear”; “do You wonder as You watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place?” Why me?, I have asked year after year; Am I doing justice to this musical gift which I never even asked for in the first place?

At the same time, those who have known me long enough know that through my past 16 years with Hangad, I have always been the group’s hesitant, often apologetic, forever second-guessing, no-other-choice-naman-kasi resident songwriter. In the absence of a Fr Manoling in Hangad, I’ve felt compelled to write and arrange songs since Hangad’s first album in 1998. And while I’ve had some lucky output—mostly thanks to occasional strokes of inspiration—I’ve always found my music too cerebral, too calculated, to talkie. All I ever wanted to was to write a lyric that captured not just what was in my head, but which mirrored what was in my gut; and a melody that actually stuck; and I had pretty much given up.

With this album, though, God gave me the grace of YES. For the first time, fueled by my confidence from Biyaheng Hangad 2010 and the Berklee adventure He sent me on, I owned my musician-ship. As I said in this blog last February: “It was time for this hesitant, even apologetic musician, to put aside self-doubt and second-guessing, and to finally, finally embrace the gift and the calling that he had downplayed for much too long.”

For the first time, then, I stopped making lack of inspiration an excuse, and saw that with discipline and focus it was possible to make inspiration come instead of waiting for it to come. I forgot second-guessing, and allowed myself to become adventurous and daring. And I told myself, YES, I HAVE BEEN CHOSEN, and learned that it’s when you embrace your chosen-ness—forgetting whatever insecurities and inhibitions you might have—that your light shines brightest to those in need of your light.

* * *

Lastly, against the backdrop of this album, I realized just what Hangad is. At the start of this reflection, I mentioned how we have finally chanced upon the music we were meant to make. But just as amazed as I am at our output, I am also in awe of how we put together.

The two times I attempted to give public “thank you” messages over this last week, I failed (to my own embarrassment) to include everyone who deserved thanks. The first time, I forgot Igo's playing; the second time, I forgot Eric’s photography. This just attests to how so many people, active and inactive members alike, poured so much of their time and energy into the project, going beyond rehearsing and recording and performing, to songwriting and arranging, to writing and design and photography, to directing and managing and coordinating, pitching in with an enthusiasm which I don’t remember so many people in the group ever pitching in before.

Many times in the past weeks, people in Hangad have congratulated me for the completion of this project. Each time, I’ve responded that this is not my project. It’s no one’s project. It’s Hangad’s project. And by that, I mean that Hangad is not any one person, or group of people, or batch of people. Rather, Hangad is the providence that has led us to cross paths with each other, and the love and craziness and selflessness that keeps us going—and in the case of some, coming back—and giving, in whatever way we can.

* * *

With all this, I can’t help but feel that today is one of the biggest days of my life. It stands as the culmination of six months of secret, sacred time during which I learned about myself as a musician not for myself, but for a higher purpose; finally came to terms with my chosen-ness; and found myself in awe of an amazing group of people brought together by providence, and propelled by selflessness and love.

It doesn’t just go for me, but for each of us. We in Hangad each have our own stories of Hangad, our own secret, sacred times over the past six months. But without a doubt, these are gifts each of us have received: to have been called; to have been chosen; to have found each other.

Today is another beginning for us in Hangad.

Firty Fwee

At the gym this morning, when the treadmill asked me to enter my age, for the first time, I entered: 33.

This age is going to be slightly problematic. Staying in a hotel on a business trip abroad some years back, I had contacted the laundry service to ask for some help; asked what room I was in, I replied: “Firty firty fwee”.

“I’m sorry?” asked the voice on the other end of the line.

Sigh. I had to repeat "3033" around three times more, very slowly, before they finally got it. Good luck to me whenever someone asks my age from now until March 5, 2012. Looks like I'll be swallowing my pride, cranking up the Pinoy-ness, and saying: “Terrty trree.”

But a lisp and a weak “r” sound are the least of my concerns. More than that -- it’s not hard to feel old.

When I was 11, the age I would tape beauty pageants on Betamax and watch them over and over again, I would always look at Miss Teen USA 1989, Idaho’s 18-year-old Brandi Sherwood, and think: she’s 18, she’s so old.

And when I was 24 and working in Globe’s Cebu office, a youthful-looking manager who was new to the team became a good friend. And when he told me he was 32 (I guessed when I met him that he was 26, at most), I was shocked, thinking, wow, I never thought I could be friends with someone so old.

But, every year for the past few years, new celebrities have emerged, seemingly getting younger and younger every year as my age pulls away from theirs. With that, and watching shows like American Idol and Project Runway and America’s Next Top Model, where you have 16-year-old contestants and winners, I can’t help but think to myself, good Lord, these are such kids.

And closer to home, every year for the past few years, the people around me have gotten younger and younger as well. Fresh graduates join P&G, people several batches below me join Hangad, and we hang out together, and I wonder if they think of me, as I thought of my Globe colleague 9 years ago, wow, I never thought I could be friends with someone so old.

Over lunch with the family at Bizu today, Tatay, seated on my left, asked: “Wasn’t Jesus 33 when he revealed himself publicly?”

I said: “No, he was 33 when he died.”

Jo-Ed, seated to my right, said nonchalantly: “Alexander the Great died at 33, shortly after he united Persia.”

It’s not unlike officemates nine years younger than me who, being competitive overachievers, have advanced so fast that they now outrank me. Or who, at the age when I was thrilled to have my first credit card, already own a car and a condo. Or friends from Hangad, eight years younger than me, getting married.

