Althea Writes Here

It's always breakfast, no matter the dish, no matter the time of day. When I'm eating breakfast, it makes me feel like something new is about to begin or like something was worth staying up for, and someone, staying up with. This is my spicy chai latte and hazelnut waffle sandwich from The Wicked Waffle All-Day Breakfast Cafe in Eastwood Cybermall. Breakfast was at 1am, with a book, The Girl who Played with Fire.

This week is off to an early (rainy) start. Too early! But it's good to know that riding off to work at this hour means riding off into the sunrise.

Let me always be a person who looks for proofs of love.

I was 16 when I first started going on public bus rides regularly, first as a college freshman at DLSU, then as a college freshman all over again at UP Diliman. From our house in Las Piñas, the trip to Taft was more comfortable. I'd take the Tas Trans bus from outside our village, bear the traffic along Alabang-Zapote Road, always watching for the old trees that line the way, and get off right outside La Salle. I loved the Tas Trans bus line, with its clean modern buses and friendly drivers and conducters. I always felt safe. I could leave my school bag with the driver if I had to sit by the back, and I would be sure to get it when it was time to get off. The trip to Diliman from Las Piñas, on the other hand, will always be a taste of hell, the gates to which can be found at the Alabang Viaduct. The difference was made clear to me on my first commute as a UP student: as the Fairview-bound bus turned to enter the Quezon Circle, the driver had a fight with another motorist. There

Things have happened. Some of them I'm happy about, some I'm sad about, some I'm not proud about, some I can live with, and the rest I'm still processing. I think about mirrors, about how, I've been told, what you don't like in another person is usually what you don't like in yourself. I think about radical authenticity, about how difficult it is, this business of going for truth and transparency and showing up as yourself in a body that is filled with fear in a world that may not be patient enough to understand. I think about my relationships, about relating, about the people I've kept close, the people who chose to lose me, and the people I've been glad to lose. I think about harsh words people have for each other, harsh words I've used against people and harsh words that have been used against me. I think about how, beneath those harsh words, we really know nothing about each other, and that maybe, just maybe, if I saw that part of you that ea

A few days ago, craving one of my favorite street foods, squid balls , I stepped out of Eastwood City, hoping to get my fix at one of the carts along C-5. To my surprise, none of the usual carts were there, perhaps removed from the area by traffic enforcers since new jeepney stops were in place. Still hungry and now frustrated, I decided to check out a new place a colleague had recommended, Señor Liempo. Like the fishball carts, Señor Liempo is just outside Eastwood City. Located in the same area as Piandré and Omakase, it's an unassuming little place that's a little more than just a food stall with some tables and chairs. I think it can seat 20 (but don't trust me with numbers!).  I ordered a set meal of their kiln-roasted pork belly (their specialty) and rice, and the young guy taking my order asked me if I wanted unlimited rice or a side dish with it. I told him unlimited rice wasn't an option because I was getting my food to go. He explained that I could get one