sensations as context for memory
Sunday, 16 Mar 2003
I woke up in midflight and found my hands pressed against the window next to my seat, forming a small pillow. My hands were warm, very warm, tropically warm, and suddenly home felt very close. I raised the window shade up, and peered out and saw the mountains of Northern Luzon scrolling underneath me -- lush, green, verdant. And I pressed my hand against the window and savored the heat once more.
On final approach into Manila, I looked out onto an alien skyline seeking out a familiar building or profile, something that I could see that would spark some memory I had tried to imprint 18 years ago. It was all foreign to me though, new clusters of steel and glass with a modernity that defied my search for nostalgia. The first familiar sight I saw was the airport, which was the last thing I saw before I left the Philippines as a child, and I suppose that there might be symbolism in that.
There's a smell particular to some air conditioners in the Philippines. It's this metallic tang in the air that hits you whenever you walk into a large space, and it hits me as soon as I leave the boarding tunnel and walk into the main arrival area. It reminds me of evenings spent in the hospital, waging childhood battles with asthma and bronchitis. It reminds me of afternoons at the bank with my mom, accompanying her on errands and flipping through a My Little Twin Stars checkbook. Strangely, it's the first thing that re-assures me about being in the right place.
Later, I was at my grandparents' house and thinking that it's all much smaller than I remember, and remembering that everything I saw was from the point of view of a ten year old, when my uncles were giants and my grandmother's garden was a rain forest that would swallow me whole. My grandmother sits with me outside on the porch, overlooking that same garden and fanning herself in the dry summer heat, asking me questions about life in Boston and interrupting me halfway through to call for merienda, a midday snack, and her housekeeper comes out with a bowl of fruit and two plates. My grandmother spears something round and brown and cuts it in two with her knife and offers me half.
"Chico?"
Chicos were one of my favorite fruits from childhood. There's a soft, almost fibrous texture to the meat, which is sweet and creamy and wonderful. I haven't had one since we moved, as the trees don't grow well outside the tropics and they're uncommon in the States. I placed the half on my plate and my spoon lingered over it for a second, as I wondered what it will taste like -- if the reality will be, like everything else thus far, a little different from the memory. I dig in regardless and taste.
and it's as sweet as I remember, and I chew my first spoonful with a slow grateful smile.
"You remember the chico?"
"It's been almost 20 years, Lola ... they don't have this in the States."
"They don't have our mangos either. or our papayas. and the grapefruits they sell are a travesty. We will feed you all of that and anything else you want. Lanzones, atis, ube. Whatever you want."
"You'll make me fat, Lola."
"You have 20 years of catching up to do. Maybe next time you won't wait so long."
Maybe ...
I woke up in midflight and found my hands pressed against the window next to my seat, forming a small pillow. My hands were warm, very warm, tropically warm, and suddenly home felt very close. I raised the window shade up, and peered out and saw the mountains of Northern Luzon scrolling underneath me -- lush, green, verdant. And I pressed my hand against the window and savored the heat once more.
On final approach into Manila, I looked out onto an alien skyline seeking out a familiar building or profile, something that I could see that would spark some memory I had tried to imprint 18 years ago. It was all foreign to me though, new clusters of steel and glass with a modernity that defied my search for nostalgia. The first familiar sight I saw was the airport, which was the last thing I saw before I left the Philippines as a child, and I suppose that there might be symbolism in that.
There's a smell particular to some air conditioners in the Philippines. It's this metallic tang in the air that hits you whenever you walk into a large space, and it hits me as soon as I leave the boarding tunnel and walk into the main arrival area. It reminds me of evenings spent in the hospital, waging childhood battles with asthma and bronchitis. It reminds me of afternoons at the bank with my mom, accompanying her on errands and flipping through a My Little Twin Stars checkbook. Strangely, it's the first thing that re-assures me about being in the right place.
Later, I was at my grandparents' house and thinking that it's all much smaller than I remember, and remembering that everything I saw was from the point of view of a ten year old, when my uncles were giants and my grandmother's garden was a rain forest that would swallow me whole. My grandmother sits with me outside on the porch, overlooking that same garden and fanning herself in the dry summer heat, asking me questions about life in Boston and interrupting me halfway through to call for merienda, a midday snack, and her housekeeper comes out with a bowl of fruit and two plates. My grandmother spears something round and brown and cuts it in two with her knife and offers me half.
"Chico?"
Chicos were one of my favorite fruits from childhood. There's a soft, almost fibrous texture to the meat, which is sweet and creamy and wonderful. I haven't had one since we moved, as the trees don't grow well outside the tropics and they're uncommon in the States. I placed the half on my plate and my spoon lingered over it for a second, as I wondered what it will taste like -- if the reality will be, like everything else thus far, a little different from the memory. I dig in regardless and taste.
and it's as sweet as I remember, and I chew my first spoonful with a slow grateful smile.
"You remember the chico?"
"It's been almost 20 years, Lola ... they don't have this in the States."
"They don't have our mangos either. or our papayas. and the grapefruits they sell are a travesty. We will feed you all of that and anything else you want. Lanzones, atis, ube. Whatever you want."
"You'll make me fat, Lola."
"You have 20 years of catching up to do. Maybe next time you won't wait so long."
Maybe ...