When I was young, I left the province and ventured south toward the metropolis, looking for better work. The air in my beloved La Union was heavy the day I departed, enveloping me with her arms as if begging me to ‘stay’—or maybe, ‘farewell, good luck.’ I only replied to the latter, her grasp loosening when I boarded the provincial bus with its destination: Manila.
Like passersby walking past street beggars, Manila offered few alms to its strangers. In the first months in the urbanscape, I fought tooth and nail for every useful scrap and sustenance I could find, clutching to any opportunity that would clothe and house and feed me, living solely off miracles and the mercy of God.
And yet, amidst all that chaos, I met someone who made it make sense.
It was sometime in July. I arrived early for a job interview, sweat dripping all over and the stench of the commute clung to my outfit. Someone else was in the building lobby already—a girl, probably waiting for her interview as well. I went and sat a seat apart from her, regaining my composure while cooling myself.
While lounging, from the corner of my eye, I noticed she was restless and fidgety. The quick tapping of her foot and the constant adjusting of her suit gave it away; the poor girl was nervous about her interview. I paid no mind, my thoughts wandering. But then, she pulled her phone out of her bag, dialing a number that picked up almost immediately.
“Nanang, tatang,” she started.
Ilocano? I’d recognize the sound of it anywhere. The girl chatted with her parents, and what I assumed to be her siblings as well. Throughout the call, I overheard mentions of what sounded like my beloved home, the golden hue of her beach sands, and the salty, yet gentle push of her ocean waves. The richness of her food, mouthwatering delicacies where land and sea intertwine. And the people—oh, the people—she missed them too much, too strongly. The woe in her voice betrayed her longing, and I felt the same ache in my throat.
She eventually gave her heartfelt goodbye, her family wishing her well before ending the call. The restlessness crept back, albeit she sat a little taller now. For a moment, only the noise of passing employees filled the lobby, their voices business-like and professional, with petty office gossip occasionally slipping out.
I found I had the urge to speak to her, the curiosity on my tongue itching to be uttered. Here, there was another hopeful, fighting for a better life in a strange, faraway city, the warm embrace of home was nowhere to be felt. I guess I’m not alone in this. The thought comforted me. With a deep breath, I opened my mouth and spoke. To my surprise, the words came out easily.
“Kumusta kan?” I said in Ilocano. “How are you?”
“I overheard you speaking in Ilocano, are you from the province as well?”
The girl’s face lit up when she heard me.
“Yes! I’m from the province, Elyu to be exact.” She replied, her uneasiness gone.
“Oh, I’m from Elyu too! I assume you came here looking for work?”
“Yes, I struggled to find work with ample pay there. My parents are too old for labor and my siblings are still studying. We were struggling badly, so I decided to travel and work here.” She tried to hide the sadness in her voice, but it slipped through regardless.
“I feel you. It’s hard being a breadwinner, even more so being so far from home and family.” I remembered my parents back in Elyu, they watched as I boarded the provincial bus, their eyes gleaming with woe, yet with a sliver of hope. They would be proud to see their son persisting in a place that offers no remorse or respite. The thought soothed me.
“It is hard. This city feels so daunting, it’s different from what I know. I never feel in control, and something always seems to go awry.”
As if talking to a mirror, she said what I struggled with for the past months.
“That’s true. This city is different.”
“It is,” she replied. Neither of us said anything afterward, the lobby’s noise and bustle taking over. And yet, my tongue did not settle, my curiosity remained ablaze. The words were already forming, just waiting for the slightest crack between my lips to escape. I let it.
“Do you miss home? Elyu, I mean.”
She didn’t ponder that question at all.
“Of course. I miss Elyu. I miss my family and my friends. I miss the ocean, the beach, and nature. This city doesn’t have that. All it is is mayhem, of people too busy to slow down, of deadlines to be met. Move too slowly and it’ll leave you behind. How could I ever like it here, when I could be home in one bus ride?” Her eyes watered, her voice trembling. But she continued.
“But I can’t go back. Not when my family counts on me.” There was an edge to her voice that made her words cut like knives. Tears started streaming down her face, and I found myself helpless to comfort her.
“Home is what you make it to be.” I blurted, surprised by my impulse. I continued talking without forethought.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever consider this city a place of comfort. It's too much, too messy. But it doesn’t mean that home has to be so distant.”
My voice started trembling too. “You and I, we’re pieces of Elyu. To others, we may be strangers, but to each other, we are home.”
The girl sat still. Had I said something wrong?
She replied. “That’s true. Even in such a busy city, we can still find our way home, no matter what it is.”
An employee called her from one of the hallways, her interviewer was waiting. She stood, wiping her tears. Before leaving, she looked back, and the sadness in her eyes was gone.
“Thank you. Maybe there is home to be found here, in the chaos of this city.” She went and disappeared after turning a corner.
After my turn for the interview, I found her waiting just outside the lobby, waiting for a taxi to bring her home. Instead of bidding her farewell, I went and asked her out to a nearby restaurant offering Ilocano cuisine, with their pinakbet and igado piquing my interest most, as it is what my mother used to cook most back home. She accepted, and on the way there, she asked:
“Are we there yet?”
“Yes, almost,” I replied.
20 years later, we’re traveling on a provincial bus to Elyu, her head laid on my shoulder. Manila was distant, and she asked that same question.
“Are we there yet?”
“Yes, almost.”
