Stars and Skype

Long distance relationships are difficult, but nowadays, technology makes it somewhat bearable. Cellphones and computers allow friends, families or lovers to chat and see each other at any time of day or night, and in the privacy of their own rooms, or even cars (Just don’t drive and text).  And while we pay for Internet or cellphone service, connecting to another anywhere in the globe is actually free with Facetime, Viber, Hangout or Skype.

In the early 1970’s, when John was courting me (in those days, men courted women and we never said  “when WE were courting …”), John’s mother considered me a bad influence because I was encouraging him to work as a photographer, which meant that he was not paying attention to the family business. To separate us, she sent him off to Iloilo to stay with his sister. Now, in those days, there was no Internet, email or Skype, there were no cellphones or even pagers, and public coin-operated phones were just for local calls. Long distance calls could be done if one had a landline at home (we didn't) or would have to be done at the telephone company's premises.  Mailed letters took a long time, so any messages that needed to be rushed were sent by telegrams. 

My family was poor and we did not have a phone at home. If John wanted to call me, he would have to call my aunt’s house, which was next door, and wait for someone, usually my aunt’s maid or houseboy (then called servants) to call me and for me to rush to my aunt’s house. With cousins practically eavesdropping, there was no chance for John and I to say sweet nothings to each other. Besides, in those days, telephones had party-lines, meaning, two phone owners, usually neighbors, took turns in using one phone line. As a matter of phone courtesy, when one lifts the handset and hears someone talking, that person must put the phone down gently, and wait. If you’re the one using the phone, sometimes, it meant hearing that handset being lifted and put down over and over again, and when the other party becomes impatient, they say “Hello, party line, puede ba ako naman (may I have my turn?)  There was no way to stay on the phone a long time to make “telebabad” (staying too long on the phone).  

It was too embarrassing to use my aunt’s phone to call long distance, so for calls that I would have to initiate, I would go to the Philippine Long Distance Company office in Port Area, near the foot of Jones Bridge (two jeepney rides or approximately five kilometers from Paranaque, where I lived).  There were booths there, and callers were guaranteed not only soundproofed privacy, but also no party lines waiting on the wing for me to finish my call. But long distance calls were expensive, and I did not have the money to make such calls. 

Before he left for Iloilo, and anticipating the difficulty of keeping in touch, John agreed to my romantic suggestion to connect somehow by gazing at the sky and looking at a row of three stars (Orion’s belt) at the same time every night at exactly 7:00PM. We had no cellphones or Internet, it is true, but what we had was a direct connection, soul-to-soul through the stars, it was private, and it was free. Who needs Skype?

John eventually came back to Manila. We set up Adphoto, got married, and raised our own children. We’re still together, so obviously the stars worked. Once in a while, through the more than 40 years since the 1970’s, when John and I look up at darker provincial skies (disappointingly, Metro Manila no longer offers a clear view of the night sky), we give thanks that when we did not have Skype, we had the stars. 

When in Rome...

During a recent trip to Rome, John and I stayed at a bed-and-breakfast place run by Catholic nuns. It was towards the end of May, and officially not yet summer, but it was warm. We saw a wall-type air conditioner mounted near the ceiling and therefore out of reach, but the remote control was nowhere to be found.  Our room was on the third floor of the building facing the street, which happened to be a main avenue. If we opened the windows to let the breeze in, we would also be letting in the roars from the Vespas and Ducatis - those famous Italian scooters that fill Italian streets, and there was no way that we would be able to sleep.

I considered going down to the first floor lobby to ask for the remote control, or at least to let the nuns know that we found the room warm. However, I balked at the idea since I did not (do not) speak any Italian.  Earlier when we were checking in, I discovered that the nuns manning the reception did not speak any English. To my disappointment, one whom I thought was Filipina turned out to be from Madagascar and did not speak any English either.

But it was warm! So I checked the little book “Italian for Travellers” that my nun-friend in a nearby convent lent me for the phrases “air conditioner” and “remote control” but no matter how many times I scanned the pages, the book contained no such words.  There was only the word “caldo” for “hot,” and the word “molto” (“very”), attached to another adjective, that I could put together.

