The City's Story

This article succeeded in making me sad. Sad of the half life that Reine Arcache Melvin leads, sad of the half-life that I may soon lead, a consequence of being Filipina of heart and Western of mind. I always have and always will think of Manila according to her—“the city of smells and sensations and intense connections.” The smell of horses along the calles of Ongpin, of fried chicken and tickling vinegar, roasted peanuts served in a brown paper sack on the corner of Katipunan and Aurora. Sensations of the sun-warmed metal of jeepneys against my sticky skin, and the intense connection you feel and immediately displace after a beggar’s implorations are waved away. Truly, the difference between Manila and Paris is what is true and sayable—we as strong willed Filipinas will always settle for the latter—pale and unhued by understanding. This, in a city absent of smells and sensations, is consequent: “In Paris, no one notices.” No one notices the weird top hat you wear walking around the streets, while in Manila people would be unabashedly pointing and whispering. Sometimes, pointing and whispering is good. It makes you feel present, at least. When no one notices, you feel ghostly, translucence fading into nothingness.

Manila is indeed a city all its own; how a certain smell is exhaled by the cracked earth after a long rain. How the Pasig river’s smell is stamped on the Manileno’s mind, the absence of it an absence of sentiment. How you will always associate parties with the beso and the resultant whiff of Heno de Pravia on a powdered cheek. I think however, the sentiment to be most missed is that beguiling hope that gets the Manileno through each day, makes him love his country with a fierceness and conviction, expressed only through feeling, sensation, and never through words. Us Manilenos really are the opposite of modern Parisians; we need to cover our body and bare our soul, while they need to do just the opposite. Our sentiment goes unheeded, unhued however, in a foreign land where “systems” prevail—systems ruled by skyscrapers and metal bridges.

These skyscrapers and metal bridges always win out. Maybe it is true that “In Tibet, I’m told, just before certain birds become extinct, suddenly they fill the sky, dazzling people with their beauty.” Maybe this is what is happening with Manilenos as well—we cover the streets of Manila only for a second, only to warn others of our impending leave to a foreign land. A foreign land devoid of, as she said, gumamelas and dragonflies and the evasive makahiya. After some time, forgetfulness becomes inexorable. The images of Paris and Manila flutter together, and the humming sounds erase all memory from your mind. Manila becomes “hallucinated”, remembered only through waking with a gasp, a cold sweat on your cheek despite the heater and comforters. You realize that your world is gone, like a painting drenched in water, its colors indistinct and present only in forgotten memories. This time, you write fiction and read it, desperately trying to paint your own picture of Manila. “The essential honesty of fiction” loses all irony.

Studies have shown that race is no longer a matter of dispute, as we are all blended people. I do not believe culture can ever be fully blended into the world, however. Its colors would turn murky and indistinguishable. Sadly, this is what’s happening to the Manileno, leaves meant to be temporary turning into five, ten years. There is nothing to be done but rely on the sentiment of beguiling hope faintly emitted amidst crackling by a far-off city.