Street Party

It was my first time to wander around the neighborhood at that time of the night when my sister, who’s been staying with me this school break, and I decided to check out the campaign rally of one of the presidential aspirants happening across the street. And I’m glad we did, because it felt like there’s a street party going on. The crowd, oblivious to rerouted vehicles furiously honking their horns in frustration and motorbikes slinking and snaking their way out of the area, paid scant attention to the series of ho-hum-we’ve-already-heard-that-before posturing of the candidates and went alive only when a celebrity goes up on stage. Food stalls were everywhere: popcorn, peanuts, yakult, pork barbecue, bottled water, fishballs, taho, sago’t gulaman, and ice cream made up the gustatory delights of the evening. Fireworks were lit up several times, adding sparkles to that festive night. Lulled by the false exuberance of that street party, I almost believed in the frothy assurances uttered by each candidate. Almost, but not quite.