At the Mosaic Stairway in San Francisco
I knew that California wasn’t paradise from the ’60s, when the Manson gang (or “family,” as they called themselves) murdered Sharon Tate and companions. But it was where a great big branch of my family decided to migrate, start afresh even if they already had stable careers in the homeland, and build from the promise of newness, just like the pioneers who followed the Gold Rush. My title is, by the way, derived from a Joni Mitchell song, California.
Cousins have been my first friends. One who remains a looming presence until now is Enrique “Henry” Romero, still on the Lolarga side (his mother Pacita and my father Enrique are close siblings). He’s the first economist in the family, the guy who drove from Windsor, Canada down to California, stopping by other states, with his immediate family in an unforgettable road trip to get to know America. Afterwards, they settled in Los Angeles.
No stopover in LA is complete without Henry and wife Trina hosting dinner or lunch or a tour of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art or the Santa Monica pier. More than the shared meals and tours were the great laughs and reminiscences.
This past summer, my daughter Kimi, grandchild Kai, and I spent 11 days in the new Romero home in the Bay Area city of Antioch. Henry and Trina had decided to make the move north to follow his son, my nephew Dino, and his family so they could be closer to their grandchildren while they were young.
From Boise, Idaho, we took a plane to Oakland, CA, then received a text from Henry, who was supposed to pick us up, warning us to keep an eye on our luggage and valuables. In the car, he explained that there had been a breakdown of law and order in the Bay Area. To illustrate, he said he searched on his phone for cafés near the airport where he could while away the time as he awaited our arrival. What the phone disclosed were pictures of cars with broken windows and windshields from the day before. The criminals were after luggage, among other things, from arriving passengers.
It seemed there was an element of racism involved, with Asians and Polynesians being the target of black or white hoodlums. The trouble-makers know both Asians and Polynesians to be passive people who won’t put up a fight.
Henry also said the state, which could almost be deemed socialist in its policies, is almost helpless to deal with the culprits because once they are caught, they are released from jail within the same day because of lenient laws. He cited shoplifting, another crime considered a misdemeanor.
Later in the evening, we saw proof of this on the local TV channel news footage. Shown were hordes of shoplifters in a luxury store stealing in front of CCTV cameras bottles of expensive perfume and pushing them into garbage bags. In another instance, we saw men disguised in hoodies breaking into a Yamaha motorcycle store and carting away one motorbike each, while a U-Haul truck awaited them outside.
My jaw dropped. I, we, suddenly didn’t feel safe. But adventurous Kimi and Kai couldn’t be held back from taking the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit District) to visit cousins in downtown San Francisco. When they came back intact, what they shared discouraged me from venturing downtown. I decided to stick to just exploring Antioch and nearby cities. Kimi described the stench of urine when they emerged from the train. Apparently, the leagues of homeless people had turned the subway into their common toilet. Kai saw for the first time a drug addict shooting up and the homeless living in tents between high-rise buildings or on sidewalks.
But there were positive experiences for my mag-ina—they were able to find and climb the Mosaic Stairway on Moraga Street, identify live sea and amphibian creatures at the California Academy of Sciences, run on the shore of the Bay with a dog on its leash, admire public sculptures, etc. They came home with mostly happy stories, not scary ones, although Kai said she was bothered in the BART on the way home by hippie-looking youth playing tambourines and guitars and singing. I told her if they were hippies, they were harmless.
What’s certain about Henry as host and tour guide was that he loved good food and would drive the extra mile for it. Among his Lourdes School and University of the Philippines School of Economics batchmates, he is a legend, known as the one who owns the list of the top 100 restaurants, including holes in the wall, in LA. And these he and Trina have tried and rated. Visitors would beg him to email them his list.
On Kimi’s “must” list was a visit to the Jollibee branch for her fix of sweet spaghetti and Chickenjoy, and for Kai’s beloved burger steak. Henry ploughed through three pieces of the chicken, I coyly ate two. Walking back to the car, he stopped to say we forgot to take a group picture of us doing a very Filipino activity.
