Breakfast

Travel days are not normal days. While I’m in Italy I have breakfast in a pistacceria, where people, dressed in their work clothes, say “Buongiorno,” then: “Un caffè, per favor.” Caffè typically means an espresso, a small volume of concentrated coffee which takes some getting used to. But I've liked it. Weeks earlier, a barista in Marbel—my hometown—cautiously warned me, “Gamay lang na siya, Sir, ha.” She apparently got a lot of flak for the small coffee sizes.

I noticed that nothing savory is eaten; heavy meals are reserved for lunch. In Italy, breakfast means coffee and pastry. People stand in a bar, sip their coffee, and off they go to wherever they need to be. There are tables around if you have time: people in Milan, Rome, and Naples seem to have a lot of time to kill. Adding cream or milk to coffee is acceptable around this time, but not after lunch—a story told to me by my friend Luther who received curious looks in Milan when he ordered a cappuccino in the afternoon.

I normally skip breakfast. My physiology allows me to get through the morning with a cup of coffee—a pour-over, a French press, or an espresso. I drink coffee for the taste and for the stimulation. This is providential. I’m not passionate about toasting bread, frying longganisa, or cooking rice while the sun is rising and people are still emerging from sleep. Mornings don’t find me particularly hungry. If I must eat—a morning workout or some tedious physical activity for work or a future arrangement that does not allow for a later meal—I will have brunch or a heavy lunch.

Before heading out to the pasticceria, my friend Jef shows me how to make a proper moka pot—an Italian friend had taught him. Prior to my lessons with Jef, I’d seen videos on YouTube, but they add too many specific details, making the instructions more complicated than an analytical chemistry laboratory manual. So Jef keeps things simple for me: fill the bottom chamber with water just below the safety valve, add medium-fine grounds of coffee to the basket, and close the pot, but not too tightly. I ask, “Do I have to tamp the grounds?” to which he says, “I don’t.” The water must boil under low heat; you’ll know it’s ready if you can smell the coffee, beckoning you to taste and see that it is good.

 


We walk to La Siciliana Roma, along Via Cipro. It’s a perfect day—the sun shines on this spring day, a light cool wind pushes us along. In Rome, even the dogs are always smiling.

 

I have caffè con panna (coffee with whipped cream), Manong has caffè pistacchioso (pistachio coffee), Jef has marocchino. Jef orders these on our behalf: he is fluent in Italian. It’s the first time I’d ever seen a marrochino. There’s a dusting of unsweetened cocoa powder at the bottom, a strong shot of espresso, a layer of frothed milk foam, and a final dusting of cocoa powder on top. We share farcito pistacchio (pistachio-stuffed pastry) and breccia miele e noci (honey and walnut “breccia”). White powder is all over my clothes and mouth. The food is so good. 

What a blessing to be alive, with a hearty breakfast and good company!

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When in Rome, do as the Romans do

The thing with travel—to make it work, to make it actually happen—is to plan ahead with reckless abandon. You don’t know what will happen in the future, except that you will grow old, your knees will give up on you, and you will eventually die. So book an overly discounted ticket months earlier, free up your calendar, and see what happens.

My college friend Jef and I did all of the above. I’d last seen him in December 2024, when Manong and I went around New Jersey and explored New York City—that “concrete jungle where dreams are made of.” Jef met us in San Antonio, where I attended a breast cancer conference. He drove us around Texas, and we met some of his family. I tell him to this day, Texas is my favorite state, a statement he finds fascinating, understanding, perhaps that pretty much of the United States remains unexplored territory for me.

I remember I was in between rounds, and he was at work in Dallas, when we made a video-call. This was in 2025. As with many of my friends, who think the same way as I do, we both came up with the idea of meeting halfway, somewhere in Europe. He did his graduate studies there; he is conversational in Italian and Spanish and French. How he learns languages quickly, how he managed to get straight unos in subjects many UP freshmen failed in despite spending the night playing table tennis in the basement with me instead of studying, are proofs of his brilliance. His face and voice brightened up, “I know a lot of good places there.” Soon, Manong would move to Sweden to do his graduate studies, and we decided he could join us in the tour as well.

The tickets were booked. Immersed in the daily routines of clinics and classes, I saw the email reminders for the upcoming trip to Rome as a kind of a reward, a beacon of hope for the future. I hadn’t been to Rome, but it was the closest city to Naples, which fascinated me more. Naples is where the characters of Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan Quartet lived and breathed. I prayed that the trip would push through. Weeks before the trip were flight cancellations because of the war in Iran.

