The New Christmas Tree

THE DAY AFTER THANKSGIVING, I rummaged through the garage clutter for the reusable (OK, fake) pine Christmas tree that we bought from Target five years ago when we were still living in an apartment in Elmhurst. Through the years, this tree had served its purpose faithfully, though it had shed some needles from each boxing and unboxing, and with the economic recession and our tight budget this season, I am in no mood to replace it with a new one. I don't mind being called a cheapskate recycler, though I prefer it if you call me an environmentalist, who scavenges through the neighborhood trash every Thursday night for aluminum cans, glass bottles and what-have-you that are still worth something before they ended up in a Staten Island landfill. My best finds so far: a hardly-used futon sofa bed that we shared with our basement tenants, and a computer tower with 20GB hard disk memory.

Anyway, to make up for the lack of a real tree, we thought it would be a good idea to decorate the potted Cestrum nocturnum (aka dama de noche) as well, which we took inside the the house and placed next to the thermostat when the temperature outside went below 40F. (It used to sit on the doorstep and bloomed gloriously in the summer, but it is an annual plant that dies in frost.) Then, it dawned on me (and I know it sounds awkward and silly) that sometimes we, consciously or unconsciously, make use of what we have in our hands to have the things that we long for, even in the imagination. Like Christmas trees.

As children in Mindoro, my siblings and I were expert Christmas tree makers. Our father used to go to the lalao swamps in Lumambayan to cut a pyramid-shaped mangrove tree, whose twigs we cleaned and coated with La Torre gawgaw glue, covered with shredded cotton and white papel de japon so we could imagine snow, then planted its trunk in a floorwax can full of pebbles. But, at this point in our lives, the tables have turned, it seems. This time it's the other way around; we are decorating a tree to remind us of the tropics. Man is never satisfied. As Don Henley sang in Desperado, "you only want the ones that you can't get." So, trimmed and trained on a bamboo stick, the Cestrum is certainly unimpressive, but with a little imagination, especially when a blizzard is howling outside, one can relive those sultry summer nights in Pinamalayan when, sitting on the porch after dinner, he saw the fireflies, heard a distant guitar, and the Cestrum wafted its fragrance through the tropical air.

Next week, Sara is going to read in class the poem A Visit from St. Nicholas by Clement Clarke Moore (here in his original handwriting). The poem was supposed to have been written by the author thinking about his grandparents' homestead farm on the corner of Broadway and Woodside Avenues in Newtown Village (Elmhurst, Queens), now occupied by a large apartment building.

 

One Hundred Years Of Universitihood*

BEFORE THE YEAR IS OVER and it is too late, I want to jump on the bandwagon and join the centennial anniversary celebration of the University of the Philippines by posting an entry with an old postcard (of the Padre Faura campus where I spent my first semester in the UP system) that I had bought through Ebay from a guy in North Clarendon, Vermont and by, what seems like a pattern emerging in this blog, reminiscing. This is the least I can do; I am indebted to my alma mater figuratively and literally, but the constraints of distance, time and money prevent me from actively participating in the activities, which are probably winding down now as the year comes to a close. Just two days ago, my friend Susan Lara sent me an invitation to the UP Writers Night (which would have been over by now) and another missed event worsens the guilt and nags me into doing something, anything. My coming to America would not have happened if UP (specifically the English Department) did not take me under its wing and send me on its faculty development program to study in the United States. So, for all its worth, I will write my memory of the Writing Center, the focal point of my stay in the university, and drop a lot of names that I hope will not bore some readers.

The UP was established on June 18, 1908 (the same year the University of Nebraska at Omaha was founded) as the American University of the Philippines by Act No. 1870 of the First Philippine Legislature, also known as the "University Act." I entered the university in 1981 as a returning student after two years of soul-searching, trying to figure out what to make of my three years of study at the Ateneo de Manila earlier. I was trying to decide if I wanted to be in a school where most everyone wore Lacostes and Florsheims and drove cars, while I wore my pair of citizens' military training combat boots to school because I could not afford to buy another one, and took the tricycle from the jeepney stop on Katipunan Avenue to Berchmans Hall only when it rained hard. Don't get me wrong; I made many friends at the Ateneo, mostly in my English class of "needy but deserving" scholars under Lourdes Vidal, but I was glad that I left campus before I became angrier at my family, society and God for what we were not. At UP Manila, I took a poetry class under Ricky de Ungria who told me about a Writers' Worskhop held in Diliman every summer that I should apply to. I did, the following year, and was accepted.

