I Used to be Afraid of Running

Indeed, the greatest adventures begin within. Introspective journeys where you surprise your soul with the most intense of purpose. And for today, that path was running, and how I conquered my fear of it.

I’ve always been heavy, and like all things given to us, my size carried certain limitations. Or so I thought. See, I used to be afraid of running, because it premises a certain lightness. When sole hits ground, it should barely touch. As your leg muscles contract, it must catapult you to the skies. And let’s be honest: fat people rarely do.

But I was proven wrong. Not only by myself, but also by the people who ran with me towards the sunset. There is this friend who is a self-confessed lampa — she finished 3k. A shirtless, belly-fat guy with flesh jiggling — man, he was competing in the 12k. This gaggle of girls who posed at every pit stop — they were taking photos and having a really great time. The energy was amazing, and I embraced it. For me, that showed a way for communities to bring out the best of people.

I finished the 6k, and it made me appreciate my body even more. When I started engaging myself physically, I opened up a new dimension I never knew existed. I began kicking and punching in the mat. I climbed this mountain and swore I will reach a summit the next time. I can bench press and once did a routine called The Core Challenge. I saw myself transformed, from the curves of my belly to the shape of my arms, and I decided that size will never be an issue. Never.

Because how you measure your self must not be on a scale. We all occupy mass, and displace objects when subjected to force. Everything is physics. And I know that the most satisfying feeling is when you are not found wanting, especially when your own self calls on your heart and soul to step up. In my case, it was my legs who carried me to this state. Including the thousands who are traversing the contours of their destiny. For when everyone is running, no one is stopping. Thank you for the energy.

Solo-ing: Day 19: Rome

Today, I went around in circles looking for the Colosseo.

With a fourth of a carafe and a pint of beer in me, I decided to go on a quest. The prize was to see the famed Colosseo, where many gladiators met their ultimate demise. And Christians were simply devoured by lions.

Here’s a thing about searching for something, anything: finding it is no guarantee. Like I circumvented the whole Basilica Santa Maria Marrioge — complete with the uphills and backtracks because the street names change in every corner. I guess it’s a Roman thing, who was I to complain?

Coming from Venice, I guess getting lost was something I wouldn’t mind. But it was a deterrent to the goal, to the sight at the end of the road. There was something deeply personal and haunting about the Colosseo. I wanted to walk there, because it felt like sacred ground. I’m a big believer in paying respect to history, and this counted as one of the homage.

So I persisted. I passed by at least three piazzas, two polizia stations, and probably a handful of ruins. I saw Rome’s myriad of colours, from the warm Filipino brown to the olive Grecian skin. I passed by their air force office and walked beside a woman in uniform, some dry cleans at hand. When I turned a corner, I discovered the city’s ghetto, near the Termini station. All the time I walked like a man on a mission, even if it’s as simple as locating one of the world’s most visited sites.

After two hours and a quick trip to a shoe store (definitely enamoured with Italian leather), I turned to a narrow corner, which was not anywhere indicated in the map. And there it was, a side of the Colosseo peeking, as if in mockery. So I trudged down, bought a cold cola, ignoring the cries for comfort of my poor feet.

And like all dreams fulfilled, the Colosseo was as beautiful as the person with whom you want to share your life with. Think about that moment when you met the one you love. Exhilarating, a little bit funny, somehow embarrassing.

Because you were right all along: it was all worth the wait and the pain.

By the way, I took the Metro home. Just like in love, twice may be too much.

Solo-ing: Day 17: Venice to Florence

So there are incidents. Some we forget, some we could hardly grasp. The curious thing about incidents is how arbitrary and random they are. It’s like Russian roulette — you never knew when it could hit you.

In the train to Florence, while I’m exiting, I noticed this really pretty girl. Short hair, sharp features. I nearly collided with the door.

While walking on gloomy Piazza San Novella, a stone throw away from the station, I saw a two-toned hairstyle sported by someone who looked like Kelly Osbourne.

