I haven’t been around, I know, because of something. And knowing me, that could only be either work or love life. And since the latter is zero, then we know the culprit.

It’s been a week and a day since my last post. I have lost track of the days. Much has happened. Well, I think that’s an overstatement.

I’ve just been at home babysitting most days and that means weekdays and weekdays are Monday to Friday and that totals five days. Five. Long. Days. At home.

Much as I want to go out and breathe some fresh cold air that’s just going to dry up my nostrils a bit more, I just can’t because the baby needs looking after 24/7. It’s real work mind you. We get to go out on weekends; my sister, her husband, the baby and I, for one, went to Amsterdam last weekend.

Ahh that was great! I really could feel I was in a different place. It’s a city, like any other city, but always unique. Busy, a melting pot of all colors, tourists and locals alike, big structures, apartment houses that stand side by side each other with that quaint yet modern feel to it, trains stations loaded with people, lifts smelling like somebody just peed, shoppers looking for anything that says Amsterdam in it, and lovers kissing under the Anne Frank museum. (Why did I even have to see that!) I even just learned that Heineken is a Dutch beer, not German. We met some friends too and had a Filipino gathering at one of my sister’s friends’ apartment. We feasted on a sumptuous dinner of salmon pasta, lamb, and lemon tiramisu, drank the famous beers and wine in town, and sang some Michael Jackson and Phil Collins hits we could find from chordie.com accompanied by a bass guitar, a regular guitar, and an organ played by who-could-have-thought-they-could-all-play-and-sing friends of my sister’s.

Apart from that, it’s been boring.

Weekdays spent at home? That’s not what weekdays are made for!

And I’m not one who waits for the weekend to have fun. I’d do it now, to the ire of my pressing workload waiting for me in my email.

So, yeah, work got in the way, as it always does. I had to thoroughly think about how I could possibly work as efficiently and as uninterruptedly as possible, and I figured, it’s after dinner when my sister and her husband are both home and can bond with their kid. It’s been productive so far. I just end up sometimes sleeping at 1:30 in the morning, and then my other work, babysitting that is, wakes me up around 7am.

So now my nights here are spent working (while my colleagues in Manila are in their last set of snores before dawn dawns). And since I usually write at night when my mind is more open and creative supposedly, work, as I said, gets in the way. I am really sorry for my writing time.

dscn1739

“It’s a city like any other city but always unique; busy, a melting pot of all colours, tourists and locals alike; big structures, apartment houses that stand side by side each other with that quaint yet modern feel to it, trains stations loaded with people, lifts smelling like somebody just peed, shoppers looking for anything that says Amsterdam in it, and lovers kissing under the Anne Frank museum.”

*This is part of a 68-Day Travel Diary called Reflections of a Nearly Thirty. Read the full Reflections Series here.

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About hellopenville

Writing is my one true north. (The other is eating spaghetti. I make the best pastas in the whole world I swear!) I have been writing since age 10. I remember being in another school a lot because of Campus Journalism contests. I was a grade-school copyreader, headline-writer, and feature writer, who emerged to be a college editorial writer and eventually a TV news writer. However, I have always been an insecure artist. These constant condescending thoughts always stopped me from creating: “No one would read this.” “This has been written before and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not interesting enough and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not relevant, or factual, or trendy enough and therefore no one would read this.” But I learned to risk to write even if no one reads it, than not to have written anything at all. To resist writing is to resist truth itself, to betray that which comes freely to you when you do not allow it to be manifested through you. I didn’t think writing was serious work. But every time I thought about writing, it would make me nervous. It would rattle me and frighten me. I would shake the ground under me. Aren’t dreams like that too? Read more at penville.net.

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Travel, Travel Reflections Series (3 months in Europe)

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