Wednesday, September 26, 2012

A Birthday Story



Life Begins at 40...
Mine almost stopped!



Oh, what I would give to be 40 again! This I wrote in an email to a friend who, only recently, turned 40 years old himself.  He wished he were 20 again prompting me to ponder the seriousness of my own wish given the highlights of the day when I hit the big 40. Remembering that day still makes me shiver!
many birthdays later...
Walter –my Viennese friend –surprised me with a train ticket to Prague where I needed a tourist visa to visit. The Czech visa was not stamped on my passport; it was a document on a separate piece of paper. I had never been to Prague, and Walter thought it would be a nice birthday treat to take me there. That was long, long time ago. I try to forget but in vain.

...and still counting
I remember the day we arrived in Prague. It was wet, cold and grey – quite depressing I must say. Our hotel was ostensibly one of the best in town but do not be impressed as this was during the time when the east was still red. We were required to leave our passports and visa document at the reception until our departure –standard hotel procedure, we’ve been told.

While walking down the streets of Prague I noticed a large number of Asians selling paintings. Most of them were from Vietnam on an exchange student programme. I did not encounter any Filipino whose presence at even the most obscure places on earth (I bet) was quite phenomenal – thanks to our own Diaspora of Filipino domestic helpers. Czechoslovakia at that time was still a communist country and was not a possible market for our labour export. But that was long ago. Times are better now and to find Filipinos living and working in Prague should not really come as a surprise.

It was drizzling the next day, and still grey when we went out to lunch. Still not a single Filipino in sight but the Vietnamese students in their army-surplus jackets were there where we last saw them selling paintings. A long queue of people caught my attention – the soup line, my friend Walter told me. I was shocked to know that this was really happening, especially in Europe, never mind that this was in a communist country. The scenario reminded me of the movie Oliver Twist –in black and white. My sympathy went out especially to those very young children freezing in the cold, waiting patiently for perhaps their first meal of the day.

At the train station on the way back to Vienna, Walter asked if I got my visa back. I got my passport, I said, but not the visa. It did not occur to me that I would need it for the return trip since the hotel reception did not give it back to me. The train was about to leave – the last trip for Vienna that day. Walter was worried but he said that hopefully the Czech inspector would not ask. He was wrong. At the Austrian and Czech border the train stopped for passport control. Three border policemen with fierce-looking German shepherds in a leash asked where my visa was. Walter explained for me the situation but they would not listen. I was told to gather my luggage and to get off the train. Walter tried to assure me that everything would be fine. I felt like a criminal being escorted to jail while passengers were looking at me from their windows. I looked back when the train started to move. I could see Austria from a short distance. Freedom was just a glimpse away; so near and yet so far. Suddenly I was afraid.

They interrogated me for one hour at the train station. They screamed at me and treated me like a real con. I tried to explain in English and in German but they just refused to speak in a language I could understand. They gave me a form with instructions in their language they expected me to figure out. I did not have a pen with me and they would not give me one. I was getting frustrated, tired and edgy. I exploded. I was no longer afraid. I told them in German that it was not my fault that I did not have my visa, and that I would appreciate it very much if they could show some compassion and tell me what to do. One of the officers who had been flipping my passport stood up, and in fluent German told me that since it was my birthday that day my wish would be granted. He said that they would call the hotel to verify if my visa was there. Otherwise I would need to go back to Prague and go to the police headquarters and explain how I lost my visa. I was hoping against hope that the hotel would have my visa. Of course it wasn’t there, I’ve been told after the police made the call. It was only 4 pm and the next train to Prague was not due until 6 pm. After buying my train ticket I asked the police officers for any place where I could get a drink. They gestured to this pub at the train station. The pub was crowded with the locals and cloudy with cigarette smoke that I had to stand for a while to get a clearer view of the surroundings. Everybody’s gaze was directed towards the door – with me standing still in a long winter coat, Stetson hat, a Loui Vuitton travel bag (of course, made in China) in hand. Despite of the situation I was tempted to laugh because, again, the scene could easily be coming from one of those old black and white silent movies. Or better still from Casablanca – with Bogart in his classic raincoat, hat tilted on one side of his head, cigarette dangling leisurely between his lips, entering a bar lounge. Of course I couldn’t pass for Bogart but Charlie Chan will do.