Since I haven’t eaten lunch, in a self-service store near my hostel, I ordered a simple spaghetti. The server, sweet old man, recognised where I am from. Then he said: “Filipino. Good people.”

This hostel, in a narrow street way, unassuming, but pretty neat inside. It’s 9pm where I am now, and all my roommates are asleep.

When I forced myself to a tour bus a while ago, passing by the Michelangelo square, overlooking the city, it was like seeing a postcard come alive.

In that tour bus, I swear the guide is Filipino. When I asked him, he just shoved a map in my hands.

Incidents. Curious, wonderful, baffling.

Because before my train arrived, just a few hours ago, I was reminded of how beautiful life has become. I’ll be home soon.

Solo-ing: Day 15: Venice

The painter constructs, the photographer discloses. – Susan Sontag

Right now, my companion for this trip is French thinker Susan Sontag. On Photography is a pleasure: provoking, simple, understated. It made me think of how I wield my camera, how each shutter-press distorts the ‘reality’ I’m capturing.

Much has been said about the visual hold of objects, whether thru pastels or camera captures. But what to make of the writer, whose words can be as frail as overripe fruits or as indestructible as the moon’s dark side?

Alas, at least for this post, I surrender to the ‘grand vision of objects’ — for emotions left unsaid, the breaths taken away, even the heart’s little thugs. Here is Venice, as it wakes up, before the hordes of visitors disturb its slumber.

In front of my hostel, past 7am, while waiting for the vaporetto to Piazza San Marco

A line of gondolas as it awaits the souls longing to be lost in the Grand Canal. Here you are anonymous, mysterious, away from the maddening crowd.

How many have walked this way, their feet leaving solid ground, into the unstable sway of the boats?

Normally, droves of tourists engulf this site. But not this morning. San Marco is at peace, at least for a few hours more.

Solo-ing: Of things gained and taken away

Allow me to digress for a moment.

It’s been two weeks since I started this journey. It’s been days since I wrote something, anything about the places I’ve seen. It’s this constant movement, the packing of bags just when you’ve settled to a routine, the kind of apprehension attached to being alone — wrapped in a beautiful solace that perhaps one may never find by always being at home.

No, the soul is meant to travel, that I’m quite sure at the moment. Detachment is necessary, to blur prejudices and challenge your beliefs. Like, I’m always comfortable by myself. But after three days in solitude, I missed the companionship back home. That clean, fresh-laundered things are a luxury, and perhaps I should’ve packed less clothes and more socks.

When I was stuck for hours waiting for my train to Munich, in a hellhole of a station without a heater, I can still feel the cold air through my clothes. I wanted to sleep but I could not, more because of the relentless wind than worrying about my safety. With only a half-hour before boarding, I felt my consciousness slipping between sleep and waking. And when I finally settled inside the coach, it was the best nap of my life.

Back in Paris, with my hulking pack at my back, this kid was pacing me. A gracious way to say that he was eyeing to rob me.

In Brussels, while I’m figuring out how to fucking get train tickets, this store owner graciously said: I don’t know. I don’t work for the train station.

A while back, here in Venice, I asked my server where I can find a glass blowing session. After speaking to me in English a few minutes ago, he said that he can’t speak a word of that language.

One of my current roommates (hope she has finally checked out) eyed me for a good ten minutes when I arrived, while she was in bed, peeking from the curtain. She did the same thing in the morning. I slept with one eye open that night.

But these things are of calm distresses, nothing that borders on physical harm, and I do pray it will stay that way. Because nothing beats the rush of finally getting the groove of how-to-go-here-from-what, like the vaporettos and trams that I’ve already figured out. Or biting into a brustwurst, by chance meeting a nice couple and a gentleman during Oktoberfest.

After the sobering Dachau concentration camp tour, a kindly lady befriended me. We talked over beer, about her kids, her retirement, about my trip, and my bucket list. Her treat, which was really nice for a barely-shoestring traveler.

