Chapter 9: Tracing Shadows
- Rebecca Pearson
- Feb 22
- 4 min read
Ron travels to Amsterdam, and it brought back memories of my past trips that sent me scouring for the photos I took of those trips. And while going through the photos, I was struck by the memory of the B&B that we stayed at. The Barangay is owned and operated by Godwin, a Filipino, and his Dutch partner, Wimmo. How apropos that this book is partly set in the Philippines.
Chapter 9: Tracing Shadows The Barangay B&B is a convenient five-minute walk from the Amsterdam Centraal station, and in springtime, it was a pleasant stroll. It was early yet, but commuters were already streaming in and out of the station and purposely standing on their way to work. Outside the train station, there is an impressive sea of bicycles—thousands of bicycles in all shapes and colors, a scene not found anywhere else in the world.
I take a deep breath of the city air, amused by a hint of marijuana that lingers in the atmosphere. Already, I miss Raine. It feels strange not having her walking beside me, chatting away. We’ve been here before when the girls were younger, but we were off to spend a few summer weeks with Vivienne and her family in L.A., leaving Raine and me childless. It was the first and only time we smoked weed. It left us terribly horny, hungry, and sleepy, not necessarily in that order. We’d barely left our room.
When I turn into Droogbak Street, the scene quiets into more of a residential vibe. The Barangay is a modern-looking canal house but was originally built in 1777, as the small plaque halfway up the building says. After ringing the bell, I am greeted by Godwin, one of two proprietors, who, with his partner, Wimmo, owns and operates the inn. Godwin is a slight man, dark-skinned, with kinky hair cropped short to his scalp. He sports an earring on his left lobe and is wearing a colorful tie-dye t-shirt of the sixties. I would guess he’s in his thirties, a few inches shorter than me, and he greets me with a big smile and begins chattering away.
“You must be Ronaldo,” he says in a bubbly voice.
I’m awake, but he’s much too chipper for my jetlagged brain. And I noted he got my name slightly wrong, but I let it go.
“Ron Mitchell,” I say, holding out my hand to shake his, ignoring that he mispronounced my name. “I have reservations..."
But I stop mid-sentence because something hits me as soon as I feel Godwin’s slight handshake. I stare at him for a moment, trying to recall if I’ve met him before. There was something I felt, and I wondered if he felt it too.
“Yes, yes. I know. Come in, come in,” he replies, and the crinkle in his eyes tells me yes. It was another place, another time. We might have been connected.
I shake the fuzziness in my brain, wondering if I imagined what just happened in those few seconds of touch.
Godwin ushers me inside and down the basement stairs where they have the guest room, and as soon as I step inside, I am struck by the otherworldly feeling of being transported to a tropical island. No, not Hawaiian. Further west.
“Wow! Am I still in Holland? Or did I just wake up in Fiji?” I ask, looking around at the various indoor exotic plants Godwin raises, apparently as a hobby. The guest space is bathed in soft white light filtering from the outdoor garden, separated by a sliding glass door. Hard to believe I’m actually below sea level, and it isn’t because I’m in the basement.
“Yes, I tried to emulate the feeling of being in my country. It doesn’t make me miss home so much,” he says as he pinches a dead leaf from one of the ferns sitting on an ornately carved side table.
“Where are you from originally?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Philippines. From Panay. We call our B&B Barangay, which means a small village in Tagalog. That’s our native language.”
Again, a rush of recognition wraps around me as I face Godwin—still smiling.
“Are you getting the feeling that we’ve met before? I’m positive we haven’t, but you just look familiar.”
“Who’s to say we haven’t met in another lifetime? If you believe in the mysticism of reincarnation, then anything is possible, no?” he says, waving his hands rather flamboyantly.
Godwin moves around, showing me the bedroom, bathroom, and a small sitting area with a kitchenette. The walls are adorned with photos from festivals of what looks like people dressed in colorful headdresses. The furniture is either bamboo or dark, heavy mahogany. He slides open the doors to the outdoor patio, which looks straight up to the houses around it. There is no view from here, but it did make me feel like I was in another country away from Europe.
“Well, I think you’ll find everything in order. I’ll leave you to settle in, Dodie.” I swiftly turn around to gape at him, with my mouth rudely hanging open.
“What did you call me?” I choked out.
“Oh, I’m sorry. You look so much like my cousin, Reynaldo. We call him Dodie. It’s a common nickname in the Philippines. We Filipinos love nicknames, you know,” he says, tapping me on the shoulder.
And there it was again. That touch sent not chills but a warm current.
I nod in response. I am speechless until I finally find the sense to mutter a “thanks” when he hands me the keys.
