• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On June 8, 2020
• 14 Comments.

Cherie Gil and The Second Rate Trying-Hard Copycat

“You don’t dare make that suggestion! I don’t care if you want to sit in the same row with your daughter, but you don’t suggest that it’s me who should sit somewhere else, Bitch! Give me a break! “I was short of breath after that mouthful. Cherie Gil was the only other person who could deliver this with the same passion and intensity, leaving you stunned for what seems like an eternity. Teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, and squinted, scaring the living daylights out of you. “You’re nothing but a second rate trying hard copycat! “

My second rate trying hard copycat happened to be that obese middle-aged woman sitting beside me on my flight to Doha. At the window seat was her teenage daughter, who was plump going obese in a couple of years, a clone of her mommy. This flight from Manila to Doha was supposed to be practicing physical distancing, but the flight attendant said the trip was full that it was impossible to leave all middle seats free. I was flying with two other friends who had aisle seats in their respective rows; a vacant slot separates each one of them from the person at the window.

“But I’ll let you know if there are vacant seats I can find after everyone got settled, “she assured us. She came back shortly to say that she saw two empty window seats, we can transfer if that was what we wanted, to which I said: “I’m okay, am staying. “Dely Atay-Atayan said she was with her daughter and that her husband and son were seated behind us, and they must remain close to each other. Why not get an airline for yourself? I was wanted to say. “If there were someone to move out, it would be him,” she told the stewardess as she gestured in my direction without even looking at me. I tensed up and spoke. “Excuse me, I specifically asked for this aisle seat near the front door, you can stay there where you are, but you don’t make that suggestion! “If only she bothered to ask me politely, then maybe I would gladly give up my seat, but she decided to play the primadonna used to getting her way. I am a primadonna myself, and I could be a mean one. She had to go to the bathroom quite often, and she was to ask me to excuse her every time she did but never thanked me. Bitch!

ECQ Season, The Sequels, and Canceled Flights

What a trip! It had all the elements of a thriller movie. It all began when the Philippine President, upon the advice of his cheerleaders, extended the first season of Covid-19 Lockdown in the country. No one can leave the country, no inbound and outbound flights to happen, a directive that was eventually revised to take effect the following day – foreigners can leave the country. Walter could leave on March 19, his birthday, while my return flight was on April 28 yet. Okay, good, I told myself. I could have joined the repatriation program organized by the Austrian Ministry of Foreign Affairs for Austrians stranded in the country. I decided against participating because the Lockdown would be lifted on April 15 anyway, so I decided to stay. Ending the Lockdown did not happen as scheduled. Another 15 days.

Meanwhile, the repatriation program came to an end, leaving me frightened and worried that I could never leave the country, add to it the fact that my medical supplies were running low. I could get them in the local pharmacies, but they were not sure as to how long they can have stocks to meet my needs. Uncertain times, they told me. They were much more expensive, too, as compared to how much I would pay in Austria. My only consolation was that I could leave on April 28, only to be frightened some more when my travel agency in Vienna wrote me an email, telling me that my flight has been canceled and moved for April 30 – a difference of two days won’t kill me, so book me, I said. It was then again canceled, and my agency booked me for May 12. You see, the Lockdown again to last until May 15 – it would be Lockdown, Season 3.

I began collecting things I would take with me to Vienna: pasalubongs (presents) like ripe mangoes, suman (rice cakes), salted eggs, sky flakes, corned beef, ensaimadas, garlic peanuts, and the likes, not to forget rubbing alcohol in plastic containers. They have become precious and coveted essential in Austria selling at exorbitant prices. In my hometown, you can get them from supermarkets or pharmacies if ever available, and each person was allowed to get two, provided they were in small amounts, 50 ml if I remember it right; one, with 100 ml. Like the face masks, rubbing alcohol was always out of stock. I was lucky to have enough stock of Nonino Grappa.

I had to unpack again when my May 12 return flight was canceled and moved to June 2. That was the final straw that broke the camel’s back. I was that camel, but I felt more like a raging bull. I was angry and frustrated with the grim reality of facing a couple more weeks of despair and boredom, uncertain as to what lies ahead in this land of the scorching heat. I could not remember the month of May being that so humid and fucking hot. The following days saw me evolving into a chipmunk while waiting for my departure. I was nibbling packs of sky flakes day in, day out, cramming down the ensaimadas, the polvorons, the suman until I noticed a caravan of ants collecting sky flake crumbs all over my bedroom floor. I nearly developed a lockjaw eating Filipino cornic non-stop. My cook had a party with the salted eggs, which I prohibited her from even looking. I learned how to bake mango crumbles, baking a tray each day of the week, perfecting the art of baking until there was no more mango left hanging in my mango trees. Get lost, Julia Child!

