THE bonfire was blazing at full force. People sat on chairs and benches positioned around the blaze. Others milled about. Drinks were passed around, as were hors d’ouvre on plates, throwaway though they were.
Conversations struck up amongst all of us revelers in shorts, tees, and sandals -- partying at this bonfire in the muggy heat of Bataan.
The whole scene had me nonplussed. I was more used to such a one under a sky where the stars blazed to rival the fire, and we huddled around it in the Baguio cold, singing John Denver, Jim Croce, and Simon and Garfunkel.
Oh, this last item – there were those in the Bataan scene who tried to mimic the Baguio scene’s music. Which had me even more nonplussed.
In Bataan, one conversation had an American expat and myself small talking as I fanned myself rather furiously with one of those rattan fans that come in glorious colors. It was just so hot. On learning I hailed from Baguio, the expat looked at me strangely, turned away, stared at the fire, took a sip of what he was drinking, looked back at me and said, “I don’t know how anyone can ever leave that place.” As it turned out, he had stayed in Baguio for years before landing in Bataan.
I remember that his statement had reminded me of a very similar one from a friend who had once said, as we sipped drinks and shot the breeze, “Ah, Baguio. How can I ever leave you.”
I find myself thinking about such statements today, as this piece goes to press a couple of days before September 1.
As a matter of fact, on the drive home the other night with the Baguio air coming through the window and night shots of home flashing through, I found myself thinking essentially the very same thing. Baguio: no wonder we can ever leave you, whatever else.
And so it is, whatever else it is. Cheers to our beloved home town!
