Nostalgia in Manila, for that which was buried but not forgotten
For the longest time, I romanticized Manila. It was there that I studied college, which made me familiar with the city’s crowded spaces. I spent Valentine’s Day with my friends in Intramuros. I got drunk in Padre Faura and didn’t recall how I got home. I slept over at a friend’s creepy house in Dimasalang, old, dark, and damp, its atmosphere heavy, enclosed with dark wooden walls.
Eventually, when I started working in shinier, cleaner districts like Ortigas, Makati, and BGC, I came to despise Manila. In spite of all the happy memories I made there, I came to see it in a different light: dirty, crowded, smelly, and most of all, dangerous.
Today, though, we drove through Manila to attend an event. The streets were so familiar to me: the wet markets along Blumentritt. The dirty street of Sisa. The worn-down houses in Laon-Laan.
As our car sped through the road, my heart was heavy with a feeling I couldn’t quite place – nostalgia, perhaps.
Here, I smoked cigarettes with boys who broke my heart, shielding ourselves from the searing heat under vendors’ colorful umbrellas.
In this city, I lost lovers to the twisting streets. I lost my heart to men who didn’t deserve it. They left me crying in the corner of Espana and P. Noval, peering down dark alleys in the hopes that they’d come and save me from my brokenness.
Even as I was reflecting on the losses I had sustained here, a few minutes later, we were already in Quezon City. The color of the street signs changed from green to blue. The streets were wider, with nary a pedicab in sight.
I sank back into the car’s leather seat, breathing deeply. All this time has passed, and I have traveled to more beautiful places, yet Manila still manages to invoke emotion in me that I thought I had dealt with years ago.
Or perhaps those feelings were just buried, but never really died.