Dance Me to the End of Love is on the juke and a wiry older, Birkenstock-clad man with beard and thick glasses sits with his pregnant, texting wife. He is playing videos on his cell phone of a baby, maybe their daughter, crying––slightly less annoying (and slightly less real) than having a real crying baby in the room. His eyelids are flipping madly, he smiles at me and I nod back. Alright.
The African American gentleman dressed in baseball cap and tucked in Philippine tri-colored golf shirt, sidles in with his girlfriend, wavy permed, lithe in leopard-skin dress. Her lanky six-year-old son is at the table, bored––he will be out in front on the Boulevard in a few minutes, watching Midanao street kids who live under one of the old moss-laden acacia trees on the seaside promenade. They do a pretty good duet version of “Superman got nothing on me” that always nets them 10 pesos and high praise from me.
The dressed-to-the-nines lady is asking if the singer is Marvin Gaye and the man says, “it’s not but I can’t remember the name of the singer.” I almost shout out "how can you forget Al Green," but play it cool. At the table with the view of ancient oak trees and the tankers in the port, playing the tribal flute to Let’s Stay Together. Early 1990s Pulp Fiction Santa Cruz emanates for just a minute in seedy, seaside Dumaguete. The patrons listen and dig the vibe....
A wrinkly American guy with a warm-hearted Filipina wife asks where the poker room is and I direct him out back to where I have been playing strictly after midnight the past week––relearning to love the game of beautiful losers. Winnings for the week through daily six-hour sessions are hovering around $400. Multiply that by four to ascertain the U.S. equivalent value here. Only here at the Honeycomb, the 100 peso BBQ is way tastier than the $8.25 U.S. equivalent. And the $12 single room beats the hell out of the $42 hostel room in San Fran and the $12 hostel room in Vegas. The art of living starts tomorrow. For now, another day of riding it out....
#endwriter
The African American gentleman dressed in baseball cap and tucked in Philippine tri-colored golf shirt, sidles in with his girlfriend, wavy permed, lithe in leopard-skin dress. Her lanky six-year-old son is at the table, bored––he will be out in front on the Boulevard in a few minutes, watching Midanao street kids who live under one of the old moss-laden acacia trees on the seaside promenade. They do a pretty good duet version of “Superman got nothing on me” that always nets them 10 pesos and high praise from me.
The dressed-to-the-nines lady is asking if the singer is Marvin Gaye and the man says, “it’s not but I can’t remember the name of the singer.” I almost shout out "how can you forget Al Green," but play it cool. At the table with the view of ancient oak trees and the tankers in the port, playing the tribal flute to Let’s Stay Together. Early 1990s Pulp Fiction Santa Cruz emanates for just a minute in seedy, seaside Dumaguete. The patrons listen and dig the vibe....
A wrinkly American guy with a warm-hearted Filipina wife asks where the poker room is and I direct him out back to where I have been playing strictly after midnight the past week––relearning to love the game of beautiful losers. Winnings for the week through daily six-hour sessions are hovering around $400. Multiply that by four to ascertain the U.S. equivalent value here. Only here at the Honeycomb, the 100 peso BBQ is way tastier than the $8.25 U.S. equivalent. And the $12 single room beats the hell out of the $42 hostel room in San Fran and the $12 hostel room in Vegas. The art of living starts tomorrow. For now, another day of riding it out....
#endwriter
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