A picture is worth a thousand words, we are told, and so I took a photo of the air conditioner in the room and went down with my camera. I remarked,  “It’s molto caldo in our room.”  In a very stern, but low, voice that reminded me of the nuns in my grade school, she admonished, “No fumare.” I understood that to mean “No smoking,” or “Don’t smoke.” To assure her that John and I were not smoking in our room, I nodded my head and echoed what she said, “No fumare.”  Since that did not lead me anywhere, I showed her the image on my camera’s LCD, and asked for the remote control, while I repeated my well-mastered phrase, “molto caldo.” She raised her forefinger and repeated “No fumare” and in quick Italian must have said something about the consequences of smoking (guessing from all the conjugations of the verb “fumare” that I heard her say). I tried to get my message across by fanning myself with my hand and repeating “molto caldo,” and “caldo molto” (just in case, in Italian, the adverb should come after the adjective).  It was funny because all sorts of Spanish words- courtesy of Spanish language lessons during college days - were coming to my head in my attempt to explain that it was very warm in our room.  I was frustrated and starting to fret, while she remained firm and stern. To add to my frustration that I could not get myself understood, I heard her very matter-of-factly warn me, while pointing to the smoke alarm and vigorously twirling her forefinger,  “Fumare – wang, wang wang.”  She said something else but all I could understand was “dormir.“ With a simple wave of her hand, while maintaining eye contact, she said softly but with finality, “Buona notte!” I guessed that what she was saying was “Go to sleep, good night,” and that was it – end of discussion. It was frustrating – not only to be unable to communicate but to be made to feel like a grade school pupil in a Catholic school. At 65, I did not think a nun could still make me feel that way. J

Resigned to sleeping in a warm room, I went back upstairs. After an hour or so, I saw that the brochure that I picked up at the front desk earlier contained the phrase “aira condizionata” which I took to mean “air conditioned.” “Aha,” I said to John, "here’s what I can show her." I also wished (maybe prayed is the more correct word) that the nun whom I encountered earlier would no longer be on duty.  I walked down the stairs to the ground floor. She was there with another nun – not the smiling nun from Madagascar but someone who looked like the Italian Mother Superior. Hope springs eternal, and I pointed at the brochure and said to them “molto caldo aira condizionata . ” That was the full extent of my Italian in one go.  That hope was doused quickly when the older nun said simply, “no funzione,” and all I could do was meekly repeat, “aria condizionata, no funzione.”

I had no choice but to accept defeat. Bowing slightly to the two nuns before me, I whispered, “Buona notte,” and headed back to our molto caldo room. 

The Ice Cream Conspiracy

John discovered this most delicious ice cream – Selecta Gold’s Vanilla with Almonds. Yummy. Super yummy. Every spoonful is creamy, and has just the right amount and size of nuts. But, I remind him (and myself) - that's calories, sugar and tons of cholesterol - all the wrong things to be putting into our aging bodies. Let's not eat ice cream! Please, let's not eat ice cream.

He keeps two half gallons of it in the freezer, so there’s at least a full container that’s always ready. He treats himself to a bowl-ful practically every night, and before going to the kitchen, would sweetly ask me if I also wanted some. Even when I decline, he would come back to the room with two bowls of this yummy ice cream – one for him and another for me. I try to say no, but the temptation is strong. I succumb. I surrender. I meekly accept the ice cream.  Hmmm, yum, yum. As I enjoy the ice cream, I forget the calories. Forget the sugar. Forget the cholesterol. Forget about nagging John that it's not healthy. It's really yummy ice cream.

Oh, he just handed me some. Excuse me, but I’ll have to put my computer down. J

2009 Annual Report

The dark clouds of worldwide economic gloom, which started to gather in the last quarter of 2008, ushered in the new, but not very hopeful, year. While we are thankful that we survived it, last year was a year that we are glad belongs to the past. However, if we chose to look at life in 2009 in a more positive way, the slow business calendar actually allowed us to do other things for which we are grateful.

