• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On July 7, 2020
• 14 Comments.

Teresita, aka Tante, and me

“You should get cream from the Apotheke (pharmacy),” Teresita, aka Tante, told me when I called her last night to say that I had developed rashes on my back. It could be from the new shirt I just bought and wore without washing, or maybe from the lunch she made for me and another friend—chicken and pork adobo, organic as always, she claimed—from her farmer, who owns a vegetable stall at the Naschmarkt. Naschmarkt is the famous wet market in Vienna. “No, no,” she disagreed vehemently. Organic products cannot give you those rashes; that was her again. She is a fanatic believer in everything natural, so I didn’t want to disagree. I must say that she could make the best adobo, no matter whether her pork and chicken were from China. From my pruning the garden cedar hedge half-naked, she assumed, sounding sure like the nurse she was once.

Tante in an animared conversation

I woke up this morning with more rashes. Suddenly, I was my paranoid self again. I took pics of my back and sent them to Tante. She called back to say that she has a lovely dermatologist who did an excellent job removing the clusters of warts that once decorated her neck and cleavage like a jewel. And yes, she would keep me company when I asked if she had time to introduce me to her miracle worker. She did not hesitate for a moment—one of the qualities I like very much about her—Hilfsbereit (helpful)—whenever you need her. You can always count on Tante.

The clinic is located in the 10th District of Vienna, at Quellenstraße—not her kind of district, but she knows this doctor, a good one, and she’s doing it for me. I owe you big time, I told her. Let’s meet in the city center, Karlsplatz subway, she suggested. Good, see you there at 9 a.m., I confirmed. Karlsplatz is about a 7-minute subway train ride from my place. I looked at my watch—ten minutes to nine. “Where are you? “she called while I was still two stations away from our meeting place. “I am already here waiting for you,” she said. “Be there in a sec,” I said. However, she was not to be seen when I arrived. “Where are you?” It was I who asked her this time when she picked up my call. She was at Stephansplatz subway station, right in the city center, one station before our meeting place.

“You said Karlsplatz, so here I am!”
“So you want us to meet there?”
“That was your suggestion.”
“You want me to go there?”
“If you don’t mind, because this is the direction to the 10th D, remember?”

Keep calm, I told myself. Tante was doing you a favor. I managed a big smile when she arrived.

Abdul, our Pinoy tenor in Vienna

I noticed that she would read the name of every subway station whenever the train made a stop—to be sure that we didn’t miss our destination. It’s still a long way, Tante,” I said. She wasn’t used to going that direction, she admitted. But I do, don’t worry, I assured her.
Reumannplatz said the auto PA. I noticed that Tante Teresita was momentarily dazed when we got off the train. An unfamiliar sight to her, I know. A melting pot—Little Istanbul—I could read her mind.

Okay, we are now at Quellenstraße. Any tram plying the route could take us to the dermatologist’s clinic, so I suggested taking the first tram we saw. Still dazed, Teresita boarded the tram after me. Once inside, she flipped down a seat and checked out the tram station stops so we would not miss where to get off. I knew that the moment Tante stood up, she did not find it. It occurred to her that we just missed our station only after too many stops later. We got off and took another tram, hoping we didn’t miss our stop this time. Yes, Virginia, we missed it again. We found ourselves getting off at Reumannplatz, where our tour of Quellen Strasse began. Boarding the same tram, I checked out the names of the stops on the tram’s route map. Ours was the first stop.

“This is not Quellenplatz,” Teresita was terrified and began asking people on the street for directions. I ignored her and walked to the corner, where I thought I had seen the name Quellenplatz. I was petrified when I saw the sign. Gellerplatz! Me and my myopia!

“The first stop after Reumannplatz, but the other way,” Tante Teresita was jubilant. That’s where Abdul lives, in that building facing the tram stop. Abdul is our tenor friend in Vienna. Why didn’t I think of calling him for directions? I’d been to his place many times, and I, like many of his Pinoy friends, didn’t know that Quellenplatz was his neighborhood. No one cared. We do know where he lives, and we know how to get there—you can take the tram and get off at the first stop, although you can reach him more quickly on foot. Hence, no one knew the name of the street where he lives. However, some Pinoy friends still get lost when going there for the first time, despite the detailed instructions. They always end up going in the opposite direction.

I recall the time when friends and I were having dinner, celebrating some occasion Abdul was hosting, when Karding’s cell phone rang. Karding was one of the guests. It was Cindy who was running late for the dinner invitation; she had been unable to find Abdul’s address, despite having made several calls and received instructions earlier. The girl was at her wits’ end, upset and irritated. “What should I do now?” she asked. Again, instructions for the nth time. “Go home,” I said in jest when I thought the phone call was over. “On pa ang phone, “(phone is still on), Karding said, utterly deadpan. Stunning! Simply unbelievable. My left eyebrow arched so high it could touch heaven. Cindy finally made it—in a bad mood that was evident—and wanted to know who had told her to go home. That was very rude and stupid, she thought. I imagined smoke coming out of her nose—the image of a raging bull. A deafening silence engulfed the room. No one spoke until I did. It was me, I confessed. Or maybe it wasn’t me. I don’t remember now.

“That’s the building, “Teresita said, pointing at a building across the street when we got off.

“That building, are you sure?” I was skeptical. “You know that was no longer Quellen Strasse.”

Teresita, her brows now furrowed in a frown, checked out her phone notes for the precise address. “Quellen Platz 4, Quellen Platz 4 …” She raised her head, and her face lit up as she saw the number on the house next to Abdul’s. We found it! Why didn’t I think of asking Abdul for directions? Oh, to be a septuagenarian! It’s like the blind leading the blind. Avoid them if you can.

And don’t ask Filipinos for street guides or give them instructions on how to get anywhere. Either you get killed, or you find yourself in Timbuktu. I would like to know which tram in Quellen Strasse takes you there.