Me-time in San Francisco

I will leave the great bridges, parks, shopping and other attractions of this beautiful City by the Bay for another day. This time, they are merely the backdrop for my cathartic journey home.

SAN FRANCISCO, CA. — I have long stopped being a tourist in San Francisco. After I lived in Palo Alto for a year as a Journalism Fellow in Stanford University, my visits to San Francisco have been mostly to see friends and family, and return to the old familiar places I visited with my kids in 1984-85 when we spent a school year living in the resort-like comfort of the Stanford University campus. It was one of the best years of our lives, even if back home, martial law was in full swing, my mom was languishing in detention in Bicutan, and in the streets, citizens were protesting the killing of Ninoy Aquino and calling for the ouster of the president and the return of democracy.

We lived on campus in a two-bedroom apartment with an ugly green couch but all the necessary comforts that cost half of my monthly allowance from my sponsoring organization to rent. We traveled to school and around the campus on bikes. I cooked but the kids did the dishes. I did the laundry and they helped me fold our clothes still hot from the dryer. The girls made friends with neighbors and classmates who represented a variety of nationalities worthy of the United Nations. My daughters did some baby-sitting, we had neighborhood barbecue parties, observed Halloween, went on roadtrips during long holidays to visit my sisters who lived in Southern California. It was glorious, our year in Stanford. We were sad to see it end.

Since the country was still under martial law, my friends in the fellowship suggested that we apply for temporary asylum in the US until things got better at home. It was tempting. But the girls reminded us that they signed up for only a year away from home where, incidentally, their grandmother was still in detention, by this time awaiting possible execution by firing squad, having been sentenced to death by a military court for allegedly plotting to kill the president.

So we returned home where, less than a year later, history happened. Our country was free.

I am back in the Bay Area, which is one of my favorite spots in the world, for 10 whole days. This is the longest I’ve stayed here since I left Stanford. I flew here for some me-time after spending 10 days with my sister who lives in a nursing facility in San Diego. It was an intense visit, filled with joyous moments reminiscing with her through family stories and songs, and sadness that such moments were few and so fleeting. We laughed, we sang, we cried as we dug into our memory banks in the attempt to connect before she fades totally and irreversibly into the haze.

There were many moments of recognition, including uncontrolled laughter and loving exchanges, but these were followed by random ramblings as she drifted into another reality and lost her train of thought. I spent as much time as I could with her, coming in mid-morning and leaving only after she went to bed at night. I sat with her through her daily activities — physical therapy, occupational therapy, painting, meals, even an appointment with the hairdresser, and cheered her every accomplishment. All throughout, I would be talking to her, carrying on as normally as I could. And as she lay on her bed after dinner, I whispered our childhood prayers in her ear. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep...” She recited her prayers aloud as she drifted off to sleep, perchance to dream.

I was conflicted leaving San Diego. I didn’t want to leave her. But I realized staying would be more for myself than for her, knowing she won’t really miss me. She hasn’t asked for me since I left, but I am going home with a treasure trove of lovely moments with her to share with my siblings in Manila.

Will she still recognize me when I return in six months to a year? Just until a year ago, we spent a lot of time chatting on FaceTime. She would call me every Saturday morning at 8 a.m. sharp, and we had conspiratorial conversations as only sisters do. We shared secrets and insights, and recalled the happy days of our girlhood. But as the year progressed, our chats became shorter, she got tired easily and her stories became confusing. Now she refuses to even look at the iPad to talk to our siblings in Manila and Florida.

I miss our weekly conversations. I miss my sister.

Me-time in San Francisco has been therapeutic. As I prepare to leave for home, I realize I have not seen much of the city, which, I am told, has undergone some transformation. But not this time. It has been a pleasant distraction just connecting with friends and family. Instead of doing the tourist thing, I’ve found solace sitting around the dining table relishing the real and virtual embrace of confidants, shedding off the sadness even just for the moment, catching up, sharing recollections and insights, analyzing the political situation here and at home, laughing over past foibles. Time seems to fly between breakfast and the long lunches that have marked these reunions.

I will leave the great bridges, parks, shopping and other attractions of this beautiful City by the Bay for another day. This time, they are merely the backdrop for my cathartic journey home.