I am surrounded by people the whole day. It is rare that I have a moment alone. If ever I do, even for 30 minutes, I celebrate it with an ostentatious cup of coffee, or an overpriced cocktail, just because.
But before children, lovers, parents to take care of, and the bustle of people who surround me daily, there was that apartment in San Juan. It was in that tiny studio unit along Ortega, followed by a light pink three-storey townhouse from the 1990s where I truly felt alone.
Rather, alone, but not lonely—I lived with two other friends in the townhouse; we hung out, but most of the time, we respectfully kept to ourselves and our own adventures. In the studio where I lived by myself, I had Bronson, a beat-up ginger tomcat I picked up from Café Ysabel who faithfully waited for me by the door, every evening.
Eighteen years ago, the P. Guevarra/Wilson side of San Juan wasn’t the highly populated, traffic-riddled area that was chock-full of Insta-worthy cafes and bars, bubble tea shops, and cool restaurants, not even a 7-11. Back then, it had the old faithful Gloria Maris, Barrio Fiesta, Alex III (you could feel the oldness as you entered), Little Store on the Hill, and a smattering of mom-and-pop groceries (plus a liquor store that stayed open past 10).
If you needed a semi-decent but cheap bar to meet a blind date, there was only Moksha at the corner of Wilson, which was easy to escape from if you didn’t like the guy!
With the absence of GPS and smart phones, the streets of San Juan—which resembled intestines with one-way directions that changed daily—would drive an outsider mad. The cabbies hated me. Mariano Marcos had this crazy intersection of six different streets, and with its broken stoplight, it was up to you and your guardian angel to safely cross it.
My neighbor at F. Calderon ran for Barangay Captain in 2007. He gave out campaign fliers with a comprehensive and clearly drawn map of San Juan with callouts on the one-way streets. He won the election.
There were no third-wave coffee shops back then, of course, but there was Café Ysabel, which had become my default kapihan after a long day’s work. Of all the San Juan haunts, it is this 100-year-old house/resto that I miss the most. I have a third eye, and I absolutely knew that the restrooms and cake display areas of Ysabel were terribly haunted. In the dry-cleaning shop across it, the security guard would chat me up and say that he’d see ghostly figures through the windows at 3AM!
Café Ysabel was the place where my friends took their other friends, dates, lovers, and their mistresses! No one cared, and you can smoke inside. Only the faded murals would know your secrets. Even architect-historian Augusto “Tito Toti” Villalon waxed poetic about it in his newspaper columns, as he lived in the equally old house across the street.
Today, Café Ysabel exists no more (just a stunted version of itself on another street), and was replaced by the Corner House. It is hip and architecturally celebrated, but its MC Escher-like stairs terrify me and my middle-aged legs.
I wonder if the ghosts of the old Café Ysabel are disoriented with its new environs and would go up and down the stairs of Corner House, confused and lost at night.
I now work in San Juan, but like an old friend who suddenly changed temperaments, I hardly recognize it. Sometimes, when I cross the street from the museum I consult with, I get a glimpse of the old corner where I used to live, and waves of nostalgia would wash over me. But then the blare of car horns along P. Guevarra would snap me back into reality.
Rachelle Medina 