A Backpack Story

I love looking at people’s behind. Don’t get me wrong. I am not sick nor a pervert. What I mean is that I am just fond of checking out passing stranger’s backpacks.

I have been a fan of backpacks since kindergarten. Though I have a couple of messenger bags in my closet, I am more comfortable with bags on my back than sling baggage on my shoulder.

That’s why a head turner for me is either a sexy woman or a nice looking backpack. Sometimes while I am in a fast food shop along a busy street, I would find myself looking at passersby. Big bags… small bags… blue bags… red bags. It’s like I am watching a parade. There’s even creepy backpacks shaped like a coffin or Jack Skellington of Nightmare Before Christmas while others are bag version of cartoon characters from grandma’s Betty Boop to that annoying- but-kids-love-him Barney the Dinosaur.

My most favorite backpack is the yellow Jansport that I bought from Bratpack in Robinsons Galleria in 2003 which I considered as my best buddy during my 2-year stint as an OFW in Saipan, Northern Marianas. I bring it anywhere I go, from our quarters to our work station to the different islands of the tiny nation. Each mark, dirt and scratch on my bag is a reminder of the places I’ve been and experiences worth remembering.

But I committed one stupid thing that still haunts me until today. That is when I traded my Jansport bag for a luggage a month before I came back to the Philippines for good. I was forced to make that decision because I really needed a big luggage for my things which a friend was willing to give in exchange for my battle-tested bag.

I don’t know whatever happened to my backpack. But I’m pretty sure it still good to use simply because it is a Jansport. As for the luggage with Chinese characters on the tag, I found a great use for it in keeping old clothes, bags and shoes.

That’s why last week, I bought a brand new Jansport backpack for me. Yay! But the celebration only lasted for about an hour after my wife told me he love the bag and asked if she can have it for Mother's day.

I told her, "Mahal, you are not my Nanay."

"But I am the Nanay of your son."

The bus stop here.

Turning Japanese without really trying

 
When I was young, my dream is to become a Japanese.

In spite of the many war movies that I have seen where the Japanese soldiers were shown as villains, I still want to be a member of the Voltes V team, hunt down Godzilla and play catch with Mickey Mouse at Tokyo Disneyland.  Even in college, I dig Shonen Knife's music and follow Son Goku's adventure as if I am part of it.

I am now a family in my thirties and still, the Japanese dream sticks in my bucket list but a little logical this time, of course.  Well, I just want to visit the country and experience the wonder of how high-end technologies is able to go along with the rich tradition of the land of the rising sun.  And I do hope to accomplish this anytime soon.

For now, easiest access to feel a little bit of Japan is to consume all the Japanese dishes I can.  Well, the month of March seems friendly that I got quite a treat on it's first day.  I was invited to the launch of the new additions to the already-awesome menu of Japanese dishes of Yoshinoya, one of Japan’s largest chains of beef bowl restaurants and a favorite fast-food brand.

For two hours, it felt like I was a Japanese with eight (yes eight!) different Yoshinoya dishes served to our table one by one that when somebody called me up over the phone, I answered "konichiwa."  Now that's what you call turning Japanese without really trying.

I want to share to you the delectable entries me and all my fellow bloggers and members of media had that night which everyone can also experience only in Yoshinoya.