The longing for home is always ingrained in us, Boholanos, wherever we may be. This homing instinct, like that of a pigeon, has been enhanced by nuances of culture and fiesta traditions and exaggerated by woven tales about the male descendants of Dagohoy pointing to "true north" (towards Bohol) when relieving themselves outdoors - by the roadside in Saudi Arabia or behind the wheel of a parked airplane.

We regale in anecdotes about us and get amused by our self-deprecating jokes. We are irritated at times by the incessant and hyperbolic ribbings on our supposedly congenital stupidity, "unsophis-tication" or childlike innocence. But, we also take pride and bask in reflected glory in the shadow of our esteemed forbear, Dagohoy, who held the Spanish conquistadores at bay for 84 years - the longest organized resistance against a foreign power in Philippine history, which might have earned for our province the monicker, "Republic of Bohol".

Once a Boholano, always a Boholano is a tag that sticks with us for the rest of our lives. It delineates us from the rest of our countrymen in some ways. With a tinge of some irony, it might be a reflection of our character as a people that we, Bol-anons, tend to be closer to each other when we are in distant places than when our feet are firmly planted in our native province. The perceived social and intellectual divide back home disappears to a flimsy crack when a paisano meets another one in a foreign country. When our guards are down in a seemingly "hostile territory", we discard all pretensions or inhibitions that we may harbor and we forge a familial bond with each other.

A Filipino who meets another snub-nosed face in the Los Angeles airport or elsewhere would invariably ask this question: "Pinoy ka ba?" - to which the naughty Filipino would, sometimes, reply in jest: "Hindi Po." But a paisano may follow up with this question: "Taga Bohol ka?" - especially when he feels the cravings for home or notices that the stranger's English accent is as heavy as a bulldozer, which is the "default" for us, Bol-anons.

Brea, one of Los Angeles' satellite cities, is just like Tagbilaran on weekends. Some years ago, I used to play tennis there on some weekends and it was like home - copies of past issues of the Bohol Chronicle strewn in the sidelines by the tennis courts; the endless droning of the unmistakable Tagbilaran accent; and the transplanted ambience from our native city. It is a long drive from my place, but those sporadic weekend jaunts were worth their salt not much for the tennis games but more so for just mingling around with fellow Tagbilaranons and savoring the occasional juicy gossips and home-spun intrigues in secluded places.

Uprooted fiestas from our native shores come few and far between. Thus, celebrations are over-extended. Because of time constraints or social demands, a nine-day novena is stretched into a series of nine-weekend prayer meetings. I don't question the religiosity of our fellow Boholanos in foreign lands but fiesta celebrations offer a convenient excuse for bonding together and seeking comfort with each other. Emulating the virtues of the town's patron saint may be subordinated to mundane needs.

The grass is not always greener on the far side of one's fence. And sometimes, the American Dream could be a nightmare. Our core values, culture and the pangs of loneliness transcend everything.

It is for this reason that the July 2006 TBTK is like a beacon of light especially for us, the intrepid but weary Boholano travelers. We need this guidepost like a milestone on a highway. It is a fitting reminder of our heritage, our roots and our eventual destination.

For those who have chosen to stay behind and perennially bask in the warmth of the Bohol sun, here are some words of wisdom from James Oppenheim: "The foolish man seeks happiness or wealth in the distance. The wise grows it under his feet."

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