Ceremony and Wanderings

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Traveling often gives me a kind of restlessness. It's not the anxious, frustrated kind that's more common, though, but an excitement that keeps me from wanting to waste a single minute more on sleep than is really necessary. I don't feel I slept poorly in our Lingayen hotel, though I woke two or three times during the night. I would wake just long enough to look at the time and know if it was still the middle of the night, then go back to sleep. The final time I awoke my eyes caught the tiniest bit of dawn light peaking through our window. I thought of going to shower but found myself drawn, almost unconsciously, to our little balcony area. As I stepped outside the air seemed steeped in that sense of magic that comes with a new day beginning. A few bats fluttered through the air, chasing down their last meal for the night. Roosters crowed and other animals I couldn't recognize also hailed the morning's approach. Palm and coconut trees cast their outlines against the reds, oranges, and eventually dim blues that came with the rising sun.

A knock came at our door--room service. $3 goes pretty far around around here--some fried spiced beef, rice, tomatoes, egg and tip were all included. This is a pretty typical breakfast in these parts, from what I could gather. Grandpa's food came a bit later--the more "western" breakfast that he'd ordered. I couldn't blame him after I had done the same the day before.

The ceremonies recognizing the 70th Anniversary of the Lingayen Beachhead started at 7am with a catholic mass. Grandpa decided to pass the pass and get a bit more sleep instead. I had thought to go myself but eventually thought it more prudent to accompany him and make sure he gets to the ceremony. We finally made it downstairs at 8, where we found a clean-cut man in a blue jacket waiting to drive us to Veteran's Memorial Park. The vehicle was of a sort I see more often than any kind of sedan or van around here--"jeepnies," they're called. This was a somewhat fancy one; more commonly they are covered with graffiti and artwork of all sorts. The day before I had seen one that had the logo for the 90s movie Space Jam, as well as Wolverine and a few other American pop-culture references. Perhaps the most common vehicles, though, are the "tricycles;" not the kind you used as a toddler before you could ride a bike but a sort of motorcycle taxi with a sidecar--usually with a cover of some sort to block the sun. When I stepped out earlier to look down the street, within seconds a couple of these cabs came up offering me a ride. For those who don't have a sidecar, it's not uncommon to see two or three people stacked onto the back of a regular motorcycle. At one point I spotted a woman who had sandwiched a small child between her and the driver that she held her arms around.

Once we stepped out of our jeepnie at Veteran's Memorial Park, it seemed as if I was accompanying some sort of saint whom everyone desired to lay their hands on in the hopes to receive a blessing. Actually they just wanted to make sure my Grandpa didn't fall as he stepped out. We found our seats and the band began shortly, marking the start of the wreath laying ceremony. Beautiful flower arrangements were brought forward one at a time, representing Philippine, Australian and American forces that took part in the war. Governor Espino (of the Pangasinan Province--similar to our states) and a few other local dignitaries gave speeches recognizing the events that took place during and after the beachhead, followed by similar speeches from representatives of the present day Australian and United States Armed Forces. Grandpa Jay's name came up multiple times during these speeches in specific thanks and recognition. Much attention was given to some of the living, Filipino veterans present for the event. As it turned out, Grandpa Jay wasn't the oldest man present--several Filipino centenarians were thanked and given medals of valor as perhaps fifteen or twenty people with cameras clamored around them.

The overall ceremony was surprisingly brief--lasting perhaps two hours, at most. It was followed by a lunch in a very elaborate pavilion not far from the park. Apparently this hall was once a library; following the war it was converted into a cultural auditorium. It had a good-sized stage, on which we saw various cultural groups perform songs and dances for us during the meal. A number of people who had been made aware of Grandpa Jay's attendance came to greet and chat--a US Navy General with his aids, and also some Filipinos. Grandpa signed a couple of his books and had me "interpret" a bit, as they sat on his left, from which direction he does not always hear conversation clearly. After reading about some of his experiences in the war--including a time when a bullet flew by his ear, missing by perhaps a quarter of an inch and leaving him deaf in that ear for a couple of days--I suppose it's a wonder he has any hearing left at all. We were shuttled back to our hotel in the same manner that we came. Grandpa hiked his way admirably up the three flights of stairs to get to our room (no elevator). While he napped I decided to wander the town a bit on my own.

It thankfully became clear to me fairly quickly that, despite being a beautiful coastal community, Lingayen had not been infected with the cheap commercialism that unfortunately pervades many exotic towns and cities. The small shops I passed by were filled with necessities and items that one might find in your average convenience store. A small part of me was disappointed to not see anything really gift-worthy but I carried on with a sense of delight in my heart. I eventually turned towards the beach, passing by a small herd of sheep that wandered the road. The gray sands greeted me as the mountains on the other end of the coastline opened up before me. I rolled up my khakis, took of my shirt and shoes and walked into the ocean just enough to let the water splash above my ankles. "So this is what people think of when they think of paradise," I thought to myself. Eventually I came across a few families playing in the ocean. One somewhat chubby boy was stark naked as he tripped and fell on his way back from the water. His mother came to him saying what I thought might be an urge for him to put some clothes on, but I realized I was mistaken when she pointed him back to the water--perhaps to wash himself off more. I spent the better part of an hour out here before I remembered that my time was limited and there was more to see.