John was able to devote time to his advocacy, started in 2008, which he now calls “Touching Lives Through Photography”. Two Autism Society of the Philippines (ASP) chapters – Cavite and Baguio – joined “Colors of A Spectrum,” a photography workshop for families touched by autism, while Makati’s Persons with Disability and Company (Perdisco) offered it for children with various disabilities. John also helped organized “Skywalk” for the Down Syndrome Association of the Philippines. In all of these projects, Canon (for which John has become an official endorser) was very supportive.

I, on the other hand, made serious moves to do things other than manage Adphoto – not for business reasons but as part of my wish to retire. Perhaps the most major step was teaching “Business of Photography,” to graduating A.B. Photography students at the College of Saint Benilde. I was also able to start researching on John’s 1970’s photos by making a few trips to the National Library. I still have a long way to go in archiving John’s photographs, but as the great saying goes, “the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step…”

A brief but exciting challenge was co-curating a mixed art exhibit, Glimpse of A Soul” by my artist-friends at the Carl Jung Circle, which segued well into my participating in a group photo exhibit, with 18 of my students and one co-teacher. I chose three photos from a recent trip to the U.S. East Coast.

Somehow, having bucked the downtrends during many crises in the Philippines made us confident that we would survive and maybe even prosper, but the numbers were not helping. Billings were very low and collections even lower. Newly hired employees were the first to be discouraged and left. When Weng, our messenger, resigned, we decided not to replace him and instead promoted our cheerful houseboy, Ronel, to do deliveries. Ninfa, who started as Kathy’s yaya (nanny) in 1981 and moved up to fill different office positions, opted for early retirement to take care of her ailing mother. G-nie, our photographer of 18-years, after parrying many offers from abroad, finally made the move to try her fortune in Dubai. Before she left, she garnered awards and international recognition (Cannes Lions, Singapore Spikes and the Philippine Araw awards) for a series of ads done at Adphoto for Boysen Paints/TBWA. Online chats continue to connect her to us, and Ninfa occasionally visits.

With a lean staff and some deft cost-cutting measures, we managed to end the year with all assets intact and even a slim profit. We even managed to do major physical renovations at the studio, and do some meaningful team building activities – to get us ready for when the economy is better (which I believe is now).

All our preoccupation with declining business and the troubled global economy screeched to a stop in October, when floodwaters from typhoon Ondoy inundated all of Metro Manila and nearby provinces. Setting aside normal work activities, we helped affected families – by cooking hot meals, packing rice, instant noodles and canned provisions, gathering old (and some new) clothes, donating towels, rubber boots, mosquito nets, hammers, shovels, saws and some cash to families in Tanay and other places. (Thanks for donations received from Ching and John, Sacha and Wayne, friends Barbara and Sarah, and thanks also to Kathy for leading our very own relief operations).

Throughout the year, there were a lot of “hellos” and “goodbyes” when friends came in batches – former college friends and dorm-mates Aida Reyes (from Davao) and Genie Abiad (from Baguio and U.S.); International Club of the Philippines members who came from various parts of the country and the world; and dear relatives like Tia Remie who hosted a family reunion of the Valentinos, Lomboses and Dumasals. Skype allowed for regular communication between us and Gary and Sylvia Bement, and my dear 86-year old namesake, Harvey E. Jewell in Tennessee.

It was also hello and goodbye for our family. On staggered schedules last December, Ching and her John (from Singapore), Kathy’s John (from the Middle East and Holland) and Sacha (from Canada) came home for a brief but fun holiday – giving us time to enjoy each other’s company in Siargao (the surfing capital of the Philippines). Ching, John V, Kathy and John G showed their form on the surfboards, John C tried valiantly but did not quite make it to standing position, while Sacha and I became the enthusiastic audience (and official photographers) of the surfers in the family. Before everyone left, we managed to pose in color and style-coordinated Columbia outfits for a family picture with all the pets – Lucas, Ginger, Bob (African love bird) and would you believe, Maali (John’s non-resident pet elephant, through the magic of Photoshop).