While here I am, at 33, starting over. Single. Starting out in a new field, on a new career. Going back to school, and corollarily, having to learn new stuff and take up a student’s life. (That is, if I don’t drive my car off Guadalupe Bridge into Pasig River if the Berklee admission decision on March 31 isn’t quite what I’d hoped.)

But do I hate being 33? Hell, no.

I love the clarity, wisdom, and patience that all these years have brought. With age, you learn that a cool car and a whopping paycheck don’t make up for a frustrating job in a frustrating company. You come to terms with who you are and who you’re not, with what you’re good at and what you’re better off not doing. You learn that growing older doesn't mean letting go of your sense of wonder and playfulness. You learn that nothing is ever worthwhile that you didn’t have to work your ass off for. You learn that mistakes are a part of life, and they’re not the end of the world. You’ll learn that there are just things you can’t control. You learn to stop comparing and competing with the people around you, in terms of what you have and what you’ve done, and to form your own set of things that matter and go for them.

You learn to value what’s right over what’s easy or what’s convenient, because you learn to value character. You learn to cherish true friends, the ones you’ll care to be there for, and who’ll care to be there for you too. You’ll learn that there’s nothing more powerful than respect, gratitude, and a sense of humor. You’ll learn that everything happens for a reason, even if it’s not always readily apparent. You learn that the thing you truly want to do will never leave you be until you do it. And the list of things that you once just rolled your eyes at in self-help books, and forwarded text messages, and inspirational talks—but which turned out to be so freaking true—goes on and on.

This morning on the treadmill, with four minutes to go in my run and with my just-turned-33-years-old, sleep-deprived, semi-hung-over body about to give up, my iPod suddenly started playing “Defying Gravity”. Not the dialogue-marred version from the musical, not the sissy cover from Glee, but Kerry Ellis’ rocked-out recording, complete with crashing drums, pounding bass, furious guitars, and soaring strings. And as the whole arrangement picked up, I increased my speed from 10 km/h, to 10.5, to 11, all the way up to 12.5 km/h, gloriously unrestrained in the first few hours of my 33^rd year on earth.

And now, the day comes to an end. As one who has always put importance on having a meaningful birthday, I had been stressing over this being my first James-less birthday in 14 years (even if we had broken up last year, he still threw me a party in his house in Cebu, with Hangad which was there for Nic’s and Mia’s wedding) and my first Inay-less birthday ever (she flew to Las Vegas two weeks to be there during the last few days of a younger sister who finally succumbed to cancer).

But the day went well nonetheless. From turning 33 with Dennis on a rare trip to Malate; to a surprisingly great workout after just three hours of sleep; to lunch at my favorite restaurant with Tatay, Jo-Ed, Rebbie and the kids; to a visit to the spa for a long-overdue foot massage and body massage; to coffee and macadamia nut pie with Kenneth; to Mass at Christ the King for which I “accidentally” played the piano when I looked up at the loft and saw there wasn’t a choir; and, finally, to writing this.

"Happy birthday," goes a song by Singaporean singer-songwriter Corrinne May, "you're one year closer to who you were meant to be."

It’s going to be a damned good year.

My first ballet class

No, you are not going to see me in leotards and pointe shoes any time soon. Given my figure, that would be downright vulgar. Besides, my Billy Elliott dream was dashed 28 years ago, when I asked Inay if I could study ballet along with my female cousins, and she gave a response of uncharacteristic small-mindedness and prejudice, which to this day I am shocked came from her, and which I am certain she will never admit to saying:

“Hwag, baka maging bakla ka.”

I wonder if, looking back, she wishes she had just let me take those ballet lessons. I turned out gay without them anyway; and at least I wouldn’t be the painfully awkward dancer I am at every party, night-out, or Hangad concert today.

Anyway, I digress. Going back—this “first ballet class” was thanks to the thoughtfulness and generosity of my officemate and friend Nicole,

who was a company member of Lisa Macuja’s Ballet Manila throughout high school. (This was after she was a classical concert pianist who performed in New York, and before she became DLSU student council president and one of the Ten Outstanding Students of the Philippines in her graduating class. Where’s the fairness in that, eh?)

A few months back, Nicole went back to dancing with her old school, Academy One in Sucat, just for fun. And a few weeks back, after reading my “Storytelling” post, in which I giddily heralded my impending life as an impoverished music student earning US$160 a week, at most, in a city where I’ll be paying at least US$900 a month in rent, Nicole suggested: “How about becoming a ballet pianist?”

A ballet pianist, Nicole explained, is simply someone who plays the piano to accompany the dancers during a ballet class. My initial misgiving was that I don’t play classical music. Nicole explained that the music isn’t necessarily classical. However, it doesn’t mean playing just anything either. Rather, it requires knowledge of the flow of the class, understanding of the art form, sensitivity to a dancer’s movement, and t

echnical mastery of tempo and cadence. Ballet pianists today are a rare breed, Nicole said, so most dance studios resort to recorded music for class; but where ballet pianists do exist, they are highly valued and—most importantly for someone who’ll be living la pauvre vie Boheme—highly paid.

So, last Friday night, I drove to Sucat after work to observe my first ballet class.

I loved the experience immensely.

