My Lenten Penitencia

• By ebotpandayan1948
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On April 4, 2026
• 5 Comments.

It’s Holy Saturday. My head pounds from a headache. The weather, I thought to myself. I had a slight cold yesterday, Good Friday, which I know can get full- blown if I don’t stay in bed. They say rest is the best medicine. I have had so much stress since arriving in Vienna from Manila via Taipei on Tuesday this week.

Shortly before we were to land at Vienna Airport, the flight attendant responsible for Walter and me told us that a bus would be waiting to take us to the airport, meaning we would have to use the stairs. She knew that Walter was not that mobile and needed a wheelchair. She would assist Walter in going down, but they are not allowed to leave the aircraft. Quite problematic, because both of us have two carry-on luggage with a seven-kg allowance, plus a shoulder bag. Take care of Walter, and I will go down myself, I told her. Business passengers were the first to leave the aircraft, so I was down before the others could. The cold wind hit me, and a slight drizzle fell. I was about to get on the bus when our stewardess, one hand covering her head, tapped my shoulder from behind and told me that an elevator would take passengers needing assistance to the ground floor, and that I should come back. Hello? I was already on the ground. The airline ground steward told me to just get on the ambulance waiting for disabled passengers. Still, it may take a while for all passengers to leave the aircraft.

Most of the passengers who needed assistance were Filipinos, younger and middle-aged, a few in their 70s like Walter and me, and eager to board the ambulance to secure a seat. Talk of being disabled! Once everyone was settled, the doorway was blocked with carry-on luggage. Reaching the airport entrance where wheelchairs were waiting, everyone wanted to be the first to get out. The ambulance driver said one at a time, only when the door was no longer blocked.

Walter and I let the others step out before we did. All the wheelchairs were taken, so the two of us, together with another couple, were told to wait for them to pick us up. Our flight landed at 7 a.m., but we could only avail of the wheelchair 2.5 hours later. The elderly couple waiting with us lost patience and decided to walk, dragging their carry-on luggage. Halfway, a man pushing a wheelchair saw them, took them. The wheelchair assistant looked at us before yelling that he was coming for us.

As the luggage conveyor moved with two bags still on it, I noticed no other passengers waiting. The assistant asked, ‘So are they your suitcases?’ I hesitated, tempted to say no, highlighting the everyday hassle of managing luggage during travel, which adds to the story’s relatable tone.

One of the freebies included a limousine door-to-door pickup and drop-off when flying in business class with our airline. At the limousine counter, we were told they thought we wouldn’t show up, so our service car was canceled. Luckily, the drivers were still around, so we could still avail of the ride — one for Walter, and one for me.

Home, finally. I noticed the piles of mail on my desk in the living room, collected over the period of four months I was gone. Thanks to my neighbor who emptied my mailbox during my absence, or to my cleaning lady who does my apartment once a week. I have goodies from home for them, namely hopia, pastillas de leche, cassava cookies from my hometown, mangoes, cuchinta, etc.

Two envelopes from the Austrian Government Health Insurance Company caught my eye. One, dated November 14, 2025, the day I left for Manila, informed me that from January 2026, my monthly self-insurance rate would rise to €565.28, up from €278.98 in 2025. The letter asked for documents like a marriage certificate and income proof, but strangely, no mention of a bank statement for the participant, which I found confusing and added to the ongoing travel and life challenges I faced.

I am married to Walter, but we do not live together, so I rang him up to ask for a copy of his latest pension bank statement. I would pick it up tomorrow, I said.

Jet-lagged, I woke up around 4:30 a.m., already hungry. I had a piece of hopia and ensaimada, and brewed black tea. As early as 7:30, I was already on my way to Walter’s, where I found him sitting at his desk, surfing the internet, with all his luggage spread out in the living room, still locked. I pulled out of my messenger bag the plastic envelope containing the other documents required by the Health Insurance to put inside the copy of his bank statement. Before I could return it to my bag, Walter begged me to unlock his suitcases because it was quite difficult for him to bend to do the job. Having obliged his request, I was out in a hurry to my destination, which required three ride transfers. It took about 45 minutes to get there.

Lucky me, there were only three clients before me when I got a number. I sat down to take out my plastic envelope. Shoot! It was not there. I felt a wave of frustration, thinking it might have slipped out when I pulled out my phone to make a call. I ran outside to trace where I may have dropped it. Didn’t find it, so I called Walter to ask if I might have left it in his flat. He will look around, but no, it wasn’t there. Look more! I begged him. He’ll try the kitchen. Not in the kitchen, I yelled; I didn’t go there. What can he do, he asked? I dropped the call and thought I left it at home. No way I left it there! Then my phone rang. It was Walter, telling me that I left it on the telephone book rack in his entrance hall. Wait for me, I’ll be there right away. Telephone book? Does it still exist?

