My First Ride

The first motor vehicle I drove was a scooter bike.

Image borrowed from
hugolescargot.com

Details on how it came into the family are vague. I think my father bought it. Certainly, I was on it most of the time, although my younger sister Tina also brought it out a few times.

This was in the early 90’s before the Motorcycle Helmet Act of 2009 was passed, so we didn’t wear helmets.

This was unfortunate since I took a few spills that would have been more bearable had my face been masked by one. 

But I liked the freedom, convenience, and even attention that the scooter afforded me. Cebu traffic then was quite laid back and it never seemed too dusty or polluted to go on the road without a helmet. There were not that many women drivers then, more so those on motorbikes so I would get a lot of looks.

At the office, I would get ribbed about my driving. One time, our general manager told me his car had been behind me a few kilometers before reaching the office and he was aghast at how recklessly I was weaving in and out of traffic. “Babae ka ba o lalaki (are you female or male)?” he joked.

My older sister, who rode on the back at times, often startled me when she’d yelp or curse under her breath at how close her knees were to cars or other obstacles when I would go into tight spaces or corners.

It was fun, though, and I was actually getting to love the scooter when I got into an accident. Early one Saturday morning, a telegram came for our eldest sister about a job prospect she had been praying for. Excited, I hopped on the bike and rushed to where she lived, except that it started to rain. Hard. Big, heavy drops that you could not ignore especially since they seemed to amass at an alarming rate on the street, submerging low-lying portions.

Squinting against the rain, I traveled as fast as I could since I was wet anyway. I splashed over puddles until the front wheel got caught in a hole I failed to notice until I landed hard a few feet away. I heard the collective gasp and turned to find it came from commuters stranded under a waiting shed. My face burning, I waved to assure them I was OK. The scooter, however, was not. It would not start.

I walked it over to the nearest house, knocked on the door and explained to the owner I just had an accident and could I please leave the bike in her driveway until I could come back for it with a mechanic?

Horrified, she looked me over and invited me in, but since I was still intent on getting the telegram to my sister, I declined and boarded a passenger jeepney. I was wet so I was careful to sit as far away as possible from the other passengers. Thankfully, it was a Saturday and still rather early, so there were not that many on the jeep. But I remember the look they gave me. One man told me I was bleeding.

Only then did I notice my knees. What I thought was rain was blood trickling down one knee. The palms of my hands were bright red. I had instinctively held them out to cushion my fall and both were grazed from the road gravel.  So was my elbow. 

Of course my sister freaked out when she answered the door. She cleaned me up as best as she could, only paying attention to the telegram when she’d assured herself that the cuts were not deep and that I didn’t need stitches. I carried good news, though. She’d been asked to come in for an interview.

To cut a long story short, I came home from a two-day work

Standing with a friend beside my first
car, a secondhand Mitsubishi colt
mirage.

trip soon after that to find the scooter fitted with a side car so that it could be used as a delivery vehicle for the family business. My parents quickly silenced any outburst of indignation with an offer to help finance my first car.

Since I was eligible for a car loan from the company where I worked anyway, I soon got a secondhand, maroon Mitsubishi four-door Mirage with manual transmission. 

It was my first car and I loved it for years. But I will always remember that scooter we had. It was my first ride.

Dancing with myself

I don’t like gyms.

In my younger years, I’ve “donated” to gyms, paying membership fees that I never maximized. I would go once, maybe twice or thrice then stop. I would be tempted by another fitness package, pay new fees and not finish the package. One time, I even paid a gym’s annual fee to push myself to go back and ACTUALLY work out, but never did.

I’ve always struggled with my weight. I am not blessed with genes that allow me to eat whatever I want without them showing. I actually eat a lot less than most people would think given my size and height.

In my younger years, I managed to keep the weight off because I played tennis and was part of a group that played almost every day. But even at my thinnest, I was never skinny. That was okay though, because I never had to worry about flabby arms, double chins and a muffin top.         

Dr. Asela B. Franco

I had not thought about my grand-aunt Dr. Asela B. Franco in a long time. I must admit that my interest in finding out more about her was sparked only because I became curious about my ancestry after seeing some episodes of “Who Do You Think You Are?” an American genealogy documentary series that features a celebrity on a quest to trace his or her family tree.

I checked out Ancestry.com but got discouraged by the fees (I’m a work-from-home mom on a budget) so I decided to search using Google and started with the names of relatives on the family plot at the cemetery in Cebu. I came up blank except for one.

Dr. Asela Bermejo Franco is the older, half-sister of Edergisto “Eder” Teafilo Rama Rodriguez, my grandfather on my mother’s side. I do not recall having any interaction with her, but maybe that was because I was too young. I don’t even know when she died.

My mother, Evelyn Rodriguez Luab, says Asela or Lola (grandmother) Ilang was a rural doctor practicing pediatrics in Lapu-Lapu City, although she was more widely known for her interest in and expertise on shells. “She would go to Japan to buy shells,” my mom recalls.

This would explain why I grew up knowing her only as the owner of the shell collection that Socorro Rama Rodriguez or Lola Bebing, my grandfather’s sister, housed in her basement.  I particularly remember the heart-shaped ones (Corculum cardissa or the heart cockle) that Lola Bebing matched and tied with twine and the one I called “angel wings” because they were white and shaped like, yes, angel wings.

My mom says that Lola Ilang and Lola Bebing were very close, which would probably explain why the shell collection was with Lola Bebing. 

May hugot daw...

The cashier at the checkout counter looks inquiringly at an item I'd decided not to buy at the last minute.

"Kasi habang tumatagal, nare-realize kong di ko pala siya kailangan," I feel compelled to explain. 

What I really mean to say is that in the time it has taken me to reach the checkout counter, it has dawned on me that I really do not need the item. But since the Tagalog pronoun "siya" is not gender-specific, what I said could be taken to mean that "Over time, I have realized that I don't really need him."

She smiles and says, "May hugot ba yan (Is that coming from deep inside), ma'am?" 

Kaloka...

I miss my Sinulog

One of my earliest memories of the Sinulog Festival is of a well-dressed young woman brandishing her umbrella at two young men in an attempt to prevent them from putting grease on her face. It must have been in the early years of what is now branded as the “Mother of all Festivals” in the country. These days, no one wears a white sleeveless blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt and black pumps while walking along Mango Avenue on the day of the Grand Parade.

Everyone now dresses to brave the heat,
crowd and long hours of walking during
the Sinulog Grand Parade.

I was still a high school student when the City of Cebu started holding the Sinulog in 1980. I got to dance in the street when spectators could still join the parade, but never as part of a contingent since St. Theresa’s College was not among the participating schools. My sister, though, was among those in the University of San Carlos contingent and I remember her boyfriend joining the group as a “watcher”, although it was apparent that the only one he was interested in watching was my sister, who he zealously guarded from would-be hecklers. Security was not tight at the time and anyone could come up to anyone and dirty their face with grease, usually taken from cars parked nearby and God knows where else.