When I look back at this journey, it doesn’t feel like a single trip. It feels like a tapestry — woven from people, places, reunions, and moments that found us along the way. From the day we left home in January to the final embrace in the Philippines, each chapter carried its own meaning, its own lesson, its own quiet imprint.

We stepped onto a 33‑day cruise not knowing what awaited us, and found ourselves surrounded by people who quickly felt like family. Hector and Oilda and Tammy and Andy— new friends we met on the ship — brought warmth, laughter, and a sense of belonging that surprised us in the best way. We hope to stay in touch with them, because some friendships arrive gently and unexpectedly, yet feel as if they were always meant to be part of our story.

Along the way, the ship became a bridge to old friends and new memories. In Tauranga, we spent the day with Katrina and Phil and their family — a reunion that felt effortless, as if no time had passed at all. In New Plymouth, we visited Rochelle and her family, where the cows, the land, and the generosity of their welcome became one of the trip’s most unexpected joys.

When we reached Sydney, the journey shifted again — from sea days to city days, from ship friends to lifelong friends and family. We spent precious time with Mae and Jo, moments I will always hold close. We reunited with Shenna and Winny, whom we met years ago in Israel, and with Debra and Warren, our Antarctica cruise companions whose friendship has followed us across continents. And of course, Kazune and Michael — she first came into our lives as a ship photographer, later reunited with us in Tokyo, and this was our first time meeting her husband in person. She surprised us with her pregnancy news during our visit, a joy that made the reunion even sweeter.

And then there was the Philippines — the final chapter of this long, beautiful journey. It was the longest part of the trip, and the one that settled deepest. Seeing cousins I had not seen in fifty years, the meals, the kindness, the generosity, the way the Minimo family opened their homes and their hearts — it reminded me of the Philippines I once knew, and the Philippines that still lives inside me.

It was also Rica’s first return in fifty years, a homecoming layered with meaning. Watching her see the Philippines again — not as a child of four, but as the woman she has become — added a depth to this journey that I will carry with me always.

Travel ends, but its imprint doesn’t. It becomes part of the way we see the world — and part of the way we see ourselves. And whenever people ask me what my favorite place has been, I can never choose just one. Every place is beautiful in its own way, but it’s the memories that stay with me — the people we meet, the meals we share, the laughter that fills the spaces in between. Those are the moments that linger long after the journey is over — and those are the memories I hold closest to my heart

Olongapo

I’ve mentioned Olongapo many times throughout this journey, but I’ve never really stopped to explain it — not the place itself, and not what it has meant to me over the years. I’ve referenced it in passing, hinted at memories, brushed against the edges of what it once was in my life. But I’ve never taken the time to sit with it, to look at it closely, or to acknowledge how deeply it shaped me.

Maybe that’s because Olongapo has always lived in two versions in my mind: the one I knew in my young adulthood, and the one I returned to fifty years later.

The Olongapo I carried with me all these years was a place of rhythm and familiarity, a place where the streets made sense and the days felt open. The Olongapo we visited on this trip was louder, busier, more crowded, and in many ways unrecognizable. Yet beneath the noise, I could still feel the faint outline of the city I once knew — like a memory pressed under tracing paper.

This chapter isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about acknowledgment — of time, of distance, of growth, and of the quiet ways a place can stay with you even when it no longer looks the same.

The Emotional Contrast Between Past and Present

When I was young, my mom’s restaurant sat in front of a living aquarium — a natural reef alive with bright corals and fish in every color. I can still picture it clearly: the water so clear you could see the movement beneath the surface, the flashes of blue and yellow, the way the sunlight hit the corals just right.

Now that entire area is covered in volcanic ash — the long‑lasting imprint of Mount Pinatubo’s eruption — a landscape nothing like the one I grew up with.

At night, I used to look up and see stars — a sky so open and dark that the constellations felt close enough to touch. Now, instead of stars, the skyline is filled with hotels, neon lights, and loud music spilling into the night. The quiet darkness I once knew has been replaced by a brightness that never seems to turn off.

I remember fishermen pulling in their nets when they spotted a school of fish, their silhouettes moving in rhythm with the tide. That scene was part of the heartbeat of the place. Today, the shoreline is filled with jet skis cutting across the water, the sound of engines replacing the soft pull of nets and the quiet conversations of men who knew the sea.

