There is a house on Roxas Avenue that has held my fascination ever since I was a little girl. At the time we still called it Dewey Boulevard, but that house had always been there since I could remember. It looked like, to my child’s eyes, a castle, and everytime we would pass by that house I would imagine myself the princess living in the highest tower. I didn’t know back then who really owned it, but I referred to it as “bahay ng mayaman” (house of the affluent), because it was unlike any other house I know. I still do now know who owns it until now, but if you pass by the area of Roxas Boulevard towards the airports or Cavite you will know the place I am talking about.
And so as a child I would imagine walking from one room to another, marvelling at the fine art lamps and wall hangings and carpets that were laid out in my mind. I would run around the expanse of the yard outside and roll underneath the shade of the sprawling trees that bordered the house and then come in to wash my hands under Moen faucets. I would explore each floor and turn on all the lighting as I go until the entire house was brightly ablaze and pretend I was in the middle of a party.
And when I became too tired I would retire to my room at the topmost floor, get into my four-poster bed, switch off the kichler on my night table and drift off to sleep.