Pinay New Yorker

 I have been enamored by these beautiful flowers which are a staple of spring.  A few days ago, I had started taking pictures of the tulip bulbs up close as you saw in the post below and Friday afternoon (or early evening since it was after 6pm), I decided to stop by and take another look at the halfway blooming bulbs and I snapped away again.  I wish spring didn’t go by too fast — it would be nice if it was more subtle like Autumn is where you literally see the landscape changing colors through the weeks. 

Bryant Park in the Spring

 is such a hub of activity that brings New Yorkers and tourists alike in droves to the vast expanse of green littered with chairs inviting everyone to stop by and sit.  The air was cool and a tad nippy but not chilly.  Still jacket or coat weather, though, but the sun was out.  After days and days of rain, it was a welcome respite from the horrors of a wet New York.

Saturday.. we’re supposed to be heading out to a barbecue in Pennsylvania which is going to be quite a drive — but the chauffer is still taking his power nap.  Me, I’m catching up with the e-mails, blogging, and hopefully, some scrapbook layouts that need redoing.  Oh, and maybe get a to a chapter of my English El Fili.  (Still on Placido Penitente.)  I really, really want to get on with the reading, but there are nights when I’m too exhausted to read. I actually slept through a rerun of  Law & Order Criminal Intent

I fell asleep while cuddling Angelo in his fold out sofa.  I even said no to the Crumbs

Meanwhile, I have my tulip shots to relax with.. makes you smile at how wonderful nature truly is.  The handiwork of a true artist — just look at all that beauty around us.

We’ve been experiencing some horrible weather here in New York the last couple of days and the sun was taking a peek behind the cloudy skies this morning, but it was dry.  So I thought I’d take a moment to stop by Bryant Park before heading to work to take some pictures of the tulips that deck every nook and cranny of this 42nd street patch of green.  There are days when I get so tempted to do just that but I often find myself rushing up to the office.  Not today.  I took a walk around the park and caught the newly planted bulbs.  I’ll be back when they’re all in bloom.  What a treat for the eyes — even after things turned gloomy and the rain started to fall.

My mother has this pearl of wisdom that she had tried to ingrain in me from a very young age — that we are all created differently, and that although I had my strengths and my talents, I should not expect others to be at par with them, and that I should be patient and accept others for their shortcomings.  For if we were all created equal, then I wouldn’t be good at what I was good at — I would be part of the norm so to speak.  It was her way to instill some humility in me by making me realize even those who fall short were given less for a reason.

I miss my Mom.  And I miss her all the more the past few weeks that I have had some challenges as far as being judged for what I have said and done by those who didn’t know me well enough.  It has taken me the past two weeks to be able to say I’m okay now.  Even thinking about what had happened and the things that had been said no longer rile me up or unsettle me like they did when the words were still ringing in my ears.

After all, I am by no means a saint.  Forgiveness is easier for me than forgetting.  And sometimes, the memory of painful words and incidents are harder to let go of than the feelings of pain associated with it.

But my mother is right.  While I have managed to widen my outlook in life and I have a higher tolerance for the quirks of others who do not think like I do, I cannot expect others to be as open-minded nor as accepting as I am.  I, too, fall prey to wrong judgment, even if you say it’s giving someone the benefit of the doubt that was undeserved.  My bad, as I would say — I should’ve known better.

Sometimes I am honest to a fault, to the point that I end up putting my foot in my mouth.  Or worse, to the point that I end up being misjudged or misunderstood.  Then again, perhaps it is those brushes with people jumping to conclusions wrongly about what I meant by what I did or said that has made me more tolerant of others.  Where I would normally have shunned the types whose opinions clashed with mine, I have learned that sometimes, tolerance will get me farther and will actually not really cost me much — except perhaps for a spell with boredom and a tug-of-war with my patience. 

I had written a lengthy missive — hoping to assure a third party that I was not angry at him.  After all, the transgressions of the wife are not the transgressions of the husband.  I am actually not even angry — just totally disconnected.  That a friendship that we had all hoped would be formed is now a distant possibility is but a consequence of what happened.  There was a question as to how to rectify things, or how to resolve the situation — but to my mind, there was nothing to resolve, it was not a wrong that could be righted just as there was no question that needed answering..  It just happened and we all have to live with the consequences. 

