In my youth, the old man in the corner house on my block never opened his curtains. All the kids in the neighborhood feared him, his dark, scary house and, most of all, his hermit ways. What went on behind those closed curtains was the subject of great speculation and a topic of many a lazy summer afternoon conversation in Mulberry Grove, Illinois.
After I grew up and met people from other towns, I found out that our Mr. Dogeater,
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The rhythmic chanting issued forth from a nearby speaker and settled down on our conversation, providing the somber atmosphere that the occasion deserved. The discussion, as we sat on a friend’s porch in a tiny village in the Pampanga Province of the Philippines that Maundy Thursday, centered around the crucifixions and self-flagellants that we had come to see.
The chanting, known as The Passion because it is the reading of the betrayal, trial and death of Jesus, begins at 12
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Low hanging lights illuminated the small, dark arena. The wooden bleachers were full to bursting with unsavory characters yelling a continuous stream of unintelligible words punctuated by intimidating hand gestures. Anyone not carrying a knife, and willing to use it, was asking to be relieved of all his money. Bets were made and welched on. The welchers were brutally murdered while the crowd approvingly watched. “He should have known better than to make a bet he couldn’t keep,” their inaction
…“There’s just something about it.” That uninformative and unimaginative statement is how I had been explaining my love affair with Madrid for the year and a half I had lived there. A more descriptive testimonial was needed if I ever hoped to make friends and family understand why Spain’s capital city was one of my favorite places.
Formulating that testimonial was my objective as I sat at an outdoor café in the Parque de Buen Retiro one April Sunday afternoon.
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Today, as I sat in my apartment in Barcelona, something out the window caught my eye. I saw a little boy running away from his mother. The fact that this was happening on the sidewalk of the very busy street on which I live gave me cause for concern.
This boy, who couldn’t have been more than four-years old, appeared to be looking back at his mother as he ran almost daring her to come chase him. His mother appeared
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The one rule that applies to all travel on or near streets in Manila is that any rules are to be ignored, with a vengeance. The careless disregard for the rule of law makes a seemingly simple thing like crossing a street a major accomplishment in the capitol city of the Philippines.
Bipedal transportation, in general, is anything but simple in Manila. A person must learn when to walk on a sidewalk, if one exists, and when to yield the
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Honking, tire screeching, pedestrians dodging cars as they attempt to navigate non-existent crosswalks and cars, jeepneys, buses, tricycles, motorcycles and motor scooters ignoring all existing traffic laws. The only thing absent from Manila traffic is order.
Getting around Manila is often an overwhelming proposition for the city’s residents, and can be downright unfair to its guests. Visitors to the capital city of the Philippines may leave this wonderful city with a bad impression caused by their understandable inability to conquer
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One of the great joys of traveling in foreign countries is seeing the differences in cultures; sometimes nuanced, sometimes vast. At times, however, noting the similarities of the local culture and my culture provides a sense of comfort, a sense of belonging.
I felt this kindred spirit recently with a wee lass on a bus to Viña del Mar, Chile. The girl, who was about three years-old, was rummaging through her right nostril with her right middle finger. She inserted
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A Catholic opponent dribbled the soccer ball past me and delivered a quick pass to his Protestant teammate on the other side of the goal. The Protestant swiped at the still approaching ball and delivered a screaming left-footer past my goalie. I’m not sure if the goalie attended mass or church or neither. Religious affiliation, contrary to the stereotype, didn’t matter to this group of Northern Irish friends who had gathered for a bachelor party (a stag do on this
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Driving in Manila is not for the timid or faint of heart. The conglomeration of cars on the streets, where anarchy reigns supreme, more closely resembles the atoms in a heated molecule than typical urban congestion. Cars are facing all directions and coming from all angles as laws and courtesy are ignored like a piece of food caught between a priest’s teeth at a potluck dinner.
Navigating the roads between intersections doesn’t pose an inordinately large problem. Minor annoyances do
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