I ride boats; I ride goats: Part 2

A boat guide reads the ripples of the sea to navigate us around whirlpools and spires of corals.

It happen’d one Day about Noon going towards my Boat, I was exceedingly surpriz’d with the Print of a Man’s naked Foot on the Shore.

– Excerpt from Robinson Crusoe, by Daniel Defoe

South to Surigao

(Click here for Part 1 of this series.)

The moment the plane crested through the thunderclouds hovering over Manila, Skerdi felt the light.  It had filtered in through the closed shades of the cabin and cast a glow across his face.  He squeezed my hand—and I felt his own buoyancy drift further upwards.  We were heading to the land of levity.  That’s what I call Surigao City, located in the northernmost, eponymous province in Mindanao, the largest island in the archipelago.  It is where light and laughter dwell.

Manila was far behind us. For the past three days, it had been downcast while we toured the capital and its outskirts.  It was June; the wet season had just descended.  The weather had already prevented scores of planes from taking off.  Skerdi and I were lucky, however, the day we left for Surigao ten years ago. Our flight had left on time, and the skies had cleared once we left Manila.  Skerdi would soon be meeting my extended family and friends.

Ten minutes into the flight, we raised the shade on our window.  We were far above and beyond ziggurats of clouds. Immediately, our heads tilted backwards; our eyes blinked and squinted from the streaming brilliance of light.

Skerdi held my right shoulder to anchor me to his side as we both looked out at the view below.  Green had turned into indigo.  Verdant fields and hills sloped into black, endless and unfathomable waters.

“The sea,” he whispered as he pressed his nose to the glass, “It is so dark.”

“I know,” I said.  “Out there, east of Surigao, is the Philippine Deep.  You can sink Mt. Everest into its deepest point and there would still be 2 km. of water left.”

Amazed, Skerdi shook his head.  “Imagine diving down there.   What would we see?”

“But you don’t even know how to swim,” I teased.

He laughed, “I know, but I can imagine.  When you grow up in Albania, during the old Communist regime, you’re told what to think.  You’re not taught to imagine.”

I rubbed the top of his hand. “And yet, you’ve always wanted to be like Robinson Crusoe and sail the seas and…”

“And live on islands. And my other favorite book made me want to explore the world beneath the dark waters.”

“Jules Verne,” I said.

He pressed his lips against my forehead.  “Yes, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea…I became an explorer in my mind.”

For nearly fifty years—during the regime of former dictator Enver Hoxha—Albania isolated itself from the rest of the world.  Hoxha had even turned the country’s back away from Russia and China, both of who, he had felt, departed too much from the purity of Marx’s teachings.  Thousands of bunkers, where soldiers had stood guard, dotted the hillsides overlooking the sea.  No influences from the West were allowed into the country.  Free thinkers were likewise isolated and secreted.

“I used to imagine being in a submarine, watching giant squids shoot past, and traveling to other countries undetected.”  He continued to look out at the dark depths.  “You can probably fit thousands of submarines down there, and they would still never find each other.”

“Hmmm…except by sonar,” I said. “Wait until you see the islands off of Surigao.  As you get close to shore, the sand becomes white underneath the clear blue waters.  You’ll see fish around natural breakers, the coral reefs.”

Skerdi thought about Vlora where he taught for a couple of years at the university.  It was a seaside city and was considered the northern gateway towards a long stretch of pristine beaches: the Albanian Riviera.

“The Adriatic [Sea],” he said, “is crystal clear, even a few kilometers from shore.  You remember, right?”

I nodded.

He pointed to the scene below him, the seas of Jules Verne and Robinson Crusoe, and said, “That, down there, that looks terrifying.”

“Yea, well,” trying to reassure him, as I leaned against him and closed my eyes, “life’s always scarier from far away and far above.”

Happy Congestion

We arrived in the airport in Butuan City, an hour and a half away from Surigao City. The flight into the former was much less turbulent than it would have been into the latter.  When the plane landed, gusts from its propellers bent the banana trees around the airport forward—as if in welcome.  On either side of the airport were crowds of people waiting; they were pressed against the chain-link fence.  The sun was directly overhead, and the sky was empty of clouds. Weather is an odd phenomenon across the Philippines.  In June, Surigao (and Butuan) experiences drier weather, while the area in and around Manila is plagued with rain.  Clouds would not mar the day Skerdi sets foot on shores of white sand.