I walked, then trotted, then hopped a bit as the sand covered, then dried, then started to hurt my feet from its heat. I found a path that I thought may take me back to the main road but I wasn't sure. "Where are you going?" shouted a lady from inside a hut. "To the main road," I said. "That will take you there." Satisfied, I found a shady spot on the ground that was raised up slightly and sat myself down to wipe off my feet and put my shoes back on. A man came out from his yard about thirty yards off and began to approach. At first I wondered if I should be on my guard but as I saw that he was middle-aged and observed him hanging up a shirt to dry I thought, "That's no thief." He came up to me, pointed at my feet and waved his arms a bit, "Come, do that in my house," he said. I was very blessed by the words but as I had little to do I thanked him and turned him down. Shortly after a couple wild young warriors came through, practicing their fencing skills with a couple pieces of bamboo. Eventually one of them found a bigger stick and the other retreated with shouting. The one who remained smiled at me and started jabbering on a bit. My best guess was that he was asking where I was from. I pointed to myself and said, "American." His face lit up as he shouted, "American!" then ran off to tell his friends.

I was greeted with similar enthusiasm by some of the other locals. I came to a little shop hidden within this sort of shanty town and asked for a cold drink. I was pointed to the next door over. Inside I found another middle-aged man, holding an infant as he came up from the living room, which seemed to be dug in at lower ground. "Cold drink," I said and signaled to him. He took me around the corner to a small refrigerator, like the one we might see in line at a grocery store. I picked out a lemon soda of some sort and he pointed me to a metal device to remove the cap. As I paid him he asked, "What country are you from?" he asked. "America." "What country?" he said again. "United States." "No, what country?" he said one more time. "I come from Oregon," I finally answered. "Ah, my nephew is in California," he tells me. "He is studying pre-medicine at the University of California." It seemed like something that a person in a shanty town might try to say to impress an American, but his manner suggested to me that it was the truth.

I came across another 7-11 and remembered that our hotel manager had told us that it was new to the town. It seemed to be treated with the prestige of a Louis Vuitton--a security guard had been stationed outside of it and both the exterior and interior were impeccably clean. Still, I thought I might try to avoid it this time in favor of the mom-and-pop stores. I found many smiling faces and hellos and greetings. In my khakis and silk shirt from the ceremony, wearing a somewhat fancy watch, I must have appeared the richest man on the street. Yet not one beggar came to me, not one person looking for a handout. They preferred to simply welcome my business with smiles and greetings. I'm not sure I could say the same if I walked through downtown Austin or Portland for the same duration of time.

I returned to the hotel to discover Grandpa was downstairs, bags packed and ready to go. I went and grabbed my things quickly, though they were soon taken by a man with the hotel who insisted on carrying every last thing. After going down three flights with some half a dozen items in hand and helping us to load them into the van he absolutely refused to accept a tip from me, parting with folded hands and many thanks.

From Lingayen we went to Pozzorubio, where my Grandpa's life highlight took place: a deadly encounter he and a fellow soldier made with nine unlucky Japanese. A small stone monument has been erected in memory of the place. We stopped by the Mayor's office for help in finding the monument. The Mayor's staff, including four or five ladies and a couple of men, took a look at us and said, "Gruenfeld? Sir Gruenfeld??" They had remembered him from some eight years before, when he visited and assisted them in setting up the monument. They immediately signaled for us to sit and brought us a couple cups of coffee while we waited for Mayor Chan to come. He greeted us briefly, then we were on our way. The site was only a five minute drive or so from the Mayor's office. As one of the staff pointed out to us where the fight had taken place I saw a few children come to the site and begin to play baseball on the rice paddy. A few goats wandered through.

Continuing back to Manila we stopped at a Chinese restaurant that our driver recommended. The Philippines has a deep history of interaction with the Chinese; within Manila can be found the oldest "Chinatown" in the world. So it was little surprise to me that this was a particularly good Chinese restaurant, equipped with Lazy Susan tables and a host of exotic menu items. We had quite a feast.

I'll end with a few words about driving in Manila. For starters; don't do it. I'm very glad we had a hired driver and that I didn't have to do it. Lines separating lanes are barely even counted as suggestions. Motorcycles are constantly weaving between traffic with centimeters to spare--some of them with three people on the back, as I said before. There's nothing odd about going into the oncoming traffic lane to pass a vehicle--even in a downtown area with full traffic. Crowds of pedestrians will wander through full on, moving traffic with hardly an apparent look at the vehicles that are so close to hitting them. Traffic lights and stop signs are almost non-existent, making intersections especially hazardous. What is most shocking, though, is that despite all this chaos the vehicles on the road show no signs of ever being in serious accidents. I looked very actively for some time before I found even a small dent or abrasion anywhere. Perhaps it's the way that drivers actively use their lights and horns to signal to each other that they are present, or about to overtake, or are coming into the oncoming traffic lane for a moment. On the other hand, it might just be that the accidents that do occur completely obliterate the vehicles so that they can't be used again.

We returned to our hotel, thankfully unobliterated, ready for a good night's sleep.

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