Growing up in a small town in Leyte, a trip to the neighboring island of Cebu was a major event. My sister and I would cross our fingers in anticipation, praying that Ma would not change her mind. She was notorious for that. Our bags would be packed when she’d suddenly decide she didn’t feel like going after all. We had since learned to keep our excitement in check all the way up to when the boat had cast its lines and the gangplank raised, because until then she’d be just as likely to get up and tell us to grab our stuff. Then it was the walk of shame through the crowded aisles, past cot after cot of beaming parents and their unruly spawn, and down the ramp to the pier.
Even as we headed for home, stealing glances at the receding lights of the boat that we’d grudgingly left behind — indeed, was leaving us behind — we never thought to demand an explanation. We knew better. We’re a family of shruggers, see. While other families grunt (one uncle’s, for instance), we shrug. To us, the Shrug is a perfectly acceptable way of explaining yourself. “Why aren’t you eating your food?” Shrug. “When do you plan to graduate?” Shrug. “Who set the cat on fire?” Shrug.
The Shrug could mean “I don’t know.” It could also mean “I don’t care,” or “I know, but I don’t care to tell you.” Or even: “What do you think?” It could convey amusement, bemusement, boredom, doubt, disinterest, dissatisfaction, detachment, irritation. We’ve shrugged at each other our whole lives we think we know what the others mean when they do it, and when we don’t, well, we shrug it off anyway. That’s because we shrug instead of saying something one day, then the next we do the same precisely because we have nothing to say. It’s a little tricky at first, but as with all languages, practice makes perfect.
The prospect of going to Cebu with our father also elicited the Shrug. “Where’s the excitement?” Ma would deadpan. Unlike her, Pa always stuck to his travel plans. Nothing short of really bad weather or a debilitating illness could dissuade him from going. Unfortunately for us, his idea of a day in the city consisted of making the rounds of hardware stores and auto supply shops that stank of used oil, rust, and burnt metal — the very same scents that we took for granted back in Pa’s shop at home, but actively hated in Cebu. We were a miserable pair, my sister and I. Every now and then we would catch a tantalizing glimpse of a theater lobby or a department store window, but then Pa would steer us up yet another crease in the armpit of the Queen City where everyone wore undershirts, reeked of Three Flowers Pomade, and spoke ungrammatical Bisaya in a nasal whine.
Thank God we also had to eat. Meals were a welcome distraction, saving us from terminal boredom (although the promise of a Game & Watch worked even better). Pa, ever the finicky eater, knew where good grub was to be had. From the pier we would head for the Hotel de Mercedes on Pelaez, then across the street to Pete’s Kitchen with its orange-tinted fried rice, which wasn’t nearly as curious a sight as the business types at the adjoining tables drinking beer at six in the morning (barong and all). Later, as we made the obligatory stops at the decidedly un-touristy and least kid-friendly corners of the Chinese district, I would look forward to be awed by the rolling dim sum carts at Ding How, savoring the momentary indecision over which kind of steamed rice to pick, and watching the face-masked server cut up the fried spring rolls with scissors. I would pine for the fried chicken at Sunburst, tasty to the bone and served with watery coleslaw (which I’ve learned to love, kind of). I even anticipated the morbid fascination of eating bulaló (beef soup, which Cebuanos call pochero) in the mortuary-like ambiance of Abuhan at the Kan-irag Hotel (those were bathroom tiles in the dining area, I believe).
In fairness to Ma, she’s no slouch when it comes to dining out. While Pa mostly kept to the downtown area, she took us to (then) out-of-the-way places like Café Laguna and Golden Cowrie, introduced me to the Hungarian sausage of Vienna Kaffeehaus, got me started on my love affair with pistachio ice cream at Coney Island. Today, work and business keep us from taking trips together, so we mostly swap stories and share tips about where and what to eat; she has me beat by a mile because she and her pals are bent on trying any restaurant once (and the buffet at the Marriott any given day). Occasionally, though, we would turn to Pa and ask him where he had eaten the last time he was in Cebu. And more often than not, a guilty smile would creep across his face as he hunched up his shoulders, then let fall.
“Oh Pa,” we’d chorus. “Jollibee? Again?”
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