Looking back, except for the damages wrought by the typhoon, we might have anticipated worse than what came, and thank God, the first two months of this year actually offer us hope that we are back on track. Goodbye 2009. Welcome 2010.

Going Physical

At 64, I am still hoping to find out more about myself so that my life can be balanced, joyful and productive. The list below is part of a much bigger questionnaire (there are questions on other aspects of life) and deals more with my physical skills. I was shocked to find out that I could not check even one on this list.

Having finger dexterity
Good hand and eye coordination
Gross motor coordination
Having agility, speed & stamina
Crafting, sewing, carving, sculpting
Finishing, painting, restoring etc
Cooking, baking
Assembling machines or equipment
Operating, driving machines/equipment
Maintaining machines or equipment
Constructing buildings or rooms
Gardening
Taking care of animals

How could that be? What did I do with my life? Or with my body? For sure, I was never a couch potato. Except for Oprah and Suze Orman, TV holds no appeal for me. Did I just read, write and do paperwork? I don’t suppose account servicing and managing could be considered physical activities. Did I just sit in front of my computer? Although I must admit that I enjoy long after-dinner conversations, do I just spend my leisure time chatting with friends? Am I essentially a spectator, a passenger, a listener?

Embroidery, sewing, pottery, carpentry, cooking, baking – I’ve tried them all but could not go beyond introductory levels – there was not one that I was passionate about to pursue through the years.

You would not believe how many times I’ve enrolled in driving classes – maybe 5 or 6 times, and yet I still don’t drive alone. But, hey, I have a driver’s license.

I love animals but have not taken care of any of them. One daughter raised a cat; another takes care of our dogs and an African lovebird, while my husband volunteers as an elephant-keeper at our local zoo. Which pet can really be mine to take care of? Not even Tomagotchi, I’m afraid.

Playing a piano? Nope, never learned it, even though I bought a piano for our home, and encouraged my children to learn it.

Boy, I’m starting to feel useless – I love gardens and plants, but don’t do any gardening. My thumb is brown, or maybe red or orange!

Now that I’ve reached six decades and four, I can perhaps offer my advance age as my excuse for not having stamina, agility or speed, but I don’t remember joining any sports or race even in my youth, so I would be unfairly blaming old age for my lethargy. There was a time I tried Tetris but have yet to find a computer game, or a physical activity such as volleyball or badminton, or even ballroom dancing in which I could excel. Oh, no, we’re not even talking excellence here; we’re just talking “do.”

Please help! Where, when and how do I start to acquire physical skills? Do I choose one and not give up until I’ve mastered it? Then which one? I always tell myself that it’s never too late to learn something new, but is this checklist telling me that physical skills are really not in my DNA?

A Chinese Decision

A Chinese Decision

In 1985, having made the decision to stay in the country, we had offered to buy the house that we had been renting since 1980. It housed our studio as well, while we lived on the second floor that had two bedrooms, one for my husband John and myself, and the other for the children. The living room and a ground floor masters’ bedroom had been converted into photo studios, the library into an equipment room, and we shared the dining room and kitchen with the staff and clients.

When we informed our landlady, with whom we had become friends, that we were interested to purchase her house, she did not want to name a price. Instead, she wanted us to make an offer.

To help me arrive at a fair price to offer her, I decided to look around in the neighborhood to see how much properties were selling for. Then, one day, one of the real estate agents asked me to check out a house in San Lorenzo Village (or San Lo, for short), a first class gated subdivision right next to the Makati Central Business District. Although San Lo was a residential community, they were quite lax and allowed businesses to be established in some of the homes (as long as they didn’t build obviously business buildings). She assured me that San Lo prices were at par with Bautista’s, since Bautista was considered a commercial area.

My only intention for looking around was to get an idea of how much to offer for our house, but I was thrilled to think that there was a possibility that we could live in a nicer neighborhood.