And the senior citizens, considered risk group, were still prohibited from going out. I defied the order, telling whoever stopped me, that at 71, I was the youngest in my household. I live with two cousins who were 78 and 81 years old, respectively, not counting my cook, who in March this year, turned octogenarian. “Unless you want to do the shopping for me, “would be my curt reply all the time, or “I supervise a home taking care of the elderlies, that’s front-liner to you! “

I was no longer surprised when the May 15 deadline for lifting the Lockdown did not happen and moved to June 1 – for yet another 15 days. I was cool with it, no violent reaction this time.  I was already used to promises by decision-makers of the land not getting delivered, so I won’t let myself be a victim. 

That Significant Day in June

And then it was June 2; no bad news from my travel agent, like a canceled trip, nothing of that sort. Sighs of relief. Did the 11th-hour shopping spree – everything my hands could get on. Suman, checked, cornic, checked; mangoes, checked; polvorons, checked; rubbing alcohol, checked; ensaimadas, checked. No salted eggs this time! I was raring to go.

The 11th-hour visitors, my best friends Nancy and Anastacia

I’d been told by friends to be at the airport 6 hours before departure time. I live in Bulacan, a province in Central Luzon, 37 km away from Manila, so I needed to leave the house by 10 AM. It did not happen. As always, I was missing something essential: my home quarantine pass. You don’t leave your house without it. Everyone in the house at that time searched high and low but no luck. Someone said that I should empty my body bag, which was, in fact, the first thing I did before searching somewhere else. Then do it again for the nth time. Wadafak? That little piece of essential shit was there, folded between the torn pages of my Senior Citizen’s purchase slip booklet. I was about to climb the car when a big familiar white van stopped at my gate, driving two good friends who wanted to see me before I leave. They thought all the while I was going late afternoon. After a quick chat and the standard photo ops, we said goodbye to one another. See you in 2030, I said.

Social distancing with my friends at NIA

Halfway to the bypass toll gate, it was panic mode again. I left my cell phone in the house, I said, screaming out loud, jolting Wyatt, the person driving the car. Before I could even suggest that we go back, Wyatt was already doing a U-turn on the highway. It was when we were driving back that Nestor, a friend who was us in the car, remembered someone seeing the phone on the table and asked who the owner might be. Not his, he said and soon forgot someone asked until the time when I said I couldn’t find my phone. Nestor phoned home to say I left my cp and that we were coming back to get it. “He took it with him!” the person on the other end of the line told him – this after a frantic search involving everyone in the house, including the gardeners. I didn’t remember taking it out. Indeed, it was in my bag.  I have become a confirmed disaster!

The Flight to Doha

My original seat number on our flight to Doha was Seat 18D. My friends were seated right after the Business Class Section. Loreta, a traveling companion that day, motioned me to join her because both aisles in the row where she was seated were free. The middle seat stayed free.

Our flight took off from NIA at 6:30 PM after I waited 4 hours and some. Two of my friends who were coming from different provinces in Luzon were at the airport as early as 9:00 AM. At the same time, this Filipino-Austrian couple I know arrived at the airport at 4:30 AM after a long trip by car from Vigan City in the Northern Philippines. They informed about Military checkpoints halting travelers crossing the borders to Manila. Proper documentation was required: health certificate, travel-permit from the Philippine National Police, not to mention the precious Home Quarantine Pass. After imploring the intercession of some essential people in their town to speed up the processing of the papers required, my friends were all set to travel the long way to Tipperary. It was smooth driving, arriving at the airport in record time without anyone stopping them on the road—two weeks of stress for nothing. Fake news cried the carrot man of America.

The last time I was at Hamad International Airport was in November of 2019 to catch my connecting flight to the Philippines. I remember the place as a big metropolis itself, a bustling metropolis, and yet sedate and well organized. You don’t worry if you get lost or could not find your gate; there would always be a friendly staff standing everywhere who would show you the way or answer your questions. I remember the duty-free shops, the jewelry stalls, the boutiques, the coffee shops, trains that take you to your terminal gate. Amazing airport.

The airport (Doha Airport to many Pinoys) that I remember as the airport that was alive and pulsating with so much energy was a picture of a typical rural village when we arrived that late night of June 2. It was dull, comatose even, no activities going on, no passengers hustling through the crowds lest they miss their flights; duty-free, jewelry shops, and boutiques were closed – empty and nothing to sell. A couple of coffee shops were open, so we sat in one where a friendly Pinay staff attended to us. We had tea and coffee, cookies, and chips and lingered there for a long while hoping to stay there until our connecting flight called in ten hours. Until then, that would be a heap of cookies and chips and caffeine overdose. One of my friends found a room where passengers can lie down and sleep  — The Quiet Place, it’s called. We saw three elderly Pinays wrapped in blankets on the first row, snoring. The sheets looked familiar to me. I always find it difficult to sleep when traveling, especially in a crowded room where snoring rules. I was about to pass out when I heard people chatting in Tagalog. The three Pinays (I saw them earlier in wheelchairs) were up and now engaged in animated conversation, comparing notes about the quality of their sleep. I kept on sighing loud so they could get the message that they were not alone in the room, that the room is called The Quiet Place, but it was a futile attempt; either they were deaf or didn’t care. “Pinoy kasi” (Filipinos, that’s why), so you give up, which I did. My friend and I decided to leave the place. The Pinays smiled at us, asked if we were going already.