Check out everything you have before you leave, I heard Walter telling me when I was on my way out. I have, I have. I guessed. Took the 4-rides again, and got a number upon arriving at the Health Insurance Office. Ten clients were before me.

There were two counters, one with a younger man in a bun, obviously gay, behind it, and on the other one, a frail and stiff-looking middle-aged woman who must have had cancer treatment, judging from her looks, almost bald with few strands of hair left. God, not her, please. I could see the young guy with the bun, a green-yellow pullover, and green trousers, all smiles, talking to the client in front of him. Him, please, my Lord.

My number was called. Alas, it had to be for this woman I didn’t want. Lord, you didn’t listen to my plea. Why, Lord?

I explained to her that I had received their letter, but I was already gone when it arrived. Then you must submit a new application. I was like in a trance, so I could only say, “Yes, please.” I left in haste as soon as she handed me the application. Will come back tomorrow, I told myself.

Next stop was the Apple Store, where I got my iPhone 17 Pro Max in November last year. Why do I need an expensive phone when I am ignorant of how to use the many apps that were supposed to make my life easier? Keeping up with the Joneses, what else, the Joneses being my two sisters who live Down Under, who always have the latest iPhones. What’s wrong with my iPhone 11? It still works, despite being battered by constant drops on the floor. The camera is shattered but still makes good pics, and the front glass cover and the back have cracks. About time I upgrade my phone. I am 77 years old, and I deserve a better one, never mind if I remain ignorant forever about the many wonderful things it can do. I have yet to discover them, but I never got into doing it.

What’s the problem with your iPhone, asked the store staff. The battery drains so fast. It does not even take 5 hours, and my phone is dead. He checked it and decided that I’d been using it constantly, hence. No way, I don’t use any other apps, but Messenger. I don’t even do FB. In fact, I charged it one day and didn’t use it at all, to see if the battery would last longer. It did not. Not knowing how he could be of more help, he set up an appointment for me at 5:25 p.m. the next day to see one of the technicians — the day I was going back to the Health Insurance.

At the insurance company, I hoped again that my number would be called at the counter where the guy with the bun was sitting. He was wearing the same green-yellowish pullover and green trousers he had yesterday, matching his dirty-blond head.

The cranky lady was not sitting at the counter; a younger, plump woman, looking bossy, was there instead. And my number was called. It was for this counter with this plump bossy-looking devil woman who could be Boris Becker on a bad day.

I handed my application and the required attachments to her. We needed your wife’s copy of her pension bank statement. I don’t have a wife, I said. I have a husband, and his bank statement is there, if you look closely. Ok, she said, but where is your pension bank statement? she asked. Well, it was not mentioned as a requirement. I have it on my iPhone. Could you print it for me, please? No, we don’t do it, she said, quite annoyed. Since when? I wanted to ask. It was done for me last time I was here. She insisted they don’t. Well, then I’ll come back tomorrow if your office is not closed. Why should we not be open, she asked, frowning. “Karfreitag, you see!” Do you work on Good Friday? We don’t observe it here in Austria. How could I forget that? Austria is predominantly Catholic, though many don’t practice it. Yet, Good Friday is a normal working day for them. Monday after Easter Sunday is a holiday, though. It’s called Oster Montag. Easter Monday, Whit Monday, they call it in other countries. When I asked if I would be refunded the difference of the amount I paid for the last three months, she said, “No, way!” And I believed her.

Indeed, I was back at the iPhone Store at 5:25 p.m. the next day. Quite a few clients were waiting to be attended to. I was kindly asked to take a seat, and someone would see me soon. Soon meant half an hour later.

“What can I do for you?” asked the young woman attending to me.

“But I had been waiting here before the gentleman arrived,” an elderly, elegant woman who had been at the same table with me interrupted the young staff. “Yes, but the gentleman had an appointment before you,” explained the young technician. The elegant woman was not happy, but didn’t say anything further.

I had to repeat what I had already said yesterday. The technician took my phone and excused herself, going to the back office to open it and further investigate the problem. She asked me if my data has a backup. A what? I know what she meant, but I wasn’t really sure, so I told her the truth: I had no idea. She explained that my pictures may get lost in the process. Otherwise, she would give me a number to call, and someone would walk me through a step-by-step procedure for backing up.

“You’re kidding!” I blurted. Someone walking me through a step-by-step procedure for backing up? Me, of all people! Otherwise, I risk losing my data, she said. Never mind, just do it, erase whatever you want, the porn videos even for all I care. I have no porns on my phone. Porns I keep in my laptop.

