Time factor. It takes double to wait for a Valencia-bound jeepney than to cross Tañon Strait. In any given day, the cruising speed makes you push the driver to the backseat and grab the steering wheel. What makes the trip more than a drag is the way passengers hand in the fare. Picture this: as soon as the vehicle pulls over--thick black smoke, smell of brake lining and all as he gears for neutral--the passenger goes out, makes a turn toward the driver, hands in the fare, and as if it’s not enough for you to be squashed by the “extension” seat and vegetables—a few more minutes for the change.
Life moves so slow here. But at any rate, I'm beginning to embrace it. My subconscious reclaims the town of my childhood. I could spend an hour in the bathroom (if I want to), sleep until the attic is roasted by the sun and another hour hanging out in the municipal library (again, if I want to, and by the way I schedule that next week). The control freak in me keeps me from giving in. I almost threw a fit at the swimming teacher at the Aqua Centre after we were told that it is restricted today—only for the varsity. Why do we have to suffer on somebody else’s negligence [insert rant here]. We ended up paying double for a second-rate pool a few blocks away.
Meanwhile, I have to unlearn yet my escalator overtaking skills.
