From Manila to Prague — A Prose Poem

Navigating two worlds in the cold winter air

Karluv Most — Charles Bridge / Photo by Marta Kir on Unsplash

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Having moved from Southeast Asia to Central Europe, I often looked back as a new expat, often thinking of the wonders of home. And yet a four-week visit to Manila, finally, had me pining for Prague.

Why is that?

That cliché saying that “the grass is always greener on the other side,” I have now found to be true.

I had discovered, to my peace and contentment, that Prague had become home.

Oh, I enjoyed the endless warmth and sunshine in Manila true enough; even our just two days on the beach. But I pined for what had already become my favorite haunts in Prague— the countless European cafes, Wenceslas Square, the Christmas and Easter markets in Old Town.

In just a few years, I’d quickly forgotten how clogged the streets of Manila get, exhausting me even before I got to my destination. Then there were the security guards, and the bureaucracy that bogged down anything that had to get done. I had become my Filipino-American aunt, like all the balikbayans who kept criticizing what had been my home for 30 years.

And then I was back in Prague.

And it was a struggle once again.

With the lack of daylight, the language barrier (they don’t call it a language barrier for nothing, it literally feels like a thick fence holding you back from others), all the white people, their endless frowns, their stares.

I had to remember all over again what it was like to live a European, independent, solitary life. No rides or meals with Mom and Dad, no twenty friends waiting for me to get in touch with them.

The skies have poured an avalanche of rain, turning the sparkling snow into a depressing, gray, dirty slush.

That’s what I’d forgotten. The cozy Czech kavarnas, the transport system that goes like clockwork. Yet the skies were depressing, sleet washing away the charming snow, leaving only gray puddles and gravel to prevent us from slipping to our deaths or breaking our backs.

I emerged out of the Metro, greeted by the sweet pastry scent of the cinammony trdelnik; step out into winter’s cold embrace. I wished I could share this with my sister.

There’s the thick egg liqueur rolling in a bin, the horka medovina, the mistletoe in silver and gold and paint, the cute little wooden huts the vendors sell from, trimmed in Christmas pine and a string of golden lights.

Then everything is okay, even if my boots are wet from the slush.