I arrive on an autumn afternoon typical of the city of London – overcast, rainy and cold. I will find this kind of weather depressing any other day but my favourite people coming to greet me with usual fanfare as I take my exit from Paddington station is all the sunshine I need. We exchange warm and spirited hugs just as old friends do after a long absence.
The familiarity of the streets comes back to me as we saunter back to my friends’ cozy apartment at Hyde Park. I feel a belongingness I don’t often feel everywhere. Perhaps because I always feel at home wherever my friends are. Dann heats up the adobo he’s cooked earlier on while Richard and I swap stories and take turns showing photos of our recent travels over the dining table. No sooner do I forget the travails of my thirteen-hour journey. It astonishes me how easily we can pick up where we left off as if no time has passed in between. The kind of friendship that does not need constant watering because it is so deep-rooted it’s essentially self-sustaining.
Exhaustion overcomes me after taking a warm shower. I drift off into deep sleep I do not notice the extra blanket Dann covers me with for added warmth. I wake up to my alarm feeling somewhat renewed.
On the train ride to Gatwick, I share my most intimate thoughts with Dann. He being one of the few who understands what’s in my heart, I speak without fear of judgment or the need for self-censorship. We share hearty laughter reminiscing old and good times. Dann expresses how grateful he feels about the way our lives turned out. We both feel fortunate for managing to maintain a close friendship despite how considerably our paths have forked. I reckon we just have enough blackmail material on each other we’re probably better off remaining friends ’til kingdom come. Right, Ebony?
We reach Turin after a short flight. I had somehow convinced Dann to accompany me for a day’s sojourn as I attempt to run my second half-marathon and first overseas one. As first order of business, we ride the bus from the airport to the city center to collect my race bib. The marathon village at Palazzo Carignano near the city’s main square was not as elaborate as I expected but Turin’s old world charm and slew of very good looking men more than made up for the low-key affair.
“Ay daaai!” Dann and I mutter in unison at the beautiful sights before us. Of course I primarily mean the men.
That evening in Turin, we stroll in aimless wonderment of Italy’s first capital nestled at the foot of the Alps. The smell of coffee and chocolate melding with the freshness of the cool alpine air makes for an effortless respite to our tired senses. We make our way to an unassuming cafe for a taste of authentic Piedmontese cuisine. I cannot not order wine with dinner so I break my self-imposed sobriety hoping it will not affect my race performance in the morning. First bite into the liver ragout tagliolini and I hear Dann exclaiming “namit daaai!”. A phrase he and I will repeat many times over in the coming days. I make a brief stop at a grocery store on our way back to our B&B for some pre-race sustenance, mainly bananas.
Maybe it’s the seven degree temperature, or the jetlag, or the adrenaline from nearly missing my race, or just the mere novelty of running in a new place, but I am running with more gusto than usual and with the clearest mental headspace. Each time my app prompts that I have passed another kilometer at a pace that sounds unusual to me, my brow furrows in disbelief. I do not stop. This is freeing I think to myself. I feel joy and peace. I finish my 21km with a time stamp of 2:08:05. My best yet. I text Dann to say I’ve finished my race.
“Hala tapos ka na?” I guess he is just as surprised.
Funnily, I had nowhere to shower after my race since our B&B wanted us out early so I tell Dann to meet me at Porta Nuova, the main train station. “Let’s just head to Milan, I’ll shower there.” Unfortunately for him, he had no choice but to manage all of our belongings, the combined weight presumably more than half of his body. He lugs his large backpack and my heavy suitcase across the cobblestoned town. The image makes me cackle. We bring McDonald’s burgers and Starbucks coffee on the train – my least favourite fare in the country with arguably the best food in the world but I am famished, I eat with even more gusto than I ran.
Dann once told me a story of this one time in his college French class when his professor asked if anybody knew a word of French. With the confidence of a freshman promdi raised on Star Cinema films, he blurted out “Sei bellisima!”.
“Oh, that’s Italian.” said his professor. If only the ground could swallow him whole he must have thought.
I’m not sure how he fared in that class in the end, I don’t think he can speak French even if his life depended on it. But the Italian finally came in handy as we stand in admiration of the most beautiful church I have ever seen in my life, the Duomo di Milano. Sei bellisima indeed.
Milan is fashion and culture combined. I watch in awe of how well put together the Milanese are – chic without necessarily being couture chic. We shop, dine, drink coffee after each meal, and people-watch. We partake in Italy’s prominent cultural ritual, the aperitivo, at the Navigli district just as Stanley Tucci did in Searching for Italy. Something about life imitating art. Life that is a masterpiece in its own way.
The real masterpiece though is Leonardo Da Vinci’s Last Supper. We stand in front of the 15-foot mural for 15 minutes captivated by the sheer dedication and utter madness of an artist who devoted four years of his life to completing the work. I realise in that instant how significant the moment was. Everyday of my childhood, I dined with my family having to stare at a cheap copy of this very same painting hovering by our dining table just like any other Catholic family in the Philippines would. It was a full circle moment. We leave feeling like contrite Catholic school kids from whom confessions are forthcoming.
As we make our way back to Milano Centrale to take the train to Venice, I start walking with an evident limp. I soon discover my personal best came at a cost, especially when dragging my suitcase across the bridges that connect Venice. But Venice. Wow. No wonder there are imitations of it everywhere. The place is as breathtaking as breathtaking could get. I feel transported into another world. The kind of world poets write about. It’s almost hard to separate reality from the romanticism the place evokes.
I tell Dann to strike a pose for me against the backdrop of the Venetian canals. He obliges more than willingly.
“Abaw ang ka gaga ya ho!” I say jokingly.
We laugh hysterically. Clearly, you can get us out of the bukid but you can never get the bukid out of us. We take countless photos capturing the view admiring fully how good we look in them. It’s the not so subtle self-serving compliments like “hala gwapa ka da dai” or “ay gwapa ta di dai” or “kay sin-o na siya bata man, kagwapa!” that really kills it for me. We tell ourselves these constantly because frankly who else would! Self-love. I preach it.
I leave for Florence after spending three nights in Venice. Dann opted out and heads back to London as he’s already been. In my time alone, I reflect on my journey. Not just of the past few days but of the trajectory of my life thus far. Nearly eight billion people in the world each with a life to live and a unique story to tell and here I am writing mine, cocooned in my own little world. Only one word comes to mind. Gratitude. It’s a peculiar feeling realising how minuscule we all are in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes I’m plagued with guilt over how comfortable my life has been especially when millions in the world suffer day by day. So I strive to make the most of this life by committing to do good and be good, even in my own minuscule ways.
It is raining when I reach Florence so it is hard to make an impression of the city that is supposed to be the birthplace of the Renaissance. But Michelangelo’s David more than made that statement. Firenze is Renaissance. I enjoy my evening dining at a restaurant recommended to me by the hotel staff. I order a carafe of house red, a mealtime ritual I’ve developed through the week. I feel warm and fuzzy and by all accounts, happy. The sun shines on my final day in Italy. I take it as a metaphor for life always working out the way it should.
Back in London, the temperature has dropped lower than when I arrived a week earlier. I shudder waiting for the train to take me back to the city. I tell Dann I am on my way back. “Ok, dalia na kay luto na ang sinigang.”, he replies. I couldn’t help but smile. All the good food in Italy and still nothing beats the taste of home. La Dolce Vita. I think I really like this sweet little life.