In the workshop, I met writers that I read only in books: the late Franz Arcellana and Alex Hufana, Jimmy Abad, Amel Bonifacio, Edgar Reyes (whose piece Lugmok Na Ang Nayon is still my favorite Tagalog short story), Linda Ty-Casper, you name it. Before that, my knowledge of literature was limited to Ang Lumang Simbahan by Florentino Collantes, a poem my late father used to recite at bedtime when I was a kid, "The Beetle" by Consorcio Borje in high school, and "Clay" by Juan Gatbonton in Lourdes Vidal's class at the Ateneo (in the same class, by the way, was writer James Laquindanum, now a priest at St. Patrick's Roman Catholic Church in Long Island City, Queens). Needless to say, the workshop broadened my literary horizons, so to speak. I discovered writers like Dylan Thomas and Robert Graves and Kerima Polotan, learned about the "tangential approach" and "objective-correlative," and met junior writers like Susan Lara (who used to smoke Philip Morris 100s, believe it or not), Carlos Cortes and Simeon Dumdum. I got lucky; my story "Big Wind" got the Best Fiction Award and a Napoleon Abueva trophy.

Heady from the workshop, I dumped biology as a major and transferred to Diliman the following semester to study English. (I kept this from my family until I graduated.) I commuted by bus everyday from our house in a government housing complex in San Pedro, Laguna, and packed home-cooked food to save lunch money on take-out at CASAA, hanging out at the Writing Center in between classes. I had to leave campus early to avoid the EDSA traffic, missing writers' get-togethers, readings and inumans, which happened late in the afternoons into the night. But there was another English major and returning student named Butch Dalisay, a Palanca award-winning writer and former political detainee who read my manuscript one day and apparently saw some potential in my florid prose. Without second thought, he offered me a job as his copy editor and researcher, although he himself struggled at the time financially, with a family to support on a government job at the National Economic Development Authority. To this day, I have not forgotten the spontaneity and magnanimity of his gesture, and the encouragement and confidence it gave me.

Soon, things fell into place somewhat. I was given a local fellowship for fiction at the Writing Center, thanks to the late Alex Hufana, the director who had a library science background and was some kind of a mentor to me. I also found an old boarding house with a restaurant called Jacy's where food and lodging were cheap right behind the Faculty Center. I spent most of the time at the Writing Center (or FC 1003) which was an air-conditioned office created by combining two faculty rooms, with barely enough space for three desks, four steel file cabinets, a book shelf and a long conference table where people held meetings, did homework or graded papers, played Trivial Pursuit, ate lunch, and at the end of the day when no one was looking, gathered for "libations." It was a refuge open to any writer or English major, and even the sleep-deprived or hangover-nurser could use it to catch some Zs when no one except staffer Tony Serrano (the vegetarian and everybody's kuya) or Glo Evangelista was around, only roused when curious faculty like Lily Rose Tope peeked in to find out what was up for the day. There were rotary phones and manual typewriters for duplicating manuscripts using stencils. At dusk, when the acacia trees outside stirred legends, the halls became quiet, and the chicharon, balut and peanut vendors appeared by the building entrance, it was the perfect place to drink Bobot Bitonio's basi or the late Clovis Nazareno's ESQ, to discuss Dylan Thomas, Fyodor Dostoyevsky and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, gossip, or simply find a victim to roast for the evening (former Labor Usec Bitonio was a ruthless alaskador). Discussions became heated and more lively when writers like Edel Garcellano, Enrico Enerio, Manny Espinola, Rey Luminarias or Ed Farolan joined in. Beer was bought for those who preferred it by the late Ernie Damasco, the messenger, using Mang Rene's tricycle, bypassing the guard at the entrance and delivering the bottles through a side window. Warmed up and ready for wider space, the tipplers dutifully locked up the office by 7 pm and reconvened at a nearby watering hole, usually PCED Hostel on campus or Trellis in PHILCOA. On Friday nights, interested writers gathered for a work-discussion group that met (and, of course, drank) in Isabel Mooney's apartment, the LitCritters of our time. As I lived on campus, I did not have to worry about anything, and freedom seemed infinite.

