Excerpt from, “New York City, Post 9/11”

Everything starts on October 2004 and my friends Preachy Legasto

and Fe Mangahas, were travelling together to attend a conference in New York
city. The conference and festival were meant to mark the 100th anniversary of St.
Louis World’s fair, thousands of ethnic tribes from the “empire” (Igorot and
Moros) Has been display for audiences.
I barely got any sleep on the long flight to L.A. , and tried to
entertain myself by reading fitfully a collection of Latin American stories (edited
by Carlos Fuentes and Julio Ortega) and stuffing her face.
The immigration officer at L.A. was young, Latino-looking, and
very pleasant. When I told him I had lived in the U.S. for a while some years back,
he become even friendlier. And when I said that I’d be in D.C. a few days after
New York to visit my daughter who was in graduate school, the immigration
officer said “Ah, one of the smart ones.”
I had a window seat on the American Airlines connecting flight to
New York, and was able to catch the dawn breaking layers of color above banned
clouds – moure, rose, gold, lemon, powder blue, tarqoise, all shades of blue
darkening to almost violet, graying violet. . . A splendid sight!!
New York City was wrapped in gray rain but Ma-Yi had sent people
to meet our party, which consisted of Bien Lumbera, Rio Almario, Rio’s daughter
Ani, Preachy and myself.
So we were whisked off to the hotel Belleclaire on West 77th St.,
an interesting part of the city not far from Lincoln center and Central park. Its
brochure described it as “a grand style hotel, offering old world charm at
affordable prices”, built in 1903, last renovated in 2012.
Before we had time to unpack, Ora Kapunan (Preachy Sister’s
Sister in law) arrived, and announced that she was taking us all to brunch at the
Manhattan diner next door. This announcement was greeted with enthusiasm by
all, since we had been served only crackers and cheese by American Airlines on
the L.A., I was lightheaded from both sleep deprivation and hunger.
After lunch, Ora asked us where we wanted to go – she was at our
disposal, she said “I began to understand why Preachy was carrying so many
pasalubong”.
“Don’t you want to see Ground Zero?” Ora asked, sounding not
disappointed so much surprised.
“Oh. . . Yes, of course.” We murmured obediently.
We went to Ground Zero, which converted into a subway station,
brought images of the incredible collapse of these towers, played so often on
international TV that they had become indelibly imprinted on the imagination.
BBC anchor woman, saying “And now we return to New York and its
Broken heart”.
From the suburb where I lived in New Jersey, you can see the skyline
of Manhattan when it appears through the trees or beyond the edge of a hill, I
find myself checking it and checking it again to see of the world trade towers still
aren’t there.
One of my favorite books about New York is “Gone to New York”, by
Ian Frazier. What happened to them and to the people in them is unacceptable to
mind to accommodate ourselves to the facts is to feel a weight that gets no
lighter no matter how we adjust it. The weight has a particular heariness in the
early morning.
I wake up at Five Forty-Five, before the first light.
Ora figured we wouldn’t have time to do both the strand and
MOMA, so we chose the former.
She drove us to the other end of tower, pointing out the usual
landmarks-Rocket Feller Center, Lincoln Square, Times Square, Washington
Square, NYU, The New School.
 As usual, I went a little crazy at the strand, spending much more than
I mean to, on travel literature mainly, and feeling deprived by having only a
couple of hours for browsing.
Then we lined up for broad way tickets in a light drizzle. And though
the wait was kind of long, entertainment was provided by two black men with
dread locks, beating reggae tunes on what looked like tin basins.
In the meantime, the afternoon had turned sunny and crisp, Preachy
and ani simply put their heads down on the table which had been cleared of
dishes and went to sleep.
I was feeling pretty woozy myself. But if I couldn’t sleep on a soft seat
in a darkened airplane cabin, I certainly couldn’t on a cold plastic chair in a
brightly lit dinner.
I amused myself by listening to a group of black teenagers singing at a
nearby table. One of the girls was so good that I came to the conclusion that
Fantasia (latest “American Idol”) was really not all that special out here.
Preachy and bien had chosen fiddler on the roof. But Rio, Ani and I had
opted for Bombay Dreams, An Andrew Lloyd Webber production based on an
idea of Webber’s and Shekkar Khapurs.
A long time before Slumg Dog Millionaire was to sweep the Oscars. The
music was by A.R. Rahman, and the lyrics by Don Black.
Many Marayan played Akaash, the Slum boy who dreams of becoming
a Bollywood movie star and actually become one, allows it to go to his head and
turn his back on his hometown, but repents and promises to make up and help
improve life in his old neighborhood.
It remind me of old Filipinos, the Nida Blanca—Nestor de Villa sort.
We took the subway back, stopped at westside supermarket for fruits
and other stuff we could have for breakfast, and then still high, Preachy and I
stayed up to chat with Joi in Preachy’s room.
There’s no denying it New York does throb and glow.