As I mentioned in my New York travel blog, I enjoy ballet a lot. As a kid, Inay would regularly take me to Ballet Philippines’ prouctions of Sleeping Beauty, Swan Lake, and Nutcracker, as well as “kiddie” ballet versions of Peter Pan and Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Decades later, when Olay, which I was managing, was asked by Ballet Philippines to sponsor their 2008 season gala, I was only too happy to go to the event. When my niece and goddaughter Audrey took ballet lessons two years ago

, I was much more excited than she was. And when I visited New York last month, watching Swan Lake by the NYC Ballet more than made up for my totally off-character decision to not catch any Broadway show.

The corps de ballet of the NYC Ballet's Swan Lake. How can you not fall in love with a vision like that?!

Again, I’m no dancer. Neither am I any connoisseur of ballet, having seen only a few shows, and not even knowing the French terms. But all this time, I have admired and adored ballet for its discipline, its elegance, its precision, and its ability to entrance; for the way it shifts from proud and powerful one moment, to delicate and demure the next, in its mission to tell a story or flesh out a character; for the way it paradoxically puts supreme effort into seeming effortless; and for the amazing weightlessness and fluidity that it shows the human body can achieve.

And what I loved about Nicole’s class was, for the first time, I got an up-close-and-personal peek at the behind-the-scenes of every show, the back-story of every ballet dancer. I loved watching the exercises, from seemingly simple squats and stretches at the bar, to series of jumps that spanned from one end of the room to the other—which, Nicole said, even principal dancers in the world’s top ballet companies do, just to keep in shape. I loved seeing leaps and pirouettes that didn’t land quite right, not because I wanted to be mean, but because it showed the amount of practice that went into a single spin, humanizing the divinity one witnesses on stage. I loved the way everyone in class could execute the same 16-bar routine from a simple series of verbal instructions mostly in French, sans counting or demonstrations, repeated only twice by the teacher. And when Gigay, one of Nicole’s fellow senior dancers, and her teacher, Jeff, did a pas de deux from Sleeping Beauty, I was mesmerized.

Some clips from Nicole's class at Academy One last Friday, March 4. Nicole is the dancer in blue. : )

So, more than the potential to earn money, I’m hugely grateful for this opportunity to finally get involved with this art form I’ve always loved. It will take practice—I’ll have to overcome my abuse of the sustain pedal, my love for rubatos, and my compulsion to add 7ths and 9ths to every chord I play—but at least, even if I my career as a ballet pianist doesn’t fly, at least I’ll have become a more disciplined pianist, and I’ll have had my taste of the world of ballet too.

Storytelling: A Temporary Epilogue

1

Now—on my third hour aboard Japan Airlines flight 745, on my 23^rd hour in transit since being dropped off at JFK International Airport for my trip home, and with two more hours between now and Manila soil—my journey is about to come to an end.

When I set out on this ten-day trip, I had three simple objectives: first, to undergo the audition and interview process at Berklee; second, to get to know the school and the city of Boston a little better; and third, to have a grand time in New York.

Now, I’m heading home with so much more than I bargained to gain.

The truth is, a much bigger concern than my audition and interview built up inside me early in the trip. Words like “practicality”, “sustainability” and “realism” starting to clamor in my head like the banging of pots and pans.

It started when I told Jett about my plans for earning extra money while studying at Berklee. I told her that I would write freelance for any Boston magazine, website or advertising agency that would take me.

But then Jett told me that, with a student visa, the only place you can work is the school—where pay starts at US$8 an hour, where job options are limited (Jett herself does web development for the school), and where there’s a cap to the number of hours you can work in a week. That isn’t much, when you think that the subway costs US$1.25, a Starbucks latte costs US$4, a fastfood meal costs around US$10, a CD costs US$15, a Broadway ticket costs US$120, a studio apartment starts at US$900 a month, and a roundtrip ticket to Manila costs US$1,200.

And then, while having lunch with Jett at the Berklee cafeteria, I realized, looking around at the people, that Berklee is a college, not a graduate school—hence, I would be surrounded by kids out of high school, 14 years younger than me; whose most-used word was “cool”; and whose conversations went: “That’s so cool.” “Yeah, it’s really dope.” “Okay, gotta split.” “Awesome.” And I genuinely wondered if I could take it.

Sure, I would be “pursuing my passion” and “following my dreams”. But romantic as it sounded—and as much good vibes I had been getting from friends and family the past months—what it would mean in reality was now staring me in the face.

I would be giving up everything I had worked my ass off for the past 11 years: a fully-furnished condo with more space than I needed; a car with more free gas than I could use; a great job in a great company, where I had earned the respect of my team, my colleagues, and my superiors; a very decent monthly salary that let me shop, eat out, work out and travel pretty much whenever I pleased; easy access to laundry services and cleaning ladies who made life so convenient; and the nearness of family and friends whom I could connect with, and whose opinions I respected.

In place of all these comforts, I would be settling for a small room, probably sharing it with a stranger, and worrying each month about rent; mastering the bus and subway routes; learning to cook my own meals, do my own laundry, clean my own house; and having to take what would probably be an unglamorous, unexciting, low-paying job just so I could eat out, hang out with friends, watch movies, and use a gym from time to time. I would be starting from scratch earning the respect of fellow students and faculty who had never heard of me, and rebuilding a circle of friends who would make me feel at home, half a world away. And in this country, I would be at a natural disadvantage because of my visa status, my nationality, my ethnicity, my accent, and let’s face it, my height.