“Ingay nyo kasi! “(because you’re noisy) I replied with contempt. Not the best time to ask any reigning Miss Congeniality!

Our aircraft hovered in the skies over Vienna for a long terrifying moment. Thick clouds and rain and hale storm. We had to fly over Bratislava three times and back to Vienna before the pilot could manage to land. Having collected our carry-on luggage from the overhead bin, we were ready to step out of the aircraft, but not after a long while. No information given made as to why, and when we were finally allowed to get out, it was only 20 passengers at a time. Because my friends and I were seated on the first row immediately after the Business Class Section, we were among those privileged 20 passengers. I thought that we were fortunate to be sitting right after the business class section. We could smell, see, and feel the difference every time the flight attendant opens the curtain briskly – the whooshing sound a reminder of our economy flying status. “Sorry! For business class only. The economy toilet is at the very end of the aircraft. “Then the curtain was drawn in one swift hand motion, making us feel more marginalized as ever.

We were on the jet bridge by then when asked to stay still until further notice. No one had a clue as to the reason; no one knew, not even the security officer standing at the entry point. The storm caused a brownout, messed up the computers and fixing them was taking a long while. Meanwhile, many of us, including myself, felt the urgent need to go to the bathroom. The security guard won’t let us out, and the aircraft door shut. My kidneys could explode any time, so I ran towards the aircraft, where I saw a passenger standing behind the door, waiting to get out. I motioned for him to open the door. Once he did, I rushed into the first business class toilet I saw, hurled some incoherent words to the stunned flight attendant. Relieved, I opened the door and saw a long queue of passengers, including my two friends, waiting for their turn.

On the way out, I heard a furious captain talking with airport authorities. He was angry that there was no information for the delay. Indeed, it was a grueling long wait. It was not after they let us out did we know the truth. A Swiss carrier landed before us, and airport management thought it better to let the passengers claim their luggage, and when the last passenger was out of the area, the next airline passengers could be allowed to collect theirs. Observe social distancing, said the sign on the wall.

Walter was almost in tears when he saw me coming out of the customs area. He said he was worried that something unfortunate happened. The arrival board flashed the information several times that our aircraft was approaching, and yet it never landed. And no one was telling them the reason for the delay.

The COVID Test

The paper that allowed me to take the COVID-test

I had a COVID-Test appointment arranged for 1:45 PM with a clinic at the airport. I registered for it while still in the Philippines. I had an option: Take the test, and when the result was negative, then I didn’t have to do the mandatory 14-day home quarantine. I was given a throat swab test after paying 190€. The procedure took less than one minute. No painful nose swab test as what other people who opted for a two-week mandatory home quarantine warned me about, and scared me. I would get the result by email. The Fil-Austrian couple friends of mine did it and got the results as early as 8 AM the following day. Negative! It was already noon time the next morning, and I have yet to hear about mine. I was worried and called my sister and friends, who said that they were sure I passed the test. I wasn’t optimistic, though. Three days before my departure, my right tonsil became inflamed, hurting a bit, usually, a bad sign that I was catching a severe cold and, eventually, cough. Rinse, a glass of warm water with salt, was the usual advice I get from herbal doctors but decided against it. I settled for Bactidol instead – a bacterial mouth wash. I found a bed of antibiotics in my medicine kit and took them three times a day. I am still taking them to date until the regimen is over. Not content with that, I bought a throat spray to hasten the cure. I blamed the inflamed tonsil on the scorching heat outside and the freezing room temperature in my bedroom and eating lots of ice cream and mango crumbles.  I would bake one every day, not wanting the mangoes picked from my trees go to waste. They ripen so fast.

My phone rang at 3 PM, the clinic – telling me something wrong with my email address. They have sent me an email several times, and yet they could not reach me. It occurred to me that I gave them my century-old email address. That I gave them the wrong email address puzzled me no end.  I admitted my mistake — that the email address was incomplete, so let me correct it. The caller had just hung up when I realized that it was still the wrong address. I called back immediately. Finally, the much-awaited email from the clinic arrived. Negative! I don’t remember the time when I felt so negative and yet so positive at the same time.

Walter was most happy. I could read his mind. Let the garden work begin.