I'm So Lucky To Have Found A Writing Spot ♥️

The pandemic is ongoing and provides much suffering to us all. Thankfully, I can now get away to this quiet little hotel I found.

“The great enemy of writing isn’t your own lack of talent. It’s being interrupted by other people. Constant interruptions are the destruction of the imagination.” - Joyce Carol Oates.

Nowadays in my home, the alarm that wakes the house up is no longer the phone, or a knock on the door, or the Adhan (the Islamic call to prayer). It’s in the form of a nugget of a baby, barely two months old, who religiously cries at around 3:45 AM in the morning, signaling her mother to feed her.

I’ve been studying in Manila for the past decade. Alone and away from my family and hometown, single, having a room to call my own, I can pick any free time, whether day or night, and start writing. Cellphones and other noisy devices I can tuck away into a cabinet easily. The Wi-Fi I can turn off. And all other forms of communication I can simply be cancel or ignore.

You can imagine the fright and panic of the world at the start and height of the pandemic. Many of us with families and homes in rural places chose too flee from the capital and reunite. The strategy was simple: solidify safety and dispel all anxieties by numbers and by staying together. Unfortunately for me, the anxiety ensued and continues to this day since the Co-Vid era started two years ago.

Apart from the babies (five of them ranging from newborn to a couple 2-year-olds; yes, my siblings have been “productive”), there’s also the noise coming from adults. Father who likes to bark his orders to anyone who passes by him. Mother who likes to screech hers. The horn of incoming and outgoing vehicles. There’s the electric pump that roars every few minutes. And, of course, the TV which is on for most of the day the viable tool of keeping the keeps hypnotized and therefor quiet.

For two years, I wasn’t able to write well which, to me , equals not having written at all. During the entrapment period, when the government imposed lockdowns with regulations so severe it rendered all goings-out worthless, I would have pen on my right hand and paper on the desk. And I would stare at it, not writing, for fear of being interrupted.

Came the days when the lockdowns loosened despite the steady fluctuations of cases. I drove and drove and drove with no particular destination in mind. Just happy I could get away and hoping I can find time and space to write and to myself.

My town and country are adept at drowning its misery through fatty foods and loud music. There’s not a person, it seems to me, with a clear, flat belly. And “quiet cafes” with aesthetics that give off a quiet, contemplative, study-reading conducive mood fail because staff members play, to maximum volume, tacky radio songs of rap and pop. I remember my Japanese Film & Lit professor tell a story of when she was studying in Japan. Those quiet restaurants of the country. So quiet that she could her people on the next table sip tea. I’d consider it a miracle that I can ever find a place here where you can hear yourself think.

Thankfully, I found one such miracle.

Many students and people (at least here) are reluctant to go to hotels to study. Most understandably because of hotel prices which are at least five times higher than the average purchase price. Also add our culture (snacks = platefuls of food),most of us couldn’t even conceive of the idea. I, however, am totally comfortable with ordering just a cup of coffee and nursing cup for the next couple of hours. If the price is total silence! But maybe the hefty price is a good thing. It serves as a barrier for the tactless and noisy customer. Elitism put to good use.

I discovered this hotel through one of my aimless drives. I initially saw a milk tea shop which I thought was a good candidate for deep reading and writing. Alas, by 4 P.M., it hosted too many customers for my comfort. But I stepped outside for a smoke and when I turned my head, noticed a rather obscure advertisement of a newly-opened hotel. As if they only wanted to promote the place out of technicalities. I hastened to put out my cigarette and threw it to the bin.

The hotel had just opened that month. It was noticeably quaint: small lobby, small reception with only the guard, one receptionist and the manager, who all welcomed me warmly in. The hotel doesn’t even have an indoor restaurant. And its function room would only host a humble 50 people. Perfect.

And it’s quiet. Oh, so quiet. The restaurant is only 9 tables and the menu, though exquisite, was a mere, short list. Still fabulous, though. I like that their breakfast menu is served the whole day, always a welcome feature. Their lemonade is fresher than any type of fresh I remember. Their service, exceptional.

I have gotten to know the staff and even the owners a little bit. Mostly, they do not bother me which is always a good thing. I’ve become one of their VIP clients as I come here almost everyday.

But most important of all, I can write. I can get away from our home, a place I only just designate for rest and eating, and actually perform the ritual of dressing up and looking presentable, and drive to a place wherein my purpose is work.

Somedays, when I go out for groceries or errands, I find myself driving to this hotel with no actual plans. Just to soak in the solitude before going back to the cacophony of crying and orders that is our house.

Today, the grass of the hotel is covered with dew and from the mild morning drizzle. The wind is strong enough to make the bamboo stalks bow. I’ve driven from home to come here. I whipped out my pen and paper, made a draft and pulled out my laptop and started typing.

What a joyous thing to write and create stories in a quiet environment!