I wouldn’t say it’s bad — it’s simply different. But it isn’t the Olongapo I carry in my memory

Standing Between Then and Now

I wasn’t trying to step back into the past. I was learning how to stand in the present, even when it didn’t match my memories. Seeing Olongapo as it is now made the old version harder to protect, and the sadness of that hit me harder than I expected — the kind of ache that comes when you finally recognize what’s been lost.

I stood on the edge of the now‑sandy beach, looking out toward Grande Island — the one view that hasn’t changed — and in that moment I understood something important: the Olongapo I loved still exists, just not in the physical world. It lives in memory, in the girl I was, in the moments that shaped me. And even through the ache, I felt a quiet kind of belonging, different than before, yet still real.

Our Turn to Say Goodbye

And then it was our turn to go to the airport — our turn to say goodbye. We hugged our wonderful family and friends, thanking each of them for the time, the generosity, and the warmth they shared so freely. It was a farewell filled with gratitude, the kind that lingers long after the moment has passed.

Arrival at Hundred Islands Guest House & Gardens

We arrived at Hundred Islands Guest House & Gardens to find Robin and Nora — along with their entire staff — waiting to greet us. It wasn’t formal or stiff; it felt like stepping into a place where people had genuinely been looking forward to our arrival. Their smiles, the easy warmth, the way they welcomed us by name — it set the tone before we even stepped inside.

And then there were the cats — not wandering freely, but resting in beautifully crafted outdoor enclosures that let them enjoy the sun and the garden without roaming. The cages were so thoughtfully built, making them look more like art than containment.

The first thing that came to mind was that I needed to show our friend Rob a photo of these enclosures so he could build something similar for our kitties back home. It was exactly the kind of clever, cozy setup he’d appreciate.

Hundred Islands — What It Is and What You Can See

The Hundred Islands National Park in Alaminos was formed millions of years ago, when ancient coral reefs rose above the water as sea levels changed. Over time, waves and weather carved the limestone into the rounded shapes seen today. At low tide, there are 123 islands, and at high tide, 124, scattered across the Lingayen Gulf like small green domes.

From the boat, the islands vary in size and shape — some steep and rocky, others soft and rounded, and a few with small beaches tucked into their edges. The water shifts from deep blue to turquoise, and in the shallows you can see coral, rocks, and small fish moving beneath the surface.

Hundred Islands is one of those places that shows the Philippines exactly as it is — bright, warm, natural, and full of life. Everywhere you look, there is something uniquely Filipino: families swimming, fishermen passing by in their small boats, and the quiet rhythm of the province shaping the day.

Main Islands and Landmarks

• Governor’s Island — known for its high viewpoint overlooking the entire park.
• Quezon Island — popular for swimming, picnic huts, and sandy areas.
• Pilgrimage Island — home to the large Christ the Savior statue, reached by a long staircase.
• Pope Francis Statue — facing the sea with open arms.
• Marcos Island — more rugged, with a cliff opening into Imelda Cave.
• Imelda Cave — cool interior, bats clinging to the ceiling, and a deep‑water jump spot.

Marcos Island and Imelda Cave

Marcos Island is more rugged, with a cliff opening into Imelda Cave, where the air is cooler and bats cling to the ceiling in clusters. The water below is deep and clear — perfect for jumping.

Ronell and Jay jumped into the deep water below — we have the photos to prove it, caught mid‑air at the exact moment they left the rock. As for whether I jumped… well, that remains a mystery. Some stories are better left for the reader to guess

Lunch on the Islands

We brought a simple picnic, but Buddy spotted a fisherman selling fresh crabs from his small boat. He bought at least five kilos, and they were cooked for us right there. We sat together, eating with our hands, cracking shells, dipping the meat, and enjoying every bite. It was the kind of meal that belongs to the sea — simple, fresh, and perfect for the place.

🌿 A Simple Wish

As we moved from island to island, taking in the views and the water and the heat of the day, I found myself thinking of Rica. I wished she could have been here to see this part of the Philippines — the true seaside Philippines, the one shaped by nature, by salt water, by sunlight, and by the quiet beauty of the province.

One day, I hope she’ll stand on one of these islands and see it for herself.

Meeting More of the Dolores Family

It always makes me smile when we travel with the cousins and I see luggage tags with ‘Dolores’ printed on them. For a moment, I think that’s not my bag — until I remember that on my mother’s side of the family, Dolores isn’t only my first name. It was my mom and uncle’s last name, carried on by all the cousins.