I couldn’t help but recall that, in August 2009, I had resigned from a rosy career in a brainy environment in one of the world’s top corporations, to pursue what I thought then was my fundamental passion for marketing communications—and that it had turned out to be a mind-eroding seven-month disaster that turned me into the prodigal son, running home to the tune of “I told you so’s”.

In short, I was asking myself: What the hell am I doing? What on earth is going to become of me? And—still scarred from my farcical 2009 career shift—is this all going to be worth it?

And that’s where the many hours I had spent talking to friends this trip—extremely unusual for my typically anti-social self, as I had said in a previous entry—came into play.

2

“Practically every Pinoy here has a story to tell about how he or she started out.”

That’s what Lance, an old friend from Hangad and my host while in Boston, said as he shared his own story.

Lance, one of the smartest people I know, graduated from UP-PGH, passed the Philippine medical boards, and passed the US Medical Licensure Exams which would let him practice Medicine in the US. But during his first four months in the US, while sending out residency applications and undergoing interviews at different hospitals around the country, the need for day-to-day funds, as well as funds for trips to his interviews, compelled him to take a phone-answering administrative job in California, for which he was overqualified and underpaid.

To save as much of his salary as he could, and to avoid being a burden to his family back home, Lance had found lodging in the garage of a house, which he rented for US$100 a month; where he would roll out a sleeping bag on the cold concrete floor every night; and which would require a three-hour bus ride to and from work—that is, three hours each way, each day. Further, most of the food he ate was the food at the office; and to keep in touch with family and friends in Manila, he would stay for hours after work each night to get free access to Facebook and YM.

Just when his funds were about to run out, Lance was interviewed at a hospital in New Jersey—where, serendipitously, his interviewer had also graduated from PGH—and he was hired outright. Incidentally, of the hospitals Lance applied for, this was one of those he liked best. Everything just fell into place so perfectly, he recalls, that when he got the news of his acceptance, he broke into tears.

Lance eventually became the hospital’s chief resident for pediatrics; he moved to Boston soon after completing his residency; and today, he is listed as one of the Boston’s top 200 pediatricians. Further, he works only two days a week; and best of all, he has earned enough respect from his colleagues to come to work in a track suit every day.

3

Chad and Leanne, who had invited me to join Hangad in 1995 and who took me to dinner on my last night in New York, had a story to tell as well.

Chad had taken his MBA at Boston College after several years of working with Citibank in Manila, shortly after he and Leanne got married. After finishing his MBA, he had a year to find a job, or else his student visa status would force him to return to the Philippines. He had been confident at first—he did have an MBA—but it was 2004, America was still recovering from the impact of 9/11, and working visas for non-Americans were scarce.

Six months passed, Chad hadn’t yet found a job, and their funds were running short—so much so that he and Leanne, who was also in Boston taking a business program at Harvard, would decline friends’ invitations for dinners out, walk instead of taking the subway, poke their fingers into subway token dispensers in hopes of finding forgotten tokens, and keep their eyes peeled for coins on the street (and many times, actually find a total of US$2 in one walk).

(“Talaga?! Si Chad?!” I had exclaimed, slack-jawed and wide-eyed in shock and deepened admiration, knowing Chad the way I did back in college. Leanne replied, laughing: “Oo, kaya nga ang bait na niyan ngayon.”)

Leanne, who had also been a Citibanker in Manila, worked as a receptionist and filing clerk at Harvard’s admission and aid office; the modest amount she earned was barely enough for groceries. A ray of hope shone when George Bush, out of nowhere, opened 20,000 working visas for MBA and graduate students, which enabled Chad to interview for Ernst & Young in Boston and New York; but even so, the response took so long to come, that they fell back into discouragement.

Just when Chad and Leanne had given up on the East Coast—all their furniture had been sold, and they were ready to move in with Chad’s relatives in California and try their luck there for another six months—on Christmas Eve, of all dates, came the FedEx package from Ernst & Young in New York, telling Chad that he had gotten the job. Though they had had to stay home while their friends watched the annual Boston Pops Christmas Eve concert, it was okay—this was the best Christmas gift they could ask for.

Today, Chad works in Times Square, Leanne works on Fifth Avenue, Chad drives a killer SUV, and they recently bought an apartment by the Hudson in New Jersey, with a clear view of the Manhattan skyline.

“Living here teaches you to swallow your pride and forget the elitist biases you learned in the Philippines,” Leanne said over dinner. Just as Lance lived in a garage, and Chad and Leanne walked instead of taking the subway, Mia, a close college friend taking her PhD at Boston College, operates the photocopier at the college library to earn extra money while studying; and Jeans, a high school friend, was a waitress at Cheesecake Factory. Mia and Jeans—like Lance, Chad and Leanne—were top students from good schools, who had lived very comfortable lives in Manila.

4

And even as Lance got an interview with a fellow PGH alumnus, and Chad got his hiring letter on Christmas Eve, close college friend Mhir also has her own little miracle story.

While taking a masters in International Political Economics and Development at Fordham University, Mhir had started writing fiction for fun. One night, on a whim, she Googled book publishers in New York; e-mailed one of those she found, asking how to go about submitting a manuscript (apologetically, at that, saying she was an “unpublished author”). To her surprise, she received a response to her manuscript; to her greater surprise, the response was an offer to be published. Today, a year after graduating from Fordham, her book is on Amazon, and she is back in New York, working on publicity and distribution for the book while looking for a job in development.