My mother and thirteen friends and extended family members had arrived to greet us. These were my people, those that have loved me and have grown up with me—all were eager to catch a glimpse of the first man I had ever brought to the Philippines.  They watched us walk across the tarmac.

Skerdi affected cool well.  He wore dark shades and a baseball cap.  He grabbed my hand and my backpack as we headed into welcoming arms and met faces of unspoken opinions.   Inside the arrivals area, I introduced Skerdi to my mother and then to the array of aunts, uncles, cousins, godchildren, nieces, nephews and friends who had crammed into three hired minivans.

This scene exemplified my childhood—happy congestion.  In Quezon City, our home was always full, whether it was at 3 am—when the mah-jongg tables were still running in our screened lanai—or at 3 pm—when friends dropped in for a merienda of banana-que, grilled banana kabobs, or ginataan, root vegetables, fruits and tapioca balls in a sweet, coconut stew.  My brother Paolo and I often shared our room—and sometimes our large bed—with visiting relatives. Five or six sets of arms and legs tangled across each other.  Sometimes, we sacrificed the softness of our mattress to the older relatives, while Paolo and I slept on the banig, or woven mat, in the living room.

Our home in Surigao City was just as crowded.  Maayo—visitors would shout though the iron gate.  You would hear the word throughout the whole day, as guests dropped in unannounced and then were ushered into the kitchen for a meal.  When my family spent our summer vacations there, my parents, my brothers and I would cram into a room and spread out across beds and cots pushed together.  The rest of my mother’s family would fill up the other bedrooms.  Skerdi grew up in a less rambunctious home with his parents and brothers. There had been room to breathe and quiet to think.

At the airport, Skerdi tried to remember the names of everyone crowding around him.  I had advised him to call the older ones either by tita (auntie) or tito (uncle). I watched as my family nudged each other and raised their eyebrows in silent communictation.  They all expressed the same thought: Hazing would soon begin.

Hazed; Unfazed

With a population of over 120,000 people, Surigao City is located on the mainland of Surigao del Norte, while the province’s other islets and larger islands are situated far from the eastern coast.  The families of both my parents come from the area.  When my parents want to escape Manila for Surigao, they reside in the house in which my mother grew up, on Amat Street.  Now, my maternal grandmother, Mama Ching, and several cousins call it home.

Surigaonon is both the name of the province’s denizens as well as its dialect.  Many Surigaonons possess sharp wits and tongues.  They are lighthearted and funny, but loyal.  They can often be righteously critical of outsiders.

There were three large vans that my family had hired to transport us back to Surigao.  We rode in the first car, where my mother and her cousins sat.  Uncle Leo patted the seat beside him in the first row; Skerdi sat there.  Uncle Leo, mom’s first cousin, had helped watch over me when he had lived with us in Quezon City during his university years. He was known as one of the Amat Street Boys, who had been notorious for their hijinks.  Like Uncle Leo, many of them are charming ruffians, who used to sit in the patio of our home swigging Tanduay rum and eating pulutan, or fatty snacks eaten with alcohol.  Fried dog meat was a favorite—of theirs.  When asked what it was, they would look at my pale face and reply, “Just chicken.”

In the back seat of the van, Uncle Leo shushed me as I continued to describe his former antics.  “Shhh, Li, that was the past. I am reformed, a changed man.”

His wife, Auntie Tata, guffawed and then spurted out, “The only thing changed is the coins in his pocket!”

“Psst, Tata,” he tried to silence his equally formidable and funny wife, “don’t give him a bad image of me.  He will go back to Romania thinking I’m not a good man.”

“Albania,” Skerdi corrected.

“Haha, yes, yes, Skerdi, Albania, land of vampires!”  Uncle Leo shouted, clapping the other’s back vigorously. Skerdi tried to correct him again, but was interrupted instead.  “Welcome to the Philippines, my friend.  Tonight we will drink and eat!  Tomorrow, we will drink some more and eat again until you become very fat.”

“Salamat. Thank you!”

“Oh, so you know some Tagalog already?  Very good.  We do not speak very good English here, so you have to learn.”

“I don’t speak English good either,” Skerdi countered.  “After we drink, we will understand each other better.”

