"I remember you, " says the older lady behind the counter,

with a sort of strange, knowing look. "Oh yes, I've been here before," my friend, another volunteer replies. Once out of earshot she hisses to me, "Know why she remembers me?" It is a small town in the northern provinces, obviously the kana (American) sticks out. I suggest this, but my friend shakes her head no. "I bought five-hundred condoms from her a year ago." As I double over with laughter she protests vehemently, "It was for an HIV/AIDS seminar!" Doesn't matter to the older lady behind the counter; as far as she's concerned, reputation made.

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The kana crosses the street slowly, weaving between trysikads and motorcycles which, one after the other in an endless, grumpy stream belch their way home for the day. It is the five o'clock rush hour, and Roxas is a gridlocked as it ever gets - which is not to say much. A man sitting on top of a ladder doesn't seem to have been working for a while, yet it leans into the middle of the street. Transport weaves politely around it without complaint.

She crosses sucessfully and walks into a small carenderia. A man slouched casually in front, presumably the owner, has been eyeing her slow journey in his direction. However, once she is inside he loses interest and resumes his mental patrol of the street.

The pretty, young helper, who has been watching the blaring game show on TV, scurries behind the counter and hurriedly shoes the flies away from the food trays with an old rag. She glances worriedly at the kana, unsure of what to expect. The kana glances hungrily at the chicken curry but points at the vegetable dish instead, and then goes to sit down. The helper scoops the vegetables, jackfruit and okra with coconut milk, into a small dish and puts it on the table in front of her. Filipinos would unquestionably eat rice with their meal, but the rumor is that foreigners do not eat rice and she dares not presume. When the kana gestures her back and asks for rice, she is relieved; there is some normalcy in that.

A small boy walks jauntily into the store. He is wearing his school uniform and waving a small book bag like a lasso around his head. After about five steps - and two away from the kana - he suddenly realizes that something is awry. Glancing up, he is momentarily paralyzed to meet the gaze of a strange, color-less woman. Skin as white as sun-bleached laundry but without the pure, clean sheen of all those advertisements. Instead, orange specks interrupt her face and arms. She is utterly lacking any of the warm, brown tones that have filled his life up to this very moment. He sprints into the back.

The street is uniformly gray, but the carenderia is cozy in that Filipino way. Nipa is knotted together to form basket-like patterns across the walls and ceiling. Fake flowers found only in places very foreign to here adorn the walls in little baskets and a sign, near a wall painted with purple bubbles, proudly proclaims "Jessabel Resto".

The small boy re-emerges without his bag and whispers into the ear of the man out front. "There is a kana here!" he says with urgency. They both turn to look at her, and finding her smiling at him, the boy runs out the door and around the corner in fright. The man laughs quietly at his son's behavior. Within seconds the boy peeks around from the side and, finding her still smiling at him, quickly withdraws. When he reappears it is armed with a flimsy rope made of knotted rubber bands. Showing off, he yells nonsense and uses it to skip rope across the front of the store. He goes back and forth a few times, gauging the kana's reaction out of the corner of his eye. When she claps it is the final straw and he runs away again, disappearing for good this time.

The kana pays without incident. In this small shop they are already used to her - but is only when she is gone that everything returns entirely to normal.