Three. It is the number of times I’ve changed residence in my almost 49 (I say almost, because my natal day is still a few months away) years on this planet.
My earliest recollection of one of those moves was when I was but three years of age, a full year before my sister was born. From my domineering uncle’s house in Moriones where my parents lived after their marriage, we moved into an apartment complex along Juan Luna street — a place which, later in life, I would fondly refer to as the “old neighborhood”.
A mere 5-minute walk away from that cramped little birdcage (that’s what my mom used to call it) along the narra tree-lined Moriones street, the spacious apartment was where we stayed the longest, and where two more — a sister and a brother — were added to the family.
It was, in 27 years, a place where memories — both good and bad — and life-long friendships were made… and ultimately lost.
Unfortunately, like every aging wooden structures in an ever-changing social environment, the old neighborhood had to give way to progress. It was soon torn down by a developer who brought the entire one-hectare property (the tenants weren’t given the first option to purchase the property by the original owners) and turned it into a uppity-class townhouse.
Why anyone in their right mind would want to build, much less buy, an expensive townhouse in this traffic-choked, and vendor-infested part of the city is beyond me.
Our next move brought us to the other side of Recto avenue where, for the first time, we lived, slept and ate inside a multi-level concrete structure.
It was a big step, so to speak, for everyone in the family as we were all used to having our feet planted firmly on terra firma. Now, after almost three decades, we found ourselves literally looking down on the world from the fifth floor of a concrete box.
But it wasn’t all that bad though, that three-bedroom unit where we lived for twelve years was witness to major changes in our lives as well. Job promotions, trips abroad and, for the three of us siblings — marriage.
To be continued…
three only??!! wow… Not counting the times I was in the US studying and/or shacking up w/ then-bf-now-hubby, I’ve lived in — omg am I counting right — TEN!! different houses/apartments! I think you’ve given me inspiration for a series of blog posts, LoL! :p
all of us have fond memories of old neighborhoods. mine is a tree-lined street in the province–and an old house in sampaloc that was eventually dwarfed by high-rises. so you’re leaving the street taken over by those pesky vendors?
Manila Boy ka pala talaga. I moved to 3 other countries aside from Pinas
On another note, here if you move too frequently, your credit rating is affected kasi baka hustler ka who drifts from place to place hehe
where are you moving? QC na?
Sa Pinas, we still live in the same house and with migration of the southern folks to the north, there’s been squatting already in the vicinity. Not a good sign.
But it’s something to behold your birthplace, where you grow up and memories of the past.
Lynne> My my, you are (or were) a regular gypsy weren’t you? It would be a great piece for a blog post I agree. What are you waiting for? go do it!!
Anna> Ay, so true. The place, or places that we’ve lived in always brings up memories of that certain period in our lives…
BW> Yup, I’m a true-blue Manila born and bred guy, hehe. Three countries? now THAT is impressive. Ako, the farthest move I made was no more than 500 meters from my last residence, haha.
Atticus> Shhh! Inuunahan mo naman yung post ko eh. Hintayin mo na lang yung part two, hehe.
TruBlue> Hirap nga dito sa tin eh, you cannot leave a place alone, even for just a few months, without somebody taking over (illegally pa ha?) the property. And if you try to eject them, they would either claim ownership (complete with paper pa kuno) or that they’ve been living in the place for more than one generation na… tsk tsk