“You’re a published author! In New York!” I exclaimed to Mhir over coffee. “Do you know what that means?! Do you realize how many people would kill to be able to say, ‘I’m a published author in New York’?”

Mhir just laughed. From when it was happening up to today, she can’t believe it either.

5

On my last night in Boston, having dinner with Jett after a just-for-fun recording session at the school, I had asked her, “Are the students smart? I mean, is there anyone you can talk to—that is, about things other than music?”

Jett, who is the type of person who actually does say nothing at all when she has nothing nice to say, was silent for a few moments. I forced a deflated laugh and said, “Oh well. It is a music school.”

And then, a memory grabbed her; and she started to tell me about her friend, Naomi, who held a degree in International Relations from Brown University and who, like Jett (who has a degree in Psychology from Ateneo), was now was taking a second degree in Music Production and Engineering at Berklee.

And at that moment, who should walk into the burger joint but Naomi herself, diminutive and chirpy. I learned, after we were introduced, that she’s part of the school’s musical theater club, and was in a production of The Vagina Monolgues the week before.

“Ooh! I love The Vagina Monologues! Which one did you do?” I asked.

“The ‘Down There’ one,” Naomi replied. “Have you seen the play?”

“Yup. Once. And I have the book,” I said. “I’d love to do ‘The Little Coochie-Snorcher That Could’!”

Naomi laughed. “Yeah, you could probably wear a wig or something.”

“Of course not!” I retorted. “I’ll go onstage like this. I can be Sinead O’ Connor.”

A few more moments of quick, energized small talk, and I learned that, after graduation from Brown, Naomi had worked as journalist in Europe before coming to Boston; and now, she hosts a news and information show on Berklee’s student-run radio network.

At that instant, I knew I had found someone whom I’d probably want as a friend—and in my gut, I was sure that, as long as I kept an open mind to the people around me, there are more Naomis to be found.

6

Throughout my stay, I learned more and more that I would never be alone while living in Boston. For one thing, I hardly had to pay for my meals while I was there, with both old and new friends constantly insisting on footing the bill.

“I’m still working, you know,” I would say, with both embarrassment and gratitude. “I’m not an impoverished student yet. I still have a salary.”

“But you’re a visitor,” they would reply. “You can repay us when you’re done at Berklee.”

“Fine,” I would say. “I’ll remember this when I’ve won my Oscar.”

Generosity is in abundant supply among Filipinos who have made it there—not only with meals, but also in opening doors to kababayans who need a place to stay. Chad, upon getting a job at Ernst & Young, had moved to New York and lived with an uncle he had never met; Leanne, who stayed behind in Boston to finish the final semester of her program, roomed with a couple of Filipinos she had only met there. And Lance calls his apartment a hotel, with Filipinos passing through town always welcome in his guest room—“dahil naaalala ko kung paano ako nag-umpisa.”

And rehearsing with the warm, welcoming Boston Filipino choir at Lance’s house, and meeting the broader Filipino community at Mass two days later—many of who, allegedly, are so accomplished in their fields that even Americans get intimidated—I knew I had found a family-to-be, half the world away.

7

Of course, I just had to learn something from GP—after all, during Hangad’s US tour last November, it was he who sealed my decision to try out for Berklee.

GP graduated from Ateneo High School a year after I did; proceeded to college in UP, then Ateneo, then finally Berklee, where he graduated summa cum laude and delivered his batch’s valedictory address. Today, GP works at St Peter’s Prep School, a Jesuit-run private boys’ school in New Jersey, where he is loved by his students, co-faculty, and school administrators alike for his work as music teacher and head of the school’s glee club. On top of that, he has written music that was used in the score of Days of Our Lives, leads a parish choir in New York, and plays the piano for four Masses every Sunday.

Musicians in the US do have a future, said GP—yes, even church musicians. To illustrate, he said, “David Haas (the man behind ‘Now We Remain’) is a very rich man.”

GP told me how American choirs are conscientious about copyright law, and hence don’t photocopy scores but instead pay for original copies for every choir member. He told me how much one gets paid to lead a choir. He told me how much you can charge a choir that commissions an arrangement. He told me how much you can get paid for playing the piano for a Mass. And he told me that once a song you wrote gets published, you’re made—because unlike in the Philippines, where singers are the stars, songwriters in the US earn more than the singers.

Mikee, a Boston-based friend of GP who was in New York when I visited, who does musical theater and sings in choirs alongside working in a hospital lab, also told me the standard rate for performing a song, even if it’s for a church service; and that you can actually become a professional choir member, paid to sing in a choir, as he is.

“Lots of the stuff you do in Philippines for free, you can get paid for in the US,” said GP. “And if you’re uncomfortable about this being a ‘ministry’, then look at it this way: you’re doing music full-time, it’s your living. In the same way, a doctor, no matter how kind he is, can’t treat patients for free all the time.”

8

In the first few days of my trip, I started questioning the wisdom of pushing life’s reset button on a social networking site. Ritchie, one of my oldest friends, said: “Look closely at the button. It doesn’t say ‘reset’. It says ‘grow’.”

As much anxiety as the idea of resetting brings, the stories I gathered over my ten days in the US convince me that this journey can only change me for the better. There’s so much character to build, so much patience to muster, so many survival instincts to sharpen, so many odds to overcome, so many people to meet, so much about life to learn, so many blessings to discover. There will be times I will hit rock bottom; there will be a time things will fall into place; and there will never be a time I will be alone in this journey.