This was followed by a visit to an Asian supermarket where Kimi loaded her shopping cart with food items not found in Boise, including hopiang ube and monggo and chicharon bulaklak. She left me strict instructions not to snack on these, as she guarded them like treasure.
Henry knew of my love for Korean barbecue from my 2008, 2009, and 2019 visits to LA. He lost no time in bringing us to Gen Korean BBQ House in Concord City. Oh, did we pig out and sweat it out. The restaurant management was apologetic that their air-conditioner couldn’t cope with the amount of smoke from the many lighted grills. I must’ve eaten at least a half kilo of pork bulgogi. I consoled myself that the pork was sliced very thinly.
Our next foodie adventure was at Shabuya, a Japanese eat-all-you-can buffet, also in Concord. It was dangerously located beside a Barnes & Noble bookstore so I scooted in but practiced self-control, just buying a rectangular magnifying glass, a request from my sister back home.
In Concord City, California after shopping at an Asian food store
Like Gen, Shabuya brought contented smiles to our faces. As if we were not full enough, we stopped by Seafood City Supermarket for more Filipino products and our dessert of crisp, sweet banana turon. Henry bought 10 pieces to eat at home. A truly Lolarga trait!
Relaxing at the home of an interior designer in El Dorado Hills
The rest of my northern California trip consisted of short stays in the homes of friends Rita Agcaoili-Lezama, an interior designer, in El Dorado Hills, and pianist Carmencita Sipin-Aspiras in Fremont.
Rita treated me to a hearty bacon and pancakes breakfast at The Mimosa House in the city center. Midway, I confessed that I hadn’t ever tasted a mimosa in my life, let alone drink it for breakfast.
She looked at me closely and said, “That ought to be remedied.” So she summoned the waiting staff and rectified the lack in my life.
Minutes after I finished sipping the bubbly up to the last drop, I felt dizzy. We went home to her beautiful, ranch-style home by the hills. I slept off my dizziness. I woke at almost 4 pm, hungry and eager to go out. Rita drove us to a Filipino diner that served halo-halo, which I had with a siopao asado.
In front of the altar of St. Joseph’s Mission Church in Fremont, CA
The same pace I followed at Chita’s in Fremont. We only had time to visit one not-too-known tourist spot—St. Joseph’s Mission Church, the oldest in the city. At the souvenir shop of Catholic items, I saw the stampita of my childhood, but instead bought a baby boy’s record book in time for the birth of another grandnephew.
The mornings were spent lying in bed listening to Chita run scales on the piano or play Mozart sonatas. One time, I listened as a young student of hers played the theme from The Sound of Music without a mistake. Later, I saw the nine-year-old boy climbing outside my window, giving me a scare. After the class, Chita and I took a walk in her neighborhood, one of the most peaceful in the state.
On my last day in Fremont, artist Nini Teves-Lapuz, who used to run Legato Bookshop in Baguio, fetched and drove me to Moss Beach Distillery overlooking the Pacific Ocean. We enjoyed the breeze, took outdoor shots with pelicans flying over our heads, then headed in for brunch—seafood chowder and calamari for me, a hefty sandwich for Nini, the half of which she had wrapped to take home for husband Pancho, the classical guitarist.
The Distillery dated back to the silent film era and is said to be haunted by a ghost called “The Blue Lady.” But on the day that was threatening to rain, families, couples, groups of friends lent their laughter and appetites to the place. No one haunted me, even if I was alone in the toilet.
On our way back to Chita,’s I told Nini the length of her driving on superbly smooth freeways was already the equivalent of a trip from Manila to Batangas and back. Thankfully, I arrived in time to catch my flight at the San Francisco International Airport. It was my second to the last stop before Los Angeles, from where I headed back to Manila.
A week after I got home, Chita emailed me to say that her laidback Fremont wasn’t spared of robbers. One afternoon after I had left, she saw a fleet of police cars on their street. There had been a robbery or break-in.
How ironic that one of the songs I used to sing in my adolescence had lyrics that went:
“If you’re going to San Francisco
Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair
If you’re going to San Francisco
You’re gonna meet some gentle people there.”
