How Binondo forced my frown

It must have been my old infatuation with the Chinese language, Putonghua as I was told, that enthralled me to go and see Binondo. I was 17-years-old and all I had were romanticized visions of noodles selling like hot pancakes in the morning, shelves full of glittering charm crystals and stacks of hopia in all shapes and sizes--rich and vibrant. 

Right then, 'Go to Binondo' was added to my to-do list.

But years after, with most of the Chinese words and symbols I had learned now lost within my neural network, and Kim Chui's hit series My Binondo Girl ranked in the ratings war, I was still yet to strike a line through my six-year-old entry.

So I finally asked my tita its whereabouts. She could go on explaining but I could never figure it out. And I never understood why I never thought of just Google-ing it.

Pak! Pak! Pak! The machine-gun like sounds of the Judas belt brought me back to senses. I was there standing a few feet away from a red dragon and a couple more from a yellow lion.

So this is Binondo. Finally.

Behind his butt I sat and waited

Who would've wanted to sit under the sun for a couple of painful hours behind a petite man's backside? 

I know many did. 

I have.

Rewind to five years ago.

Aprill 22. I spiked my hair, wore my striped collared shirt and made sure I'd be gwapo. I wouldn't let my Barong-clad brother outshine me on that day. Heck, he'd successfully done it for more than 10 years. But I guess the fact that he'd get branded cum laude later that day only rubbed it on my face and shoved it up my---never mind.

Big deal. So what if he was cattle-like walking across a field with medals clanking on his chest, which could be easily bought from Recto by the way. Read my lips: I-was-not-jealous. At all.

Yeah right.