During this trip, I also had the chance to meet even more members of the Dolores family — All of their faces were familiar only through screens — nieces and nephews I had spoken with on FaceTime or through some other cyber connection over the years. Meeting them in person closed a gap I didn’t realize had stretched so far.

Two of the girls, Michelle and Clarissa, were especially meaningful to meet. Their dad was the same age as Anna and Rica but sadly he passed away almost 20 years ago. I had known them only through photos and messages, but here they were — grown women with families of their own.

Michelle was there with her daughters — Kelkel, Joy Joy, and cute little Inga — each one with their own spark and sweetness. Her partner, Bryan, blended into the gathering with an easy warmth, the kind of presence that makes a family event feel complete.

Clarissa’s son, Xander, stood out in the gentlest way. Sweet, quiet, and thoughtful, he carried a sketchbook with him — and learning how much he loves to draw made me smile. There’s something tender about a child who sees the world through lines and shading, and he carries that quiet creativity with such grace.

Seeing them all together — cousins, nieces, nephews, and the next generation — reminded me how wide the Dolores family has become, and how deeply those roots still run, even after all these years and all these miles.

Meals with Onieh’s family

Our last week in the Philippines unfolded in small, meaningful segments, and one of the most memorable was the time we spent sharing meals with Onieh’s family. These weren’t just meals — they were moments that revealed the kind of care, generosity, and quiet thoughtfulness that stayed with me long after we left.

Buddy had accompanied us off and on during our journey, and we finally had a chance to visit his garden‑setting home. A fun little tidbit about Buddy: many years ago, when he lived in California, he worked at the same place as my daughter Anna. One day he approached her and asked if she knew a Marcela Darling. Anna said, “Yes — that’s my Lola.” Buddy smiled and said, “Well, her brother is married to my sister.” That sister turned out to be Onieh. It really is a small world.

Along with his sister Mayeth and his brother Isat, Buddy prepared a wonderful meal for us — the kind that makes you feel welcomed before you even sit down. During the trip, Buddy always found a way to ask what I loved to eat, and somehow it would show up — on the table, packed to go, or saved for later. It was the kind of thoughtfulness that didn’t need to be announced. You simply felt it.

And that small‑world feeling continued when we visited Doug and Josie — Buddy’s aunt and uncle — whom we also knew from California, and whose home we had heard about for years. Walking into their beachfront place felt like stepping into a familiar chapter we finally got to see in person. The meal waiting for us was a full spread prepared by Onieh’s brother Noel and his family — the kind of abundance that turns lunch into dinner without anyone noticing. People drifted into games of cards and Mahjong, others lingered around the table, and the day stretched out in that easy, unhurried way that only happens when you’re surrounded by people who make space for you.

After a full day at the beachfront pavilion, we spent the night at the home of Josie and Michael, whose warmth matched everything we had felt so far. Before I could say a word, they were already offering their rooms, making sure Jay and I were comfortable. Breakfast the next morning was another feast, and Jay and I thoroughly enjoyed our stay — so much so that Jay even offered to house sit when they travel to the UK in a couple of years.

I also found myself remembering the first time we met Josie in Singapore while visiting Mae and Ronald. That memory folded itself into this one, especially when we noticed she had a photo from that trip displayed in her home — and we have one from that trip on our wall too. Seeing it there, halfway around the world, made the moment feel even more connected.

And somewhere in the middle of all this — the meals, the laughter, the generosity — I realized this was the first time on the trip that I truly felt like I was in the Philippines. Not the city version with neon lights, honking horns, and crowded streets, but the Philippines of my young adulthood memories: quiet, green, open, with clean air and a slower rhythm. It felt familiar in a way I hadn’t expected.

As we prepared to leave, I thought about how deeply we were welcomed. Our time with the Minimo family was filled with kindness, generosity, and a genuine warmth. Jay and I were grateful for every meal, every shared moment, and every bit of time they opened to us.

Cashew Fruit

The cashew nut gets all the fame, but the fruit is the real surprise — soft, juicy, a little tangy, and absolutely impossible to find in an American grocery stores because it’s too delicate to survive long‑distance travel.

Camachile

A funny‑looking pod with a cottony bite, the kind of snack only Filipinos recognize instantly. You open it, taste it, and immediately understand why it never made it to Costco — the tree needs steady tropical heat, the fruit bruises easily, and there’s never been a big market for it outside the Philippines.

Balut

Jay tried it without a single complaint — already making him braver than most tourists. I won’t describe what it is; my Kababayan know exactly what I’m talking about. Everyone else… feel free to consult Google University if you want more details.