I, too, am guilty of sometimes closing my doors to people who strike a raw nerve in me.  But I retreat and just take a step back — I don’t go charging to tell off this person I don’t like how she does things or what she said or what not.  There are people who, for no reason at all, don’t have a good fit with me socially, just as there are people who make me feel as though I’ve known them a lifetime and then some.  But for the former, I remind myself about what my Mom used to tell me.  I hear her telling me I should not look for what I want or what I hope to see in the people I encounter — I should not look for “me” in them.  So where I would be more patient, I realize others will not be as tolerant.  Where I would have the gumption to speak out, others would be timid.  Where I would choose to hold my piece, others would be outspoken.

This post comes rather belatedly because the Victorian Gardens in Central Park will be closing for the season but we caught it on its penultimate weekend.  Located at the Wollman Rink during he summer, this year it opened in May and is getting ready to make way for the next season’s attraction.  It’s one of those things that is a regular happening in the Big Apple but which many do not take the time to visit.  We actually passed it a week or two before when we went to find the Bethesda Fountain, but we decided to forego a visit for another time. 

Easily accessible from the 57th street side of the Park, this is a perfect spot to spend time with young ones who will not tire of the rides specifically tailor fit for kids.  Adults and Kids pay an entrance fee but the admission does not include the rides which are two tickets each.  (Each ticket is $1.00)  There is the option of unlimited rides for $12.50 which entitles you to a wristband.  The kids are mostly “kiddie sized”, and while parents are allowed to escort the smaller kids free, they will have to pay to ride with children who are over 42″.  Children who are 36″ and below are free.

The truth is we didn’t really have our heart set on visiting the amusement park but Angel was adamant, remembering we had passed up on stopping by the last time.  Although we stayed for just over an hour, he had his heart’s fill of the rides, Alan accompanying him in some, and Mommy taking the pictures.  He also insisted on playing a game and trying to win a prize (3 tickets/$3 each !) which father eand son managed on the second try.

The place is kid-friendly and all refreshments are healthy.  (Not a sign of a soda around.. they had snowcones and water.)  They also had live entertainment.  We’re definitely coming back next year, and we’re happy we decided to go this time around.  It’s a good way for the kids to have fun with pint sized rides, but not too small for the bigger kids to enjoy. 

They played to a packed Nikon Jones Beach Theatre here in New York last Thursday, August 14, 2008.  Alan and I had long planned to watch the show because we were both fans of Journey from the eighties, plus we have been keeping tabs on Arnel Pineda whose phenomenal rise to becoming the lead singer for the band cemented our loyalties to our old favorite group.

I had ordered their latest CD, Revelation (exclusively distributed by Walmart) weeks ago and we both agree that it was a good marketing strategy to have released a CD of their old hits with new arrangements and Arnel singing in lieu of the original vocals by Steve Perry, alongside their new tracks and  DVD of one of their concerts in their ongoing world tour.

While Arnel’s vocal range equals Steve Perry’s and the timbre of his voice is similar to the latter, you will hear him singing as himself in both the old and the new tracks.  By this I mean that you know it’s not Steve Perry, but you know it’s Journey.

At the concert, he was a firebrand moving all sides of the stage and really working the audience.  It was a tight repertoire and a good show on the whole.  Well worth having braved the thunderstorms for and sitting on seats that had just been rained on. As if on cue, the storm didn’t return until after the last song was sung.  Seeing Arnel perform among these rock giants makes me proud.  Arnel is not really an unknown singer in the music circles in Manila, Arnel was discovered by Journey from clips the band found on YouTube where he sang some covers with his band Zoo.

He’s living proof that Filipinos are truly world class performers.  I’m sure many of the more popular singers back home wish they had the same luck Arnel had, having been invited and eventually hired by a band as famous as Journey to be the new voice behind their music.  It’s a well deserved break for a great singer and performer — He was introduced as "Arnel Pineda from Manila," and at the end of the show, he remembered his roots and shouted "Salamat, kababayan!".

To which I say, "No, Arnel — THANK YOU!"

It was around 7 years ago that we first visited Mystic, Connecticut on the way to Rhode Island.  Alan had picked a restaurant where we were going to have lunch then we drove off to Providence, our ultimate destination.

