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.

Moving Borders

I stared blankly at the mirror, uncertain of what might unfold. My arms hung lifelessly as I searched for assurance. I breathed hard, so hard it echoed through the walls but was still not enough to deafen the drumbeats in my chest. My cold palms numbed. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Water drops on a half-filled pail seemed endless. Long breaths and faster heartbeats; the door swung open.

Image taken here