by Pam Pastor
I looked at Jill who just shrugged.
“Let’s go,” Natasha said.
And before I realized what was happening, my feet were following her into the Waldorf Astoria and Jill was right behind us.
“Do you go to the Awards every year?” I asked, still trying to figure out who she was and why she thought she had the power to let us into the party.
“No, it’s my first time.”
“So why are you going this year?”
“My friend’s a sponsor,” she said. She mentioned a name that I instantly forgot.
The second we entered the hotel, I realized that Natasha wasn’t just tipsy, she was drunk. She had to hold on to my arm for support so she could climb the stairs.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, you’re with me,” she kept telling us, flashing her shiny silver event bracelet.
She stopped at a lounge, slurring and laughing, “We’re not going in there, those people are uptight.”
Then, looking at two girls in tight clothes and crazy heels, she said, “So pretentious.”
Natasha was on a roll.
She led us to the elevator banks where a crowd was waiting.
Shit. I was hoping the event would be on the ground floor.
Natasha clung to my hand as we entered the elevator with a group of people. She didn’t push any of the buttons. People started getting off at different floors. Soon, there were only four of us left—Natasha, Jill and I, plus a man wearing a business suit.
“Okay, now we can go to the party,” Natasha said.
She turned to the man. “Do you know where the party is?”
“No,” the man said, just as the elevator reached the twenty-sixth floor. He made a quick exit, looking relieved.
We were alone with Natasha. I wanted to laugh. But I also kept wondering what the hell was happening. Why would Natasha bring two tourists to the party? Was she crazy? Was she just drunk? And why did we go with her? Were we crazy? We weren’t drunk. Was she trying to pick us up? Holy shit.
Don’t panic, I told myself. You’re fine. If she presses the button for her hotel room floor, flee. If she makes a move, punch her. If she tries to kidnap you, that’s okay, you can take her, you and Jill are pretty strong. You are so strong that once, at the airport, after you helped a woman carry her luggage, she told you, “Wow, you must eat a lot of vegetables.”
Natasha said, “Um, we have to go down again. Press L.”
Jill whispered, “Uwi na tayo.”
I pressed L.
Jill said, “Lakas mag-trip nito.”
Soon, we were back at the lobby.
“I need to find someone who works here so he can take us to the party,” Natasha said.
I craned my neck in search of a hotel employee. I wanted to find one, grab him by the collar, hand Natasha over and say, “Here. Please take care of this drunk lady so we can go.”
Natasha pointed, “That guy … Oh no, he left.”
Then she looked at Jill and laughed. “She’s petrified.”
I spotted a sign and a hotel map. According to the sign, the after-party was in the Jade and Basildon rooms, both on the third floor.
“Third floor,” I told Natasha. It was time to take charge.
I said to Jill, “Hatid lang natin.”
“Are your friends there?” I asked Natasha, wanting to give her back to them.
“Yes. Don’t worry. You’re my friends,” she said.
This lady was crazy.
We walked back to the crowded elevator banks. An elevator opened and Natasha joined the throng trying to get in. She made it inside. But Jill and I were still outside and there was no space for us.
Hallelujah!
“Ma’am, ma’am, please wait,” a hotel employee held up his arm, telling Jill not to enter the elevator. He appeared at the perfect time, and I wanted to hug him. I wanted to hug all the people in the elevator who made it impossible for us to get in.
Natasha was still motioning for us to get in. Jill shook her head.
The last thing I saw was Natasha’s hand still beckoning us. Her diamond ring sparkled and the elevator doors closed.
Jill and I ran out of the hotel, laughing our heads off. “What the fuck!” we kept saying. “Do you want to meet George Petaki?”
We were back in the cold and dangerous streets of New York which felt much safer.
May 4, 2014
Google Maps can be a real jerk
I love it, it’s helpful but let me tell you this—sometimes Google Maps can be a real jerk.
You look something up, it tells you you can get there in seven minutes—just a quick subway ride plus a one-minute walk.
“Great! I love one-minute walks!” you think. And then you say goodbye to everyone at the apartment, telling them you’ll be back in a jiffy, letting the door slam behind you.
You get on the wrong train—the service changes sometimes trip you up—but that’s not Google Maps’ fault. That’s totally you.
But you’ve gotten on the right train, gotten off at the right stop and you’ve been walking for over a minute and you’re still not where you’re supposed to be.
You check Google Maps and say, “Oh, okay, I’m halfway there.” But you keep walking and still don’t see your destination.
You check Google Maps again and it tells you you’ve already walked by it.
“What the hell,” you think. And you walk back. But you still don’t see it. You crane your neck and you turn and turn and turn until you’re dizzy and you feel like holding on to a nearby falafel cart for support, but you still don’t see it.
And Google Maps keeps telling you you’re right where you should be.
You sigh, walk into a supermarket and ask the first person you see, “Do you know where this is?”
“Yes, that’s by the big avenue.”
And the big avenue is nine blocks away.
“Damn you and your one-minute promises, Google Maps,” you think as you continue walking.
