Downtime

One thing I’ve learned these past years in bringing friends together: planning trips on a whim, on a joyful, last-minute impulse, often gets things done.  My high school classmates and I did this when we planned a trip to Taiwan in 2024. During a christening after-party, we agreed to book cheap flights in February for a trip that would happen in September. The trip eventually materialized, except that Daphny and Vanessa had to rebook their tickets due to other work commitments. That cost them more in the end, but, at that point, they were far too committed to the out-of-town reunion and feared they’d miss out on all the fun. I look back at the trip now with fondness and joy. How far we’ve come, literally, from our Marbel hometown.  

Planning is good. What makes it bad is doing it over-the-top. For men and women in their late thirties, a category that sounds older more than how it actually feels like (I’m of the 28-year old mindset that I get surprised when people drop the po/opo on me), over-planning leads to over-analysis. A wealth of valid excuses not to leave home exists and can be deployed successfully: children, meetings, work activities, other personal commitments. 

And then there’s the sense of exhaustion after a long week at work, which is just as valid. I feel that by Saturday, I’ve reached my quota for human interaction. I want to enjoy the comforts of home, clean my fountain pens, play around with my typewriter, play some music, and tackle my tsundoku. I replenish my social battery in silence and solitude. 

But there’s a time for everything and a season for every activity under heaven. Seasons of impulsive decision-making are triggered by the environment. Case in point: sitting together with like-minded friends at a birthday party last week. Lining up to get food on the buffet table, I told my classmate Katty, “I miss the beach.” She said she felt that, too—and could she bring her kids along? Perhaps the beach was merely a pretext for a kind of hunger for rekindling old friendships: I do miss my high school classmates and am curious about how they are doing. They live nearby but we hardly ever see each other.

Which brings me to another thing I’ve learned in bringing people together: adding a personal touch to invitations is more effective than impersonal chat group invitations. I had very little expectations that they’d agree to go at all: three people was the bar I’d set for the getaway. But I was surprised to hear Ryan and James and Wendy agree to come. Several people were on the fence, and others replied they could not make it, deploying the reasons I’d written about, including an elective surgery one classmate would undergo. I asked Willie to make reservations for rooms in a resort in Glan, Sarangani. Willie possesses an unlimited reserve of energies for planning these things. I have ideas; he executes them, with brilliant ideas of his own. There’s another lesson here: it’s good to have someone like Willie to put everything together. The room reservations, the food to bring, the carpooling arrangements. 

 

On a Friday after-work afternoon, I found myself alone at the resort. Not entirely: there was a family sitting quietly by the coast, waiting for their ride home.

My classmates would arrive many hours later. They were at work, finishing last-minute tasks. I took a luxurious nap inside the two-story house. The noise of the airconditioner lulled me to REM sleep. 

When I awoke, I looked out the balcony and saw Daphny standing by the shore.  

“Gutom na ko,” I told her, as we walked along the coast, enjoying the last rays of sunset. “Let’s find something to eat.” 

We did not bring any food, and the resort’s restaurant was closing early.  August is downtime for tourism.

Willie, Katty (with husband Dunn and kids Mark and Addie), Angeli, Ryan (with wife Kathleen), James (with wife KC), and Wendy would be bringing the meals and drinks. And many stories, which would keep us awake until midnight.