My Tree Trunk

I may have found my little corner to write in.

For years, after springing the joint (school) and supposedly graduating to the world of "adulthood", I've been looking for my proverbial tree trunk. It's that space I can seek refuge in, to escape the gossiping officemates, the love-sick friends, the annoying boys, the (literally) crazy family, where I can regain my sense of self away from the people I love, abhor, and generally can't live without, to write what I have it in me to write.

I won't tell you where it is, as it's my secret place, but I'll say this much: it's a café slash bookshop along Tomas Morato, named after the small café in Colombia where the young Gabo used to meet with all his writer and politico compadres. It's very cozy, though it's actually quite big for an independent bookstore.

Candles of various scents, shapes and sizes (some smell like cinnamon buns and banana bread, there's a real crucifix you can light up, 850 peso votives that smell worse than detergent soap, but there's a particular scent I fancy in that price range, called "Chai Tea Latte"...) decorate the shelves, as well as carefully crafted journals, cards and gift sets. They also have rare books on politics, creative writing, business and world history.

Naturally, they have wi-fi. I am sending this to my blog from here, where I am typing this right now.

And they have the best music selection. When you walk in, you feel like you've stumbled on a brightly-lit jazz bar, without the cigarette smoke and drunk patrons. I've become good friends with the owner's cousin (who mans the counter), so he lets me rip their CDs. Jazz lovers (and I don't just mean Billie and Ella, but they're fabulous, of course; they even have Janis Joplin's songs reinterpreted as jazz!) and Bossa Nova aficionados (they've all of the Gilbertos, among others) will feel right at home here.

The lighting here is beautiful: warm, inviting, very much like a 1940's painting of a Parisian café, where reed-thin men smoke and drink espressos with their girlfriends.

The food isn't spectacular, but their coffee is very, very strong: Italian brew, not sub-standard barako - perfect for my manhid palate. And their tsokolate (a shot of hot, concentrated cocoa) is 8 ounces of pure joy.

Outside, the glittering lights of Tomas Morato will remind you you're still in Manila, circa 2005, and that there's a dirty, cruel world waiting just outside these doors.

Four hours have passed, but it certainly doesn't feel like it. Tomorrow, I'll write the next chapter of my collection here - here, in my divine, civilized tree trunk, with Miles playing and the taste of warm, dark chocolate in my mouth. Bliss.