But somewhere along those nine blocks, you find the biggest bag of Sour Patch Kids you’ve ever seen, you discover a new way to tie your hair, and you grab a delicious tuna sandwich prepared by an angry Indian woman.
Done with your errand, you walk back to the subway, attacking your sandwich with such ferocity that you get tuna on your nose, and you think, “I hate you, Google Maps, but thank you, too.”
May 7, 2014
Packers
Jill and I are very different packers.
Her method is precise, organized, systematic, and requires a lot of thought. She starts with a list, the template of which she has been using for years, and begins packing days before departure.
My method—if it can even be called that—can only be described as haphazard. Sometimes I begin with a list, sometimes I swipe hers and copy it, but most of the time, I start packing a few hours before leaving for the airport, tossing stuff into a suitcase and willing it shut.
You’ll be surprised to know that this method works too—I’ve never left behind anything important. (Except that one time I forgot to bring a memory-card reader to Singapore. But that was remedied by a 2 a.m. trip to Mustafa.)
Packing after a long visit to the States is a little more complicated but Jill is equipped for that. She carries with her a weighing scale for suitcases so she can make sure her luggage does not go over the weight limit. Boxes are a bit more challenging but Jill can handle that, too, no problem. She weighs every single thing that goes into the box, jotting down the numbers on the side of the box and computing them, making sure the total is twenty-three kilos or under.
I also use a different approach when packing to go back home to Manila. It’s called “Dump Shit In and Pray.”
Janna, noticing my cavalier approach, asked, “Tita Pam, how much have you paid for excess baggage?”
“I’ve never paid for excess baggage,” I said. “I just use my charm.”
I was joking, of course. I have no delusions about being charming. Mo
st days, I embrace my repulsiveness. But it’s true—I’ve never paid for excess baggage. The “Dump Shit In and Pray” method really works. Even when I go over the limit, the airline people usually let it slide. (Except for that one time a bitch decided she wanted my W magazine in exchange for the extra kilos. The W magazine that featured Angelina’s portraits that were shot by Brad. I never found another copy of that magazine again. I was furious.)
I chalk it up to luck, not charm.
When it became obvious that the ton of books and magazines I wanted to bring home might cause problems, Jill said, “Janna, get some of the books.”
“No,” Janna replied, grinning. “I want to see Tita Pam use her charm.”
At the airport, we checked in at different counters.
My suitcase was weighed. 22.4 kilos. Good. Just under the limit.
Then it was my box’s turn. Twenty-five kilos. Holy shit.
But the airline girl didn’t bat an eye. “Ms. Pastor, here’s your boarding pass for your flight to Hong Kong and here’s your boarding pass for your flight to Manila.”
“Thanks,” I said. I was so relieved that I gave her the copy of Sophie Kinsella’s Wedding Night, which I was planning to leave at the airport for a stranger to find and adopt.
But I shouldn’t have been worried about excess baggage. I should have been worried about the flight.
The Hong Kong to Manila flight.
The flight from New York to Hong Kong had its turbulent moments—annoying but completely normal. The flight from Hong Kong to Manila was crazy. For a few minutes, I was convinced I was about to die.
We had been stuck on the runway for close to an hour. There was a thunderstorm, the pilot said. None of the planes could land or take off.
We could see that it was raining really hard. Then it slowed to a drizzle. The captain announced that we were number ten on the queue.
When we finally took off, it was pouring again. Sheets of rain hit the plane’s windows. The plane shook. Lightning flashed. It was like a scene from a disaster movie.
That’s okay, I told myself, in a few minutes, things will be calm and you can watch Andy Samberg pretend to be a Brooklyn cop.
But I was wrong.
Janna, who had a window seat, leaned over and said, “Scary!”
Her screen had been set to the plane’s outside camera. She switched it off.
I tried to be reassuring even if I wanted to pee my pants. “It’s okay, we just need to exit Hong Kong to get away from the storm.”
I stared at the moving map on my screen, silently telling the plane to hurry, hurry, hurry and leave the dangerous weather behind.
Minutes later, Janna leaned over again. “I’m freaked out!” She shut the window so she wouldn’t see the lightning. Other passengers did the same.
You know things are bad when none of the flight attendants have gotten up and you’re already many minutes into the flight.
At one point, I heard the sound that usually meant the seatbelt sign had been switched off. I sighed, relieved. But I looked up and it was on again.
The plane continued to shake, lurch and drop. People stifled their screams. The lightning was nonstop, illuminating people’s terrified faces. Except Jill’s. Jill was sleeping. I’m not kidding.
I kept thinking, “This is it. Oh my god. We’re going to die.” I gripped the armrests. I wanted to puke.
Suddenly, things became calm. The flight attendants set to work, acting like nothing happened. I watched Andy, ate bad pita and good popcorn, and laughed with Jill and Janna.
But I shouldn’t have been worried about the flight. I should have been worried about the box.
We stood at the baggage claim area, watching other people’s luggage go round and round.
Finally, my box appeared, the first sign of our baggage. “Oh no! It looks wet!” I said.
And it was wet. So wet that when I tried to lift it from the baggage carousel, it crumpled like a soggy newspaper.