During a brief layover in Abu Dhabi, which is geographically closer to the Strait of Hormuz than my home, a fact that led me to more intense prayers for safety, Jef sent me a photo of Manong eating carbonara in a Michelin-rated restaurant near the Airbnb that he had booked previously. (Jef asked us where we’d like to stay: in the city center, or in a typical Roman apartment, where real people lived? We chose the latter, “Gusto ko ng real.”) Jef said it was so good, meaning the food, possibly my brother’s company. I would meet them in about eight hours: a six-hour flight to Fiumicino Leonardo da Vinci Airport, then immigration, the luggage counter, and the Leonardo Express that would take me straight to Roma Termini, the central train station.

Jef asked me where I was. I said I was near the Swatch store, a few meters from the turnstile. He said I must have walked passed him.

There I saw him—my dear old friend and brother of many years—smiling, walking towards me in a blue shirt, shorts, and Islander slippers, how he had looked when we ate breakfasts together in Kalayaan Hall or walked to AS Lobby in 2004, with no care in the world that the people who were passing by were in tailored suits and shiny shoes in typical elegant Italian fashion. He remained unchanged and untouched by time. His boyish laughter could be heard in the entire hall when I said something piercingly witty. So much has changed, and yet, as he and I would realize, we are still the same people.

He asked me what I’d like to do in Rome. I said I hadn’t thought about it, so much so that I got worried I’d be asked for an itinerary during the immigration check. He mentioned coffee in a pasticceria, a walk around the Vatican, a visit to the ruins, a hike to the Monumento Nazionale a Vittorio Emanuele II, and many more, interspersed with comments about where we’d eat and have coffee. He assured me, “We’ll figure it out.”

On our way to Baldo degli Ubaldi, where we’d be staying, he said, “Oh, and I’ve made reservations to Romanè, where Manong and I had dinner. The carbonara with guancale—so so good!”

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Closest view to the Vatican

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My student Hannah weaves her Tnalak into a white coat

Teaching is my happy job. The classroom is a balancing mechanism for an otherwise tedious clinical practice in cancer care. (The heaviness in oncologic practice emanates from an almost daily proximity to death and dying. There are days when meeting five patients in a day feels like a lot. Some of my friends will agree with this.)

Interspersed in my otherwise packed Google Calendar are lectures, seminars, and meetings. Behind them are the quiet tasks I often do after clinic hours: preparing my lectures, crafting my evaluations, grading my students' research protocols. These academic routines activate another part of me that is separate, but somehow still related, to my day job. In a sense, clinic work is my vocation; teaching my avocation.

I've been teaching since the launch of the College of Medicine (COM—as in "see-oh-em") of the Mindanao State University - General Santos, a fact that gives me much pride and joy. I find it a privilege to interact with bright students who would otherwise not have the opportunities to become doctors if not for government support. Half of our student population are from underprivileged Muslim and indigenous communities, many of them from Mindanao. COM is my happy place: the faculty members I work with, the college's support staff, even the canteen owners who give me an extra helping of pastil. 

A number of our students are scholars of the CHED Medical Scholarship and Return Service (MSRS) program, part of the provisions of the Doktor Para sa Bayan law (RA 11509). One of them is Hannah Joy Bento-Billones, one of my mentees! Dr. Popoy de Vera features her in his Philippine Star Column, Edukampyon. The article is entitled, "Weaving her T’nalak into a white coat," which you can read in full. 

Here are some excerpts. Dr. de Vera writes this about Hannah:

I met Hannah Joy Bento-Billones, a bright, articulate and self-effacing medical student. A T’boli from Lake Sebu, South Cotabato, she is the first in her community to study medicine and become a doctor. I told myself her story had to be told.

He continues:

Like the T’nalak, medicine was once a distant, impossible dream. When I first told my family I wanted to pursue medicine, my father grew quiet. I sensed both fear and disappointment – not in me, but in himself, for not being able to support his daughter’s dream. His line was, “Kaya ng utak, pero hindi kaya ng bulsa.” It was beyond what we could afford. For a time, I convinced myself that maybe medicine was not meant for me – maybe it’s for my children to fulfill someday.

When MSU GenSan opened its College of Medicine, it gave me a chance to revisit a dream I had once buried. I carry the reality of being a first-generation doctor in the making – the first pure Lumad in our family to pursue this path. My education has always been supported by scholarships, from high school through college. Still, there were moments when even that was not enough. At one point, my family had to sell a portion of our land just to sustain my studies.

I am also a product of a learning environment that prioritized inclusivity. At MSU-GSC COM, opportunities were never withheld because of ethnicity, social background or life circumstances. This support, together with the MSRS program, made it possible for me to continue even in seasons when continuing felt hardest. Tey bong slamat! Thank you very much!

