Nothing can be more interesting than taking the flight back home to Manila. It’s not so hard to identify a Filipino among passengers weaving through Zaventem, Schipol, Heathrow or any other airport abroad. If a Pinoy sees somebody who looks Southeast Asian, he’d flash the latter a smile. If the latter smiles back, the Pinoy would exclaim, "Kabayan!” Pinoys always find home in other Pinoys.
At the terminals assigned to flights bound to Paris, London, Brussels, Frankfurt, etc., it is usually quiet. Waiting passengers read, e-mail on their mobile phones or laptops, or just sit still. Upon reaching the terminal for the flight bound to Manila, I feel a shift in climate -- there is only sun and dust and Tagalog noise outside and no snow. Am I home already?
Ceres Terminal?
Blame it on the Pinoys’ bouts of homesickness, but the terminal looks like it's a Ceres bus stop. With their leather jackets, baseball caps, gold chain necklaces, you can tell that these are seamen lying supine occupying four or five terminal seats. Beside them is an African who takes care not to spill his legs beyond the margins of his seat.
In another corner, a group of Pinays fuss over their luggage: shuffling tickets and passports, resealing bottles of Tesco coffee and lotion with brown packaging tape, making inventory of their pasalubong. Unsatisfied, one of them, a woman in a jean jacket and velvet beret, unzips her trolley bag and begins operating through its innards of winterwear, towels and intimates. A curious Juan quietly probes through the trolley, too, eyeing cups and lace and strings. A nanay breastfeeding her European baby examines her new, ridiculously clean fluorescent white Nike trainers. Another is plugged to his iPod, blurting out erroneous lyrics -- making mondegreens--to an 80s love song you hear at 12 midnight on Philippine FM.
In contrast, the terminal to Frankfurt is full, but still, and steely, and quiet.
Back at the terminal of the Manila-bound flight, it is always abuzz and restless. People talking, walking around, snoring, twitching as if every breathing moment has to manifest sound and movement. A brass band, banderitas and lechon would complete the scene.
The boarding announcements are finally aired. Everyone gets up. Fast. Like bundles of renewable energy. The rest of the announcing steward's words after "board the plane" trails off swallowed by the buzz.
Even when traveling alone, a Pinoy would always end up talking to another Pinoy he/she just met there. Two of our women here have started a conversation that has become delicious as roots are traced, relations and connections forcibly made. Because of this they believe that they were fated to be standing next to each other in the queue. You can't cut short stories about a family tree that has just been reviewedm can you. So then these two perch on the seats that would be the best place for discussing their genealogy. Now here comes the blond flight attendant in KLM blue, cross this time, worrying about the seat plan that fate disarranged.
It is very amusing to watch. The plane, before taking off, looks like a Day Care classroom, with blond teacher-attendants chasing a lot of straying middle-age kindergarten passengers to their seats.
Applause!
All this fiesta is then capped during landing with an emotional gesture of the Pinoy passengers’ uncanny love of country.
Most of the passengers are OFWs—domestic workers, nurses and caregivers, seafarers and skilled workers—who work to the bone not only to send home money for renovating the house, for Junior’s tution or Baby Girl’s debut. Most of these passengers, too, had toiled extra, foregoing comforts, saving hard for this expensive return ticket to the Philipines.
And so, as the pilot announces the Manila arrival upon the plane’s glorious touch down, the Pinoy passengers burst into wild, heroic applause, and cheers blended with tears.
This is all so unreal, even quite embarrassing with the lack of decorum, I thought. But hey, after years of enduring language barriers, cold, lonely Sundays, and no saucers of patis to dip in, at last these Pinoy heroes are home.
Friday, April 25, 2008
traveling economy class
Aside from your own entertainment system, the food is one of the main highlights of the flight—-something I always look forward to. The last year’s flight, we had Scandinavian fare, so it was usually potatoes, meat, breads, cheeses prepared in different ways. Ghoulish goulash and European blandness.
This year’s was quite disappointing. I’d been craving for something foreign, but the flight’s theme was Cantonese. The meats were good but predictable. My only consolation was eating with chopsticks.
And having the liberty to gulp down drinks from apple cider to white wine, served up by the large, blond-and-blue-eyed flight attendant in KLM cornflower blue.
And oh, also the breakfast of yogurts, bagels, croissants, kiwi, peaches, bittersweet juice, tea heavily creamed, which were always Dutch and European, no matter what the theme.