I put my hand through one of the box’s holes and touched wet fabric. My clothes were soaked.
I spent the entire ride from the airport trying to catalog the contents of the box, my heart pounding like crazy.
And when we arrived, I tore into it. My limited edition Lands’ End tote bag from Random House and my toiletry kit were wet.
My magazines were damp, Lorde’s Teen Vogue cover ruined. “Si Lorde pa!” Janna and I said.
I was right—my clothes were completely soaked, as if they had just come out of the washing machine.
A notecard pack was soggy—I gasped as the box fell apart in my hands.
My books were drenched—the advance reader copies given to me at Random House and, the most heartbreaking one: the compilation of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories and poems that I bought at his home in Philadelphia.
But I still consider myself lucky. I have a lot to be thankful for.
Because, for some strange reason, I had packed my new Nikes with their boxes still in plastic bags, saving them from the rain.
The waterproof eco bags I added to the box at the last minute provided extra cover.
I had also unwittingly protected most of the notecards by packing them inside plastic bags.
Most of the pasalubong survived unscathed. Elsa and Anna were still making music. The bag of cotija cheese was fine.
The books I bought at Strand, protected only by my knit cardigan, were miraculously in perfect condition.
The wet clothes? They were all old. My new ones were in my suitcase, untouched by the rain.
I had hand-carried all the books signed by Ruth Reichl and Gillian Flynn. They were safe and dry.
As were my pairs of Dr. Martens, new and old.
And my notebooks and my work files, which were in my backpack.
And all my bracelets—Cruciani, Alex and Ani, Venessa Arizaga.
And my sea salt Lindt truffles.
And all my wires and chargers and cables.
And the plane didn’t crash.
May 9, 2014
Is this a visa center or is this heaven?
The people at the visa center were being so nice I started wondering if I was still alive.
I rushed into the building, two minutes late, and didn’t see my picture flutter to the ground.
“Ma’am, ’yung picture niyo,” said a guard who was standing maybe ten feet from me.
I picked it up and hurried towards him so he could check my bag and let me go up.
He didn’t check my bag. Instead, he took the mess of documents from my hands, arranged them and handed them back to me. Then he sent me on my way.
Guard number two checked my bag and seemed conflicted. Should he let me go in with my bag? Should he make me surrender it at the package counter?
“Ma’am, ano pang laman ng bag mo?” he asked, after I had taken out my wallet and phone.
“Papel, notebook, earphones …”
“Naku bawal ’yun eh. Sige, package counter na lang,” he said, apologetically, adding that I would be charged one hundred pesos for the use of one of the lockers.
“Okay lang,” I told him.
The woman at the package counter said, “Pwede na dalhin ito eh, eco bag naman. Bawal lang kasi ’yung may zipper,” she said.
“Okay lang, para sigurado,” I told her.
I gave her my bag, she gave me my number and I tried to enter the processing area.
A woman stopped me. “Check lang natin phone niyo. Kailangan off ha.”
I switched my phone off.
“Tawag kayo ng guard,” the phone checker said and I saw that he was motioning to me.
“Ma’am sige pwede na ’yun, kunin niyo na ’yung bag niyo.”
Back at the package counter, the woman was grinning at me. “Pumayag na? Itinawag ko kasi eh.”
“Salamat ha,” I said.
I headed back to the door and the phone checker saw me struggling with my things. She took the documents from me so my hands would be free to put my phone and wall
et back in my bag. “Sige lang, ma’am, ayusin niyo muna gamit niyo,” she said.
Inside the processing area, as I sat down, one of the pages of my application slipped from the pile and landed on the floor behind my seat. The guy beside me jumped up to pick it up.
“Salamat,” I said.
The guys who processed my papers were just as kind.
“Are you okay with us not returning your birth certificate? Do you have a photocopy of the first page of your travel insurance? No? Oh, it’s okay, we have photocopy machines. No, you don’t have to go.”
They called the guy manning the machines so he could take the travel insurance from me and make a copy. When he was done, he walked back to hand it to me.
“Salamat ha,” I said, for the nth time that day.
I asked the guys behind the counter how much the photocopying fee was but they shook their heads. “Okay na ’yun.”
What the hell was happening? Was I in heaven? Why did heaven look like a visa center? If I wasn’t in heaven, where were the scary and irritable visa people?
I returned to my seat and waited to be called for the next step. It felt like forever before I finally heard my name.
I walked into the small biometrics room and found a man sitting behind the desk. He was tiny and intimidating. Unlike everyone else I met that day, there was no smile on his face. I liked him instantly.
I grinned. “That’s more like it,” I thought. It was strange but I found the end of niceness a relief.
“Write your name and then sign,” he said, motioning to a piece of paper on the desk with a flick of his hand.
I did.
“Look at the CCTV for five seconds,” he said in a way that can only be described as both bored and mataray.
I did.
“Place four fingers of your left hand on the machine.”
I did.
“Right.”
I did.
“Two thumbs.”
I had to stand up because I couldn’t reach the machine.
“Camera,” he said, after I sat down again.
I stared at the camera and let it take my picture.
“That’s it,” he said, dismissing me with two words.