Uncle Leo paused, stared at Skerdi, and then roared.  He then tapped the roof of the van. The hired driver exited out of the airport lot.  An hour ride was going to feel like a day for Skerdi, I thought.

“So you like the Philippines?”  My uncle continued.  “Do you find it beautiful?”

“So far, yes.  But I am excited to see Surigao.  Liza has told me that the islands and beaches here are beautiful.”

“Yes, yes…I particularly like Yo-ban Beach.”

I scooted forward and rested my chin on the back of their seat.  “Where is that Uncle?  I’ve never heard of it.  Is that one of the islands?”

“Yo-ban is located right in Amat, where your…”

“Leo! Stop it!”  My mother shouted from the back row.  “Don’t listen to him, Skerdi.”

“That’s not a beach?”  We both asked.

“No,” Mom explained, “Yo-ban is banyo backwards.  That means bathroom.”

I collapsed against the chair and sighed.  Skerdi started laughing at the joke.  Oh, dear, I thought, the ride was going to be a long one—for me.

Still chuckling, Uncle Leo continued, “Do you like Filipina women?  Beautiful, right?”

Skerdi looked back at me and smiled.  “Well, I don’t know about others, but so far, I like what I see.”

Oh no, I thought as I rolled my eyes, this was going to be really long car ride.

The whole van erupted in cackles and whistles.  From the back, my cousins roared out, “Ka hilas! Hilas!” Skerdi was being embarrassingly cheesy.

When the catcalls died down, Auntie Tata offered Skerdi a snack.

“Maybe he wants some fruit,” someone had said.

Someone had then torn open a plastic bag.  Immediately, bile rose in my mouth; Skerdi’s face paled.  A rotten scent suffused the van. No one said anything; everyone waited to see what he would do next.  A piece of yellow, fleshy fruit came forward.  My nose sunk into my tank top as my chest heaved at the smell.

“Skerdi,” my cousin offered, “would you like to try this?  It’s durian.”

Muffled by my shirt, I tried to explain that the fruit was highly prized, in spite of its smell.  A lover of durian, my mother bellowed out from the back, “In fact, in Asia, it is considered an aphrodisiac.”

Skerdi looked skeptical.  “Thank you,” he said, as he took the proferred piece.  “It can’t hurt to try.”

But it did.  I saw the subtle tics in his face as he tried to swallow the offensive fruit. I handed him a bottle of orange soda, which he gulped down quickly.  Then he smacked his lips and wiped his tongue with a napkin before taking another drink.

“Sorry about that.”  I gave everyone around me a hard stare.

“People like that fruit?”

I nodded and rubbed his back.  “I can eat the ice cream and the candy, but definitely not in its natural form.”

“Interesting.  At least I tried it once.  But I must admit, I’m not sure I can try it again,” he announced.  The van erupted into fits of laughter again, but I could tell he had gained a measure of respect already.  Uncle Leo gave me a nod as he placed his sunglasses back on his nose and took a sniff of his menthol inhaler, which he carries with him everywhere.  He slid into his seat and asked Skerdi about Albania; while I caught up on life in Surigao with the others.

Welcome to Amat Street

We arrived at our home—the whitewashed house surrounded by bougainvilla bushes—on Amat Street a short time after lunch. Skerdi’s luggages were left in the van.  He and I had decided to observe propriety; consequently, he would be checking into the Gateway Hotel, beside the Provincial Hospital, off of the main highway leading in and out of the City.  It was one of the two bigger, and more tourist-friendly establishments, in town.

There were other reasons why we wanted Skerdi at the hotel.  Our home was hot; only two rooms—both occupied—had a cooling unit.  We kept window shutters open, letting in light but also dust, heat and noise.  By 5 am, the din of tricycles ferrying passengers around town could be heard.  Skerdi’s hotel was a short ride from my home, but it offered a cool and quiet room to rest.  We decided that he would come to the house for meals.

I led Skerdi through the living room and formal dining area and entered the large kitchen, where we ate.  It opened into a large walled-in courtyard.  Behind our home was a grade school, owned by our neighbors across the street, the Tandans, whose patriarch had once been the mayor.

In Surigao, news spreads fast, and Skerdi’s arrival piqued curiousities. Grade school students, who had just come back from having lunch, gathered around one of the windows of school’s upper floor.  They were looking into our home–at Skerdi.  They tittered and chattered about the visiting kano—short for Americano, a general description of all white men. In the courtyard, a large female hog that had been tied to one of the outdoor posts on the patio was sleeping on the cool concrete shaded by more bougainvilla bushes in pinks and whites.

