Etre

I realize that I am deeply moved to travel on a whim in memory of an artist or a writer. The lesser known the place, the more interesting and attractive for me. 

By Richie Hofmann l April 1, 2019, The New Yorker

This Mestiza de Sangley babe from 1875...

Among several paper and presentation topics on my plate these weeks include a paper on a pre-modern port city. I picked Manila, partly because I have not delved deeply into the Southeast Asian region since I started my globalization studies masters, and the other parts because the Philippines was colonized by Spain and the US (both countries I have lived in). 

Growing up, Filipinos have always been around me -- from as early as my childhood in Hong Kong, to growing up with them as some of my closest friends in high school back in California. When I interned as a journalist in Israel, I got close to the Filipino community in Tel Aviv, was invited to a pastor and his family’s home for dinners, and photographed for a local, neighborhood pageant. Sometimes in Barcelona I see them working at restaurants.

[An original essay I wrote for a travel writing scholarship, to the theme ‘I didn’t expect to find’. Many thanks to my friend Michael for reviewing my draft and offering really great feedback. Regardless of the results, I am content with this piece, and that frankly matters most to me. The submission is also live on the World Nomads website.]

Our tour bus pierced through the dark forest on an unusually warm, Wiltshire morning. I was an Atlantic Ocean away from the origins of this trip idea. When I first set out to travel to Stonehenge, I thought getting close could get me further away from him.

By him, I mean the person who put those ancient, enchanting rocks on my map. The curiosity he ignited in me turned into a seed that managed to weather through our breakup and sprout at the opportunity of paying the historic site a visit during my first time away in the UK. For decades, my ex dreamed of visiting Stonehenge on a Solstice. His enthusiasm was so infectious, I started dreaming too. Trouble was, my dream did not account for a journey of one.

The headlights dimmed as our bus engine came to a halt. About thirty people stepped out into the darkness. From there, it was by shuttle or by foot. I chose the latter, discovering that there was no better way to begin a pilgrimage to an ancient holy site, than to walk in the dark hours before dawn in a procession with perfect strangers. No electric light or electric wheels; just people following people.

When those iconic stones first appeared in the horizon, a chill swept through my body. The distance between imagination and reality dissolved like the last layers of darkness around me. The details of the windswept meadows, the sound of footprints on the road, and the hushed chatter nearby, suddenly filled my senses. I was waking up.

We arrived at Stonehenge just before the crack of dawn, where already, hundreds of people from near and far, gathered. I did not know where to be exactly, except somewhere inside the inner circle. A bearded man in a hooded cloak, raised his hands and led the group to join him in thanking the four cardinal directions. As soon as our brief attention was released, it felt like a celebration had officially begun.

There was no formal agenda. Each had their own way of preparing for the gradual sunrise. Several performed Wicca or pagan rituals. Some played drums, with eyes closed and shoulders swaying in rhythm. Some went barefoot to feel the cool earth beneath. A few meditated. One man formed a small circle of linked hands and sang. Most looked to the horizon with excited anticipation, like they’ve never seen the sun before.

The first sunrise of Winter was beautiful, just like every sunrise before it. The crowd, having grown to thousands by that point, gradually shuffled beyond the inner circle. More drums, more dancing, more photos, more costumes. Sage burned at every corner. The circle of linked hands with the singing man grew larger. A choir, dressed in red and made of mostly women, took to the inner circle and sang. A Welsh pagan offered me some Jack Daniels with a genuine smile of some missing teeth (I kindly declined). In the distance, a group of climate change activists foretold that only twelve Solstices remained. “Are we going to enjoy this as a celebration, or are we going to act?” The protester’s voice faded, replaced by continuing drum beats and the giggling squeals of nearby children, rolling in the grass.

What remains of Stonehenge is a ring of large, uneven shaped stones of unknown origins, debated to this day. Empty or filled, it stands as a sacred meeting place welcoming any to its ‘doors’ on all sides, regardless of where one came from and what they bore in their hearts.

Since the breakup, I ventured into the terra incognita of my emotions and unexpectedly came out into the crowded, sunlit center of Stonehenge on the shortest day of the year. Until that visit, I held onto my ex’s dream as if it was one of the last things of his that I owned. But neither he nor I owned those stones. No one did. Stonehenge belonged to anyone.

My enchantment broken like most of its stones, Stonehenge’s real magic remained intact with me. I found peace in my ex’s absence among its ruins there, and finally, the perfect resting place for my restless heart.