While in Murano, I was given a personal tour about their glass blowing tradition. Because Madame, you’ve bought from us a lot of things.

To have a pretty stranger help you in Brussels. Or French elders winking at you. A man named Claudio stealing a kiss. This cute Japanese always greeting me good morning. The surprise messages and the blessings of answered prayers. Of finding the right gleis, hopping on the right train, seeing the Cinderella castle with a kindred friend. My mom learning I am gay, and still telling me she’s very proud of me.

The things I’ve lost, those that I could still lose, are merely small changes to the things I’ve gained. Here’s to our dreams and fears, and the moments where we’ve leapt, and still don’t know how we’ll land. Keep the faith.

Solo-ing: Day 8-9: Paris

So I took a break. Like the changing of the seasons, or the moon’s elegant phases, we all need to pause.

Yesterday, I lounged, walked, and marvelled around the Eiffel and the Trocadero gardens. There was this magnetic pull, a stirring deep inside every time I walk down the bridge and avenues leading to it. So a day before I leave, I decided to spend time with her, like star-crossed lovers often do.

When I look up, the clouds metamorphose, from the cottony-fluffy to the menacing harbinger of thunderstorms. It is the clouds that set up light, curtailing the sun, or letting its brightness completely shine through. We often think of our skies as simply the constellations and heavenly bodies that inhabit its palate. But not here, the City of Light embraces its clouds, like a secure blanket.

Soon it was sunset. Here, it gets a wee bit dark by 8pm. Then the Eiffel lights were turned on. The couple I was in conversation with kissed under its glares, me snapping away at them. It felt like everyone visiting the Eiffel decided to pay homage to her. Couples lie in blankets and held hands, children point upwards, as we all stand in awe. For at the very core of us is a baffled humanity, that a place whose blood shed many revolutions, could be capable of something really awe-inspiring.

Then before I board the metro, I stood at one of the viewing areas. I tried to trace the Champs D’Elysee, where it would turn to the Louvre, then walk along the Seine, into that island of Justice, towards the Notre Dame, which I’ve mistaken for a government office, a bell tower, and an unfinished statue – all in that order. I’ve been won over by Van Gogh and statues oxidised to create colours. And I haven’t even scratched the flair and vein of this place.

As the sun was setting, I’ve finished a wonderful book. And wrote her a short note.

Au revoir, Paris. I will see you again.

Solo-ing: Day 7: Paris

Dearest,

I just got back from the Louvre.

Raining outside. And as they say with a downpour: when it rains, it’s Museum Day. Gloomy overcast skies. No wind, but the cold slices through the cuffs of my jacket. Bearable, but don’t stay outside too long.

Louvre was overwhelming. Artworks dating as far as the 13th century were preserved, some with a few restoration work. Can’t help but admire the zeal to preserve their culture, wishing under the powerful Milo statue that Filipinos would embrace the same attitude. Remember the historic relics of Paco station? Gone. The facade, little as its remains were, should’ve served as a reminder of our past. That Manila was a beautiful city, and it must not lose THAT pride. History can stand alongside modern structures. We just have to be willing to do the extra effort.

Surprisingly, the statues commissioned for the gardens in Versailles, particularly by Puget, really caught my fancy. As I read thru the hard-cased guides (too cheap for an audio tour), the years spent to finish one marble statue, the privilege to acquire the whitest block, all made my heart swell as I gaze at his works. Aphrodite, Milo of Croton, the Four Captives. I wonder how his hands look like, how his eyes squint to trace the details. His works never failed to surprise, especially the one by Milo. That statue talked about the fate and the passage of time, how Milo tested its waters and paid for it with his life. It was such an unexpected work for the royal gardens, which usually exalted the triumphs of the monarchy.

Oh wow, must be boring you with this account. I just never expected to be blown away by statues. Gargoyles maybe, but old marble ones?

Hope to encounter Van Gogh tomorrow at the Orsay.