Skerdi raised his eyebrows, “Pet?”

“No,” I responded, “dinner—but for tomorrow night.  We’re having a party here in your honor.”

One of the helpers, a student worker, who lived with and helped care for my grandmother was swatting away flies from the round table. On the countertop by the refrigerator, a large basket of yellow mangoes greeted us.  Skerdi recognized it right away and smiled.  He was looking forward to eating that particular fruit.

My grandmother was in the dirty kitchen when we arrived.  Most homes in the Philippines have two kitchens—the clean and the dirty, where most of the cooking is done.  Auntie Tata went to the shed where my grandmother was frying fish. Slight and lithe, she walked out into the kitchen and wiped her hands on her apron.  She smoothed stray hairs back into a bun.  I enfolder her into my arms and kissed her cheeks.  Cataracts had clouded over part of her right eye.  She smelled of fish and her favorite perfume, Joy by Jean Patou, which she must have misted on right before we arrived.

“Hi Li,” she said grabbing my arm. “I made you several jars of atsara.  Go look in the fridge.”

“That’s right, Li,” Auntie Tata chimed in.  “She has been cooking since yesterday.”

I lifted my fragile grandmother into a tight hug, though afraid to break her.  “Thanks Mama Ching!  I want you to meet someone,” I said, as I brought her forward. “This is Skerdi.”

Skerdi walked in front of her, bent over and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.  She giggled like a young girl again, “Hello.  Welcome to our home.  You must be very hungry.”

“Yes, actually I am.  I just had a small piece of fruit in the car.”  He looked around with a teasing smile.  “Liza told me you are a very good cook.”

She giggled again.  Mom and I looked at each other.  “I try. I hope you will like my food.  Has Liza ever cooked for you?”

“No, not yet, but I hope one day soon.”

I explained to my grandmother that he lives in Albania and that we see each other every few months.  She ushered him to a chair and then directed the helper to start bringing in the food.  Auntie Lillia, my mother’s cousin who lives in the outskirts of the city, has known me since I was a baby and has helped care for our family and hers over the years.  She made us fresh juice from calamansi, Philippine limes.

We sat down to a lunch of squid cooked in soy sauce, vinegar and garlic (adobo), a clear soup of clear glass noodles and clams, crispy fried anduhaw, a silvery, medium-sized fish that had been cured in salt for a few hours, and steamed dayo dayo, or snails.  There were several platters of vegetables including the pickled green papaya Mama Ching had prepared the day before as well as steamed pako, coiled ferns, and mustard greens blanched and dressed with vinegar and garlic. Beside each plate was a covered bowl of steamed rice.

Skerdi leaned over and whispered, “Do you have bread?”

“Are you serious?”

He laughed, as he watched the listening relatives get up to look in the cupboard for leftover pan de sal. “Well, no.”

I punched him in the arm.  “What do you want?”

“Maybe a little of everything,” he looked at the spread.  “Does your family always eat like this?”  In Albania, a typical meal consisted of one dish—usually a stew or gjelle—with bread and feta cheese.

“Yes, and we eat six times a day.”

“Six!?”  He looked around the room at the family.  “And no one is very fat?”

Uncle Leo sat down beside Skerdi and slurped his noodles.  “That’s because we have many extra-curricular activities.”  He winked, earning him a slap on the back of his head from his wife.

Auntie Tata admonished, “Stop that Leo.  You will scare him.  Skerdi, we have pre-breakfast, then breakfast, and the first merienda, then lunch, then second merienda, next dinner and then midnight snack.”

Skerdi watched me spoon some soy sauce with chili peppers over my rice, and he followed suit.  “Midnight snack?  You don’t sleep.”

Uncle Leo’s younger brother-in-law, Joy, sat across from Skerdi.  With a handkerchief, he wiped off his brow.  “Yes, sleep is optional.  Sometimes we play mah-jongg and chickicha, a card game.  We will show you as long as you have money on you.”

I cleared my throat.  “Don’t listen to them.  They’ll rob you blind.  So what do you think of the food?”

“The soup is excellent, and I like this adobo a lot.  I’m still not sure about the vegetables.”

