Later that evening, Jesse turned his stereo on to play his new Amapola CD. He had several CDs by Filipino singers, most of them well known, and he thought they were pleasant enough but not particularly memorable. He didn’t expect much from Amapola—after all, he had never heard of her before.

He was totally unprepared for the voice that gushed out from the speakers—it was golden and rich and expressive. The songs were in Tagalog, his first language, and they told of the hurt and the joys that come with falling in love. She was seemingly telling his story in her songs. He remembered all the failed romances he’d had—the women who caused him pain, though mostly unintended.

It had gotten dark outside and Jesse could see the street from his apartment window, empty and forlorn. He felt sad and wistful as he continued to enjoy the music.

Bago ka lumisan sana'y maturuan mo
Na iwasan ang bawat nakasanayan ko
At limutin na ang maghintay lagi sa iyo
Paano ba ito?

Before you go perhaps you can help me
Forget the joys I've gotten used to
And understand I mustn't wait for you
Tell me what went wrong...

Before the last song on the CD was played, Jesse had fallen helplessly in love with a voice that touched his being. Was this how teenage fans looked up to their idols? He was too old for that but he suspected it was the same feeling. However, there was one big difference: the person behind the voice had asked him to show her around the next day and this thought made feel less silly.

Amapola was waiting in the hotel lobby when Jesse came by to pick her up. She was dressed casually, in denim shorts, white running shoes, and a breezy, tribal motif print tank top. She always looked younger than her years when she dressed that way—she was aware her legs were among her best assets. She heard on the news the night before that the weather was going to be warm. In truth, she was going to wear shorts anyway because she had the idea that people in Los Angeles wore shorts all year long.

Jesse gazed at her and wondered if the voice he heard the night before could really have come from that body. She wasn’t very big and it was hard to imagine all that power came from her tiny frame. At the same time, she looked so vulnerable and easy to crush that he believed the pain in her singing could have been real. But who would hurt an angel, someone who can bring out the tender feelings in anyone who listened to her sing?

Lots of people, that’s who. He knew he must have hurt other people himself, just as others have hurt him. People abuse each other all the time without meaning to. Heartaches happen because people are sometimes selfish, sometimes neglectful. And very often pride comes in the way so that even little hurts never heal but fester into something more serious.

"First stop, Grand Central Market," he announced as they drove towards downtown L.A. Soon they were in the Second Street tunnel.

A right turn at the end of the tunnel brought them to the Grand Central Market. "This is like your food section in the Quiapo Market. Cleaner and brighter perhaps, but it’s a good place to buy food, for cooking or ready to eat. Tourists go to the Farmers Market near Hollywood but the poor people come here."

They went through the aisles and Jesse showed Amapola foodstuff from around the world: spices from India, sausages from Poland, saffron from Spain, even fresh saluyot at the Arab place but known by a name they couldn’t pronounce and pancit from a small Filipino stall. She was so thrilled to see everything in one place. "I wish I had something like this where I live—it’s so convenient and exciting."

She saw a sign that said "champurrado" at a Mexican stall. "Is that like the one we have in the Philippines?"

"Close enough, but I’m afraid they wouldn’t have tuyo to go with it."

Amapola laughed. "I didn’t expect it, but I’d like to have some."

Jesse got her a bowl. He got himself a churro and a cup of coffee. They took their food to one of the tables near the front entrance. They sat there watching people walk by on the sidewalk as they ate what turned out to be breakfast for both of them. Neither had eaten anything earlier in the morning.

"You know, I bought one of your CDs last night."

"You didn’t have to—I could have given you one. I always carry a few with me."

"But I’m glad I did. I had a chance to listen before I saw you today. You were wonderful."

"Do you mean that or are you just trying to be polite?" she said, smiling.

"I mean it. You touched my soul. I felt naked and embarrassed by the way I reacted to your singing. I said to myself, surely this woman couldn’t have gone through all the heartaches expressed in those songs—nobody can and still smile like she does."

Amapola was quiet for a few moments and just looked at him. Her eyes lost their focus and she said, "Jesse, you don’t understand what it means to be a singer. You go onstage when it’s time to perform—your voice may be hoarse and terrible, you could have a temperature, or something could be wrong with your stomach. When the curtain rises you have to deliver. There can be no excuse to disappoint your audience.

"And it’s worse when your heart aches, when you’d rather stay in bed and cry and not face people at all. That’s when you grit your teeth, put on your makeup, and try to give the best performance of your life."

Jesse may have thought he understood but he still couldn’t believe she had personally gone through so many heartaches. "I understand, but has bad things happened to you personally?"

"Oh, yes. Most singers endure a lonely life and I’m no exception. We travel all the time and it’s hell for family life. I was the breadwinner for my family, my husband stayed home to take care of our two children. I didn’t mind and was grateful for what he was doing for them. But then…"

Amapola’s eyes misted before she could continue. "My husband took a querida and shattered all my dreams. Yes, the pain in my songs are real."

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring it up," he said as he touched her hands to show his empathy.

"It’s all right, I need to get the pain out of me once in a while."

"Is your relationship better now?"

"No, we’ve separated. I don’t think I love him anymore although I can’t really blame him too much for what he did because I was never around. What saddens me is that my children barely know me. I’ve spent so very little time with them."

Jesse felt sad and didn’t pursue the matter any more. They finished their breakfast in silence but it didn’t take long for Amapola to be her cheerful self again.

They walked to other interesting places that were close by: Union Station, Olvera Street, Pico House, and Chinatown. She loved the way Jesse told the story of each place and how they related to the history of his adopted city—how each was important in the various stages of its growth.

Jesse gave her a small bag of sour worms he bought earlier at the Grand Central Market when they got back to his car. "Just a little something for you to nibble on while we go for a long drive. I want to show you how it’s possible here in Southern California to go from the mountains to the desert and the ocean within two hours."

Jesse drove towards Palmdale to show her what the desert looked like then took a secondary road that cut across the mountains to go back to Los Angeles. They went through a pass high in the mountains where trees were tall and the air cool. Amapola would sometimes sing along with whatever was playing on the radio. Jesse could only look at her and thank his good fortune she was with him. They ended up at San Pedro Harbor as the sun was about to set. They were both very hungry by then.

They went to a store and got a cold bottle of French Colombard and a couple of plastic cups. Then they went to the fish market where they bought some shrimp, a couple of Dungeness crabs, and a pound of Alaskan King crab legs. Jesse had them cooked while he got sourdough bread, an old newspaper, napkins, lemon wedges, and lots of ketchup. Amapola insisted on paying for everything. "Look, I’ve imposed too much on you already. The least I can do is pay for our dinner."

They brought their food to an empty table near the water. There were colorful boats moored alongside the docks, seals lazily lounging wherever they could find a place to set themselves, and sea gulls noisily waiting for the fishermen to throw them scraps of unwanted catch. It was getting cool so Jesse went back to the car to get Amapola a jacket while she set their food on the newspaper they used as a tablecloth.

It was a messy dinner, the shrimp were in their shells and so were the crabs. Soon scrap was piled high on the table. Sourdough was always good with seafood—its sourness cleaned the fishy taste away. Jesse wished they had butter but he didn’t complain. The wine made everything perfect.