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I WASN’T
feeling well when I was writing this. In fact, the
eminent Ruben A. Reyes Jr., my good-looking doctor who
has clinics in Chicago and Detroit in the US, and at FEU-Fairview
and Villaflor in Dagupan, would scold me the moment he
reads this. I pray his newsboy fails to deliver his copy
of the BusinessMirror today.
Oh,
well, the hazards of the trade.
Writing
is such that this habit is the hardest to kick.
Whenever I am asked when I’d retire, my standard reply
would be, “Writers don’t retire.”
And so,
despite being under the weather—neck tossing radiating
pain to my right arm all the way to the three fingers,
spells of dizziness triggered by profuse sweating
(hypoglycemia? vertigo? hypertension?)—write, I must.
We in
the writing profession are also like the showbiz folks:
come rain or shine, the show must go on.
Like
lovers, we are the incurable romantics: in sickness and
in health, count on us.
But
words didn’t come easy, I must say. But what the heck!
Who said writing was a picnic even if one were in the
pink of health?
Who can
sit for hours trying to make a living?
Writers.
When
blood and not sweat drips from one’s forehead, you can
be sure that forehead is a writer’s.
Okay,
having said that, let’s now go to the business at hand.
Christmas is just around the corner and, if only to
remind you, Christmas is almost synonymous now to the
word balikbayan. And, to state the obvious, a
balikbayan is a Filipino coming home to visit his or
her homeland.
If you
haven’t noticed it yet, one of the most favorite lines,
if not plaints, of a balikbayan is: “I can’t drive here
anymore.”
Their
reason is valid: “There is no more road courtesy in
this country. Always, it is to each his own here.”
My own
brother (Pepito is his name here, Joey abroad), who is
visiting from Toronto, was a good driver before he left
for
Canada
19 years ago. He had a Mitsubishi Lancer and a Ford
Fiera then.
“I can’t
even attempt to drive a car out of a garage here for
fear that a speeding vehicle might suddenly materialize
in front of me,” he says.
He’s not
alone, of course. The majority of our balikbayan air
the same lament.
Our
balikbayan love to say that in their adopted country,
whether the US or Canada, drivers always keep to their
lane.
“Before
we can change lanes, we need to switch on the right or
left flasher to signal a lane change,” my brother says.
Over
here, we change lanes in wild abandon. Cutting and
swerving are daily occurrences.
“Back
home,” says my brother, “we don’t honk horns that
often. We honk only when extremely necessary.”
Over
here, honking has simply become a habit that people find
you weird if you don’t honk your horn at all.
“You
still haven’t kicked the habit of beating the red light
here,” says my brother. “Back home, you have to be at
full stop even at dawn when the red light is on.”
Over
here, they honk at you or shout at you, if not hurl
invectives, if you don’t ignore the red light at dawn.
My
brother’s lament is, we can never attain discipline in
our lifetime if our driving habits today will remain
tomorrow—forever.
“Discipline is the key,” he says. “No discipline, no
progress. No progress, no success.”
Focus on
Ford Now I know why the Ford Focus has become the
hottest piece of conversation nowadays in the motoring
industry. This car is simply magnificent, amazingly
astonishing and incredibly improbable.
It’s
diesel-powered, and yet, it flies like a rocket ship. In
second gear alone, the Ford Focus would blast like a
thoroughbred from the starting blocks.
Dying to
score an effortless overtaking in the Big City? The
Ford Focus is it. Any gear, it’s got power.
And this
modest-looking monster isn’t just power, speed and
sleek. It’s got space, too. Its inside is so roomy and
big that you could stuff in three bloated Mike Tysons
with ease and next not hear anyone of them making a
fuss.
And
listen to this: it consumes an average of 17 kilometers
per liter in city driving. As if this wasn’t enough,
expressway driving is an unbelievable 21.7 kilometers
per liter!
If this
is not a steal, what is?
Hard to
believe, indeed, but it’s true.
“And how
much is your lovable rascal, Glenn?” I asked Glenn Dasig,
the amiable Ford top gun.
“For
you, it’s P1.1 million,” he said.
“That
cheap?”
“It’s
Christmas, Al,” Glenn said. “It’s that time of year
when anything, everything, can happen.”
Pee Stop
I must
also thank my stars. My fellow writer Sol F. Juvida had
an errand to attend to the day I did this piece.
Otherwise, I would not have completed this. With body
and soul, Sol would have moved heaven and earth just to
restrain me from writing. She hates seeing me in pain
when I’m working. |
