The Cold and Rainy Mountain City of Nostalgia by Jesus Deytiquez
“As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy.”
—George MacDonald
I like the rain. I like how it sounds. I like how it makes the plants livelier, the roads cleaner, and the whole surroundings clearer and cooler. And there’s this city atop a mountain, or more accurately, a plateau, where the rain always humbles herself and fall down to embrace the beloved ground. The place is Baguio City of Philippines.
During my college days, I transferred in a university there, but went back to Manila after a single semester. And I remembered some of those days when I went up again in that mountain city after about three years for a paper presentation in a state university there.
As a child and a teenager, I always travelled there with my father. It will take about five to six hours to travel from my hometown to that city. I particularly like how we will change different public transportation vehicles in order to get there—the joy of commuting is the thrill of adventure. And during those times, I will look and contemplate at the sceneries that the roadside can provide, with some music flowing from my headphones. The real wonder begins when we start ascending through the sharp curves and steep inclinations of the mountain roads (there are two roads that can be taken to get to that mountain city). Through the Marcos highway, which is open for land vehicles of all sizes, one, if he is sharp enough, can catch a glimpse of the ruin of a statue of the late president Ferdinand Marcos and go through a tunnel. If one decided to go through the Kennon road, which is only open for small vehicles with vans and small trucks as the largest, one will encounter the famous Lion Head by the roadside. During that time, because my colleagues and I were travelling by a bus, we went through the Marcos highway. Sure enough, the sight of the craggy and green mountain sides and peaks, relived some of my memories of travelling there before.
After some time and passing through some of the outer parts of the mountain city, we arrived at the terminal of the bus. When I emerged out of the bus, the cool and fresh mountain air immediately greeted me and embraced my whole being like a long-lost friend. It was already late afternoon so we decided to head straight to my grandfather’s house where we will lodge for the entire event and where I also once lived for three months when I was still studying back there. But it was hard to hail a taxi during that time and place, so we walked for a little while until we managed to ride one. And soon enough we arrived at my grandfather’s house. We were cordially received by my grandfather’s family, but since it was still early, I decided to lead my colleagues to the Mines View Park, which is the nearest tourist destination to that place. We walked to some steep roads and found ourselves in a park by a cliff and stayed there until we got drowsy. During the day, one can see the neighboring mountain ranges from that place, but during nighttime, one can only see darkness and few distant and tiny lights from some inhabitants of those mountain ranges, like the stars in a cloudy night sky.
The next day, during the lunch time break of the event, we strolled around the city to look for food. We walked through the sidewalks and places I once treaded, and then I saw the university I once attended. It looked as if nothing changed. I saw the gates, and I saw myself walking on those streets with a girl.
She has the hair as black as the tender mother night; the eyes as starry as the night sky; the skin as white and flawless as an alabaster; and the lips as red as rose. She was from The Land of the Morning Calm. And the memories of the joys and pains of the past flashed right before my very eyes.
Her name is Francine. She was my classmate and seatmate in a World Literature class. She is kind, funny, and smart. We talked, sang together, and even walked through the streets of that cold mountain before. But I cannot and did not courted her for I was courting another girl from my hometown back then, who migrated to Canada and entered into a relationship with another girl. And because of some reasons I will not trouble you with, my dear reader, I went back to Manila after that one semester. I can still remember the last time I saw her. Up until now, there are moments that regret still haunts me. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I never saw her after that, even after the whole duration of that event.
Maybe she’s now in Seoul. I honestly do not know if I can meet her again. And the reason why I am writing this is because I hope that one day, she will read this, and that this will bring to her a smile. Are you reading this beloved? (I called her my beloved for if to love is to will for the good of a person, then I do love her.) I am always hoping and praying for your good even if that means not meeting you anymore in this world—though I am doing all that I can to see you again. My memory of you haunts that cold and rainy mountain city, but it is a haunting that never fails to bring, a happy ache in my heart. I love you, and that is true, and therefore, a joy forever.
During my college days, I transferred in a university there, but went back to Manila after a single semester. And I remembered some of those days when I went up again in that mountain city after about three years for a paper presentation in a state university there.
As a child and a teenager, I always travelled there with my father. It will take about five to six hours to travel from my hometown to that city. I particularly like how we will change different public transportation vehicles in order to get there—the joy of commuting is the thrill of adventure. And during those times, I will look and contemplate at the sceneries that the roadside can provide, with some music flowing from my headphones. The real wonder begins when we start ascending through the sharp curves and steep inclinations of the mountain roads (there are two roads that can be taken to get to that mountain city). Through the Marcos highway, which is open for land vehicles of all sizes, one, if he is sharp enough, can catch a glimpse of the ruin of a statue of the late president Ferdinand Marcos and go through a tunnel. If one decided to go through the Kennon road, which is only open for small vehicles with vans and small trucks as the largest, one will encounter the famous Lion Head by the roadside. During that time, because my colleagues and I were travelling by a bus, we went through the Marcos highway. Sure enough, the sight of the craggy and green mountain sides and peaks, relived some of my memories of travelling there before.
After some time and passing through some of the outer parts of the mountain city, we arrived at the terminal of the bus. When I emerged out of the bus, the cool and fresh mountain air immediately greeted me and embraced my whole being like a long-lost friend. It was already late afternoon so we decided to head straight to my grandfather’s house where we will lodge for the entire event and where I also once lived for three months when I was still studying back there. But it was hard to hail a taxi during that time and place, so we walked for a little while until we managed to ride one. And soon enough we arrived at my grandfather’s house. We were cordially received by my grandfather’s family, but since it was still early, I decided to lead my colleagues to the Mines View Park, which is the nearest tourist destination to that place. We walked to some steep roads and found ourselves in a park by a cliff and stayed there until we got drowsy. During the day, one can see the neighboring mountain ranges from that place, but during nighttime, one can only see darkness and few distant and tiny lights from some inhabitants of those mountain ranges, like the stars in a cloudy night sky.
The next day, during the lunch time break of the event, we strolled around the city to look for food. We walked through the sidewalks and places I once treaded, and then I saw the university I once attended. It looked as if nothing changed. I saw the gates, and I saw myself walking on those streets with a girl.
She has the hair as black as the tender mother night; the eyes as starry as the night sky; the skin as white and flawless as an alabaster; and the lips as red as rose. She was from The Land of the Morning Calm. And the memories of the joys and pains of the past flashed right before my very eyes.
Her name is Francine. She was my classmate and seatmate in a World Literature class. She is kind, funny, and smart. We talked, sang together, and even walked through the streets of that cold mountain before. But I cannot and did not courted her for I was courting another girl from my hometown back then, who migrated to Canada and entered into a relationship with another girl. And because of some reasons I will not trouble you with, my dear reader, I went back to Manila after that one semester. I can still remember the last time I saw her. Up until now, there are moments that regret still haunts me. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I never saw her after that, even after the whole duration of that event.
Maybe she’s now in Seoul. I honestly do not know if I can meet her again. And the reason why I am writing this is because I hope that one day, she will read this, and that this will bring to her a smile. Are you reading this beloved? (I called her my beloved for if to love is to will for the good of a person, then I do love her.) I am always hoping and praying for your good even if that means not meeting you anymore in this world—though I am doing all that I can to see you again. My memory of you haunts that cold and rainy mountain city, but it is a haunting that never fails to bring, a happy ache in my heart. I love you, and that is true, and therefore, a joy forever.
