The trip west

Tuesday, May 30, 2023 and ff. 

King Philip II of Spain, glorified ironically by his victims. 

Hour One: I found a place to store my car for $274 (for two months). The owner met me on a street corner in West Oakland and guided me to a fenced-in lot. I bedecked my Subaru with a funky old car cover that I’ve had for years. Even when it was new it was fragile. This time when I tried to apply it the clear plastic came apart in my hands.  A stiff wind foiled my attempts to neatly wrap it around my bumpers. Whatever protection it provides is gravy as far as I’m concerned. 

I was hours ahead of my scheduled SFO departure so I resolved to take BART to the airport ($10.35) rather than Uber($60?). But to get to the subway station meant carrying my two backpacks through a series of homeless encampments and then down litter-strewn Telegraph Avenue. What would it mean if my sixty-day voyage began with a mugging? I had more luck than I deserved; the walk was uneventful. It was 8 p.m. when I squatted down on the plastic seats of the BART car ready for a one-hour ride to the airport. 

Hour six: My airline was EVA, a company unfamiliar to me. I learned they are somehow connected with Singapore Air. Thus the style of travel was almost luxurious. Flight time was 1:20 a.m. I had my first dollop of good luck at the reservations counter when the lady in charge of my fate took a liking to me. She gave me two excellent seat placements: for the SFO to Taipei leg I got an emergency exit row, window seat (though with no window). This allowed me to stretch out full length with my head cratered within two pillows (provided by the plane) as I leaned into the bulkhead. From this vantage point I slept a solid eight hours, or at least as good a sleep as life in a vibrating metal box can provide. 

Hour twenty: Taipei Airport, for a four-hour layover. It was mid-morning when we arrived. I hoped that jet lag would be minimal given the way my body should have recognized a familiar pattern, sleeping through the night. 

Hour twenty-four: Typhoon Betsy was somewhere off the Philippine coast I knew from  reading reports last night. I expected a delay but the aircraft took off on schedule and no mention was ever made of bad weather. My seat was on the aisle just in front of the attendant's work area so I had no one behind me. On balance it was a relatively comfortable 150 minute jog. 

Hour twenty-eight: Manila Airport (which I learned has four distinct terminals spread over a sizeable part of the city) is pathetic — more suited to 1975 than to a modern nation. It was my first confirmation that the Philippines is truly a third world dump. My bag was among the last to be offloaded — which caused me noticeable anxiety – but eventually I was free to seek out my hostel in the Makati neighborhood of Manila. 

The ritual out front of the departures area was generally familiar to me (How to not get ripped off by a taxi driver) but it had its unique aspects. Remembering my experiences in places like St. Petersburg I vowed not to be taken advantage of. {Success in this context would yield me a saving of two bucks an hour since it took me almost that long to navigate the taxi moat of Terminal Four}. 

First there were the metered hacks. My reading of the internet warned me that these guys (I did see one woman) were the most expensive option. I tried to finesse this obstacle by demanding an upfront estimate of the fare. Nothing doing. “It depends on the traffic,” one guy stated. 

Next were the guys who billed by the district. Again I tried for upfront assurances, and,again, I was rebuffed. Next I found another group of metered cabs, but they too expected me to surrender my leverage by getting in and trusting their pricing. 

Finally I espied a woman sitting at a desk with some sort of notepad on a table in front of her She was chatting up a duo of riders. I lingered within earshot of their discussion but it was too noisy to divine the substance. I reluctantly decided to check out her offering. A large green sign above and behind her head said, GRAB. This turned out to be the Filipino version of Uber. The internet had informed me that 300 pesos (a little less than six dollars) was a fair levy for my ride. Ms. Grab quoted 450. At this point I had invested over 40 minutes in this venture so I caved. She did, after all, quote me a fare that I could trust. It wasn’t as much of a bargain as I hoped for but it was at least far from highway robbery. 

Hour twenty-nine. Even with the aid of Google Maps the Grab driver had a hard time finding my hostel. The traffic was solid bumper to bumper the whole way, which, I think, escalated his anxiety about transporting this solitary old man. Eventually we arrived in front of the Ola Hostel, 30 O’Campo Street, Makati, Manila. I was here for three nights.