February 26, 2011


It's the cliche exposition.
Camera pans left, right, and you get the setting.
Or, in a stage play, actors enter from both sides, the beginning.
It's very windy today, and the cold stretches around me.
T and I arrive to a very busy Boulevard.
February is ending and we take a sudden trip to where our story began. This was where we met, after all. The city of transients.
I've counted at least five trucks loaded with sugar cane.
There's music drifting through the long stretch of the Boulevard.
A group of bikers park in front of us, most of them in their 40s, sporting mohawks and black, heavy jackets. I imagine they drove all the way from Occidental.
Across the street is the biggest hotel in the city, and, walking in a single file, are teenage girls wearing colored, shiny dresses, walking towards their much-anticipated prom night.
At least three vendors greeted us with fake pearls, driftwood, and cheap sunglasses.
Trycicles and motorcycles dot the street, and in the center, a smiling traffic man in blue.
Century-old acacia trees stand cloaked in creeping vines.
One may say that in Dumaguete, days happen in a monotony - the season of weekdays, and the season of weekends.
Twilight is descending, and everywhere, people are strolling.
Locals and transients embrace this monotony.
And T and I have arrived in the exact timing, the Saturday season.

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