So there I was at an airport terminal, somewhere in the Middle East, en route to Europe to see the man. I scanned the coffee shop, staffed naturally by Filipinos, hoping to park myself at a table and keep myself awake for the next three hours with a cup of java. I heard an accent that was unmistakably - for want of a better description - Manila-NuVo-Embassy-by way of Boston University.
It turned out to be someone I knew; more accurately, he was a friend of my sister's. Anyway, bleary-eyed at some ungodly hour of the morning, I was more than happy to see a familiar face, not to mention an empty chair at the packed cafe. And so we exchanged pleasantries and made kwento until his connecting flight was called.
So far, so pleasant. The weird thing, however, was that although the guy was barely more than an acquaintance, I felt as if I knew him, or at least knew enough of what was alleged about him. See, he was one of the so-called Gucci Gang, and let's just say some of his alleged activities were rather indiscreetly and unfairly aired all over THAT blog, whose fascination factor seems to have dropped.
Nevertheless, there were times that I wanted to ask him, hey is it true that... But the inclination passed after a few minutes. Besides, it was really none of my business. Yet a less tactful person might have brushed all propriety aside and said, "Hey tell your friend to pay that Australian guy the $70,000!"
Of course that didn't stop me from calling my sister a day later and telling her, "Guess who I saw..."