My recent trip to Taipei, Mang, was like reading my diary on you. Every spot I saw in this city was like a page in my memory book. Mostly funny memories — your usual funny antics coupled with your colorful dusters and strawberry blonde hair as you rocked every nook and cranny of the city.
For a four-day trip, your first-ever trip abroad to celebrate your 75th birthday in 2019, you managed to squeeze in 20 Silva dusters in your small silver maleta. I did not hide my surprise. We narrowed down the selection of your attire; you with a heavy heart as we did the winnowing. You wanted all your favorite dusters to experience how it was also to be in a foreign land. But we went through the process anyway until there were eight dusters, two bestidas, a pair of black slacks and your favorite yellow blouse.
You thought four days abroad was forever, so you were unrelenting with your bilin to your four other sons at home. You were excited, like a child counting the days to Christmas.
Two days before we left for Taiwan, you had your hair dyed. To the sari-sari store in front of our house you went and bought your trusted hair-coloring brand. Then to the neighboring “parlor” of Jose where you brought the dye. You were excitement personified. As Jose massaged the dye into your hair, you were also having a mani-pedi. For your first trip abroad, you made sure you were ready for the world. You achieved the color of your nails, colorless with a hint of baby pink. But when you looked at yourself in the mirror, your hair had a strawberry sheen. The tindera where you bought the dye gave you red instead of black dye. But you eventually loved it.
Not one to be easily dismayed when things did not work out your way, you proudly showed me your light strawberry blonde hair and flashed a big smile when I picked you up early morning in Gulod for the airport. It was the day before your birthday. And you already announced it among your friends in the barrio that you would not celebrate with them because you would be in Taiwan.
A big, joyful smile crossed your face when at the Taiwan airport you read your name — Candida Tenorio — written on a placard, carried by a hotel staff in charge of picking us up. “Ako ‘yan! Ako ‘yan!” you said and started talking in Filipino to the Taiwanese guy. Both of you laughed, as if you understood each other. I guess warmth of spirit is a lingua franca.
In our hotel room on the 36th floor, you were glued to the bay window many times, ogling the beauty of Taipei 101 from a distance. “Hello, Taipei…101,” you said, waving your hand as if the blue-green building was a long-lost friend. For four consecutive days, I invited you to the observatory level of Taipei 101 so you could see the expanse of the city. You said it was not necessary anymore if we had to pay the entrance fee. For you, it was enough that from afar, you could see the building. The bay window was your spot to give your gratitude to God every morning with one of the tallest buildings in the world as a proof of His magnificent existence.
I went to the observatory deck of Taipei 101, Mang, last week. I sipped a cup of hot chocolate drink in a café before going to the viewing deck. The view of the city from the tallest building in Taiwan was exhilarating. I remembered you. I was thinking of you. I was celebrating you in my silence — your dusters included. My gaze searched for the hotel where we stayed in but how could I locate it when everything seemed small from where I was? But my memory of our trip in Taipei was larger than life — even if you’re gone.
I stayed at the observatory deck of Taipei 101 for about an hour and replayed in my mind how you enjoyed the fruit-picking activity in a farm in Taiwan as you reminisced about your life in the rice field. How you giggled like a kid when little fish nibbled on your feet as you soaked them in a fish spa. Or how you closed your eyes on the railroad track of Shifen to release a lantern carrying the wishes of your heart for your five children, their names written on the lantern.
I remembered your photo ops in front of the Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall, wishing that you were wearing your duster because the day was warm. I remembered hugging and kissing you on your forehead as you expressed your gratitude while we were surrounded by rock formations in a geopark called Yehliu.
I remembered you praying in a temple near our hotel, long sticks of lighted fuchsia incense in both your hands.
I remembered your favorite breakfast in the hotel: strips and strips of crispy bacon, a sunny side-up and Taiwanese fried rice.
I did not know how a visit to a brandy company landed in our itinerary but you were game for it, navigating a steep staircase before we sampled the brandy of the day. You took a jigger and wanted one more shot. Pero nakuha ka sa tingin.
On my last night in Taipei, Mang, I retraced your steps in Shilin Night Market. I saw you everywhere even if no one among the people I saw was wearing a joyful printed duster. I remembered you when I partook of a grilled Taiwanese sausage; its juice dripped down my chin. I felt you wiping the juice off my face so it would not drip down to my shirt. I felt you and I felt your love. I wanted to buy you all the things that caught your fancy, Mang, at the night market. But as usual, you said, you already had everything and we went back to the hotel with your folded shopping bag in your hand. Your face was full of awe and joy. Your spirit was electrifying. The colors of your happiness were the same colors found in all the dusters you brought to Taiwan.
To this day, I celebrate the joy of being with you in that unforgettable trip of my life. Taiwan will always hold a special place in my heart because I saw it from the perspective of your grateful heart.
Taipei 101 and I miss you, Mang — and your colorful dusters.