I knew I was in for some 'strange things mystifying' upon arrival in the United States when a 40-year-old American introduced a little girl beside him as his aunt. Seeing my puzzled expression, he said in an embarrassed tone, " Oh you know how it is with stepfamilies."
Later, when I remarked how sweet those 70-something couples looked, holding hands and looking into each other's eyes, I was told they were actually newly weds. "That must be their third marriage," my companion said, a privy to the affairs of the seniors whom she meets in assisted living apartments.
If Filipinos sound apologetic when they declare that "Life begins at forty", Americans are nonchalant about their age. To them every day is a new beginning.
When I started dating after my divorce, I became aware that a great deal of American men are adrenaline junkies. They're into extreme sports, activities that require a last confession before jumping off from a plane or a cliff. They make it a point of telling you how they work out in the gym at lunch break, play baseball, go mountain bike racing, rollerblading, skiing, drag racing, kayaking, hand-gliding, and scuba diving.
As I grew up playing nothing but piko and jackstone back in the Philippines, it was a real challenge to measure up to the typical American male. One time I summoned enough courage to ride on my date's Harley. I thought one's extender and artificial eyelashes could easily get blown off by the wild ride. Forget about doing your hair before a date with such indefatigable alpha males. Wear a helmet, leather jacket and leather boots.
Or fancy this: I was asked by another date to attend his sister's birthday in a seafood restaurant along Puget Sound. It turned out we would be riding in a limousine with his mother and siblings who took turns asking about my particulars. Suddenly, I recalled a friend's experience with her English fiance's mother, a magistrate, who said there was no way she would allow her son to marry "a middle aged woman with three kids from a Third World country teeming with maggots."
The main problem with dating American men is that they expect you to sleep with them on your first date or after a few dates. (Actually, I hear that Filipinos in the US are fast catching up). Usually they ask you after dinner if you would like to see their house. If you were brought up in the Maria Clara tradition you would politely decline. But if you're the adventurous type, you may go along on the pretext of finding out what the fellow is like in his own turf. But of course, his house is all spick and span because he has anticipated your coming. His previous and current girlfriends' photos are all inside his drawer. His bathroom is full of scented candles. His cat is meowing outside. Yet somehow, a few visits to their homes make you a bit wiser.
For instance, you now think that men who keep cats are too independent. You consequently tell friends to beware of some types: A jogger? (He gives you the run-around.) A trashman? (He dumps you.) A clockmaker? (He two-times you.) An elevator operator? (He lets you down.)
Choosing to remain an optimist, you ask the seemingly happily married couples the secret of their lasting union. Some answer along the lines of: "Oh we lived together for 24 years before we got married."
Twenty four years? Are you serious? Does that take that long to know for certain if you are compatible, before you commit? Sorry but I do not subscribe to the Home Depot mentality of returning goods you have used after a month or so with no questions asked.
Somehow, the Filipino traditions of panilbihan and pamanhikan do not make sense anymore. I look back at my grandparents' golden wedding anniversary and recently, my elder brother's silver wedding anniversary and wonder if I could live up to their example.
I realize that love means different things to different people and that they do not necessarily marry the one they love. I guess we have become complex, fickle, cynical. We can blame the maddening culture or the angst-ridden times but still we have to give our best shot each time love beckons.
Later, when I remarked how sweet those 70-something couples looked, holding hands and looking into each other's eyes, I was told they were actually newly weds. "That must be their third marriage," my companion said, a privy to the affairs of the seniors whom she meets in assisted living apartments.
If Filipinos sound apologetic when they declare that "Life begins at forty", Americans are nonchalant about their age. To them every day is a new beginning.
When I started dating after my divorce, I became aware that a great deal of American men are adrenaline junkies. They're into extreme sports, activities that require a last confession before jumping off from a plane or a cliff. They make it a point of telling you how they work out in the gym at lunch break, play baseball, go mountain bike racing, rollerblading, skiing, drag racing, kayaking, hand-gliding, and scuba diving.
As I grew up playing nothing but piko and jackstone back in the Philippines, it was a real challenge to measure up to the typical American male. One time I summoned enough courage to ride on my date's Harley. I thought one's extender and artificial eyelashes could easily get blown off by the wild ride. Forget about doing your hair before a date with such indefatigable alpha males. Wear a helmet, leather jacket and leather boots.
Or fancy this: I was asked by another date to attend his sister's birthday in a seafood restaurant along Puget Sound. It turned out we would be riding in a limousine with his mother and siblings who took turns asking about my particulars. Suddenly, I recalled a friend's experience with her English fiance's mother, a magistrate, who said there was no way she would allow her son to marry "a middle aged woman with three kids from a Third World country teeming with maggots."
The main problem with dating American men is that they expect you to sleep with them on your first date or after a few dates. (Actually, I hear that Filipinos in the US are fast catching up). Usually they ask you after dinner if you would like to see their house. If you were brought up in the Maria Clara tradition you would politely decline. But if you're the adventurous type, you may go along on the pretext of finding out what the fellow is like in his own turf. But of course, his house is all spick and span because he has anticipated your coming. His previous and current girlfriends' photos are all inside his drawer. His bathroom is full of scented candles. His cat is meowing outside. Yet somehow, a few visits to their homes make you a bit wiser.
For instance, you now think that men who keep cats are too independent. You consequently tell friends to beware of some types: A jogger? (He gives you the run-around.) A trashman? (He dumps you.) A clockmaker? (He two-times you.) An elevator operator? (He lets you down.)
Choosing to remain an optimist, you ask the seemingly happily married couples the secret of their lasting union. Some answer along the lines of: "Oh we lived together for 24 years before we got married."
Twenty four years? Are you serious? Does that take that long to know for certain if you are compatible, before you commit? Sorry but I do not subscribe to the Home Depot mentality of returning goods you have used after a month or so with no questions asked.
Somehow, the Filipino traditions of panilbihan and pamanhikan do not make sense anymore. I look back at my grandparents' golden wedding anniversary and recently, my elder brother's silver wedding anniversary and wonder if I could live up to their example.
I realize that love means different things to different people and that they do not necessarily marry the one they love. I guess we have become complex, fickle, cynical. We can blame the maddening culture or the angst-ridden times but still we have to give our best shot each time love beckons.