True enough, I found a house in San Lo that met one of the most important specifications that my husband had set – that it must have a living room large enough to be used as a photo studio. I showed it to my husband and he gave his imprimatur. I liked it myself because it had a yard and was near the community park. I envisioned having my young children biking around in this safe neighborhood and making friends with other kids in the neighborhood – something they could not do on busy, noisy and traffic-dangerous Bautista Street.

Since I had a friend in the real estate business who lived in San Lo, I took her to the house to get her advise on how to negotiate with the owners. To my chagrin, she immediately said we should not get that house. I asked her why, and she said “Tumbok yan, and that’s malas” (“tumbok” is the Tagalog word for being at the intersecting point of two roads connecting like a T, and “malas” means to be capable of bringing misfortune). It was my first time to hear the word “tumbok” and I certainly did not believe in superstitions. I argued that my husband and I work very hard and can offset or overcome whatever “malas” the house would bring. “That may be true,” she said, “but many people believe that houses like this are ‘malas’ and if and when you need to upgrade, you would have a hard time selling this property.”

I went home frustrated that we could not push through with buying a house because it was “tumbok” and “malas.” I went to bed early, very disappointed and slightly depressed at seeing all my happy dreams and visions of this San Lo house going pffft, and at the thought of doing house hunting all over again.

All of sudden, a thought came to me that pulled me out of the pits. My inner voice was saying – “Why feel bad? In 1970 when you started the business, you had nothing and hardly any money, and today, you almost bought a house in an exclusive community in the city. You’ve come a long way, Harvey.” That thought was enough to perk me up, and I went downstairs to the studio to reassure my husband that I was feeling okay and not to worry about me.

I saw him working overtime in the studio with a Chinese client. We talked about the house and he (Felix Wu, formerly of Ajinomoto) said he would like to share a story with us of two businessmen – a Chinese and a Filipino.

Here was the story:

There were two entrepreneurs, one Filipino and one Chinese. They both had a “sari-sari” store (a humble variety store that sells, in retail, only small low-priced everyday items).

After a year, the Filipino used the profits of his store to buy himself a TV set. The Chinese man reinvests his money into the store, and turned his “sari-sari” store into a mini-grocery.

After the second year, the Filipino bought himself a second-hand car while the Chinese continued to commute using public transportation. He expanded his store, while the Filipino still had the same “sari-sari” store.

After the third year, the Filipino bought himself a house in BF Homes (a medium-level suburban subdivision) while the Chinaman continued to live in a tiny room above his store, which was by then, close to looking like a department store.

At this point, my husband butted in and said, “You see, the Chinese way is better,” to which I replied, “Better for the business but look at the two and see who is smiling.” It was easy for the three of us to reach the conclusion that the Chinese knew how to do business, while the Filipino knew how to enjoy life.

“Let’s have a Chinese decision,” John said. “Let’s offer to buy this house. After all, the studio is here, we won’t need to transfer, we might lose clients if we transferred, we won’t have to change business forms and stationary, etc.”

“Okay”, I said, “for now, we will have a Chinese decision, but I hope someday, we can enjoy a Filipino decision.”

We offered to buy the house, our offer was well received, and for the next 20 years, we lived and worked here, raised our children and grew our photography business, combining home and business as many Chinese families would. We continue to live our Chinese decision, while waiting for the opportunity to enjoy a Filipino decision.

Telepathy

Harvey V. Chua John went north to the HAB fest. I'm going south to Alabang so I can write, check my students' works and prepare for Tuesday. Will pass by MMP to visit my dad's grave - it's his death anniversary today. He passed on in 1978. I wish he were still alive to tell me family stories.

Harvey V. Chua John just called. He's driving back from the HAB. He told me to prepare the house in Alabang as he does not mind spending a few days there. That's mental (or emotional) telepathy. :)

These were my updates on Facebook yesterday morning. John had invited me to go with him to the Hot Air Balloon (HAB) Festival in Pampanga, two hours away from here, but going there meant waking up at three in the morning. I told John “thanks, but no thanks.” Unlike John, I don’t like walking up early.

