To take out the sting of a flat Sunday, when most stores and a good number of cafes and inexpensive restaurants close, there is a place that nurses (pun!) like a good bottle of ice-cold beer.
This is the closest thing to a bucolic town one can get 30 minutes beyond Dumaguete. At the onset a kind of town that comes to a halt at the pelting of the Angelus’ bell.
Though founded in the 1800s, the structures in the town are relatively new. The planning is reminiscent of the Spanish era town square--with the church, perched on a ridge, at the center .
Across the asphalt street, with vines dangling on trellis and ivy crawling on concrete walls and balusters, is the esplanade at the periphery of the town plaza. Tucked in the opposite sides are the tennis courts and football field.
Spanning the whole block--in between the landscaped public market and the public elementary school--is a short street named after the congregation which founded the town.
The belfry sounds off.
From where I stand, in this corner store that sells the local “wellness” ice cream, the football field and tennis courts become still. The players come to a halt and face the direction of the church. The motorbike stops and the geriatric bows in supplication.
After siesta, these are what easy Sundays are made of: a brisk walk round the block with ice cream on hand and thinking of things to do at work tomorow other than lusting for an iBOOK and a new dirt bike.