I spent the following three years in Diliman, only changing residence when Jacy's was demolished to make way for a new academic building, temporarily sleeping in Vice Chancellor Louie Beltran's garage in UP Village for free to help son Ricky complete a paper for Yolanda Tomeldan's class, before ending up in Narra Residence Hall where the late Clovis Nazareno and Donat Alvarez lodged. Before graduating in 1985, I met other English majors and writers who would also pursue further studies abroad, including Gina Apostol (our paths crossed inside Strand Bookstore in Union Square; she is now an English teacher at The Masters School in Dobbs Ferry, New York), Fidelito Cortes (is he in Stony Brook?), the glamorous no-nonsense gang of Judy Ick-Ging Kagawan-Diana Atencia, Neferti Tadiar (professor of Women's Studies at Barnard College, Columbia University), the late Luisa Mallari, Don Dona (connected with Financial Services of NYU) and of course, Butch Dalisay. I ended up in Wichita, Kansas, where the only US university that would give me a graduate assistantship was. Most of them would go back to serve the university, but I would stay on and move around America for reasons that are hard to articulate at the moment. But I know the day will come when I will have to go back, face the music and square accounts with someone for things that I owed in the past.

Here is my cum laude diploma and a picture of the Writing Center in the 80's (photo retouched) with the late Franz Arcellana, book designer Donat Alvarez, Reni Roxas, publisher of Tahanan Books, and Susan Lara. (Notice the Johnnie Walker lapad on the table.) Also a party of English majors, including Cristina de Leon and Neferti Tadiar (back to the camera) and a reading at the Faculty Center with Jimmy Abad and Isabela Mooney.

*"Universitihood" is a word that is apparently used only in the Philippines; I do not know if it is accepted in standard English, but I take risk in using it in my title because it rhymes with "Solitude." You know what I'm going for.

Intro To Philippine Literature

AFTER DAYS OF WAITING, I finally received Sara's copy of The Turtle and the Monkey from Amazon, her introduction to Philippine Literature. She just lost two front teeth, but tomorrow, she will bring the book to Ms. Lanzilotta's first grade class at P.S. 153 to tell her classmates about banana trees. That's my girl. Just wait till she gets to Nick Joaquin!

Here Comes Jollibee!

PARDON THE PICTURES, but I just drove by Roosevelt Avenue early this morning and took these shots with my bad camera. Yes, Jollibee, that popular Filipino fast food chain, is opening its first branch on the East Coast, right in the heart of Manilatown in Woodside by the 7 train. As you can see, the place is still boarded up (the place used to be a Mexican restaurant), but the ads are already there. Though I am not a big fan of fast food, I know a lot of other Queens Pinoys are rejoicing. One thing is sure: it will bring much-needed jobs to kabayans. Mabuhay!

UPDATE (02/14/2009): According to the owner of the Jollibee franchise in New York, the fastfood joint is going to open Saturday, February 14 from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m. Seating capacity is 70 people, but according their Facebook events page, about 1,200 are already attending. Thanks, Buj, for the information! Although I am working on Valentine's Day, Sara and Mom will go and try to get in. Below are the latest pictures, thanks to New York Magazine and Serious Eats New York.



UPDATE (02/20/2009): Almost a week after the grand opening, people still have to wait in long lines to be served. Still no telephone number. I guess they will give it out when all the novelty and mania subside. Hey, at least for the moment, they already have enough people to worry about!

UPDATE (02/27/2009): Lines not as bad. Winter schedule: Lines open 8 am to 8 pm on weekdays, and 7 am to 8 pm on weekends. And finally, here's their menu and phone number!

