I was 40 minutes late in class today because I had too much fun in the snow.

I slipped almost 5 times – the first few happened in Coquitlam, the last ones along Melville. But I do not blame the snow. I love it. I hope it never rains, and would just snow forever. Didn’t I tell you I hate winter? The only reason why I hate winters – which I only experienced in Vancouver as we never have winter in my country – is because we rarely get snow and the rain is there to pester us forever.

Don’t get me started with rains. In the Philippines, I am as familiar with rains as I am with sunshine. It’s like the Filipino way of eating – there is always fork AND spoon. Or for Canadians, a medium double-double coffee and an Everything bagel with plain cream cheese. Or for Russians, vodka and… vodka.

Thank God it snowed today. I still find it beautiful, especially how when it snows, the whole world suddenly becomes a playground. From the train on my way to school, I would see kids making a snowman on the school’s football field. Lovers walking on the white streets suddenly look like they have the best love story in the world. It is almost like walking hand in hand with the Eiffel Tower in the background.

I opened the classroom door, greeted everyone a warm “Good morning” and a polite “Sorry” to my professor. Nobody seemed to mind. It was as if everyone was expected to be late because of the snow.

Time went by a bit fast. The teacher sent us on break at 10:30 in the morning. For a minute I checked my Twitter account to read what my bestfriend had to say, grabbed my wallet and got my tall chai tea latte at the Starbucks right across the building. Basically, that’s my everyday class routine, except that sometimes, I also think about love in between.

This day will end, and it will lead us to tomorrow – it will be January 19 – it will be The Thursday of our life.

That one thing I am so good at

…is walking along the streets of a sophisticated city, pretending like I am only 7 years old, with questions that only a 7-year old kid would ask.

And then it will make you smile and think, “Oh, this should be easy.”

I can feel every plan and every thought. I can almost say I can read your mind. When you say, “Let’s go to Barcelona on the fourth of July,” I know that you are not asking me to go to Barcelona on the fourth of July. Of course, you will ask me to hop the plane with you. But I know more than that.

I know that you will rent a hotel for two, and you will order wine on the first night. You will be reading my body language as I read yours.

And then you will hear me talk like a 7-year old. Again, you would think, “This should be easy.”

I will ask questions that only a 7-year old would ask. I will give in to every bit of trap you will set up. I will look like I do not know what is happening. But I know what wine means. I know what being alone in a room with you means.

Before we know it, your lips will touch mine. Your fingers will run through my shoulders, to my breasts, to my back, under my clothes. You will un-strap my bra, take off my white shirt —-

And my 7-year old self will ask questions only a 7-year old girl will ask. I will ask you something like, “What are we doing?” But you know, love, even before you asked me to go to Barcelona with you – I already know.

By just the look in your eyes, or the way you picked up my jacket when it fell down the floor, or the way kept your hands inside your pockets when I passed you by. I knew it, my love. I knew it even before you realized it. I have thought about it a million times in my head before it even came to your mind.

So if you kiss me tonight and go home with a big smile on your face because you think all plans went well and you won, don’t be too excited.

In this game, I am the winner.

That priceless moment

…when your childhood bestfriend texts you at 1:00AM (which is a time when the only reason you will ever get up is if someone important is brought to the hospital – a time when you’re too lazy to even get up and pee) to tell you that finally, after 8 years, she’s engaged! And with your messy hair and your morning breath, you find yourself smiling at the fact that after all these years and these countries that pull you two apart, you’re still one of the “first to know.” Probably the second, third or fourth, out of her hundreds of friends. And no one smiles at 1:00 AM, on the bed, with messy hair and morning breath. Just this moment, only for future Mrs. Mina. :) Congratulations, sweetie! Spread the love! :)

I want to write about the boy who introduced me to patis and chicharong bituka.

And in a moment like this one, we go back to those good ol’ days.

