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Memories keep a city going.  Like radio station jingles.

I love to rope my cattle, ride my horses
And dust off my old black boots.
I love to see the sun when it comes up
And sings its country tune.
Where my music plays on, Magic 99.9… Baguio City.

From the mountains, I feel a bit closer to heaven.

I remember waking up to eight degree chills and hot coffee boiling on the stove.  I could still smell the scent of pine and the sunflowers blooming in our front yard.  There was nothing like that peaceful stroll, up hills and winding roads.  The sun was high up the sky, yet the cold breeze still chilled to the bones on the worst days.  The afternoon fog set in like the heavens touching the grass.  The occasional hail storm, the mild rainshowers.  Coffee, conversation, cigarettes, Counterstrike. Such was home, such was Baguio City.

It’s been a while since I’ve been back home.  I was born there, I was raised there, and I grew up there.  I always felt that back in the mountains, I was a bit closer to heaven.  I could trace the faint outlines of the mountains and hills and feel that I was in a very special place.

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I’m missing Dumaguete City already.  I miss the fellows, I miss the workshop sessions, I definitely miss the alcohol (or as they all put it, “imbibing the spirit of the workshop”), and I miss the place in general.  But if there’s anything that’s definitely worth missing about the land of gentle people, it’s the food.

Dumaguete is a tourist’s paradise.  When we were there, Harold’s Mansion was a mini-United Nations: Sweden, the United States, Ireland, South Korea, Iran, the Bahamas, Slovenia… they were all well-represented in the place.  No wonder the hostel menu included weiner schnitzel.

Like any small city, every restaurant and eating place in Dumaguete has to serve excellent food to rein in the tourists and make them stay a while.  Or, at the very least, make so-so food writers like myself explore other adjectives for food.  There’s no such thing as a “succulent” cookie, a “juicy” cup of coffee, and a “tender” slice of cake.

Two weeks is certainly not enough to enjoy everything about Dumaguete, especially its eating culture.  While we’ve never been to every single restaurant in the city, I think we’ve covered just about every good eating place in town and ate some of the best food the city has to offer.

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(Thanks to Phillip Kimpo, Jr. for the pictures, and no, I wasn’t paid to write this.  - Marocharim)

I’m a “face your fears” type of person, but if there’s anything that can scare the shit out of me, it’s the open sea.  Edgar Allan Poe and Ernest Hemingway can kiss my ass.

It’s the weekend for the National Writers Workshop, and Mr. Alfred Yuson – with his kindness, graciousness, and generosity – sent us all to a beach weekend at Antulang Beach Resort, just an hour and a half away from Dumaguete City by shuttle.  It was fun, of course, but this all comes with the trite and fair warning that I have a really serious and irrational issue with open bodies of water.  See, when you lived much of your life in the mountains and you had one too many accidents at the beach, you start to have serious fear issues.

So the first line of defense would be that while your roommate and co-fellow in creative non-fiction would be equipped with beachwear, you would wear a jacket and a Guns N’ Roses shirt.  My plan then backfired, since the beach weekend had us going on a cruise, a swim, and just about every frolicky activity that has something to do with open seas and swimming pools.

Then again, the problem with the first line of defense would be that when it’s broken, you have absolutely no freaking choice but to go out to the water and pray to whatever gods may be that you won’t drown.  Or the sea monsters won’t rise up from the surface and swallow me alive.  Or that the sunblock had enough SPF in it to completely block out the sun.  Bea and Mo didn’t want me to wear sunblock for the cruise, and Sir Ian started making passing jokes that I may end up glittering a’la Edward Cullen.  But I did manage to lose the jacket.

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(Okay, this post is overdue by a day.  - Marocharim)

The third day of the Silliman National Writers Workshop was held at Lake Balanan, which was a pleasant surprise.  I think of it as a “back to nature” kind of thing.  I’m not a nature lover, but this place has become one of my favorite places.

Considering I’m afraid of large, wide, open bodies of water.  Heck, I shiver at the thought of creeks and swimming pools.  While the beauty of the lake did not turn me into a nature lover, I think that even city boys have a soft spot for the clear, the verdant, and the lush.

For people like me who are used to city lights, nature can be the least appealing because it’s absent.  The most I get to jungles and wilderness these days are artificial gardens at malls, but Lake Balanan was a welcome change from the artificial oases of the urban jungle.

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Harold’s Mansion
Dumaguete City, Negros Oriental
6:29 PM

The weather is breezy and overcast here at Dumaguete City, Negros Oriental.  Writer City becomes Lyrics Translator City for the next two weeks.  My name is Marocharim, and welcome to the Dumaguete Diaries.  Ideally, I would be here on vacation after a 20-day work stretch, but I’m here to learn how to write.  I’m a fellow for creative non-fiction at the 48th National Writers’ Workshop, to be held at Silliman University.

My day started – where else – at the smoking area of NAIA 3.  Which was kind of the way it should start, since I’m very acrophobic.  One thing I kind of despise about airport snackage is that the iced tea that I was drinking cost me P40, and the airport didn’t even have wi-fi so that I can rant and complain my ass off.

To add to the minor annoyances I had in the airport was the reason why I’m in the smoking area anyway.  There’s grim irony in having a reason to smoke if you’re an addict, considering how airport security took a few extra lighters I had on hand.  So basically, I’m a one-lighter fellow right now.  Which is kind of shitty, considering that all smokers have to have at least two lighters with them.  It makes dukot-izing cigarettes and lighters easier and more convenient.

Airport muzak was also fantastic.  Kids outside started singing and dancing to the tune of “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé Knowles… which had me in the mood for a quick lyrics translation:

Mag-isang madrasta, mag-isang madrasta…
Kung talagang gustuhin di lagyan ng singsing
Wag kang magalit pag nakita niya siya’y kukulit
Wu-oh, oh, oh…

Well, that was bollocks.

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My cousin’s wedding this weekend would be the stuff of a few blog entries for the next few days, but somehow I can’t stop thinking about food.

For me, Chinese cooking cannot be separated from Chinese philosophy.  I like to think of the kitchen not as different options, but as different instruments; the only thing constant in cooking and appreciating food is change.  Innovation is as much a part of Chinese cooking as tradition; while there are many dishes that are usually associated with Chinese cooking, the goal is to push the borders, and to find as many ways to cook a dish, while still maintaining the traditions behind that dish.

It is not uncommon for a blogger who’s interested in the images of food – or a food blogger, for that matter, to take pictures of food as it is served, and to describe that dish as if the reader was actually tasting it.  The problem is I’m not a very good photographer, and I’m not very good at describing food.  For this weekend’s megapost, I’ll try to describe and tell a story of a sumptuous, generous meal I had at my cousin’s wonderful wedding.

To food, to love, to words… here we go.

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