Jollibee, 62-29 Roosevelt Avenue, Woodside, Queens, New York 11377, phone (718) 426-4445

Hawthornden On My Mind

AN EXPERIENCE THAT I will always remember is my fellowship at the Hawthornden Castle International Retreat for Writers in Lasswade, Scotland, from 19 November to 16 December of 2000, exactly eight years ago today. The memory is timely; it was also autumn and post-US presidential election period, but then there was a bitter contest between George W. Bush and Al Gore about the election results, particularly in Florida. In fact, it was then when I learned that the meaning of the word "chad" other than a country in Africa was a paper fragment created when a hole is made in a ballot card, from reading The Scotsman newspaper in the castle living room. My candidate Al Gore had apparently lost because "hanging," "dimpled" and "pregnant" chads which had been punched, though not completely, on ballot cards were not counted to his favor. I had become an American citizen in April of that year and was happy to have exercised my right to vote, but was very disappointed. Today, after eight years of Republican dynasty, I am happy to see a Democrat get elected once again, and what a president-elect he is. I know this has been said countless times, but I am going to say it again: Barack Obama will lead this country through the challenges of the times. That said, please allow me to sit back and indulge in a little nostalgia.

On November 18, 2000, I took a Northwest Airlines flight from JFK to Amsterdam Schiphol Airport, then transferred to a smaller KLM plane to Edinburgh (pronounced Edin-burrah). I took a cab with a courteous driver who drove me to the castle for about twenty minutes, lamenting how tourists had descended on his town since a ski path had been carved out of a hillside along our way. I arrived in the castle just before dinner, was welcomed by Amy, the administrator, and was immediately led to a room called Jonson on the third level, my home for the next four weeks. The castle had winding stairways that provided a challenge as I dragged one of my two heavy luggage upstairs (sorry, no elevators in ancient castles), but Amy, despite her little frame, did the other without effort; she had obviously done this for other fellows before. Not too long after, it was dinner time and sherry was served, on the house, as Amy welcomed the fellows formally.

What followed was a succession of days of writing privilege; as silence was maintained in the castle at all times, except dinner. From the castle through the trees, one could actually hear the waters of the River North Esk. Lunch, which consisted of simple fare like sandwiches and a thermos bottle of hot soup, was brought to the fellows' rooms, who were left on their own most of the day. Some fellows packed their lunches and caught the early bus that passed by the castle gate to make day trips to Edinburgh, the capital city, or to see Rosslyn Chapel for its Knights Templar history. Some simply stayed and made the river walk behind the castle. I went to the city on days when I craved good old rice, which did not seem to be part of the castle menu. Around downtown, there were Chinese and Indian restaurants where I had beef broccoli or chicken curry with rice to quell my Asian stomach. After lunch, I wandered about Princes (not Princess or Prince's) Street, the main thoroughfare, dominated by the majestic Edinburgh Castle from Castle Rock, before catching the last bus to Midlothian, where my castle was. At dinner, the Garden Room became alive as fellows shared stories about their ventures of the day. Sherry flowed; there was a list to tally how many glasses one had had for the evening, to be charged upon checkout. I became friends with Tom Kennedy, an American living in Copenhagen who used to live in Jackson Heights, New York, and Parm Kaur, a British poet from London with a Punjabi background. Maybe because she was the only other minority writer and smoker in the group, we became chat buddies. One evening, the shy kitchen ladies prepared haggis, that traditional Scottish dish of sheep's stomach stuffed with liver, heart, lungs and a bunch of other goodies only a Filipino could also eat. I was expecting it to taste like dinuguan or higado, but was disappointed as it was mostly bland.

Hawthornden Castle sat on a secluded crag overlooking the River North Esk, providing impressive views of the surrounding glen. It was the home of poet William Drummond, who built a new house around a ruined 15th century tower in 1638. The castle remained home to the Drummonds until 1970 and is now owned by philanthropist Drue Heinz, publisher of The Paris Review and widow of H.J. Heinz of catsup fame. From what I remember, there was a working water well on its courtyard, and a cave further down where Robert the Bruce, King of the Scots from 1306 to 1329, was said to have taken shelter. By the gate, there was a little house that Mary Sharratt used to call "the gamekeeper's cottage." The bathroom of the castle had an ancient toilet bowl that flushed by pulling a chain, but it also had a sunroof that gave one a piece of Scottish sky while taking a dump.