Later, when the table was cleared, Skerdi asked for a cup of coffee.  I placed a large round spoonful of Nescafe granules into a cup and poured in sugar and hot water.

“Can I have a mango now?”  He asked after finishing his cup of coffee.

A Man and His Mango

There are many ways to eat a mango.  The best method is to slice it twice—one cut above and one below the pit—into two cheeks and one seed.  Hollow out a cheek slowly with a spoon and let the fruit sit on your tongue. Savor the sweetness.  At the first spoonful of mango into his mouth, Skerdi closed his eyes and hummed.  Then, he licked his lips and dropped his spoon into the bowl.  He grabbed the cheek and inverted the flesh.  He bit into the juicy meat so that yellow rivulets of juice ran down his stubbled cheek and down his forearms.

“Can I have another one?”  He asked as he sucked off the remaining flesh from the middle, the seed.

Auntie Lillia placed several more cut ones in front of us, as we sat in silence eating mangoes.  Me with a spoon, and Skerdi with his mouth.  Our lips were sore and red from the itchy fibers of the fruit.

Mom, who had been digging into the spiny jackfruit in front of her, asked Skerdi if he wants to go see some islands while in Surigao.

A wide grin broke open; yellow fibers were stuck between his teeth.  “Yes, that would be great.”

Uncle Leo picked at his with a toothpick.  “Skerdi, we will go when the waves are not so high.  So we wait until I hear word from the boat operators when it’s ok.”

Mom looked at me and advised that we tour the city first and check him into the hotel.   “Tomorrow, the house will be preparing for the party so get some rest.”

That afternoon, we followed my mother’s suggestion.  We walked around Luneta Park in front of San Nicolas cathedral and had an afternoon snack of siopao, steamed pork buns, at the outdoor bistro in front of City Hall.  We took a tricycle to the Gateway, where we checked him into a room facing the inner courtyard.

“So tomorrow if I took this back to your place, what would I say?”  Skerdi hauled his suitcase into the room.

I helped him unpack his belongings.  “Nothing, just wait for me to pick you up.”

“Seriously, honey, I need to learn this. Three weeks is a long time for you to be coming here to escort me to your place just because you’re scared something might happen.”

“All right.  It’s 2 pesos for a ride.  Just say, ‘Amat, kina Tandan’.”

“What does that mean?”  Skerdi sat on the bed.

“The street is Amat, and you want to go to the Tandan house.”

“Oh, ok.  And when I want to get off?”

“Just say Para, or stop.”

He repeated the words back to me in a stilted accent several times.  Even at dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, he practiced.

The Feast of Flavors

In Surigao, one can hear the rooster crow at about 4:45–the motors of tricycles rumble a quarter of an hour later.  Swish, swish go the walis ting ting, or stiff brooms that clean the sidewalk of debris.  Shops and bakeries open first.  At 5:30 am, our helper comes back home, carrying 2 plastic bags filled with hot morning buns.  Pre-breakfast.  The buns sustain whoever is cooking in the kitchen, usually Mama Ching.  My great-aunt, Uncle Leo’s mother, or Mama Bebing, is already dressed and on her way out to church.

The morning after our first arrival, I woke up at 7:30, ready to pick Skerdi  from the hotel.  I rushed out of the bedroom and clambered down the few steps.  Skerdi was already in the living room, reading a newspaper.

“Hi.  Good morning.”

I rubbed the remaining traces of sleep from my eyes and ran over to kiss him.  ”What…how did you…why didn’t you wait for me?!”

“I told you I could do it.  It was easy actually.  I thought I could walk over here, but I didn’t know if I had to turn left or right out of the hotel.”

“And the tricycle driver, was he nice?”

“Oh, yeah.  Do you think all drivers know your home, rather the Tandans?”  He kept me locked in his hug. I nodded into his shoulder.  ”My room was nice, but felt empty.”

“I know, but at least you slept well.  Now it’s time to eat well.”  I led him to the back.  ”And I have a surprise for you.”

I uncovered the lid from the plate of buns, that were still hot.   “This is great!  What are you having?”

I smiled as we unearthed the other breakfast splendors: shrimps sauteed in garlic, fried eggs, salted duck eggs with tomatoes, and dilis, or fried anchovies.

As we ate, he noticed that pig was missing.  ”Don’t worry, you’ll hear him soon.”

