In Cubao

In Cubao, people sell bananas by the kilo.

In Cubao, people ask for spare change after fanning your sweating face with cardboard torn out from milkboxes.

In Cubao, people bark and dogs play strip poker.

In Cubao, blind people lead people who can see while crossing the street.

In Cubao, eating places are meeting places and meeting places are missing from street corners and center islands.

In Cubao, pink and blue are the national colors — just don’t cross the line if you don’t want to spend the night in a slammer.

In Cubao, taxis burst to flames right before your disbelieving eyes.

In Cubao, a smile could be a threat and a frown is a show of approval.

In Cubao, like all the places I’ve been, what’s up is down and what’s down stays down.

In Cubao, home is where the heart is.

In Cubao, ladies sing in croaky imitations of Streisand and emerge from shadowy cafes looking like a cross between Mengele and Pacquiao

In Cubao, only in Cubao.

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