By APRIL SOLIMAN ESCANO

I sit here as the dawn breaks the sky with swathes of color and streaks of light, my body still attuned to Philippine time, so I wake up at 3 a.m. and nod off at midafternoons. I nursed my hot “native” coffee brought all the way from our farm in Davao. The beans are harvested, dried, and roasted from our farm then to the “palengke” to get it grinded. What makes it extra special is that it is then mixed with corn that gives you that heady aroma and the almost sweetish taste. This for me beats the coffee made from fancy coffeeshops in any part of the world. This is what I grew up with and the minute I smell it as it percolates, memories would flash in my mind—from my lola calling the workers from the field in the afternoons for their “merienda,” to drinking this along with boiled “saging na saba” while sitting in the patio for some harmless gossip and random talk.

My limited kilos for luggage back here abroad made sure that this is non- negotiable. This is me bringing a piece of home.

As I slowly sip my liquid gold, I couldn’t help but remember a morning just weeks ago as I write this. We were on our way to Pagudpud from Vigan—which would need a lot of road miles to cover—so we skipped breakfast to have an early start. We just had coffee on the go so our driver was keeping a lookout of where we could buy some hot food. He then saw this mobile bakery which was a motorcycle complete with glass steamers of freshly baked pandesal.

This could be a common sight for some, but it was a novelty specially for me, which brought me great delight. Kuya Jun, our driver, flagged the motorcycle as we stopped at the side of the road. Kuya Jun went down to talk to the man and asked how much was it. He then came back to the van and said, “Ma’am, five pesos po” and then as soon as he said that, all hell broke loose. “Ang mahal nman, two pesos lng yan dba” said one. “Ang sarap nung pandesal sa San Pablo no,” said another. “Sabi ko kasi dapat maaga tayo,” quipped one which I suspect was my dad and then, “Saan tayo mag lu lunch?” which I was sure was my brother. Kuya Jun I’m sure was shocked with the burst of energy they all had so early in the morning. Disheartened, I took my wallet out and said, “Kuya, pabili nalang po 50 pesos” even though I wanted to buy more. Kuya immediately went back to buy some grabbing the chance to escape the barrage of noise.

He then brought back a brown bag with the steaming hot pandesal with him. He handed the bag to me and as I opened it, I closed my eyes as the heavenly smell permeated the confines of the van. This kept the family quiet for a while as I passed the hot pandesal all around. Oh, I could still remember the first bite of it at that moment, the way the warm crust from the outside give way to the soft and buttery goodness inside. Such a simple but magical moment for me.

After the first few bites, my family suddenly changed tune as they usually do. Now they were all praises for the pandesal, saying it was worth the five pesos since it was big, and that it tasted good. Why did I not buy more, they asked. They then told Kuya to buy another 200 pesos worth of it and continue talking about how admirable his business was. I then turned around to them and amused, with a tad bit of reprimand, said, ‘Kamo man gud sge yawyaw, wala pa gani mo kakita sa pandesal (You were all complaining and commenting even if you didn’t see the pandesal yet!)’ returning to Bisaya to emphasize a point. Now my mom is Caviteña and daddy is Bisaya, so we switched around two dialects when needed.

This memory, a typical and ordinary moment, just makes me smile and miss home with an aching pain that catches my breath while I’m here weeks after on the other side of the world.

Similarly on that trip, I was also looking at the sky through the car window. I was watching how the sky slowly unfurled its splendour as I savored the moment. I was marvelling how I was where I was after months and years of planning and thinking about it. This got me thinking about how we survived the pandemic, the medical scares my parents had, the way my life unexpectedly got directed to another country and the choices that has been made before then. I was grateful that these were the things that I only prayed for before and now, we were here.

I let the noise and insistent chatter wash over me. Dad was talking about how we were already late, my cousins talking about where our stops will be, and my mom just talking on top of everyone else while on the radio, a very popular local song from the ’90s was playing as another cousin sang along with it. I told myself, this is home, this is what I miss. So I reveled in the moment and deposited it in my memory bank. knowing the impermanence of it all.

Home has always been prevalent in my mind and a compass for my heart. I think that this is true for most Filipinos living abroad. For me home is the Philippines, for that is where I grew up and where my family (extended and adopted) are. But home is also here in England where we are now building our lives and setting our roots. Home is the chaos of families, the misadventures, the “kalokohan”, and of always being surrounded by love. And home is also the quiet mornings and the peaceful walks in the English countryside.

When I think about home, I remind myself that home is not only a physical place but a state of being that evokes a feeling of belonging. It can be about being with my loved ones or about eating one of my favorite childhood foods. It may also be about reading my favourite fairytale or as I am doing now, drinking the coffee my lola used to make, regardless of where I am.

As I think about it, it appeases me and makes the unsettling bearable. This, however, doesn’t always bring me joy, because as I am writing this now my tears flow, as I suddenly miss my lola who passed away during the pandemic.

But this is where I belong, not in the confines of space, but in the confines of my heart. So wherever I am, I am home.