Daing na Bangus

Before the trip, the family asked what food I missed the most, and I didn’t even hesitate — daing na bangus, made with milkfish, the national fish of the Philippines. Not dried, just marinated and fried until the edges turn crisp, served with green mango as sour as can be dipped in anchovy sauce, and a yellow mango for dessert that I could peel myself.

Laundry Day

During our hike in the rice terraces, we came across a woman doing laundry by stepping on the clothes — basically the original agitation cycle, perfected long before washing machines tried to claim the idea. She was happily stomping away like it was just another Tuesday, while we stood there acting like we’d uncovered ancient laundry technology.

Church Fan

Inside a small church stood a floor fan so massive it deserved its own ZIP code. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

The Mighty Tricycles of the Philippines

If jeepneys are the kings of the road, tricycles are the scrappy, unstoppable sidekicks — part motorcycle, part sidecar, part miracle of engineering, and entirely Filipino. You see them everywhere: buzzing through towns, weaving through traffic, and carrying loads that defy both physics and common sense.

The Last Mambabatok of Kalinga

Apo Whang‑Od, is the 108‑year‑old tattoo artist of Buscalan, Kalinga — the last and oldest living mambabatok, a practitioner of the ancient Kalinga art of batok. She is tiny, sharp‑eyed, and carries herself with the quiet authority of someone who has lived through every story the mountains have whispered.

She tattoos using the traditional hand‑tapping method: a thorn from a pomelo or calamansi tree, charcoal soot for ink, and a bamboo stick to tap the design into the skin. For generations, she tattooed warriors and women — bravery for men, beauty and identity for women.

Her fame spread globally in the last two decades, eventually placing her on the April 2023 cover of Vogue Philippines, making her the oldest person ever to appear on a Vogue cover. In 2018, she received the Dangal ng Haraya Award for preserving this indigenous art.

Image: Vogue Philippines, April 2023 cover

Why She Mostly Does Three Dots Now

Because of her age and the overwhelming number of visitors who travel to Buscalan, Whang‑Od now typically gives her signature three‑dot tattoo.

The three dots represent:

• Her
• Her lineage
• Her grandnieces, who now carry the tradition forward

It’s her way of blessing visitors while keeping the practice sustainable — a simple mark that still carries the weight of a thousand years of Kalinga tradition.

Our Story

Not that I wanted a tattoo, but I thought it would be neat to meet Whang‑Od. Prior to leaving home, both Rica and I researched how to get to her, and every bit of information on the internet said the same thing: you had to survive a long, punishing mountain hike to reach her village. Even YouTube showed people gasping their way up steep trails like it was some kind of endurance test.

Then, at Las Casas, Rica quietly noticed our guide’s arm — three perfect dots — and she told us they drove as far as they could and then walked just ten minutes. In that moment, we both felt it: we’d been so close. We could have done it easily when we were in Banaue, and the chance had already slipped past us.

When Ronald’s chapter closed with a goodbye, it also took Ryzen’s smile with him.

Ryzen is five years old and was with us the whole trip, and he has the best smile ever — not the forced kind kids give when adults beg them to “smile for the camera,” but the real thing — bright, effortless, and ready at a moment’s notice. He doesn’t warm up to the camera. He arrives warmed up.

He was also the easiest traveler in the van. Long drives through mountains, winding roads, hours between stops — not once did he ask “Are we there yet.” Not once. As long as he had a little internet and cartoons playing on his mother’s phone, he was perfectly content, perfectly patient, perfectly Ryzen.

And the moment someone said “One, two, three…” he lit up like he’d been waiting for that cue all day. Every single time. No retakes needed. No coaxing. No bribery with snacks.

Some kids pose. Ryzen performs. Some kids smile. Ryzen beams. Some kids get tired. Ryzen keeps going, steady as an Eveready battery.

If Hollywood ever needs a five‑year‑old with perfect timing, a natural sense of light, and a grin that could carry a whole movie poster, we know exactly who has that Hollywood‑ready charm.

Saturday morning begins the same way the others have — breakfast, coffee, everyone moving around the house in that familiar rhythm we’ve settled into. But underneath it all is a different kind of energy. While the rest of us ease into the day, Ronald and Ella are quietly preparing for their trip back to Singapore. It’s their last full day with us, and we all feel it.

