Cavite this. Tagaytay that. I still can’t get over this past weekend. Somewhere along the road of these two cities, between history and present-day pleasure, I found my fleeting version of school break.

 

            Temporarily rubbing off buildings, traffic and other signs of urban decay from the view, my Sunday began with a bus ride to Cavite. Upon arrival, we were ushered into the house of Emilio Aguinaldo, and instantly, I felt the urge to explore. The gods must’ve heard me whining over my exam week and got very annoyed. (read Jan. 24 entry)

 

Aguinaldo Shrine

 

            Built in the early 1800’s, the house’s interior was a representative of the time—big, open windows, hard Molave furnitures, spacious bedrooms and a multitude of dining areas. It originally belonged to Aguinaldo’s parents but when they died, it was handed down to him who, then, made some minor changes with it. Aguinaldo, apparently not poor like Bonifacio, got himself a swimming pool and two bowling alleys inside his home. Not to mention, he owned one of the earliest models of Volkswagen.

 

            But that’s not all. Being a leader of a revolution, Aguinaldo hid guns and spears on the back of chairs, and had a tunnel dug under his house for escape and defensive purposes. My class was still stuck in one of Aguinaldo’s sibling’s bedroom when I decided to tour the house on my own.

 

            I went into the piano room, the coffee room (yes, he had a coffee room) and even the maid’s room. Since I wasn’t allowed to go to the balcony, I settled to imagine what it might’ve looked like from the point-of-view of Aguinaldo when he declared the country’s independence.

 

            I read yellowed manuscripts and touched paintings, old cheese cloths, and silverwares. And I found joy in touching them, perhaps only in a degree less than that of Amelie when she touches beans and legumes of that sort.

 

            We left Aguinaldo Shrine, and I felt both disappointed (I still hadn’t taken enough pictures) and happy (I was getting bored, anyway.) at the same time. Curiosity swelled within me and being there allowed me to learn things I seldom read in history books. A little trivia: Aguinaldo’s middle name was Famy, and his favorite tree was Chico. And despite common knowledge, Aguinaldo did not die in battle. He died in the Veterans Memorial Hospital, due to old age.

 

Fungus for Lunch

 

            Leaving the home of Aguinaldo, we headed for Tagaytay. But with our stomachs whining and our mouths dry, we had to take a stop.

 

            Mushroom Burger. From the name itself, you can instantly guess what the fast food is serving. Mushroom soup, baked mushroom, mushroom burger, mushroom cheeseburger, steak with mushroom sauce--- everything mushroom, delicious and to die for.

 

            I ordered myself mushroom lomi. From my bowl, I watched the mushrooms swirl in a dance that excited steam to diffuse in the room. The mushrooms were practically bigger and fatter than the cabbages, so I hadn’t managed (although I tried with tiresome effort) to take one of them in a single gulp.

 

            Never have I, in my life, eaten in a fast food which holds mushrooms as the main ingredient in dishes. And never have I also been in a fast food, or in any food stores for that matter, which displays not only pictures the edible fungus, but also highlights real, live, cultured mushrooms in a glass container just inches away from the comfort rooms (go figure!).

 

            But the thing is, the food was sumptuous. Hot, heavy and sumptuous. Just the thing I need to go trekking in Tagaytay.

 

USAFFE Base

 

            Tagaytay, or taga-itay, as original settlers once called it, was nestled near Mt. Taal. During the Japanese era, it was used as a path extending Cavite to Batangas. It was where the Japanese opted to rest in the war, and where USAFFE decided to take post. Typically, Prof. Tantoco decided to make us look at the USAFFE base.

 

            It was much smaller than what I had in mind. The USAFFE base did not have canyons or anything of the sort that I used to see in other bases. It only had one open room in the middle of the ground, bearing the names of all those who died in the Japanese revolution. Naturally, I looked up letter “M”, sought for “Magallanes”, and found one. Only one. In a sea of the forgotten names of heroes, there was once a Narcisso Magallanes, who may or may not be one of my ancestors, but who died for my country.

 

            I felt a surge of pride and sympathy, which were later replaced by the urge to take more pictures.

 

Picnic Grove

 

            Finally, the last destination: the unhistorical Picnic Grove. Jam-packed with people, the Grove looked like a public park full of sugar-high children, running yayas, vendors, college students out on a field trip, and lovers who give no damn to the world that sees their every lick and gyration as they made out.

 

            Vanessa and I decided to take the long walk to the peak of the place. At three in the afternoon, walking under the angry sun, with annoying vendors trying to get money from me, I was tortured.

 

            But when we reached the top and saw Mt. Taal, it was all worth it. The mouth of the volcano was so popular in books and postcards that even though I’m not an artist, I can sketch its outlines as easily as a first grader can sketch a stick person.

 

            I stayed there, looking at the volcano, breathless from the walk and charmed by the view. For a few minutes, I stared at it and got lost in my thoughts. It was as if all space and time felt like a dream when I got there.

 

            The wind blew and I awoke from that daydream. Vanessa’s voice became more audible every second, and I knew we had to leave. And we did.

 

            We came back to the bus, rode back to Manila and went back into our routine-driven lives. From the bus’s window, I watched trees and lakes morph into buildings and traffic jams. The tour may not be as magnificent as—well—traveling around the world but it is, after all, not the tour that can touch a heart. It is all those gritty, little details in between.