Today, I am one step closer to becoming a physician. I will graduate this June. This milestone is not mine alone. It reflects the impact of programs like MSRS that invest in students who are willing to return and serve. It is shared with my tribe, the T’boli, and with every Indigenous community striving to be seen and heard.

We're so proud of you and your class, Hannah! 

—

In 2012, during a day trip to Lake Sebu with classmates, I took several photos and stitched them in an imperfect panorama.

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Some books

I read with curiosity the personal diary of Dr. Michihiko Hachiya, who ran a hospital in Hiroshima, when the atomic bomb exploded. The incident would usher the end of World War Two. He did not intend for his personal diary to be published, but he wrote with vivid description and clinical accuracy. So much pain and compassion could be gleaned from his daily account. I loved that most of his entries started with descriptions of the weather. Despite his personal injuries, he kept working, ignoring otherwise sound advice to recuperate. What struck me was how much Dr. Hachiya loved his country and his people. He also loved science. In the midst of so much work of caring for the ill and dying, he continued to pursue clinical questions, particularly on why patients who did not suffer obvious physical injuries deteriorated after a few days or weeks, often of internal hemorrhage.

 

I'm preparing my creative non-fiction piece for an anthology I'm also co-editing. To get my brain pumped up, I'm turning to John Jeremiah Sullivan's Blood Horses: Notes of a Sportswriter's Son. I thoroughly enjoyed Pulphead, Sullivan's collection of essays. I'm also revisiting the Jia Tolentino's Trick Mirror, which the wonderful doctor-writer Dr. China Castillo gave me last year. So, so good. 

I'm writing all about these to remember and to inspire you, dear reader, to get away from your smartphones and read a proper book. 

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Nanay's kamuning

My mother's tiny garden is awash with fragrance. When I opened the windows at 5:30 am, I was treated to a sweet-smelling aroma coming from the garage. The source: her two kamuning trees (Murraya paniculata), offering their flowers this month of May, traditionally their blooming period. Their flowers are short-lived, which makes their existence even more special. As soon as the bees hop on them, or when rain drops fall from the sky, the flowers detach, falling to the ground like snow.

I wake my mother up from sleep. I pour her a cup of coffee and tell her to enjoy the lavish treat from the kamuning.

She tells me that she once overheard a Tagalog-speaking lady who walked by the street asking around, "Saan ang mabangong hardin?" It's a story Nanay keeps repeating.

"This is my Father's world," I sing in my soul...

And to my listening ears
All nature sings, and round me rings
The music of the spheres.
This is my Father's world:
I rest me in the thought
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas--
His hand the wonders wrought."

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Dot com

May is the month when I get reminded to renew my domain name registration. Web addresses are temporary. One rents them, until such time that the subscription expires and, if another party is interested, this web-based real estate can be owned by another entity. 

For me, the ritual of renewal signals the passing of yet another year. The domain name, bottledbrain.com, has been registered under my name since 2010. Previously, this blog could only be accessed through the address, http://bottledbrain.blogspot.com. (If you type the address in the web browser, you will be redirected to the dot com page -- which is essentially the same website.) It was Manong Ralph's gift to me. I was unemployed, penniless, still in med school. I asked Ate Kate, sister of my friend Wegs, for ideas on how to set up the domain name, and she gave me a referral to a Cebu-based company called Dreamcode Domains, to which I'm still subscribed.  A minor glitch happened in 2018: my domain name registration had expired, I couldn't contact Dreamcode Domains, and was forced to register a dot org address. 

But those were glorious days of the internet. People wrote in their websites. They got to know each other and made connections through shared interests. They left comments and linked to other sites. The internet was a growing, vibrant community. Blogs, or personal websites, in other words, were an important component of that ecosystem. That community began to crumble when social media replaced these personal websites. Many blogs became silent, or were replaced by companies that profited off them. People posted and interacted in Facebook-gated communities. Blogs were essentially forgotten. I'm oversimplifying things, of course. We know the internet's history is more nuanced than what I had outlined, but I believe that's the gist of the story: the blogs were taken over by social media, people simply got disinterested in them. 

But I kept on blogging because I like having a space in the web, a little corner I can temporarily own. Hardly anyone visits here now, I suppose. I stopped checking the web traffic years ago. I actually like the silence. 

I still check blogs. I read them regularly. I enjoy them and learn so much from them. These blogs are quiet islands in an algorithmic sea of social media falsehoods, hate, and pride. They are quiet cafes playing jazz music and serving hot coffee personally prepared by the owner, not run-of-the-mill, machine-prepared, AI-generated Americano. I'm over-dramatizing, but I hope you get what I mean.

Here's to blogs! May they survive another year! 

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