I always had trouble with my birthdays. I don’t like it when I get unwarranted, meritless attention for the simple fact that I was lucky enough to be born. I don’t like people greeting me on my birthday. I don’t know if I’m annoyed, or maybe I’m just too overjoyed I can’t handle it or maybe I’m just a little too overwhelmed but every 29th of November, there’s a 24 hour lump in my throat I can’t get rid of. I will and can cry at the slightest provocation.
And then I decided, I’ll just travel on my birthdays.
Traveling will keep me busy. I have kept my birth date off on most of my social media so people won’t get prompted on the anniversary of me gracing the earth. And since I’m too cheap for data roaming, I am shielded for the day from the rare strays —those weirdos who love me the most and don’t need notifications — who greet me on facebook/instagram. Traveling is a buffer. Traveling is that dear friend who hands me a beer, pats me on the back and say things like “this too shall pass.”
I have been out of the country during the last half a decade during my birthdays. In 2015, my auntie took me on my first trip to Las Vegas. I discovered I have an amazing small family in the states and that I am not a Las Vegas person. The year before that, we were in Tsukiji and eating the best tuna I had in my life. As a sashimi person, the experience was ‘nakakabuo ng pagkatao.’ The year before that, I spent my coldest birthday in Korea. The year before that, the same aunt who took me to Las Vegas took me to Jollibee — Anaheim — where I had a 2 piece chicken joy for my brithday lunch. The year before that, I was in Krabi, enjoying my time with elephants in Thailand.
The years of traveling on my birthday has been good to me.
I don’t know if I got too busy or I was just not in the mood, but weeks before the dreaded day, I had nothing planned. No tickets bought, no itineraries drafted or just no desire to move. I want to rest, stay still, and be with family.
But I want to be somewhere cold. Baguio it is.