Before this trip even begins, the three of us — Ronald, Ella, and I — spend countless hours on FaceTime trying to piece everything together. They’re in Singapore, I’m in the U.S., and the only time we can talk is after Ronald gets off work. That means I’m the one awake at one or two in the morning, waiting for his call so we can go over routes, hotels, schedules, and all the little details that make a trip like this possible. Sometimes Ryzen pops in, curious and full of energy, adding his own charm to the planning sessions.

Those late‑night calls become part of the heartbeat of this journey. Ronald uses all of his vacation time for the entire year just to be with us — something I will always be grateful for. He doesn’t have to, but he does, without hesitation.

Their flight isn’t until early Sunday morning — 5 AM — but because it’s international, they need to be at the airport three hours before. That means leaving the house around 10:30 PM on Saturday night. The flight itself is only about two and a half hours, but they have a full 32‑hour layover in Vietnam before the final leg home. Ella has never been to Vietnam, so she’s actually excited about the stopover. They already have a full plan mapped out — hitting as many Michelin‑star restaurants as possible and turning that 32‑hour layover into a little adventure of their own.

We spend most of Saturday out and about, shopping for the things they want to bring back to Singapore — the little items you can’t easily find there, the things that feel like home. It’s practical and ordinary, yet somehow emotional. Every store we walk into, every item they pick up, is a reminder that their time with us is running out.

The day moves slowly, the way days do when you’re trying to hold onto them. We talk, we rest, we try to pretend it’s just another day. But every so often, one of us glances at the clock, silently counting down to the moment they’ll be gone.

When it’s finally time for them to leave, the goodbyes come in waves — hugs that linger, eyes that fill faster than anyone expects, and that familiar tightness in the throat that comes when you’re trying to be strong for each other.

Because they have to leave so late at night, we don’t go to the airport with them. Instead, Ella’s family — her sister, brother‑in‑law, and two nephews — take them. When they walk out the door, the house falls quiet in a way that feels unfamiliar. The group feels smaller already, even though they’ve only just left. We don’t know when we’ll see them again. All we know is we’re hoping it won’t take another six years.

A 32‑hour layover, a 32‑hour feast. Vietnam turns waiting into an adventure

I wanted to be in Olongapo for this part of the trip so Jay could experience how Holy Week is observed in the Philippines. Good Friday here isn’t just remembered — it’s lived. It moves through the streets, through the voices, through the devotion of the people who carry these traditions year after year.

Jay witnessed the pabasa — the continuous singing of the Bible that begins on Holy Thursday and must be completed by 3 PM on Good Friday. The chanting fills the air in a steady, rhythmic flow, sometimes going day and night without stopping. It’s one of the most powerful expressions of devotion you can hear.

We drove to Castillejos in the morning, where the traditions are especially strong. All along the roadside, we saw people doing their penitensya — their acts of penance. Some carried heavy wooden crosses under the heat of the sun. Others practiced self‑flagellation, striking their backs as a form of devotion. And yes, the blood is real. It’s part of the ritual, part of the offering, part of the way some Filipinos choose to honor this day.

At around two o’clock, Ronald, Ella, Jay, and I headed back to Castillejos for the 3 PM crucifixion reenactment. By the time we arrived, the streets had grown quieter, the air heavier. Three o’clock is the most solemn moment of the day, when some participants are lifted onto crosses to symbolize the crucifixion. It’s powerful, unsettling, and unforgettable — the kind of moment that stays with you long after you leave.

After the ritual, we met up with the rest of the group before heading back to Olongapo. We were a big group again — a different mix of faces this time — but the feeling was the same. After witnessing something so deeply rooted in faith and tradition, it felt grounding to end the day together, each of us carrying the weight of the day in our own quiet way.

Yesterday, after we dropped Rica at the airport, we drove back to Olongapo with a quick stop in Bataan to see the Death March monument. Even though it was just a short visit, standing there made all of us pause. It’s impossible not to feel the weight of history in that place — the kind that settles quietly into you.

When we finally reached the house, Ate Tessie and her family were still there, filling the rooms with their laughter and stories. It was comforting to come home to a full house again, even if only for one more night.

This morning, April 2, we said goodbye to them after breakfast. At this point, I’m starting to think the most important meal of the day is turning into the saddest meal of the day. Another round of hugs, another round of photos, another group heading off in a different direction.

But this goodbye felt a little lighter. After fifty years apart, we finally had time together — and this time, I have everyone’s contact information. We won’t lose touch again.