And the unlimited chocolate one can grab on the way to the toilet and back, I had better done it frequently! When I traveled with Minmin, Malou, Jai, Frances, Dedric and Rachelle, we were the youngest aboard the plane and the flight attendants were amused of us. They even specially brought trays of chocolate to our seats.
Quite a lot of consolations there, actually.
Pardon our ignorance, but we thought, if this was just economy class, how would it be like to travel business / elite? “Basi gina hungitan na gid na sila ya (they must be spoon-fed by flight attendants),” Manang Minmin assumed.
This year’s was quite disappointing. I’d been craving for something foreign, but the flight’s theme was Cantonese. The meats were good but predictable. My only consolation was eating with chopsticks.
And having the liberty to gulp down drinks from apple cider to white wine, served up by the large, blond-and-blue-eyed flight attendant in KLM cornflower blue.
And oh, also the breakfast of yogurts, bagels, croissants, kiwi, peaches, bittersweet juice, tea heavily creamed, which were always Dutch and European, no matter what the theme.
And the unlimited chocolate one can grab on the way to the toilet and back, I had better done it frequently! When I traveled with Minmin, Malou, Jai, Frances, Dedric and Rachelle, we were the youngest aboard the plane and the flight attendants were amused of us. They even specially brought trays of chocolate to our seats.
Quite a lot of consolations there, actually.
Pardon our ignorance, but we thought, if this was just economy class, how would it be like to travel business / elite? “Basi gina hungitan na gid na sila ya (they must be spoon-fed by flight attendants),” Manang Minmin assumed.
taking the window seat. what if you have to pee?
I occupied the window seat, though I would have wanted to take the aisle seat. The limited leg room of traveling economy, bulky row mates and the long hours could be quite a hassle especially when you have to go to the loo. It was good though since the two others occupying the row were quite considerate, learned Filipino passengers. I think they were doctors, so they’d always give way to someone who’d relieve a bladder.
I thought this was better than last year’s, when I was squeezed in between two large European men who spoke little English. On my return flight to Manila, I asked Chloe to get me an aisle seat. When I boarded the plane, my seat was by the window. Did Chloe understand what I said? Sure, she did—differently, though. I was seated by the wing of the plane, which, in French, is called, “aile.”---check.
So for fourteen hours, practically fastened immobile in your seat, what do you do? Ah, this is where traveling alone has its merits. There’s no one to disturb you while you catch up on the movies you missed that are luckily among the choices in your seat’s individual entertainment system. It was a relief the one beside me was not too chatty.
Some passengers could be quite unused to not talking. I remember when coming back to Manila last year, the one beside me, talked about his plight as an OFW. Oblivious to my headphones, he began his saga in detail, about his getting sick and not having anyone to visit him, and left to the frigid care of non-English speaking nurses. It would have been rude to shut him out by putting my headphones back. I listen to stories like these openly, but sometimes when miles above the world, it’s always better to leave all the hurts down there where these were caused.
Sensing a good gap to interrupt, I suggested that there was something good in the entertainment system, he might like to put his headphones on and check it out. Sure, he put it on. When the first round of meals came, I took my headphones off. And then he continued his saga from where he left off. So after the meal, I had my ears plugged till we landed.
I thought this was better than last year’s, when I was squeezed in between two large European men who spoke little English. On my return flight to Manila, I asked Chloe to get me an aisle seat. When I boarded the plane, my seat was by the window. Did Chloe understand what I said? Sure, she did—differently, though. I was seated by the wing of the plane, which, in French, is called, “aile.”---check.
So for fourteen hours, practically fastened immobile in your seat, what do you do? Ah, this is where traveling alone has its merits. There’s no one to disturb you while you catch up on the movies you missed that are luckily among the choices in your seat’s individual entertainment system. It was a relief the one beside me was not too chatty.
Some passengers could be quite unused to not talking. I remember when coming back to Manila last year, the one beside me, talked about his plight as an OFW. Oblivious to my headphones, he began his saga in detail, about his getting sick and not having anyone to visit him, and left to the frigid care of non-English speaking nurses. It would have been rude to shut him out by putting my headphones back. I listen to stories like these openly, but sometimes when miles above the world, it’s always better to leave all the hurts down there where these were caused.