I had to leave my phone with them because they will conduct a thorough test. I was back on the dot at 12:25 noon, but had to wait 30 minutes, yes, again, 30 minutes, before someone could see me. My phone was totally defective, I’d been told, and had to be replaced with a brand new one. Very good, but I needed someone to put back all the apps I had before. I said (as if they mattered to me): FB, Messenger, and my Yahoo accounts are of prime importance.

“Please enter your Apple ID!” Oh, no! What could it be? I write my notes down, but I tend to forget where I place them afterward. I remember I have a piece of paper in my bag where Richard, a good friend and my Help Desk, wrote everything down. I typed what I remember as my PW, failed, but got it right on my third attempt. The technician drew a sigh of relief. This idiot finally did it; he must have been telling himself.

That piece of paper, where all my PWs, account names, etc., were written, was left at my home in the Philippines, or so I thought. I searched inside all my bags, but it wasn’t there. I panicked because it was one of the things Apple Store asked me to bring with me the day I had to see them. I called home and asked my gardener to help search for that piece of paper with handwritten notes in red ink, which was kept in my desk drawer. They searched frantically and thoroughly while on phone videomode. In vain, so I told them to forget it.

I found it the next day when I went to Walter’s place. I have this Manila envelope where I keep all his hospital and medical bills. There were too many to keep, so even the things that had nothing to do with the bills, I put inside the envelope. There, inside the envelope, was that life-saving note.

As I grow older, I tend to get much more disorganized than I was a year or so ago. I replaced my Austrian SIM card with a local one upon arriving in the Philippines. It was a tiny iPhone SIM card, which I remember putting in the front drawer of my writing desk. Then, much later, I found a small square jewelry box that was perfect for keeping my SIM card. I picked the card, put it inside the box, and left the box in the drawer until it was time for me to go.

On the eve of our departure, I put the jewelry box in my hand-carry luggage. At home in Vienna, I needed to replace my Philippine SIM card with the Austrian SIM card I have in the box. It was then that I realized it was another Philippine SIM card that had been in the box all the time. There must have been an old local SIM card in the drawer, which I picked up to keep in the box.

I called Richard for help, who said he would get a new SIM card for me, a €20 prepaid load, and would call the provider to see if I could keep my old number using the new card. Richard works wonders! I am back in touch with the outside world again!

The next day, confident that I had all the required documents packed, I went to the Austrian Government Health Insurance. It was sheer luck that no other clerks were sitting at the counter, but this guy with a dirty-blond bun. I mentioned that I had been coming for three days in a row, and explained to him that I was not in town when they sent me the letter about the change of insurance billing. Hearing that, he told me to provide him with proof, like my passport, with my departure and arrival dates stamped, so they could still deduct the difference from what I paid. The reduced cost of my insurance will take effect in May. The excess amount I paid in the last three months will be transferred to my bank account. Oh, how much I hatd that Boris Becker clone, a fat bureaucrat, just plain lazy and feeling superior to non-white people. Bitch!

I could have provided this guy, whom I now call Ginger Bun, with all the proofs he needed, which I had with me every day. Still, I decided on that particular day to pull them out of my plastic envelope, leave them at home, since they were no longer of use to them.

“Ok, will go home now and get the things you required. I hope you will be here when I come back,” I said.

My heart was pumping hard when I walked from the subway station to my place. I could not walk much faster, worried that my heart would give out, but I tried my best to reach home, get my passport, and walk back to the subway. I kept looking at my watch. I cannot be late, I need to beat the closing time, even if I’m dead upon arrival.

I made it. Got there fifteen minutes early. I was the last client. I pulled a number and sat down at the desk of Ginger Bun.

“Here I am again,” I said cheerfully. Ginger Bun smiled at me as he received my passport and a copy of the page with the dates of my departure and arrival. After entering it in his computer, he said, “All done! Happy Easter!”

I was so exhausted when I sat on the bench at the bus stop, pondering all the troubles I had to go through this Easter week. I was staring blankly at nothing in particular, without realizing that my bus had arrived and left. I sat still until an elderly gentleman politely asked if I didn’t mind him sitting next to me. My thoughts were still somewhere else until the gentleman beside me stood up as our bus arrived. I would have been sitting there the rest of the day were it not for him.

At the city center, at Stephans Cathedral, there was a long line of tourists and believers wanting to go inside. I fell in line, but just missed the Seven Last Words ceremony. I sat on one of the benches and remained seated for a long time. I said a prayer and shared my penitencia of the past days to the Lord. I thanked him for helping me go through the ordeal, which is nothing compared to his.

Amen! Happy Easter!