The Spy in the Sandwich

Sunday, February 09, 2025

9:00 AM | My Favorite Third Space

Anyone who knows me well enough knows where to find me in Dumaguete, if they really wanted to find me. Because people who know best know I never [usually] answer text messages, and emails [and Viber and WhatsApp] are things I cursorily do once in a blue moon, preferring to centralize all forms of electronic messaging via Messenger. It’s part of the challenges I bear as someone with neurodivergence. We are not designed to be so reachable in so many platforms, which is why I have limited all these access to a few manageable channels.

There is always a constant need to declutter my head and to find a space to find the best kind of quiet that allows me to function my best. Space is an important thing to consider: like everyone else, we primarily inhabit two—the space we do our work in [i.e., our offices, etc.] and the space we call home and where we rest, where we partake of our ritual meals, where we allow ourselves to seed. But we also need the so-called “third space.” And this is the place that somehow finds common ground with the best aspects of our first two spaces—and also where we get to connect with other people in an informal way, and with our relaxed selves. This is also the space where you allow yourself to stretch and be creative, on your own terms.

For many, a good park is enough of a third space. This is why places like M.L. Quezon Park—which is really not a park, but a plaza—and the Rizal Boulevard, especially the Pantawan area, are popular for many Dumaguetenos. Here, everyone does their thing but in community with many other people. Sometimes we Zumba or do ballroom dancing. Sometimes we jog around these areas, or do tai chi. Sometimes we sing karaoke, fish, eat at the tempurahan, or just hang out in the open with our friends. Third spaces are essential for these very human activities, and the very human connection they foster.

I love these places, too, but my preferred third space has always been cafes. And in Dumaguete, I have had a string of favorite cafes to hang out in. Fresh off college, my favorite place was Café Memento [housed in what is now Sizzlers]. Then there was the old Don Atilano along Rizal Avenue [which is now 1988 Bistro]. Then there was KRI. And for the longest time, my other home was Qyosko along Calle Sta. Rosa, especially when it was a 24-hour bistro. I would always go there after work—to relax, to get coffee, to eat my dinner, and to accomplish the many things I needed to do. It was in Qyosko that I finished writing my MA thesis. It was in Qyosko where I assembled my first two books. It was in Qyosko where I met with so many friends and brainstormed with like-minded people such events as the Silliman Film Open. When Qyosko closed last year, it felt like a piece of my history was erased. This is how vital our third spaces are for us. They are part of the fabric of our being.

These days, Café Estacion, a stone’s throw away from the where Qyosko was located, mostly serve the same capacity as that beloved bistro—especially given the fact that they close late, and serve good coffee. [Many students in Dumaguete seem to agree with me, because Café Estacion is always swarming with them.] And sometimes, when I feel the need for a good dose of quiet—enough to soothe my anxieties and my whirling ADHD-addled brain—I go to Hemmingway Coffee Lounge along Don Diego de la Viña Road.

But if you really want to find me in Dumaguete, you can do so right in this corner of Rizal Avenue at The Bricks Hotel—which they used to call Caña—where I read, write, reflect, and breathe outside the obligations of home and work. This is my sanctuary, my favorite “third space”—the place that allows me to be neither professor nor householder, but simply a person at rest, gathering thoughts, allowing them to settle before they take shape in words.

The coffee is always within reach, and the staff, familiar and warm, know me well enough to sense when I need conversation or when I need silence. [It’s mostly quiet, and I am always obliged. So, thank you, Gem. Thank you, Glenn. Thank you, Steve. Thank you, Nico. Thank you, Pam. Thank you, Paddie.]

From where I sit, I like what I see: the Rizal Boulevard is only a few strides away, and every day from my chosen table at Bricks, I see the blue of the sky and the horizon blending, and I hear the whirr of traffic on this busy stretch of Dumaguete City. It’s mostly cool, but even on the hottest days, the breeze from the Bohol Sea drifts in, steady and unfailing. I like that I can look up at any moment and see the horizon. I need that. I am an island boy, and I need the sea.

A city like Dumaguete thrives on spaces like this, places that exist somewhere between solitude and community. It is, after all, a city that invites contemplation, that allows for slowness without guilt. In a world that insists on urgency, I think this is a gift. Some call Dumaguete the “city of gentle people,” but I have come to think of it as the “city of quiet makers”—writers, artists, thinkers—who seek places where they can create undisturbed yet still feel tethered to life’s small movements.

I think about all the times I have sat here, in this spot, watching the quiet choreography of Rizal Avenue. [Please do note the distinction: the street is Rizal Avenue, the promenade is Rizal Boulevard.] Couples walk by in slow conversation, and sometimes I see students pore over their school notes on the seawall. Vendors call out their wares, runners pass by, their steps rhythmic against the pavement. The city unfolds in these small, unscripted scenes, and I’d sit here, my notebook [or my laptop] in hand, trying to catch the poetry of it all, trying to find the meaning in the mundane.

Dumaguete has always been a haven for writers and other creatives like me, for those who need a space between their minds and the world. The acacia trees lining the streets, the bells of the old cathedral, the golden shimmer of the boulevard at dusk—these are not just landmarks; they are part of a larger rhythm, a kind of unspoken permission to pause and listen.

A third space is necessary, I think, for anyone who seeks to create. It is where the mind unwinds, where thoughts settle into patterns, where stories are born. It is a place of arrival and departure, a liminal space between obligation and freedom. Dumaguete, with its open-air cafés, its quiet corners, its endless horizon, offers this in a way few cities do. This is why some people pass through, but others, like me, find themselves staying, unable to leave the rhythm of the sea, the hush of the boulevard, the comfort of knowing there is always a place to sit and simply be.

Not far from here, at the edge of the Rizal Boulevard, I sometimes see fishermen push their boats into the water in the early morning, their silhouettes dark against the rising sun. And in the afternoons, I see children chase each other along the concrete walk of the promenade, their laughter carried by the wind. Life continues like that, in small, steady beats, in Dumaguete.

And I sit here, my coffee cooling in its cup, the waves rolling in and out, in and out—Dumaguete’s quiet, steady heart still pulsing, still holding space for those of us who need it.

Labels: life, third spaces