Whatever, the silence and privacy were what mattered. In the retreat, I got to polish my short story The Capture, which early that year won Best Fiction in the Philippines Free Press Literary Awards. Later, it was shortlisted in the Fish Short Story Prize sponsored by Fish Publishing in Durrus, Ireland. Before leaving, I wrote a poem for Drue Heinz in the logbook and donated a copy of A Habit of Shores: Filipino Poetry and Verse from English to the castle library. All in all, it had been a great experience, and today, sitting in my cubbyhole at Rosenthal Library, aging and arthritic, I relive the memory and hope that I will have a similar luck someday.

Here is a picture of the fellows in the Dining Room. L-R: Mary Sharratt, Linda Leith, Parmjit Kaur, Patricia Duncker, Amy the administrator, Thomas E. Kennedy and yours truly. Also, a shot on Calton Hill with the Dugald Stewart Monument in the background, and a picture of Edinburgh Castle, thanks to Wikipedia.

Hawthornden Castle International Retreat for Writers, Lasswade, Midlothian EH18 1EG, Scotland, United Kingdom, phone 44 (0) 131 440 2180, fax 44 (0) 131 440 1989, contact the Administrator

An Old Document In The Aparador

ONE OF THE DISCOVERIES during my last trip to my hometown of Pinamalayan, Oriental Mindoro in the Philippines was a 78-year-old document, mildewed, insect-eaten and brittle as a dry leaf, inside an old aparador. It was a lease contract between the Singer Sewing Machine Company and my grandmother Marcosa Closa. (Click on the document to enlarge.) It shows that she paid 10 pesos downpayment to rent a sewing machine Model 128-4 valued at 100 pesos, on August 28, 1930. (Coincidentally, that day was the fourth birthday of my father, her would-be son-in-law, still unknown to her family; my mother was then six years old.) According to the agreement, she was to pay three pesos on the 28th of every month in Philippine currency.

Though not exactly a find that will make me rich, the document is interesting in many ways. The form was surprisingly still in Spanish even though the Americans had been around for 32 years. The preparer who filled in the blanks had written the entries in both Spanish and English, with the month entered as "Aug." for August (instead of "Ag." for Agosto) and the word "complete" to describe the accessories included with the machine. On the back of the document, which showed my grandmother's age as 29 and my grandfather Genaro Castillo as co-leaser, the answer to question Cuanto tiempo han residido en la direccion arriba mencionada (How long have you lived in the address mentioned above? was "(illegible) years." Son los arrendetarios maridos y mujer--"yes." Occupacion--"H. Keeping." "Laborer." Two of the references I recognized as other lolas (Augustina Closa and Vicenta Lontoc) and a Jose Morente.

Interesting. I wonder how the document had survived the elements (typhoons, humidity, insects) and unknowing katulongs who disposed of old-looking documents as trash or stove kindling. I also wonder just exactly when English replaced Spanish as the language of business in the Philippines. Before WWII, were business and government forms printed bilingually in English and Spanish, with the educated (like the preparer) using English and the not-so-educated (like my grandparents) using Spanish, or even Tagalog? And how many households today still have a sewing machine? Do people still sew their own clothes, or repair them at least? Finally, what can my grandmother's monthly rent of three pesos buy today?

I believe Grandma eventually bought the machine. My mother inherited it and made lots of pajamas, pillow cases and curtains when she raised her own family. One of the tasks I had to do before she used it was to get a bowl of water and dampen the abaca rope that served as its belt (the original rubber one had snapped) so it would expand and tighten, to turn the hand wheel when she pedaled. Finally, after a strong typhoon blew our roof off, the sewing machine's wooden fold-out cover warped from the deluge and mother gave the thing away. Below is a picture of what it looked like: probably a 1924 or 1930 Singer treadle sewing machine model 128.