On the way to the airport on the day of my departure, I excitedly told Tito Joey and Tita Tere, our family friends and my New York hosts, about all these stories of adversity and blessings and success, and how they had allayed my initial worries and cemented my conviction that I’m doing the right thing.

“That’s great,” they said. “But remember, it will be different as a musician. Your lifestyle won’t be as comfortable or predictable as when you’re working in P&G.”

That’s all right, I said. After all—as I had said in my Berklee application—my love for music has outlasted any company, industry, career path, field, interest, and relationship I’ve ever been in; and it has given me more joy and fulfillment than anything my “practical” life has given me.

Music, I said, is what I was born to do.

After Tita Tere hugged me goodbye at the airport, she put her hands on my shoulders, looked at me at arm’s length, and said: “I want to sing to you.”

“What do you mean, Tita?” I asked.

“On a clear day,” she said, beaming with pride, “you can see forever.”

And so cue On a Clear Day. Or Corner of the Sky. Something’s Coming. Defying Gravity. Out There. Just Around the Riverbend. A Piece of Sky. Cue these anthems of characters who, through the decades, have inspired dreamers who caught a glimpse of something bigger and better, and chased madly after it, without really knowing where it would lead. These characters don’t just exist in movies and musicals; with the stories like I learned, they’re all around us.

And they’ve convinced me, on this clear, crazy day, to dive headfirst into forever, and let my own story start to unfold.

A new bite into the Big Apple

In an earlier post, I said I was worried about getting bored and restless in Boston, it being such a small city. But I reassured myself that, small as it is, it’s packed with stuff to do.

Here’s another reassurance I now have: just a US$15, four-hour bus ride away, is New York City.

Sure, I love that Boston beckons you to sit on a park bench with a book, or spend hours in a café typing on your laptop, or just wander the city streets at a slow pace with friends—things that I’d probably feel uncomfortable doing in heart-pounding, turbo-paced Manhattan—but I can’t deny that New York is just so damned exciting.

And this trip of mine to New York, just three months after my last visit, was interestingly atypical. I didn’t watch a single Broadway show; I didn’t visit an art museum; I didn’t buy a single article of clothing; and I didn’t step into the Apple store or Barnes and Noble, even though I passed both by.

I landed in New York at noontime on Tuesday. Tito Joey picked me up at JFK; only ten minutes after getting to their house, I was off to the city. I was scheduled to meet GP and Mikee, who was visiting from Boston, that afternoon; but they in New Jersey, at the school where GP taught music. While waiting, I checked out the TKTS queues at Times Square on the off-chance I’d easily be able to get show tickets (no such luck—the lines were discouragingly long); browsed through the NBC and Lego shops at Rockefeller Center; and had a late lunch at a deli on 50^th.

Mikee called to say he was at St Patrick’s Cathedral; we met there, then walked to Magnolia Bakery, where GP was waiting with Eni, a former Madz member whom I had met during Hangad’s tour last November, and JD from ACS, who was visiting from San Francisco. The five of us went to a Brazilian restaurant that Mikee had found on GPS, where the grumpy old waiter said that Mikee, Eni and I would be charged US$2 extra, since we had each ordered only either a salad or an appetizer, and no entrée; but we didn’t bother arguing. After two hours of chatting and laughing, GP, Mikee and I decided we were still hungry (Eni and JD had plans, and had left by this time) headed off to Dallas BBQ near Times Square for a second dinner, and to chat and laugh some more. We stayed until past 11 PM, after which we parted ways. (Lucky for me, Tita Tere was working late each night that week at the UN, so I could ride home with her and Tito Joey.)

With Ateneo and Berklee alumnus GP during a turista stop in Times Square.

The next day, I rode to the UN with Tita Tere and Tito Joey, and headed uptown to Lincoln Center to pick up the NYC Ballet Swan Lake ticket I had bought online several months before. I don’t claim to be a connoisseur of ballet—my exposure has been limited to standards like Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, and Nutcracker, and kiddie ballets like Snow White and Peter Pan—but I’ve enjoyed it since I was a kid, when Inay would regularly bring me to Ballet Philippines productions. So when I found out that Swan Lake would be staged for just eight performances, coinciding with my stay in New York, I just had to get a ticket.

It was my first visit to Lincoln Center, and I loved it! I spent some time wandering around the central courtyard, and the performance halls for ballet, for opera, and for the NY Symphony. I also got my first look at Juilliard (this might sound defensive, but there are no regrets here—I know my musical training and aspirations are better-suited for Berklee than for Juilliard). From there I walked south to the Time-Warner Center at Columbus Circle (nothing much), then north to the Museum of Natural History, which I hadn’t visited since 1994.

Lincoln Center. Across the square is the theater where I would watch Swan Lake that evening.

At the Museum, I approached the ticket desks in the entrance hall and asked how much the tickets were. “The suggested donation is US$16,” said the elderly lady manning the desk, “but it’s just suggested, so that means you can give just as much as you like.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give US$10.”

“Can I know your zipcode?”

“Oh, I’m not from here.”

“Where are you from?”

“Manila.”

“Kabayan!” she exclaimed, suddenly warming up. (In fairness to her, her accent had me fooled.) “Masyadong mahal ang US$10. Magbigay ka lang ng piso, para makakain ka nang mabuti.”

So I handed her a dollar. I learned her name is Flora, from Novaliches; she was married to an American, and had been working in New York for several years.

