I just got the answer. The coordinator from hell calls us his "Children." This despite the fact that he knows we are well over the legal drinking age, we can frigging vote, marry without parental consent and all, and he insists on calling us "children." Barely have we swallowed our food and he's up and about to light up his ten thousandth cigarette for the day, and he announces: "We're going in five minutes." In all fairness, I must say that he is very efficient with his job. He's like a professor I had in college -- he knows everyone in the whole town, the whole country maybe.

"Why did Bob cross the road?"

"He's going to shake hands with the mayor's cousin's friend from the university across town who knows this poet who wrote something about mermaids and herons or something."

He can be very convincing, but right now, I do not want to be convinced. Call me an ungrateful brat, but I really value my right to privacy and freedom of walking down unfamiliar streets, alone.

I really find it revolting that I cannot spend some time exploring things on my own. I don't especially like it that I have to sneak out, like I'm a fugitive on the lam. The one time I was able to go out, it was lunch time. Shops in distant provinces close down for lunch. It's like being in Spain, where siesta is taken very very seriously. It's like the whole city shuts down while they eat lunch and talk and lounge about. It's a good thing really: to be able to focus on your food, to savor each activity, a one-track mind. But for someone who's spent her whole life in the city, where shops are open 24 hours, where everyone rushes to appointments and surges through the traffic as though the world would end if their cheeseburgers didn't arrive within five minutes, then this is an abomination. This is an affront to my sense of "convenience." Now I understand that people here are probably better off, less harrassed, with less pressure. I think I prefer chaos. I live in disorder and total disregard for time.

So I walked into this department store at a quarter to twelve noon. Tops and Bottoms resembles Plaza Fair, COD, or any of the early incarnations of Henry Sy's malls in the 80s. There are clothes, shoes, transistor radios, the usual stuff to be had in the mall, only more assembly line oriented. The guard asked me to leave my backpack at the counter. I haven't been there five minutes and the lunch bells sounded. The iron grills were being rolled down. People were asked to finish their purchases. They were closing for lunch. Just my luck.

I walked out and most of the shops were closed. I ended up having coffee and some cake at the Silliman Avenue Cafe -- or Sacs, as they called it. Great place. Their chairs are carved wood which bear their name, their china announce it, their lamp glows and it has "Silliman Avenue Cafe" in little curlicues. If there's one thing for sure, they won't let you forget where you are. You must try their raspberry tea while reading a book and Sting blaring from the loudspeakers. Absolutely fab.

That is, until the segment producer from hell showed up. The van was waiting downstairs and I had to down my coffee and be herded back into the hotel. Really, I like cable. But I didn't go to Dumaguete so i can freeze in the airconditioned room and watch "The Truth about cats and dogs." I love Janeane Garofalo and all, but really. I didn't come here to sleep. Drats. And it was supposed to be my free day.

Friday, we climbed a mountain. We could smell Cebu from across the waters. We also rode this tricycle on a dark, bumpy road by the sea, which the mayor forgot about. You could stare all you want and there's nothing but black and the sound of waves crashing against the stone walls. Fear factor, fear factor. Then when we got to El Camino, Carlos Agassi was there to perform. God frigging Carlos Agassi. Bah. I wouldn't be caught dead within a hundred miles of that guy.

Okay, I'll stop ranting now. They're waiting for us. Bummer.