A few minutes into our breakfast, a pained squeal rang out from the empty lot next door.  Skerdi and I walked over.  I turned my face away and hid my face in Skerdi’s shoulder.  The swine had been gutted and hung from a sturdy branch of a tree.  The preparations for the feast was about to start.

Over fifty people arrived at our home in Amat to welcome Skerdi to Surigao.  In the middle of the kitchen sat our pig on a banana leaf–it had been roasted until its skin had crisped.  Lechon, I taught Skerdi, who devoured the succulent meat with gusto.  In the courtyard, Uncle Leo and other male cousins and friends sat drinking tuba, fermented coconut drink, and San Miguel beer.  In the living room, paid danced instructors taught ladies how to perfect the tango, cha cha, rhumba and the sexy soca dance.  Women in their eighties like Mama Ching and young teens were on the floor swaying and gyrating.  Others sat around helping themselves to seconds and thirds at the buffet.

The feast was resplendent.  There were platters of different types of pancit, or noodles, skewers of chicken barbeque, and pots of stew.  Skerdi lifted one lid from a pot and looked in at the reddish concoction.

“Try it, it’s called caldereta, a stew made of goat.”

Skerdi took a large serving of the stew, but avoided the vegetables.  He was intrigued by the contents of another pot, which had diced meat in a thick black sauce.  I explained that it was dinuguan or tripe cooked in pig’s blood.  Without blinking, Skerdi heaped that onto his plate as well.  As he tried the various dishes, one of the dance instructors came over and asked me to be his partners for the soca.  Both my grandmother and mother were already dancing, so I set my plate down to join them.

My instructor twirled me a few times and then spun me into his arms as we both sank down to the floor, while we swayed our hips.  Skerdi stood, immobile, by the pig.  His face had turned red as he watched us dance–our bodies pressed closely, innocently together.  Uncle Leo walked up to him and pointed to the drinks.  Skerdi followed him.  He gave Skerdi a pat on the back and then turned around to reassure me, with hand gestures, that he would talk to him about our culture.  I sighed.  Balkan fire, once lit, was difficult to pat down.

The party ended at 1 in the morning.  Skerdi spent most of the evening with my uncles and cousins, who, in drunken, broken English, peppered him with questions and coconut wine.  I reminded Skerdi that we had to set sail by 6am the next day.  Everyone quickly dispersed, and Skerdi managed to find a ride back to the hotel.

The Sail to Hagakhak  Island

At 5am, the morning after the welcome feast, twenty of us stood on the docks watching the stillness of the water.  The strata of purple hues had ebbed into light blue as the sun stretched its arms.  In front of us, my uncles and the crew of the catamaran were loading crates of food and drink into the boat.  One by one we walked gingerly across the thin plank.  The boat bobbed lightly as each of us hopped aboard.  Skerdi looked behind him at the city and then forward to the sea ahead.  He was the last to board.  A few of our company of friends and family stayed inside the cabin,  embracing its illusion of safety, while the rest sat atop, on deck, to feel the breeze.  Skerdi sat beside me and then pulled down his baseball cap and donned his sunglasses.  He interlocked his fingers with mine.

“Where are we going?”  He asked me as I smoothed out the sunblock across the bridge of his nose.

“To Hagakhak Island.  It means cackle or loud laughter.”

“Does anyone live there?”

“Yes, I think, but only a very few people.  Some say the island is haunted by witches.”

The boat pushed off from the dock and headed east into the sun.  A crewman balanced his way forward to the very front of the boat.  He read the waters as one would a book, inferring depth and activity below the surface of waves and ripples.  Then he would signal his interpretations to the captain.  We slowly navigated the calm waters and enjoyed the labyrinth of mangroves and islets.  Coconut and palm trees surrounded us.  As the sun rose and penetrated the sheet of water, we could see live corals where orange fish darted in and out.  Inside the cabin, and on deck, many slept.  Skerdi and I let the gentle wind cool us as we enjoyed the vista.

“Are you hungry?”

Skerdi nodded.  ”How long will the ride take?”

“About two hours.”

“Two hours and I’ll be in the water just like Robinson Crusoe.”

I smiled at his childlike dream. “Yes.  Until then, would you like something to eat?”

“Yes,” he said as kissed my fingertips lightly, “another mango please.”