And why not? It seems to take forever for the holiday season to come around. You know how it is, one day you’re focused on work or school and then suddenly, in the mall, you hear it. The notes strain against the background noise for a moment, causing you to doubt – is it? Could it be?

Then the yuletide song rises, its sweet lyrics and familiar melody ringing in your surprised ears, and you smile and shake your head because it is already September, and everyone knows that the holiday season starts with the “ber” months.

Soon more people are smiling (despite the traffic), more people seems happier (despite the shopping lines), less people are complaining (because of 13th month pay and bonuses). Invitations to parties and get-togethers abound and suddenly you’re everywhere with everyone, happily immersed in holiday cheer.

But once in a while during my favorite time of the year, I like to just sit back and relax. At my favorite coffee shop, I order a hot drink and rest my feet, shopping bags to one side (filled with gifts, of course).

That’s when I watch the world go by. There is no walking in a winter wonderland in the Philippines, just walking – but (and here’s the very important but) the difference of a few degrees downward in the temperature is enough to convince us that we are.

Happy holidays, all!

away, sun, away

I swear, walking around the city during the summer months is just asking for trouble – from the sun. It’s crazy; the oppressive sun just beats down relentlessly and the possibility of heat stroke is high.

Which is why I make sure to duck into my favorite oasis – the nearest Coffee Bean, with its cool, cool air-conditioning . I sit there with something cold (right now, I gravitate towards the Honeydew Ice Blended) and watch the world crawling outside.

I stay as long as my body needs to recover, dismayed at the thought of having to plunge back into the sweaty thick of things.

My only comfort is word that there are ten to thirteen tropical depressions lurking around the archipelago, waiting for a chance to strike. The thought of rain is invigorating.

And yet, suddenly I feel guilty for wanting rain.

These storms do not just bring rain but also devastation, and not just in terms of property damage. Every year the nation experiences heartbreak as television, newspapers, radio and online services and blogs bring us news of typhoon-caused tragedies.

Can’t there be a middle ground? Are we truly geographically stuck between the extremes of stunning heat and destructive water?

There can’t and we truly are.

And there is really no use in complaining or wishing it were otherwise. There are certain things we can’t change, after all.

So, being Filipino, we adapt and adjust and make the best of things. That’s our nature, our strength.

I look outside and wish I brought an umbrella.

While sitting at the Coffee Bean with some friends one evening, conversation veered towards the fortunetellers and those with the gift of seeing tomorrow.

“Impossible,” the eldest in our group said. “No one can see the future.”

“Actually, there is a long tradition of looking at tomorrow,” the youngest of us offered. “You know, from the Grecian Oracles and on to the runecasters, wisewomen, um, Nostrodamus, and modern-day psychics.”

“All fake,” the eldest replied, sipping her Apricot Ceylon tea. “Only God knows our destinies.”

“You do know that the Bible itself has prophecies, right?” I said. “There were prophets and the entire book of Revelations…”

The eldest of my friends looked at me with a smile bolstered by faith, as if I were a heretic spouting banalities. Wisely, I let the thread go.

The youngest of us, however, was not quite done.

“Are you finished with your tea?” he asked the eldest.

Warily, our eldest friend handed over the empty paper cup.

“People also believed that tea leaves, or what’s left of them after drinking, can divine the future,” the youngest of us said to the scowling eldest.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s true.”

“If so, what does mine say?” our eldest friend asked.

The youngest of us peered into the cup, straightened up in his chair and cleared his throat before speaking.

“You’re treating us to a round of drinks tomorrow!” he said with a smile.

We all laughed at his lame attempt at humor and the conversation moved on to other things. There is something magical about a group of friends who speak freely; words fly in and out and weave impressions that are the building blocks of memories for later on. It is the past that we are able to see best, not tomorrow.

Before we left, I took a quick look at the bottom of my tea cup and saw nothing I unexpected.

One of the things that remind me of my childhood is the scent of coffee. I’d wake up to get ready for school and my father would be there in the kitchen, newspaper in one hand and a cup of hot coffee in the other. He loved it fresh, loved to look for beans wherever in the world his job took him, and he loved to brew it. The best place for me as a child was there in the kitchen, with him.

As I grew older, it was inevitable that I loved coffee as well. My college friends gently poked at my perceived snootiness (I always said “no thanks” to instant) but quickly learned the error of their ways when I showed them what real coffee tasted like, how the complex flavors played out over tongue and palette. We became coffee aficionados, always looking for the best cup in town. Along the way, we tasted innumerable cups, cups which became witness to many things we did: I met friends and lovers, made business contacts and watched the city grow from the vantage point of various cafes and restaurants. And of course, we all grew as well, from students to ad men, business folk, entrepreneurs, NGO workers and professionals in law, medicine and architecture.

But what gets us together (and a large part of what keep us together) is our common love for coffee. Hot or cold, in a tall glass or demitasse, flavored or black as devil’s kiss – if it’s good, we’re there.

All thanks to my dad.

He’s much older now, and his days of traveling the world are pretty much done with. But whenever I bring him beans to roast, I see his eye light up. And there, in the same kitchen I grew up in, I watch him make coffee in his special manner.

When he’s done, he pours me a cup and we talk, father and son, enveloped in the scent of coffee.