I woke up at 8:30am and after breakfast, I turned on my computer to check emails, Facebook and a couple of photography forums. It was Saturday - my schedule for going to Alabang. Since we don’t really live there, I had our landline and Internet disconnected, so I had to finish all my Internet tasks before leaving for Alabang. Just a couple of minutes after I updated my status on Facebook, I got a call from John – he was on his way home, and would like to spend the night in Alabang. Wow, is that mental or emotional telepathy or what!

It was thrilling (in Tagalog, nakakakilig) to hear that John was thinking of the exact same thing I was. Maybe it comes from being in tune with each other. I remember one incident in the 70’s when we were courting (this is the politically correct way of saying it now but in my time, we would say, “when he was courting me” – I don’t know why women allowed this change), and he invited me to go to an air show. True to the way he is, he wanted to be early, while I needed to attend to other things first. By the time I got there, there was a big crowd and I did not know where or how to find him. As he would be busy taking pictures, I did not ask him to stop shooting to be waiting for me at a certain place, and of course, there were no cellphones or even pagers then.

So I put my personal “radar” on, sent a telepathic message to John that I was there and where could I find him - and maneuvered my way through the crowd, going straight to the center of what was “happening” while John was leaving that center to look for me. John and I were both thrilled that we located each other right away!

P.S. This status update came after the ones above.

Harvey V. Chua John and Kathy came to Alabang, but decided not to stay (because we have no Internet or Cable TV here). Instead they asked me to join them for dinner and a movie "Dear John" but I need to be back at home for a 10pm Skype date with Harvey E. Jewell. So I'm back here in Makati. It's okay.

On Getting Old

Tomorrow, I’m turning 64, just a year shy of the SSS-decreed retirement age.

Sometimes, I feel old and out of synch.

I may remember a name after the person has left. Or, hours later.

My energy is completely zapped, and it’s still morning.

I misplace a lot of stuff. If it’s my cell phone that’s missing – that’s usually easy to solve – just ask somebody else to ring it for me. But what if I can’t find my keys, eyeglasses or laptop? When will there be an invention that could ring them?

When I meet friends, we discuss illnesses, medicines and home remedies. Or aches and pains. One friend suggested that a bar of soap anywhere on my bed would save me from muscle pains. I’ve been trying that, and it seems to work – but I have no explanation for why it works. But hey, at my age, I’d gladly trade relief for logic.

I used to be embarrassed to bring out my senior citizen’s card, but now it’s a card of entitlement. It gets me free movies, discounts at restaurants and salons, or on my medicines. Or to get on an exclusive MRT car – reserved for seniors. It’s also a great pass to skip long queues at government offices and some commercial establishments. After queuing for a taxi for 1-1/2 hours at SM Baguio the other night, I’m going to write Congress for a special queue for seniors at taxi stands.

A friend reminded me not to knock getting old, because the alternative is dying young.

So I talk to myself about the virtues and benefits of getting old, accept a few compliments on how I “have not changed,” and I turn around and actually feel younger than 64. Tomorrow, I’ll sign up for dance lessons or exercise class.

Now, where did I leave my keys again?

Suburban Breeze

I am here now in Alabang, enjoying the quiet of an empty house. The tenants left two weeks ago but I have not been able to come, except to do an inventory and accept the keys from them on their last day, and very briefly last Saturday just to water the plants. Today, I brought the driver/maintenance man, a houseboy and a maid to help clean and make it attractive for prospective tenants who may come to check out the house next week.

The electric fan is not even turned on, but nature provides the breeze that I need to be comfortable. I sit at the dining table trying to write about this feeling of gladness to be here. The sounds I hear are sounds of a quiet life – the neighbors’ little boys playing basketball, the driver scraping off stubborn epoxy from the kitchen sink (I did not like that orange epoxy was spread all over the rim of the stainless steel sink – it was that way when we bought the house and never found time to fix it until now), the houseboy plucking dead, dried leaves from betel nut trees at the front yard, and the maid moving the aluminum ladder as she moves around in a methodical manner, dusting the windows and furniture.

