The Prince and Me

The evening was going to be special. I was asked out by the boyfriend for dinner with friends — nothing unusual for more normal folk who make phone calls to each other and plan a night out within three minutes flat. But, for me and the boyfriend? Good luck. It just never happens that easily. I’m usually caught in some interview for that evening’s news or in a coverage for the weekly show or doing an errand I’d been sitting on for two months. Otherwise I would simply be horizontal, trying to make up for four hours’ sleep the night before. And he knows it all too well. He has his own daily issues. Most of the time, it’s "see you later." So the planned night out and the mere availability for some R & R does make the evening special — if only because the exercise would be, precisely, ordinary. Or so I thought.

I always enjoy Mi Piace at the Pen. But I hadn’t been back there in a while and that night the atmosphere was different somewhat. Certainly, the veal is not one of the restaurant’s best bets. Huge vases, also, now line the walkway of the once hugely popular hotel lobby reminding me less of the quietly elegant lobbies of the New York and Hong Kong Peninsulas — and which the Manila branch was also once known for — and more of the touristy pomp of Thai, Balinese or even Vegas hotels with its effected glamour. And there was a buffet right in the lobby that made the hotel smell of food upon entering. Oh well, no matter. It was going to be an unusually ordinary evening and I was intent on enjoying the break. Halfway through the ho-hum three-course dinner, and while smiling through my date’s disappointment with the veal, I began to wonder where everybody else was in this supposed "cocktails with friends." Frankly, even without the "friends," I could enjoy a chat immensely with just a glass of cosmopolitan (a chat even with myself, in fact). But, when with the "date," I agree cocktails are better seen in my hand when in socials amidst a group. So, no friends? No cocktails. "Where are they?" I asked. "In a bit. It’s really an after-dinner thing," he said.

Returning to our table from the ladies’ room, I saw my date chatting with the tall, lanky Caucasian who seemed to be attempting to socialize but still looked like it was business. "I’d like you to meet His Excellency Peter Beckingham, the British Ambassador. Shall we?" "Oh yes, he’s right upstairs. I do think he will have the time to go around with you tonight. It really depends on him," the Ambassador said. I couldn’t wait for the chance to whisper and ask about where exactly my very immediate future was taking me. "You do know Andrew, right?" I was asked as if I should know. "Andrew who?" "The Duke of York, you know... Prince Andrew?" "Prince Andrew of...Fergie-Andrew?" "Yes, that Andrew. We’re meeting with him tonight." "So is everybody else going to be there?"

"Oh, it’s just us."

"It’s just us and... him? I thought this was cocktails with friends?"

"Yes, we’re having cocktails and he’s a friend. Relax, he’s a nice guy."

The closest I got to British royalty were the gates of Buckingham Palace as a yuppie tourist who happened to afford to do Italy, Paris and London when the peso was P26 to $1.

I swore it was Lady Diana Spencer in the backseat of a car that came through when the gates opened. Well, it was a bob hairdo. And it was blonde. Maybe I just wanted my otherwise very common experience to be some cut above the rest to tell my future grandchildren about. But, truly, except for the common fascination with what Diana was wearing on the pages of Hello! or Star magazine and the neither-here-nor-there relationship she used to have with Prince Charles, I was never really into the stories of royalty. Most of what I knew of royalty didn’t go much beyond stories like that of childhood fairy tales like The Princess and the Pea (they’re supposed to be sensitive to anything slightly inappropriate or uncomfortable). Royalty reputation has it that they know exactly what spoon or fork to use among 25 pieces on a formal dinner table. In their presence you have to be totally still and concentrate on the cues for you to stop and start breathing. Anyway, in any case, there I was and I hadn’t quite digested the thought of meeting a Prince and there was no time to do a crash course.

"Do you think I can ask about his love life?" My date chuckled. "Whatever you ask just address him Your Royal Highness, okay?" Okay, now I was nervous.

(Next Sunday: How I got to ask Prince Andrew about his lovelife... and get an answer)

(E-mail me at korina_abs@yahoo.com)