Sensing a good gap to interrupt, I suggested that there was something good in the entertainment system, he might like to put his headphones on and check it out. Sure, he put it on. When the first round of meals came, I took my headphones off. And then he continued his saga from where he left off. So after the meal, I had my ears plugged till we landed.
traveling alone, looking for directions
The flight was fourteen hours, a good reminiscing of how it was last year when there were seven of us. Had they, or even just anyone of them, traveled with me this time, it would have been more enjoyable and nostalgic. I had seen plenty of incidents from the NAIA to the last day in Europe which were so amusing. I had to stop myself from chuckling out loud alone. There was no one I could share with some realization or observation in Ilonggo. There were my foreign project partners and friends, but they would hardly get the pun of jokes we shared and understood only in the Philippines.
But still, I enjoyed traveling alone. It was empowering to go through the airport checks, the right platforms at the train stations, and finding my way around on my own. As long as one knows how to read and speak English, there’s nothing to worry about, really. The airports there were even easier to navigate around in, compared to our own domestic airports. There was no way to get lost at, for example, the huge Schipol Airport in the Netherlands, because there were directional signs everywhere: to the terminals, the restrooms, the bars and casinos, the meditation center. In Philippine airports, it’s always a guessing game, and the crew always assumes that we know.
But still, I enjoyed traveling alone. It was empowering to go through the airport checks, the right platforms at the train stations, and finding my way around on my own. As long as one knows how to read and speak English, there’s nothing to worry about, really. The airports there were even easier to navigate around in, compared to our own domestic airports. There was no way to get lost at, for example, the huge Schipol Airport in the Netherlands, because there were directional signs everywhere: to the terminals, the restrooms, the bars and casinos, the meditation center. In Philippine airports, it’s always a guessing game, and the crew always assumes that we know.
Baka Walang Bisa
The ticket I had purchased was for the April 25 trip and there was no way for it to be cancelled or even postponed. KLM flights leave Manila on Wednesdays, and I was beating the Université calendar before it broke out for the holidays. It was a tricky situation. I was already in Manila four days before the scheduled flight, lugging my stuff of Tagaytay / Baguio clothing for spring, but my VISA had not yet been released.
from San Juan to Santa Mesa
I had applied for a BENELUX (Belgium-Netherlands-Luxembourg) VISA for backup in case my Schengen didn’t get approved. But I was informed that students were not granted a BENELUX. So there I was in a state of nervous prayers, invoking Saints, even the most unknown ones. If I return to Bacolod forfeiting the trip, I could never forgive myself, I thought. Maria, the roundtrip tickets were worth my tuition!
May Bisa
Connections, though, could ease out a bureaucracy. Madame Françoise, not the woman of the brothel, but the “human link” between the Université and the University, knew the ambassador on a first name basis. Personally, I was—and I am—against this whole thing of asking favors especially on a matter that involved rules to have been followed, the reputation of the one asking the favor on my behalf, and the sweeping dent it would cause the already dented image of the Filipino. Madame Francoise thought the same way, too, so she didn’t beg “Gregoire” as she referred to the ambassador, but only asked for the status of my VISA. The date of my filing, after all, fit the Embassy’s working lead time to a “t”, I shrieked and rejoiced with the saints of travel. I apologized to Madame Françoise on and on for my stupidity.
So this was my second trip, a year after last winter when I nonchalantly but wishfully declared at the Zaventem that I was coming back before 2011.
from San Juan to Santa Mesa
I had applied for a BENELUX (Belgium-Netherlands-Luxembourg) VISA for backup in case my Schengen didn’t get approved. But I was informed that students were not granted a BENELUX. So there I was in a state of nervous prayers, invoking Saints, even the most unknown ones. If I return to Bacolod forfeiting the trip, I could never forgive myself, I thought. Maria, the roundtrip tickets were worth my tuition!
May Bisa
Connections, though, could ease out a bureaucracy. Madame Françoise, not the woman of the brothel, but the “human link” between the Université and the University, knew the ambassador on a first name basis. Personally, I was—and I am—against this whole thing of asking favors especially on a matter that involved rules to have been followed, the reputation of the one asking the favor on my behalf, and the sweeping dent it would cause the already dented image of the Filipino. Madame Francoise thought the same way, too, so she didn’t beg “Gregoire” as she referred to the ambassador, but only asked for the status of my VISA. The date of my filing, after all, fit the Embassy’s working lead time to a “t”, I shrieked and rejoiced with the saints of travel. I apologized to Madame Françoise on and on for my stupidity.
So this was my second trip, a year after last winter when I nonchalantly but wishfully declared at the Zaventem that I was coming back before 2011.
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