Once my view of the room cleared up I walked to an empty table covered with a cloth filthy with cigarette ashes and what to me looked like soil. I hesitated to sit down until the waitress came up and with one swift stroke, lifted and flogged the tablecloth creating a swishing sound. Now free of dirt, she put it back on the table, stretched it flat – upside down.

Sitting at the next table were the three border police officers who had just interrogated me, drinking beer. They appeared to be friendlier this time as they smiled and raised their glasses to me, proposing a toast. I gestured if they would like to join me at my table, which they did. I said that it was my birthday and would like to buy them a drink (hoping against hope that they would just let me go back to Austria). I felt embarrassed when they admired my suit and my necktie, which they said must be expensive. Western cut may be, but no, it was not expensive I said. They asked me about the places stamped on my passport, which they only knew by names, and told me how lucky I was to have a good job that enabled me to travel to far away countries. It got melodramatic when they confided to me that their meagre salaries could not provide a comfortable life to their families, and that their children could not have nice clothes and toys children from my side of the world might have. Since it was my birthday I told them I would like to do something good, offering them 100 Austrian Schillings each (about 7 Euro, which at that time was already a big sum to them). For the children, I said. They refused the offer, telling me that it was nice of me, but buying them a glass of beer was kind enough. Oh, no! You have no idea! Get the money and let me free, I wanted to say.

They kept me company until it was time for me to go. They volunteered to carry my bag to the train station. Hmm, they were in fact friendly, I told myself. One of the officers helped me find a vacant seat while the other two stayed on the ground – with their German shepherds. When I shook his hand to say goodbye he asked me shyly, and in a whisper, if the money offer was still valid. He could not accept it, he said, in the presence of his colleagues as it would look like he was accepting a bribe. And with that he wished me good luck in Prague and hoped to see me again some time. It never happened.

I arrived in Prague very late in the evening and went straight to the reception and asked about my visa. They have it! You’re kidding me? I called earlier to ask and you said you didn’t have it? I wanted to scream at him, which I didn’t, of course, knowing they could make my life miserable than it had already been since being detained at the border. I thanked him and booked a room for the night but sleep eluded me. It must be the ordeal of the day. I went to the bar and ordered a glass of beer. I noticed the presence of several sweet-painted ladies –seated at one corner of the lounge; some of them giggling excitedly while comparing notes, I presumed. I saw one looking with contempt at the lady who didn’t waste much time approaching me, grabbed a stool, and asked in English if I was Japanese, to which I said, Yes! I lied. She told me that she was a student at the university, 18 years old, and wanted to know if I would buy her a drink. Beer would be fine, she said, and thanked me with a wet peck on the cheek for my kindness when the beer arrived. She wanted to know about my room. Search me, but I really had no idea why she cared to know!

Single bed, and very narrow, indeed! I tried to discourage her if she had no place to spend the night over. I was sure that was her intention. That I snore would be a good alibi had she insisted. After a second beer she said she needed to go to the powder room and would be back soon. Once she was gone the lady with a sneer came up to me and asked how old my guest relations officer told me she was. Eighteen, I replied. Eighteen? She lied! As if I cared! She’s old, she’s in fact 28! She was full of contempt.

Oh, dear, that’s disgusting! I gasped, mocking surprise while struggling to stifle a burst of laughter. This was getting amusing, I thought. Will you save me from her, please?

I bought her a drink. She was thirsty she said. That I am Japanese was a good guess, I told her, when she asked if I were one. Might as well be consistent with my lying. This only made her more interested in me. Tokyo, she heard, was a very crowded and expensive city. I heard the same, I said, explaining further that I come though from a small village, which is miles away from Tokyo, so I’ve never been there. If only my mom could hear me! She would pray the rosary to save my soul from eternal damnation. For lying too much!