“At teka lang… bibigyan kita ng ticket sa planetarium at sa featured exhibit…”

And so Flora did. Which is just as well, because the museum bored me to death. The temporary exhibit titled “The Brain” was quite interesting, though I had to rush through it to get to the planetarium show—a much-hyped affair that put me to sleep. And as I looked around at the exhibits of animal models (or were they taxidermically-stuffed animals?) I thought to myself: “If I want to see animals, I’ll go to a zoo. I left after just an hour at the museum, stopping by the food court in the basement to grab a late lunch (which I enjoyed just as much as the museum).

I crossed the street to Central Park, which I enjoyed even more now than I did last November, wandering slowly in the general direction of FAO Schwartz in the park’s southeast corner, stopping once in a while to rest on a park bench, or breathe in the cool air, or take a photo of a wooden bridge, or a skating rink, or the snow-covered ground and the deep blue winter sky.

Central Park, with a view of the southern edge and the Wollman skating rink.

I spent a half-hour at FAO Schwartz before heading back to Lincoln Center for the ballet. Still with time to kill, I got myself a latte at the espresso bar, and finally headed into the theater.

What an experience. The theater was huge and gleaming, and my seat was Orchestra Center, in the 10^th row from the stage. And though the ballet wasn’t perfect, its merits more than made up for its faults.

I had issues with the material itself, with too many divertissements, and too many forgettable, uninspired waltzes in the score (I guess I’m a lot more discerning now because I never noticed these things the last time I saw Swan Lake). The set design, toted in the Playbill as the work of a great Danish modern artist, consisted of sloppily done scribbles meant to represent “palace” or “forest”—I felt Gino Gonzalez could do better. And the dancers’ athletic, angular moves made it clear that, as my officemate and ballerina Nicole had said, the NYC Ballet was better acquainted with modern rather than classical ballet.

Still, at the same time, the dancer who performed Odette / Odile was the most amazing ballerina I had ever watched, not only for her effortless technical ability, but for the delicately nuanced interpretation in her face and body: tormented and vulnerable as Odette, scheming and confident as Odile. The lighting, and many of the costumes, were also exquisitely executed, showing what high-budget production can do (sigh for Ballet Philippines). I could not take my eyes off the captivating 20-ballerina corps de ballet, and I was at the edge of my seat during the pas de quatre. And at the good parts of the score, the orchestra was sublime, building from oboe-and-harp to full orchestra, bringing out the longing and heartbreak in the ballet’s theme.

In short—experiencing the NYC Ballet at Lincoln Center more than made up for not catching any Broadway shows. And I swore to myself to catch more in the future.

A stolen shot of the Swan Lake theater.

For Thursday, I had originally planned to visit the Met—I missed a lot last November, when I had spent all of my four-hour visit on the first floor—but decided to explore the Village instead, which I had never done. It was a happy decision, because the weather today was beautiful—sunny, not too cold, and in fact, the first time since I arrived in the US that I didn’t need my coat. It was a perfect day for walking—so walk I did.

My first stop was the small park at Christopher St., with life-size sculptures of two same-sex couples known as the Gay Liberation Monument; and right across from the park was the historic Stonewall Inn, birthplace of the gay rights movement in the 1960s. I walked several blocks north, and had a disappointing lunch at Soy Café; then walked west to the Hudson River, and strolled along the bank and a few of its piers, which had been converted into a lovely park. From there I walked northeast to Washington Square Park and NYU, where scores of students had gathered to enjoy the sun; and where, to the crowd’s delight, in the middle of the square and right in front of the giant arch, a pianist was performing “Nessun Dorma”.

The Gay Liberation Monument in Christopher Park.

View of New Jersey from the Hudson River Park.

The pianist’s name, I learned, is Colin Huggins. He had studied classical piano in Europe and used to be a classical concert pianist in York, until he learned that he could have more fun and actually make the same money by wheeling his piano into the square each day that the weather permitted it, and just playing for the crowd. I sat and watched him for an hour as he played Chopin, Rachmaninoff, and at my request, parts of “Rhapsody in Blue”.

"The Happiest Man on Earth."

“Are you a musician?” Colin asked me.

“Yup,” I said.

“You wanna play?”

“Haha. No.” Although God knows that inside, I was dying to play—and I would have, if only I had someone with me to take what would be a great Facebook profile picture.

After Colin had wheeled his piano away—and handed me his card, which said “Colin Huggins, Pianist, Happiest Man on Earth”—I walked north a few blocks to Union Square. I sat there a while, watching the people, then took the PATH train across the river to New Jersey and walked a few blocks to St Peter’s Prep School, the all-boy Jesuit school where GP had taught music since graduating from Berklee. There was a small fund-raiser at the school that evening featuring some of GP’s students, and I had promised to attend, mostly out of curiosity about life after Berklee.

The fund-raiser was held in the school’s cafeteria, with a handful of family members and faculty as the audience. Three of GP’s students sang solos of songs I didn’t know—one Elvis song and two emo songs—with GP accompanying. Too bad I didn’t get to hear any group numbers by the choir GP led, since everyone said GP was doing so well and was so well-liked as the school’s Mr Schuster (not that I’m a Glee fan, but from what little I’ve seen of the show, I know that comparison is a pretty big deal).

