Where in the world is Carmen of San Fernando?

In Palermo, Italy, I think.  She got there almost 20 years ago, after joining a pilgrimage to Medjugorje.  She crossed the mountains of Croatia and then sailed through the Adriatic waters into Italy.  I heard she’s now an Italian citizen and  works as a majordomo in a sprawling Italian villa.  She’s managed to bring two of her kids to Italy as permanent residents.  She’s done well.  She occasionally sends me bottles of Sicilian olive oil.   It’s top-grade olive oil, according to the Internet, and costs tens of Euros.

Carmen was my yaya.  She was one scary yaya.   She’d scold me for wetting my pants while in kindergarten, and twist my ear for soiling them after a mouthful of Serg’s chocolates.   I think I was the only kid in school that had a fresh pair of shorts tucked into his G.I. Joe lunchbox, thanks to Carmen.

And thanks to Carmen, I got to see a lot of movies.  There were mostly Nora Aunor movies, she being La Aunor’s number one fan in Pampanga (she pulled my cousin’s Vilma-loving maid’s hair out after a heated argument on who deserved to be called a Superstar).  I’m familiar with Nora’s filmography, thanks to Carmen – from her motorbike-riding superphero caper, SuperGee, to her transformation  as a serious actress in Minsa’y Isang Gamu-Gamo (“MY brother is not a pig!  My brother is not a PIG!”). 

Where no Nora movie was showing, we went Hollywood.  All the disaster movies when that genre was in vogue (Poseidon Adventure, Towering Inferno, Orca: the Killer Whale, Earthquake!).   Or, a bit of foreshadowing for her – Italian productions of Zeffirelli.  And of course, all of Mark Lester’s, who was our generation’s Justin Bieber.   We saw everything.   Even Bruce Lee.  I was skillful with Lee’s trademark weapon, the chako, thanks to Carmen.

Maybe if Carmen came into my life now, myself a kid in the new millennium, my fascination with film wouldn’t have been as great.   First, films are hard to come by these days, especially Pinoy ones.  There’s not much variety.  Plus, watching DVDs wouldn’t be as fun.  There was something about sitting in an aircon-less provincial theatre full of uncomfortable plywood seats, and noisy sugarcane-munching Capampangans that was so entrancing and delightfully peculiar (you just had to stay glued on the silver screen).  So Fellini-esque.  No, we didn’t see any Fellini back then.  But thank you, Carmen, anyway.