WANDERING THROUGH OLD MANILA

You can't miss it. It's right next to the eternally famous Eng Bee Tin bakery, makers of the city's best hopia. Of course it's silly to tell someone the location of a church with regard to the whereabouts of a hopia bakery. But it makes sense. Hopia IS after all the bread of life.

I check my watch, it is 4:10 pm and according to the board outside the church, the mass started at 4:00. I figure it is providence providing me with no excuse to disregard my weekly celebration of redemption from human frailty. I smile as I enter the humongous structure.

From outside, the church looks like an ancient survivor of the Spanish era, stone walls an anachronism amidst the conrete and steel. But that illusion is lost inside. The interiors have been made over so many times that the place has lost its original grandeur. Instead, it is a testament to how modern materials can fuck up a good old thing. It saddens me. Sort of like a 99-year old woman insisting on wearing an inch of makeup and a mini skirt instead of displaying the lines of her face with pride.

The second thing that depresses me is the choir. They are teenagers and young professionals but they sing like a middle-age widows. The Gloria suddenly becomes a funeral dirge. The final straws are the acoustics and the priest's foreign (Chinese?) accent which effectively render 45% of his homily inaudible. I sit through to the end like a good boy. But I ache for the wonderful masses I used to attend back in college.

After my sad mass, I resume the adventure by walking across Jones Bridge. Wasn't this used for a scene in one of Rosanna Roces' films? Heh. The bridge is a wide thoroughfare with a pleasant incline and trimmings (lamp-posts and such). I was tempted to stop and sketch the sights but the sun was now heading downwards and I was nowhere near the Manila Cathedral.

Upon hitting the Lawton area, I head straight for the nearest Intramuros entrance and walk straight down the road. Midway, the street becomes a chaotic place, filled left and right with a busy community of squatters singing karaoke, or playing patintero. Around them stand the buildings, these glorious pre-war structures most of which appear to be abandoned. But hey, at least they're still standing. The only life in the area being the squatters who've claimed the area as their own since the rest of Manila obviously don't want anything to do with it. O sad city of mine.

I can feel the Cathedral. It is close. And a look at the rooftops confirms this. I spy a cross looming above and to the right. Intramuros has not led me astray.

Finally I arrive, sweating and slightly tired, at the park in front of the cathedral. One of the few in the metropolis which have simple WOODEN benches standing out in the open. And these aren't those cheap conrete slabs either. These benches are curved, have backrests and arm rests and stand on wrought-iron legs. They are things of beauty and longevity. I pick one across from the church and open my sketchbook.

Twenty minutes later, some kids in long dresses start frolicking around, obviously waiting for a wedding to start. Their parents follow them expressing disappointment that the wedding hasn't started yet. Across from me, on another bench, a barkada of 20-something maids talk about a comrade who is late for their soiree. Inside the church, a gaggle of people are fussing about a union about to made between two people, for eternity. Somewhere in the open area, vendors hawk their wares unashamed : cigarettes, juice, candies, snacks.

The sun seriously starts to disappear by then, but it doesn't matter. I'm here. I'm alive. The sketch of the cathedral's facade has been made. It's not perfect but it's beautiful. Like most everything else in this demented city I love.

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