The Adobo Factor

No Adobo Factor 

After almost three years in this flat, that's more like a house than an apartment owing to its spacious two levels and its appealing hardwood floors, we are moving. The apartment is after all, a fluke. With old plumbing and none of the spanking, shiny bathroom fixtures upmarket renters in Singapore have a penchant for, we were able to rent it for a song. But sometime this year, it's due to be torn down. And it its place will arise one of those ubiquitous high-rise condominiums with which househunters are all too familiar. So we started a half-hearted hunt for our next home. We knew it need not be lavish nor spanking new. If we could find something with four bedrooms, even if the overall area were to be smaller, that would be fine.

But, among other things, we were of one mind about what we didn't want. We named it--the adobo factor. What we did not want was an apartment with a layout that would allow someone at the front door to clearly see exactly what you're having for dinner. In short, there has to be some sort of foyer or alcove, some sort of architectural pause that will prevent, say your UPS man from exclaiming upon entering, "Ay, adobo! Or "Fried chicken!" Or "Spaghetti!" Either that, or the dining area, if it's not a dining room (which it would rarely be), had to be sufficiently faraway from the front door so that though someone might be able to smell dinner, they ought not have a clear view of the dishes. You'd be surprised how many places we saw that seemed perfectly suitable, except for this idiosyncracy. "That was nice," we might concede to each other. "Kaso, adobo factor..." And we would move on.

Then all of a sudden, like a little bit of magic, there it was. Smaller, certainly, but four bedrooms. And no adobo factor. We move in two weeks...

An epiphany

I have a friend from college, L. She was always someone I felt drawn to, even while recognising how different we were from one another. As it turned out, we had much more in common beneath the surface. After we graduated, she and I went into the same field, had many mutual friends, and despite not being one-on-close, I felt we always had an easy affinity, something that we could easily call upon, whenever the moment or the circumstances arose in which we found ourselves together. As the years passed, we, of course, saw less and less of each other, so as to lose touch almost completely.

Anyway, about a year ago, I heard from a common friend that L. had had a baby. This was indeed news. The all of a sudden kind of news that simply boggles the mind, but only for an instant, as you instinctively know to take it in stride. Creative, intelligent and inspirationally energetic, L is definitely not your garden-variety Pinay, thank goodness for that. Why would she not have a baby, after all is said and done?

When I finally saw a photograph of her beautiful baby, I found myself getting choked up, inexplicably. In a strange, surreal moment, I remembered a story my mother told me when I was all of fourteen.

My Mom told me about one of her closest friends in school, a vibrant, amazing, creative woman named Ching. Apparently, after they all graduated from college, Ching made what was then the brave, difficult and unusual move of leaving the country to find fame and fortune in New York City. She did it shortly after graduation, and soon after, she wrote my Mom less and less, likely because her life was so very different and therefore, much harder to write about.

My Mom married and taught school. And some three years later, she and my Dad moved to New Haven, where my Dad went to get his PhD and where my Mom worked in the University bookstore. It was there that they had me. They lived a long train ride away from New York, but when, by some happenstance, my Mom had word from Ching, she made the trip with me in tow, to visit her old school chum in
the big city.

Ching lived in tiny two-room flat in the theatre district, and she worked and still went on auditions. My Mom recalled climbing up the dark, dingey stairs to Ching's apartment. When they got there, Ching looked at my Mom and said to her, "There's someone I want you to meet." My Mom did not know what to expect. This was the 1960s. Would it be a husband? A boyfriend?

Ching took her into the bedroom and there in an old wooden crib was a sleeping baby, maybe a year old. "This is Micah," she said. Mom told me she took one look at that baby and burst into tears. And the two friends, both of them cried.

My fourteen year old whipper-snapper self piped up, "I don't get it. Why did you cry?" And even as she explained, Mom got teary-eyed.

"Because she was my friend. We were kids together and played in the backfields of my Lola's house. And here we were, after so many years, and after I hadn't seen her for so long. She had come all this way, all by herself, and she had a baby. I had just had you--and had just gone though it all, giving birth away from family, in a strange place. And it turns out, she had done the same thing..."

I remember now how I smirked and shrugged and just didn't have a clue. All I could say was, "I don't get it." But then I saw a picture of L.'s little one, and all of a sudden, everything fell together. I got it.

And what do you know? L is in town and gave me a buzz. It's a good time to catch up and reconnect.