By that I meant the Basilica of St. Martin of Tours in Taal, Batangas. I recall a senator once telling me to not miss a chance to visit this church, especially after its lighting, frescoes and tromp l’oeils were improved and restored. A visit here, she said, felt like being transported somewhere in Europe when religion and priests still reigned supreme and a spiritual life was valued.
I made the pilgrimage with my siblings. Our sister Evelyn planned it to the hour, seeming like a military marshal as she set the scheduled time of departure (7 a.m.), restroom stops on the South Expressway while travelling to and from our destination, length of church visitation, a hefty lunch featuring the hallmarks of provincial cuisine—and, in the event of extra time, a side tour of Greenfield City in Laguna to check out the cafe-patisserie Baby Pat.
Our brother Dennis was designated driver for the southward trip. Our youngest sister Gigi took the wheel on our return to Manila. Chatter among those on the passenger seats was at a maximum, myself not having seen my siblings for over a month. Earlier, we thought that the trip might have to be postponed due to the steep increase in fuel prices. But I argued that we had to push through given the uncertainty about how long the fuel crisis would last. “Seize the day” was my attitude.
We missed our exit on the expressway, despite the assistance of Waze, as we were in the thick of conversing. We had to take narrow roads and tight detours to get to the basilica. This gave us a chance to admire the shock of bougainvillea blooms in the gardens of many houses. A sister wondered if we could stop to buy a pot of the orange flowers—an unusual color for the summer flora. Her thought remained a wish.
Contrary to Evelyn’s information that there would be ample parking space on the church patio, Dennis had to look for other space. Meanwhile, he told us to get off the car and explore the church while there was time. We arrived at the close of a nuptial mass and witnessed a comely bride and her groom being photographed at the massive door.
I didn’t expect my jaws to drop when we entered this building called the biggest Catholic church in Asia. We walked toward the altar, stopping to light votive candles to the saints, looking at the statues of St. Veronica who wiped the face of Jesus and of the Christ carrying the cross. We sat at the pews parallel to the rows occupied by another wedding party, including godmothers, awaiting the next nuptial mass. Commenting on the length of the middle aisle, our sister deadpanned that it was well worth the wedding preps: “Sulit ang maglakad sa altar dito. Ang haba ng lalakarin mo!” Bride and father marched in a stately way to the entire tune of Bach’s “Air on the G String.”
From where we were, we looked up to the dome and squinted in order to see clearly the paintings of the Four Evangelists (Matthew, Mark, Luke and John) and, in the center, of Jesus ascending into heaven. A sister pointed out the statue of St. Martin on the left side of the altar. If I am correct, it depicts him seeing Jesus wearing the cloak with which the then Bishop Martin had clothed a beggar.
We wandered around, admiring even the women in purple T-shirts marked “Visita Iglesia” after they finished their prayers and got ready to step out for their lunch.
We felt our own midday meal calling us, too, and we didn’t want to dig into and eat from our bag of pasalubong of cashew nuts and espasol. The vendors in the patio guided us to Cuchara y Tenedor: Comida del Taal just across from the basilica, joining a line of heritage houses with shuttered capiz windows. The restaurant interior was air-conditioned, a respite from the noontime humidity.
Evelyn had earlier emailed us the menu. We set our minds on a dish of fried tawilis, which was unavailable (still being grown in the waters of Taal Lake). Dennis settled for grilled maliputo with buttered veggies. I split a Caesar’s salad with a sister and an order of tender tapang Taal with atchara. Another sister ordered a vegetable stew called bulanglang (laswa in Ilonggo and dinengdeng in Ilokano) which was shared by all (we were five). The portions were generous, and the waiting staff attentive.
For more pasalubong, I ducked into Taal Tees, purchased suman ng Taal (we discovered how good it tasted fried or steamed) and tapang Taal for the husband waiting impatiently in Baguio.
We made good time, so we hied off to Greenfield City and found Baby Pat with an array of ensaymada wrapped in technicolor papel de Japon before us. I chose the classic and the Gruyère cheese flavors for giving away. Still with stimulated appetites, my siblings and I buckled down to try three other flavors and a slice of Nelusko cake. The attending staff informed me that the stock of Gruyère was imperiled by the war in the Middle East (which was triggered by the US-Israeli attack on Iran last Feb. 28).
It was healthy eating followed by pastries and a diet soda. Somebody forgot her Lenten fasting. Good there was still time for worship. CS
This piece was updated to correct an erroneous detail on a pastry wrapper. — ED.
