An ode to beautiful sentences and Holy Week summers
I share one of my fave writers and reflect on Holy Week summers as a kid.
I’m a fan of Frank Bruni’s weekly newsletter in The New York Times. Apart from his writing, my favorite feature is called For the Love of Sentences, where subscribers send in the best lines they’ve recently read from published articles. Here’s an example:
In The Herald-Mail, Tim Rowland analyzed Bed Bath & Beyond’s closing of scores of stores: “Even in the best of times, no one paid full price for anything at BBB due to its ubiquitous discount mailers. In fact, there are aboriginal tribes in Malaysia whose only contact with the outside world is a 20 percent off coupon for Bed Bath & Beyond.” Also: “On the very rare chance you didn’t have one, the person in front of you in line would invariably try to pass one (or six) off on you, whether you wanted them or not. For years, BBB coupons were the zucchini of retail.” (George Gale, Peru, N.Y.)
And a somber one:
And in The Times, Margaret Renkl examined the nature of grief: “For six months my father was dying, and then he kept dying for two years more. I was still working and raising a family, but running beneath the thin soil of my own life was a river of death.” (David Calfee, Lake Forest, Ill.)
Frank’s brilliance merited some casual stalking on Google, where I learned that he used to be a food critic for The New York Times, similar to one of my writing idols,
. In September 2019, he wrote a piece in The Guardian recalling that experience. The entire piece is a delight to read but I wanted to share this excerpt of how, once restaurants began recognizing him, the staff became overly solicitous:Toward the end of my fourth and final meal at Nobu 57 I returned from the bathroom with a dark splotch on the front of my shirt. Embarrassed, I explained to my companions that I had been klutzy with the soap dispenser. A few minutes later, when our eavesdropping waitress brought the bill, she announced that two glasses of white wine weren't on it. They'd been removed as an apology for the way the bathroom soap dispenser malfunctioned.
"But it didn't malfunction," I assured her. "I malfunctioned. I banged way too hard on it and was leaning too close to it."
I didn't insist that the wine be added back and instead covered its cost with an extra-large tip. I got up to leave.
As I walked toward the door, a manager intercepted me.
"Sir," he said, "I want to apologise about our soap dispenser."
I corrected him. Exonerated him. Told him he really, really needn't worry.
He handed me his card. "Even so," he said, "if you have trouble getting the shirt clean, please contact me. We can pay for dry cleaning or for a new shirt."
At this point I felt the need to draw attention to a crucial detail that suggested that the splotch would come out easily.
"It's soap," I said.
To which the manager added, with audible pride: "And it is Kiehl's."
It is Holy Week in the Philippines where the predominantly Catholic population is divided into two camps: those who stay put in their homes and those who vacation to take advantage of the longest streak of non-working days in the entire calendar year. In my case, I have never once taken a holiday, being part of a generation (and household) in which Holy Week was a religiously big deal. When I was younger, there would be nothing on TV (and no internet yet!) and, as my cousins and I would be shipped to Bataan under the care of my grandparents during the summer, there were no malls, not that they would be open elsewhere anyways. Instead, we would hear masses, all longer than usual because of the additional ceremonies involved (washing of the feet, the procession of the blessed sacrament, etc.) and join the candle-lit procession across town. During this time, the elders would admonish us kids from doing anything remotely joyful, hushing us with “Patay si Jesus” (Jesus is dead), which in my later years I’ve come to appreciate with ironic humor. But back then, the mood was funereal and everyone wore their piety second only to the Mater Dolorosa.
It was also in Bataan where I would see the self-flagellation ritual, called gapang, where shirtless hooded men would march under the heat, whipping their bloodied backs with bamboo as penitence. Once we hear the distant woosh and clacker of the bamboo sticks, crowds would line up the street, and my cousins and I would hurry up far enough to the second floor and gawk from behind the capiz window as it’s not uncommon for blood to spatter the gallery of watchers.
Today, I still choose to stay at home during Holy Week—mainly to avoid the tourist crowd—even if its religious significance has lost its meaning to me. It’s also amazing to think how guilt and subservience were such major instructional forces they went on even after a century of Spanish colonial rule. Still, the idea of Holy Week does not need to be inherently religious. In a secular way, it can be a beautiful invitation to slow down and contemplate the world around us, regardless of our religious beliefs.