It’s only now that I’ve noticed how often I’ve opted to travel with André Aciman. On a brief trip to Cebu last week, I took this anthology with me, mainly for the Edward W. Said essay. (Is there a more relevant writer to read these days?)
But as soon as I opened this slim volume at the airport’s pre-departure area, I found myself falling in love with Andre Aciman’s lines once again.
“Does a place become one’s home because this is where one read the greatest number of books about other places?” He ponders.
Cebu sports a different look and feel each time I visit. My trips to this city have dwindled down to once-a-year. To think I used to spend months there for work and music-related projects.
But to paraphrase Aciman who wrote, “…even if I don’t disappear from a place, a place disappears from me,” I would write this of Cebu: “Even if I disappear from a place, a place never disappears from me.”
It is, of course, because of the people that I still consider it one of the capital cities of my life. Second to Dipolog, Cebu is where I read the greatest number of books about other places; and though it often seems unrecognizable these days, it is home for the aforementioned reasons of books and people.
The Book-Butterfly 