finding the balut man

It started with street food. Or maybe it started when they both smiled at each other for the first time, under the guise of serious work. Somehow, even if they were strangers, nothing felt strange, at all.

The day went on as if nothing extraordinary happened, as if two souls who were very much alike and fated to meet, did not actually fulfill their destiny, all just by being at the right place, at the right time.

Strange. Peculiar.

As strangers go, he was familiar. And his very presence calmed her. His very presence made everything feel right. Did this happen before, or after, they got to talking?

Then the smile progressed to talking, over shared cappuccinos and croissants. Smiling, giving in to shared laughter, over good food and more coffee. Smiling, laughing, talking, more eating. Seemingly innocuous everyday things that lead to magic when…when what, exactly?

What exactly lends that one person the ability to spark magic to these everyday, ordinary things? It seems so powerful, letting just one person have that effect over you. Making one-person matter over all the rest. Appointing a singular, yet all encompassing feeling to just one-person. Who are we to figure out answers to age-old questions?

On to shared food- the ultimate bonding activity. Shared laughter progressing to shared meals.

And looking for the balut man. Seemingly ordinary sentiments, statements- looking for the balut man, weird food stories, work rants and dreams. Playing each others’ tourist. And it’s all thanks to food.

His adorable accent matters more than the fact that my English is better than his. I never thought I’d say this- so what if his grammar is bad? I’ve had worse conversations with better English-speaking people. Who’d have thought I’d be thinking of balut so fondly? The man who screams selling his wares, who I randomly hear out on the streets. The balut man, reminiscent of all good things that I deserve. The story of the balut man who made me remember my dreams, the one who opened doors for me to walk through unafraid again.

Thank God for street-food, Pinoy-style.

(As opposed to living life with low-involvement. No matter if the balut man passes through and does not stay. What matters is that he came, and stayed for awhile.)