Last week I received a beribboned gold box. It looked like a gift. But it was an invitation to witness the unveiling of Solaire.
Everyone pronounces it “solayr.” They say it is French for “breeze from the sun.” I thought it was “Sol -Ai’re” (sun and air in Spanish). Whatever. By any other name, in any language, it is fabulous.
After weeks of humming their catchy TV jingle, I finally saw what everybody was holding their breath for. It was so worth the wait. The drumbeaters’ mantra was “the game is about to change.” And indeed it has.
Solaire is huge, designed with impeccable taste. One gets the impression that no expense was spared, no detail left to chance. It is elegant, rich, colorful but not gaudy, comfortable, welcoming. Just being there is an experience not to be missed.
Tourism in our country has received a much-needed shot in the arm. Now it really is more fun in the Philippines! Who needs Las Vegas? Bravo, Solaire!
The new hotel casino was still the subject of conversation at an all-ladies lunch several days later, in honor of a childhood friend here visiting from Madrid.
It is amazing, the territory women can cover when we get together. In less than four hours we applauded the fact that over 4,000 people are now employed because of Solaire, discussed fashion trends, reminisced about life “during the war,” and unsuccessfully tried to pour healing balm over old wounds.
From the “junior” side of the lunch I was pleasantly surprised to learn that nosebleed-high heels and clunky platform shoes may be on their way out, but that those “oh so short!” shorts worn day or night, with or without jackets, formal or informal, are here to stay, at least until the end of the year.
The legs for it
Thanks to my favorite teleserye, I’m starting to get used to the look. But I don’t have to like it. Let’s face it, some girls have the legs for it and others are better off in slacks. And I just can’t see shorts worn to a formal occasion.
On the other side of the dining room, the conversation briefly turned to politics. We touched on the recent display of incredibly bad taste by two well-known candidates who traded insults on national television, and also about another un-classy name caller. What a turnoff!
I hear there’s a large contingent of young voters registered for the May elections. An impressive number tweeted their disgust over the debate style. Many castigated the networks for allowing such an exchange. Someone hoped it was just for laughs. If it was, the new voters were not amused. I am sure I know whose names will not be in their ballot.
We listened to the story about two undelivered love letters. It happened almost 50 years ago, but anger has festered and taken root in our friend’s heart. The memory alone still brings her anguish. There was no resolution then, and there can be no closure now or ever. Not unless she lets it go. By the looks of it, she is not ready to do that. What a shame.
Why do we harbor resentments for so long? All it does is embitter the heart. No one and nothing should be allowed to steal our joy.
Today is the beginning of Semana Santa.
Tradition, religion and even superstition are at a fever pitch in these last seven days of Lent.
I remember as a little girl I tagged along with an old spinster aunt for Visita Iglesia. She insisted we had to visit seven churches on Maundy Thursday. Her sister’s opinion was that we could do five, seven, or nine, always an odd number. They didn’t say why.
It was always Lent when we had summer vacations in Baclaran. It was all beachfront then; the sand was not white, but it was clean and the water crystal clear. We could go in for a dip only until Holy Wednesday afternoon. After that, it was strictly taboo.
Solemn
Life quieted down. On Good Friday everything came to a halt. The mood was solemn, sad even. No one was allowed to sing, or laugh too loud. About two in the afternoon, we trooped to the Cabarrus house. On our knees we listened to the drone of Don Juan’s voice, fervently reciting in Spanish the last words of Jesus on the cross. It was hard to keep still.
Do families still get together to commemorate these days of penance and remembrance? I imagine it would be vastly different today. Could the kids (and grown-ups) give up their gadgets even just for an hour or two on Good Friday? Talk about sacrifice!
For the past five years, I have visited Walkway—Reflections of the Stations of the Cross—on High Street at the Fort. It is the most meaningful experience anyone, of any religious persuasion, can have during Holy Week. Walkway gives us the opportunity to remember the death and resurrection of our Savior and follow Him on the Via Dolorosa. It opens today at 11 a.m. until 11 p.m. On Easter Sunday there is a free concert, featuring Jars of Clay.
Each one of us has his own way to mark the passion of Jesus Christ. Some of us read the gospels. Others attend “Pabasa.” Several churches schedule Siete Palabras from noon to 3 p.m. And then there are the flagellants who reenact the sufferings of Christ to atone for their sins, believing that the pain they choose to endure can somehow expiate their guilt.
Let us not forget that Jesus paid the price, once and for all, on the Cross. Perhaps it is time to refocus our minds and hearts from how and what Jesus did, to why He did it.
Imagine the sound of the scourge against His flesh. Picture the hammer that drove the huge nails through His hands. Remember the scorn of the crowd. Visualize, if you can, the crown of thorns that pierced His head. And then, remind yourself: He did it for me!