He had chosen a romantic restaurant by the water, although we knew of Mystic Pizza then.  This time, we had made a pact to go and eat in this landmark made famous by that Julia Roberts movie of long ago.

Downtown Mystic was abuzz with activities as the Mystic Outdoor Art festival was on, seeing the streets overflowing with art exhibits.  We couldn’t get near enough but managed to find the St. Patrick’s Church parking lot (map) where we left the car.  The walk to Main Street was actually rather interesting because of all the exhibitor’s booths we passed.  Not exactly a good day to bring a kid on a stroller but we managed.

Mystic Pizza has two branches but we made our way to their branch on West Main Street.  While some people have said the pizza is just like any other pizza, we beg to disagree.  Perhaps it was the whole experience of going to a landmark restaurant that made it special, perhaps the sauce indeed gave you a "taste of heaven," but we were quite satisfied with our calamari for starters and a House pizza for lunch.  Angelo had his customary spaghetti and even he was quite happy about it. =)

The 15-minute wait turned out to be only 5 minutes, and service was friendly.  Prices are definitely affordable, and it’s one Mystic experience worth chalking up as having been there, done that.

My father is turning 73 this weekend. As luck would have it, a high school classmate who is now a practicing doctor in Boston confirmed a lecture engagement before the previous weekend and was generous enough to have remembered me and offered to bring anything I needed sent to Manila, and vice versa. (There are times when the boss up there hears a request even before one is made.)

I was hoping to get Dad’s requested bag, but I haven’t really found something suitable to send to him. Instead I picked up a La Coste shirt (genuine but bought on sale!), two pairs of cotton shorts, some packed chestnuts, and some cheese. I tried to be selective with what I was sending. I have already been overindulgent with the size of my package but I couldn’t help it. My niece has a pair of Heelys from Ninong Alan, but it would’ve made the package unbearably heavy.  This was was all for Dad. (I’m keeping my fingers crossed the box gets to Boston tomorrow. )

Every time I send something home on occasions like this, I feel a tinge of sadness as I find myself celebrating birthdays with my family 10,000 miles away.  I feel it most strongly with my father who is getting on in years.  I keep praying for another birthday which I might celebrate with him even if via long distance.  I have been fortunate that except for this year’s birthday, I have celebrated my Mom’s with her here for three consecutive years as she was with me here helping me take care of Angelo.

I want to send so much more in every package I send.  This one was a little "off" considering I packed some Polly-o string cheese and two slabs of edam.  My father loves the cheese but I really can’t send any via courrier.  It’s best sent with someone actually travelling to Manila to cut down on travel time and get it there all fresh and unmelted. (!)

The last time I celebrated a birthday with my Dad was in 1999 — 9 years ago.  Happy Birthday, Daddy…

Parenting can be such a complicated matter.  Others take it too seriously if you ask me.  My personal mantra has always been to "Go with the flow" so to speak.  It’s a hit or miss thing, and the best one can really do is to give it your best shot.  And that’s what Alan and I are doing.  Of course Alan has the advantage of having been a parent before with the stepson — yet he has often told me the things he is experiencing with Angelo are first time experiences he never had with his older boy.  While experience has taught him a lot, there is much more that we are learning together.

I don’t have a perfect son.  His imperfections, though, serve to remind me he is human.  That he has a personality all his own, and that there is a part of him that is so much like his father and myself, but there is so much more that is uniquely him.  And like his Dad and I, he has his moods and quirks.  While his character at this point is malleable and subject to correction, I constantly remind myself he is a work in progress.  A four year old who thinks like a four year old.

I try to be firm and I try to be understanding.  Striking a balance between being patient and consistently teaching.  Is he spoiled?  I won’t mince words and admit he is.  But he has a good heart which knows there are lines that cannot be crossed, not because he fears punishment, but because there are feelings that will be hurt and a Mom and Dad that will be frustrated.  So no, I do not threaten to put him in the dumpster like an aunt had done. I believe that a certain sense of fear is necessary, but not the kind of fear that will not make him see the reason behind the prohibition. 

I’m giving it my best shot although I sometimes wonder if I’m on the right track.  I look at him and I see him growing into his own person.  He makes me smile when he suddenly says "I love you, Mama..".  He may be able to read the letters of his name and he knows it when he sees it, and although he cannot write his name yet, I see no cause to worry.  We’re taking it a day at a time..