GP, Mikee (who had also watched the show) and I sneaked out and headed for Manhattan as soon as other kids started singing. We were lucky enough to get a table at Shake Shack, and I wasn’t at all disappointed by the high expectations of the burger that my officemates Pat and Sonny had built up. Even the maple walnut-flavored custard—so sweet that it gave me a sore throat and so rich that it was totally against my “no dessert” principle—was worth it.

After dinner, we (joined by JD) headed to Don’t Tell Mama, the sing-along piano bar near 46^th and 8^th that I had been dying to return to since my first visit with Hangad last November. Apparently it was pop rock night, with the pianist and waitresses belting out songs like “I Wanna Dance With Somebody”, “Hold On”, “Man in the Mirror”, “Human Nature” (Michael Jackson’s, not Madonna’s), “Rainbow Connection”, and “Hotel California”. But genre constraints didn’t stop me from going up on stage to do another Sondheim number—last November it was “Losing My Mind” from Follies; this time it was “Marry Me a Little” from Company. The pitch was lower than I remembered from the Raul Esparza recording I constantly sing along to while driving; and reading off lyrics from JD’s iPhone proved to be a handicap; but who cares? You don’t often get to sing Sondheim on a New York stage; and as GP had said, “Deadma na. August pa balik mo, walang makakaalala sa ‘yo.”

I stayed at Don’t Tell Mama until past 2 AM—Tita Tere was working especially late that night. GP, Mikee and JD had left around two hours earlier to catch the last train back to New Jersey. I didn’t mind; I love that piano bar.

Friday, my last day in New York, was a day for meeting up with several friends. First on the list was Inay’s friend and colleague, Sheila Coronel, who had offered to take me to lunch, and show me around “her Manhattan.” Tita Sheila was founder and director of the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism for 17 years; and five years ago, she joined Columbia University’s Graduate School of Journalism as a member of the faculty and director of the school’s investigative journalism program.

I arrived at the Columbia area early, so I spent a few minutes at the Cathedral of St John the Divine before heading there. According to my Lonely Planet guidebook, this is the world’s third largest place of worship (after St Peter’s Basilica and some place in France I had never heard of); and it was grand indeed, with intricate sculptures and reliefs on the façade, and massive columns, towering ceilings, and a gleaming sanctuary inside.

(Incidentally, after Tito Joey had dropped me and Tita Tere off at the UN just that morning, Tita Tere had said: “Keep your eyes on the road! That’s the way to walk in New York, since there’s a lot of dog poop around.” And on the way from the subway station to the cathedral, because I had been texting Tita Sheila that I was already in the area, I stepped right into dog poop. Thank God for all the unmelted ice around, and for my luck finding patches of ice which weren’t yet blackened by New York pollution, which allowed me to clean it up. I texted Tita Tere about the irony of what had happened; she replied, “I have the gift of prophecy.”)

From the cathedral, I headed to the Columbia University campus—a grand experience in itself, with its wide-open quadrangle and its dignified buildings. I met Tita Sheila at the journalism building. We walked for just under two hours, as she showed me around the Columbia campus, the quiet and elegant Morningside neighborhood, the nearby Riverside park and Grant monument. We ventured farther eastward into Harlem, a seemingly different world of hip-hop music booming from cars’ open windows; the Apollo theater, where Ella Fitzgerald and the Jackson 5 had first performed; sidewalk stalls selling t-shirts and books that glowed with black pride; and throngs of people flashing the don’t-shit-with-me attitude that African-Americans have earned a reputation for, thanks to portrayals on movies and TV. Even as Harlem struck me as gritty, Tita Sheila talked about the gentrification of the district, with the rise of prime real estate in the area.

Touring Morningside with journalist extraordinaire Sheila Coronel.

We had lunch at an American bistro in Harlem, and walked back to Columbia, where we parted with a hug just before I entered the subway to meet another friend, college friend Miriam delos Santos. Mhir had studied International Political Economics and Development at Fordham University for the past two years on a full scholarship, and after volunteer work for four months on Culion Island, the former leper colony in the Palawan archipelago, she was now back in New York to look for a job in development—and also, to promote the book she had written for fun, and which, to her pleasant surprise, got published when she had submitted her manuscript to a publisher on a whim while she was at Fordham. We had coffee and a snack at a deli near Rockefeller Center, with me marveling the whole time at her good luck on getting that full scholarship (“Development wasn’t even your field!” I had explained) and getting published. “I guess good karma comes to good people,” I told her.

Lastly I met up with Chad and Leanne, at Chad’s office on Times Square, for dinner. Times Square was packed with people—I don’t know if it was because it was Friday night, or because it was the warmest Manhattan had been in weeks. We drove down to the Meatpacking district and spent several hours catching up over a delicious Asian dinner at Spice market. I talked about my decision to apply for Berklee, and my seven-month side trip into the world of fashion retail; they talked about their character-building experience of job-hunting during the recession, and the seven years they had spent on the East Coast. After dinner, they took me home to Tita Tere’s in Queens.

At Tita Tere's home with old friends Chad and Leanne, who invited me to Hangad 16 years ago.

And so ended my four days in New York. Again, my stay was interestingly unusual, with no Broadway shows, no art museums, and hardly any shopping; but also because I spent so much more time with friends, old and new, than my typically anti-social self allows me to when traveling. Yet I have no regrets about how I spent these four days, getting to know New York’s less touristy but no less interesting corners, and hearing the stories of the people who live there.

Definitely, I will be back soon, and not just once. US$15 bus rides, here I come.