Just for comparison, over in Makati where we live and work in the same house/building, the cacophony of sounds that predominate are those of buses and cars that run on our busy Bautista street – the street that our house directly faces, without benefit of a front yard to serve as “buffer” or “sound barrier” - and the constant ringing of phones interspersed with someone’s insistent voice on hurried paging announcements. Add to this auditory cocktail the stillness of the stagnant air, trapped within the confines of each of the rooms, artificially brought to a comfortable level by almost 24-hour air-conditioning.

I am not asking for the pristine air of the mountains or the sea. I know that Alabang is not an idyllic rural paradise. Once in a while, but thankfully not too often, the purr and spurts from motorcycles of men who come to deliver pizzas or provide maintenance service to us or our neighbors compete with muffled but nevertheless revving engines of neighbors’ cars negotiating the rise in elevation of our slightly hilly street. So I know I am not in dreamland and that I am not too far from the city.

All that I am wishing for, really, is some suburban breeze – that rhythmically weaves in and out of trees and into the house to provide me with a natural balm from the tropical heat, and as an additional treat, brings in the music it creates by rustling leaves. Today’s slightly active breeze undeniably resonates with my heart’s longing for quietude and comfort in a home.

Naturally, even if only for a day.

Love in a "Pan"

In the 70’s when John and I were courting, one of our favorite restaurants was Casa Marcos, which specialized in Spanish food. Our favorite dish was called “Pan de San Isidro,” a Spanish version of Cordon Bleu. A thick slice of cheese and ham are wrapped in a thin slice of veal, breaded and deep-fried. Since I was a light eater, John and I usually shared one order.

One evening, I was home (home then was an apartment owned by my parents that I was sharing with my younger brother) when the doorbell rang. At the door was one of John’s mother’s employees, an all-around helper whom John occasionally borrows as his driver or messenger. (His name was “Tabâ” because he was very overweight). He handed me a paper bag, with something wrapped in aluminum foil. Since it was still warm, I guessed what it was – Pan de San Isidro! How sweet of him! Thinking of John but not of my brother, I decided to send John half of the Pan. I asked Tabâ to wait while I divided the dish into two. I sent half back to John, with a thank you note.

The following day when I saw John (I didn’t have a phone at home and this was decades before the advent of cellphones), he wasn’t smiling. He appeared aloof and didn’t seem glad to see me, and of course, I wondered why. When finally I was able to coax him to talk to me, he said that he was very disappointed that I sent him half of the Pan. This was perplexing, as I thought he would be glad that I did.

He went on to explain that he went through a lot of trouble to surprise me with the Pan. The night before, he personally went to Casa Marcos and pleaded with the restaurant manager to allow him to talk with the cook. After he explained what he was planning to do, he was allowed to go inside the kitchen. John handed him a love letter that he had written, asked him to wrap it in foil, and to insert it between the ham and cheese. He told me that both the manager and the cook, and even the waiters, were thrilled to be part of this romantic conspiracy. While he was waiting for the Pan to be ready, they were all trying to guess how I would react. They were also challenging each other to think of ways to surprise their own wives or girlfriends. He left Casa Marcos with a big grin on his face.

But that night, when he ate the half of the Pan that Tabâ handed him, he found his foil-wrapped love letter in the portion I sent back to him. He was very disappointed, to say the least. While he knew that I had no way of knowing what I missed, still, he said, it was such a let down. All that effort was for naught, he said, and I said no, not for naught. I thanked him for what he did, and apologized for sending him back half of the Pan de San Isidro.

P.S. Since the element of surprise had been lost, John didn’t want to give me that love letter anymore. I wasn’t, but he was also too embarrassed to take me again to that branch of Casa Marcos, so we dined at their other branches instead. Casa Marcos closed down a few years ago.