I took receipt this weekend of another batch of 152 x 216 mm Green Apple notebooks—adhesive-bound this time, but its interior pages are the same thickness and the rule-line color the equivalent grey of its spiral-bound sibling more commonly in my possession. I make this request of travellers from Manila, and I answer to each traveller why of all possible things I have taken advantage of their offer and expense to only lug around a few cheap notebooks (and a reasonable quantity of polvoron and pastillas de leche, natch). The answer is never completely resolved to any of those travellers, for who wants to hear after a substantial international trek the rantings of a paper junkie? I doubt there are many who would wish to know the answer in any condition, though I resolve to publish it here simply to make it known, and less likely, perhaps to stir among my readership a great demand for these notebooks from Filipino travellers to come.

To first judge a Green Apple, one must know the color of its covers—near-fluorescent green, and not in the sickly brightness popular in the early ’90s but visible from a distance nevertheless. It is a singular shade and remarkably easy to locate with only minimal ocular contact with the contents of one’s backpack. For this alone I might be thankful.

However, the interior pages—the actual writing surface of a Green Apple—is where a notebook transacts business, and this is where I am sold. The paper is thick enough and no thicker. I can’t quantify grammage, but it’s thinner than your average copy paper and thicker than onion skin and Bible stock—it happens to be the precise thickness that allows for but doesn’t necessarily encourage double-sided writing. Neither gel nor rollerball ink bleed through, and the pressure required to apply ballpoint leaves an invisible but tactile impression mirrored on the other side of the leaf.

When graphite is at hand—even hard, 6H graphite (though I hesitate to think there would be a moment in my life when that is the only pencil within reach)—the aforementioned grey rule lines (unlike the bright blue common of ruled paper) excuse themselves to the background of one’s visual field, respecting even the slightest pencil mark. It isn’t to the same extent as Tufte’s ghost pad (thankfully, not even close), which also makes it easier for one to render script to a baseline when necessary but doesn’t fuss a tendency to non-linear thinking.

The particular size is my preference (other sizes are available), which is portable though not pocketable. My thoughts tend to fit proportionally to the page—there isn’t an expanse of white space clamoring for unnecessary development or a mental curtailment brought about by the page’s edge. And I rarely want for a flat surface since it fits neatly on my upturned right hand.

And while I am a stickler for quality (and perfection when possible), my preference for Green Apples outweighs any erstwhile desire for Moleskine notebooks or the aforementioned ghosts—it is, to me, to someone who greatly values paper and engages it frequently, the perfect notebook.

Moleskine makes a wonderful notebook, but it’s too precious. The black covers are classy for bookshelves, though difficult to locate on sight in a crowded bag. And for my daily notes, I have no need of archival paper. While I would gladly take ownership of such a notebook if it were ever presented as a gift, I have no presumptions that my daily scrums with language and accrued information have any right to the same preservation as the thoughts of the absinthe-sucking artisans who made them famous. Archival paper is a resource of such expense (and these are some pricey pads of paper) that it on principle rejects mere musings and demands a proper composition or at the very least a thorough study, which I rarely provide (though that I would hesitate to use such a notebook says as much about my confidence in my intellect as my reverence for quality leaves). Some use Moleskines on a daily basis until the edges are rubbed and the pages are coughing charcoal when they are shut with force, and claim them to be as near perfection as only time in one’s industry can develop.

But there is perfection and there is perfection for application. Green Apples have neither legend nor history and consequently no air about them, which makes them much easier for me to toss and tatter consequent to daily use. The line heights are suitable, the rule colors ideal, and the paper thickness seemingly tailored to the parameters of my penmanship. And as long as travellers from Manila are accommodating my requests, I’ll never be without one. And as of this moment, I’ll never be without an answer to their inevitable question.