Meanwhile a group of five young men arrived, probably in their 30s, and sat opposite us on the other side of the bar. They spoke Swiss German and were there on business, as I had to learn later. Seeing my company they immediately dabbled in excited conversation exchanging naughty remarks –I could tell by their boisterous laughter, just like the boys in my class in high school would, every time the new young teacher would enter our classroom in her mini-skirt. I turned my head when I noticed them looking past over my shoulder. My original GRO had just came back from her trip to the powder room –her cheek bones suddenly made more prominent by a generous dab of blush-on powder in terracotta shade; lips in fiery red. She was standing behind me and was not amused to see that I was not alone. I could easily tell Three’s Company was not her favourite TV sitcom. An argument ensued immediately between her and my redeemer.

I speak German and can understand some Swiss German, I said when it dawned on our Swiss audience that I understood them because I laughed over a particularly hilarious remark they made referring to the escalating catfight.  I didn’t want to lie to them when they asked where I come from. Hearing what I just said that I was from the Philippines, the girls, as if on cue, stopped bickering. The one with the sneer looked at me like she was sizing me up, left in haste while mumbling some incoherent words –expletives I bet you –but I caught some that sounded like Philippines… Marcos! Huh? The other one was at least honest enough to tell me what she thought of the Philippines: A country of poor people living in the slums. That having said, she offered a handshake, thanked me for the beer, and wished me a nice stay in Prague. For the kind treatment I received, I felt very much indebted to the mass media, especially to television, for an excellent job of producing –time and again –documentaries showcasing the only interesting subject one easily identifies my country with: Poverty.

Oh, look who’s talking! I felt the urge to retaliate. I have yet to see a soup line in Manila! But that would not change the image of the Philippines that was planted in her brain. I needed a stronger drink to calm me down. A shot of vodka did it. I raised my glass to the Swiss and greeted them the Swiss way –Gute mitenand’. They, too, were having vodka. They asked me to join them and we ordered more vodka. We were getting louder and our speech slurred as we emptied one bottle after another. The episode of the poor people living in the slums was soon forgotten. The vodka was chilled to perfection, and cheap, too, that we were drinking it like it was water. The last bottle though tasted like water. Of course, it was water! The barman insisted that it was indeed vodka what he served us but later relented he made a mistake when prodded to taste it himself. He feigned surprise and immediately dashed into the backroom where he presumably stored his supplies. We could hear him and his staff laughing hysterically, even bent up probably. They must had been thinking that we were too intoxicated to notice the difference. He was back in no time to tell us that there was no more vodka left, and apologized for giving us the bottle of water they kept in the same fridge along with the bottles of vodka. Hello! They were still laughing when we left.

I woke up the next day shortly before lunch, with a light headache, and starving not having had any food the previous night. I went to the restaurant and ordered steak with French fries on the side from a boy who could not even be older than thirteen I thought. He was so tiny. He was doing his internship as a waiter in the hotel. When he came back with the food he was with an elderly guy in the hotel uniform. He was the headwaiter and was there to watch if the intern was doing his job according to his – the headwaiter’s –expectations. He told his ward to serve me some fries from a serving plate down to mine. The intern was having difficulties keeping the serving spoon and fork clamped together in his delicate little hand to catch the fries. The headwaiter took over and demonstrated to the embarrassed little intern how.

Now, do it yourself, he barked at the boy. The scared little intern looked at me with an impish smile before giving it another try. His upper lip was by then glistening with tiny pearls of sweat, his hand noticeably unsteady. A few pieces of fries skipped the grip of the serving spoon and fork, some landing on my plate, the rest on the table. Furious now, the headwaiter grabbed the silver metals from the hand of his poor intern, scooped the fries from my dinner plate back to the serving plate and told him to do it again. Both of them froze when I pulled the plate away from the hand of the young fellow and slammed it on the table. I did not care anymore if he could do it. I did not care for French fries either. I was starving and worried I might miss my train if this went on forever! Meanwhile my steak was getting cold –the sauce turning into lard!

I finally made it to Vienna. I did not see my captors at the border. They may not be on duty that day but I wasn’t really keen on seeing them again. Nineteen years later, the memory of them dragging me out of the train with their evil-looking German shepherds still haunts me. I still wonder what happened to that tiny hotel restaurant intern. I wonder if he survived the ordeal, or ever recovered from the horror, of serving French fries ever.

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