Done With Kindergarten

ALTHOUGH IT IS A BIT LATE, I still wanted to post Sara's kindergarten class picture, with teachers Ms. Curry and Ms. Lee. Twelve more years before college!

Pho On Grand Avenue

I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A SUCKER for pho, that great Vietnamese hangover buster. So it was a welcome idea when Little Saigon opened on Grand Avenue. The owners used to operate (under the same name) in a hole-in-the-wall with five tables on 9th Avenue and 46th Street in Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen, but closed down after the rent went up to $14,000 a month. Hey, welcome to Queens!

If you want to make your own pho, the best recipe I have found so far is Andrea Nguyen's of San Jose Mercury News. She has tips only a Vietnamese would know, like charring the onions and ginger and using yellow rock sugar.

Little Saigon, 85-32 Grand Ave, Elmhurst, Queens, New York 11373, (718) 205-4279, cash only, Vietnamese cable TV

Baby Food And Other Stinkers

ALTHOUGH THERE ARE SCORES of Asian grocery stores in Queens, one has entrenched itself more deeply in the hearts, and stomachs, of Filipinos in New York. Phil-Am Food Mart, in the heart of Little Manila in Woodside (on the 69th Street station of the 7 train), is owned by hard-working Batanguenos who may well be millionaires now, with the kind of customer traffic they get especially on holidays and weekends. The contents of the store in themselves are not that rare or special: the usual food products like Pampanga's Best tocinos and Mama Sita's flavor mixes, mass-produced for the homesick tongues of Filipino expatriates. But it has a small fresh produce section that carries ingredients for pinakbet, and a cooked food section that offers fried milkfish, dried squid, goby (biya), herring (tunsoy) and other apartment stinkers packed in little aluminum foil boxes. Fastidious Pinoys buy these salty treats even though they are overpriced to satisfy a craving without stinking up one's living space or offending their next door neighbor in the building when they fry these stinkers. Another important aspect of the store is the makeshift bulletin board by its entrance, where enterprising Filipino subletters advertise cheap rooms for rent (usually carved out of apartment spaces using portable dividers, a la Sampaloc, Manila) to jobless newly arrived kabayans, who know nothing of New York city codes and are unlikely to report building violations to 311. This is one of the reasons why some people come here, then shop later. We got the tenant of our attic room through its posting board.

Other than that, the store is special to our family because it is the only place in Queens where we can find frozen baby mackerel tuna (tulingan), not those huge mercury-laden behemoths that sushi chefs hunt at Top Line or Fulton Fish Market, for our Mindoro soul food tinigang. These babies are tender and sweet-tasting; they probably went to the same school (pardon the pun) as the ones they sell in Pinamalayan wet market. One could imagine the tropical sun coming back to life in their eyes after they have been defrosted. Even the sinking of passenger ferry Princess of the Stars did not dampen our appetite for tinigang like it did to our relatives in the Philippines, because we thought these babies were safely asleep in a freezer somewhere in a New Jersey port when the tragedy happened.

Anyway, tinigang is one of the easiest and earliest dishes I learned to cook; I got the technique (or the lack of it) from my grandfather. I use a sharp knife to cut a lengthwise slit on both sides of each fish, press them with the palm of my hand on a chopping board until they are as flat (and nearly round) as a tortilla with a bony smile, sprinkle them with salt and pepper, and stack them in lattice pattern in a wide-bottomed pot. (We bought a cast iron paella pot made in Colombia for this purpose.) I throw in a piece of bacon and a handful of crushed garlic, add water and vinegar (Heinz will do, but Datu Puti is better) and bring it to a boil. Once it simmers, I am instantly transported to the tropics, but my wife cries "Foul!" and scurries all over the house to shut bedroom doors and protect our wardrobe from the clinging, acidic fish smell. Perfect tinigang takes at least an hour to cook; the water has to evaporate almost completely ("tigang" means "dry" in Tagalog), the bones have to be edibly soft, and the fat of the bacon has to incorporate with the sauce for the best patis, so she has to endure the atmosphere for a while. (I usually cook tinigang, fry tunsoy or saute shrimp paste over a hot plate in the garage, but it has become quite a challenge to stay outside because the temperature has dropped to winter levels even though it is still autumn officially.) Once dinner is served, however, usually with some vegetable cooked in coconut milk and freshly steamed Thai jasmine rice, everybody is happy and all stink is forgiven.