Let me bring you back to 2008. It was a year when this young man tried to draw his mental image of me. I was Rose in Titanic and I was queen. Fast forward it to a few more weeks and we were holding hands.

It was easy. I was easy. Too easy for this gentleman. Too easy, in fact, that if I were to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

Our relationship is like a cat for the many lives it lives. First, it was a breakup that some friends thought would happen in our fourth month together. And then it was another breakup when we were laid off from our jobs and had to work at different offices and cities. And then just recently, the breakup that immigration might cause. (I am glad that as of this moment, I am disappointing the devil and it’s not close to happening.)

Let me take you back to 2008 when I was too easy for the guy I liked to have in my life.

Everytime I think about it, I remember how much I worried that if I let him wait for one more day, he would give up charming me with his innocence and imperfections. I feared that if I didn’t laugh enough at his jokes, he would think I wasn’t interested. I was bothered that if I didn’t listen or talk enough, he would think about me differently. He was pursuing me, but I was pursuing him harder.

I was easy. Too easy, in fact, that if I were to do it all over again, I would even be easier, and these guys with perfect bone structure can kiss our royal ass. :)

You are too beautiful, Europe.

And I hate it. I hate that I haven’t seen you, yet I like you a lot. I hate how you can make this possible, Europe, because it will be like this. It will forever be like this. I will never set foot in your land, because I will always want to hate you.

You will never make me happy. If  I live in one of your beautiful cities, I will do nothing but stare at your streets everyday. I will always look at your women, and how beautiful they are compared to me. I will always look back and think of the Philippines. I will always think of my home, and how natural it is to understand their language, or how familiar the oceans are, that they will never be new to me. And then it will make me sad. Because my home is routine. Because my home is predictable. Because there is nothing to explore. Because my home is me.

But Europe, you will never make me happy, and I will always think about home.

You will shower me with the images of the paintings in the Louvre, with songs from an Irish man, with brick roads, a snowy Ukraine, suits and ties and sharp noses. I will tell you now — Europe is not me. I would love to, but it is not me. I can never afford to be with you, Europe. You will serve me good food, and you will tell me, “My dear, you like simple food, don’t you?”

I will never learn how to hold a wine glass and drink it with your people. You will be surprised that I can down half a case of beer, or any drink with no sophistication, for that matter. I would love to make love with you, Europe, but you are too beautiful. I want you like this in my memory. I want you just like this. I want you to be the place I will forever hate, and can never have. I want to crave your beauty, and hate you because you are too beautiful.

You are too beautiful, Europe.

The Louis Vuitton-clad girl looks at the other Louis Vuitton-clad girl in front of her.

She looks at her bag and its thousand meanings. She looks at her life, her bank account, her job, her intelligence and perhaps, her Canadian husband. Or her Canadian husband’s bank account. After a short five seconds, she looks away and starts thinking deeply about life — money, the American dream, chipotle, romance, and perhaps, prostitution. She starts thinking about remittances.

 

The other Louis Vuitton-clad girl looks at the girl who was looking at her a few seconds ago. She looks at her bag before she looks at her face. She then looks at her hands and feet and their thousand meanings. She looks at her callouses, the dirt on her fingernails, the burn scars on her arms and perhaps, her Canadian bosses. She then looks away and thinks, “Fake.”

 

I stand a meter away to listen to their conversation that isn’t happening. Within a minute into eavesdropping, I see their cat fights, their bellies, their dignity and the kind of toilet seats they have at home. I see the kind of wedding reception they had. I see a rented wedding gown. I see a Vera Wang gown. I see their moms, dads and their notebooks in highschool. I see a pink vagina. I see a purplish, layered one.

 

I look to my right to change view. I see a girl looking at me. I put my earphones on and start playing Bach.

Bigotry? I DIE.

She’s one of my classmates in the university. While students in UP were busy promoting equality, this girl was sitting on one corner eating bananas. Why don’t these people just get deported to Pluto or to some ball of fire in the universe?