So there I was in the middle of Glorietta on a Friday afternoon and all I could think of was: “Anywhere but here!” I was in this giant box with a whole lot of stores and a whole lot of people, and I couldn’t breathe! The irony was that I couldn’t get a seat out of the wall-to-wall restaurants! Everything was full! Mwahahaha

When I finally got a seat at a burrito place, I couldn’t help but long for the many languorous days I spent in Bangar.

A small town in La Union, a long way off from the shenanigans of San Juan, Bangar represents perhaps everything I had imagined a bucolic life would be.

In the mornings, we took long walks around its outskirts, chancing upon farmers with bundles of fresh produce, speeding in their motorbikes to the market. One time, we came upon a beautiful field full of tobacco plants. The farmers were harvesting the leaves, bundling them up to be cured. I know, I know. Tobacco kills. But it was beautiful. It’s not its fault that man made something horrible out of it.

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Taking another route the next morning, we walked towards Pebble Beach, which I was told is not its real name. But hey, I like Pebble Beach better! The waves were rip-roaring strong and the view amazing. On the shore were thousands of shiny rocks, made smooth by the pounding waves.

I love these morning walks when the world hasn’t quite gotten up yet. Everything’s calm. Everything’s cool, save for maybe a grouchy dog or two who’d growl at us. More often than not though, we’d have the road to ourselves. I’d putter around, inspecting every interesting looking plant and flower, appreciating the assortment of farm animals we’d encounter.  One time, we went out to the edge of a corn field to take our photos. A bike-riding townsman happened to see us, and smiled. He was being polite, of course. I would have laughed if I saw a couple of city titas taking their photos by a corn field! Mwahahaha!

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Of course, these walks are only in the mornings, and only for an hour or two. Most of our time we spent doing nothing, and quite marvelously at that. We’d take trips to the market, where there were all these fresh seafood and vegetables that I wanted to scoop them all up and bring them to my refrigerator.

We’d go to churches, observing traditions, hearing Mass, and seeking solace in the silence.

We’d eat, and how! Every day seemed like a fiesta to me, and I tasted the very best of provincial cooking, Ilocano or otherwise. Buribud, kinunot na pating, sinigang na may pechay, sinigang na may talbos ng kamote, ginataang kamias na may pating, talabang binabad sa kalamansi – I could go on and on! On our second to the last day, I think I hardly ate anything at all. I was just too stuffed!

It was an epic interlude, one that I would willingly take again and again, no questions asked. There is something about the life bucolic that rejuvenates and refreshes. I didn’t do nothing much, but it didn’t feel like that at all. I thought my days were full not only of the earth and the sky, but of the peace and the quiet that comes with keeping still, indulging in reflection, and praying.