We walked the noisy streets of Iloilo, eating cheap hamburgers, Banana-cues, and Mangos, knowing a plane was waiting to take us back. But had we not had those miles between us, had their lives not been so different and mysterious to me, had our paths not continue to diverge further and further over the years, had there been less pain in our parting, perhaps we would have enjoyed those humid months a lot less. It was in these moments of realization that I had the best mangos.
In a conversation with a friend the other day, I remarked how I felt oddly “at home” during my short visit to Japan in all its glorious neuroticism; a nation of rules, propriety, and arbitrary rituals. Completely unlike the “Bahala na” vibe of rural Antique,… Read More