Phil-Am Food Mart, 40-03 70th Street, Woodside, Queens, New York 11377, (718) 899-1797, no parking

The Cheapest Property In The Adirondacks

IT IS OFFICIAL. I am the proud owner of half an acre of hillside property in Port Henry, NY with a "fixer-upper" (euphemism for decrepit) farmhouse. I had to take the Amtrak to Albany to close the deal and obtain the deed from the lovely wife of a young investor. It was a great trip along the Hudson River, and the transaction went smoothly. But where on earth is Port Henry? As people asked, "Ano bang meron sa Port Henry?" To justify my decision, which people may think is as stupid as Seward's purchase of Alaska, here are my reasons: 1. Location, location, location. Port Henry is in the Adirondack State Park in upstate New York, "an area of unparalleled beauty.” It is the largest park in America, covering 6.1 million acres, a land area about the size of the Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Canyon and Great Smoky Mountains National Parks combined. I have always dreamed of living in a mountain cabin by the lake (preferably with a fireplace), and live an idyllic Thoreau-like life. A kid who grew up among the rice paddies of Pinamalayan, Oriental Mindoro in the Philippines, I have always had this idea of an American home, slightly different from that of my friend Susan Lara: a white picket fenced suburban home with a dog named “Spotty” running around. Maybe I’m just a rural guy. Anyway, Port Henry is a small village between the shores of Lake Champlain and the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains, and reminds me of Scotland and even Sagada. Maybe someday, I can invite my Filipino friends over.

2. Accessibility. Port Henry is on the Amtrak's Adirondack route between New York City and Montreal (Map above), which was proclaimed one of the ten most scenic train trips in the world by National Geographic Traveler Magazine. The train departs Penn Station in Manhattan early in the morning and follows the banks of the Hudson River and the shores of Lake Champlain through historic towns and pristine woodlands in upstate New York to the Canadian border, terminating at Gare Centrale in downtown Montreal before dinner. One way trip to PH costs about $50, and there is a food car where one can buy hot instant Ramen and sandwiches. Although PH's train station is no Grand Central and does not even have a passenger waiting platform (one has to use a stool to step up and down the train), it is a piece of architectural history, being built in the 1880's when PH was an iron mine port. At present, it is staffed by friendly senior citizens who bring the stool in and out, and get to use the depot for their own activities in return. PH is also along the route of a major inland waterway that runs from New York City to Quebec City. One could actually sail inland from the Atlantic through the Verazzano Narrows in NYC--Hudson River--Champlain Canal--Lake Champlain--Richelieu River--Chambly Canal--St. Lawrence River--Quebec City in the Gaspe Peninsula, back to the Atlantic. This is a dream cruise that I would like to take or do before I die. Along this water route, PH has a marina near Bulwagga Bay, where legendary lake monster "Champ" has been sighted many times.

3. Nearby institutions. Middlebury College, Robert Frost's summer home and the famous Bread Loaf Writers' Conference are about forty five minutes away, across Crown Point Bridge on Lake Champlain. Meadowmount Summer School of Music (where artists like Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman trained) is fifteen minutes north in Westport. The University of Vermont at Burlington and SUNY Plattsburgh are about an hour away. If you don't want to leave town, there is a small public library downtown, and a professional theater company in nearby Westport.

4. Cost. I got the property for about seven thousand bucks, thanks to Plattsburgh Craigslist. It is cheaper than a used car.

5. Finally, because I am a crazy dreamer. I think I have found my other retirement home, apart from our ancestral house in Pinamalayan, Oriental Mindoro.

Watch for updates on my progress rehabilitating the house until it is ready for housewarming, open to all Pinoys who can come. I also have a title for a piece: Port of Entry to Port Henry.

Here are pictures of the house on 109 Stone Street, the bathroom (those are not bird droppings on the tub), and Sara feeding the gulls on Lake Champlain, five minutes away.