I’ve finally been to Eastwood.

Angry Birds piggy banks. That’s all you’ll get because it was all I was able to take.

About Eastwood, though. Sure, it’s nice and fancy. When you think about it, if you had the money you could move into one of the many swanky units in one of the many towering buildings in the “city.” But even I wouldn’t want to live and raise a family there. All the innocent cobbled walks, the quaint (but expensive) al fresco restaurants—my kids would live too detached from the real world.

When I raise a kid who can’t care about his country and all the suffering people in it is when I officially fail as a parent. I want my kid to yearn to go to UP and serve the people, not go to Eastwood and be served by people.


ALLOW ME A MOMENT OF ROMANTIC GUILT, however, to say that if there’s one reason for me to go back to Eastwood, it would be for that nice little stall (I forget exactly where it is and what it’s called) that sells writing instruments. They had a Lamy display case out front. Surely they must have a few reams of stationery, too. Oh, God. Must. Go. Back.


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