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.
(The flag is flown in its wartime position, with red above blue)
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.
Rica left the Philippines when she was just four years old, so this trip was like seeing the country for the very first time. After fifty years away, everything was new to her — the places, the food, the rhythm of the days — and watching her take it all in made the journey even more meaningful for me. I’m truly glad she was able to join me for this trip.
Rica at 2 years old
And then, all too soon, it was time to take her back to the airport.
We took Rica back to the airport after breakfast on April 1. The drive felt quieter than usual — partly because we were a smaller group now, just Ronald, Ella, little Ryzen, Jay, me, and Ella’s brother-in-law driving us — and partly because everyone knew what was coming. It was that soft kind of silence that settles in when no one wants to be the first to say goodbye.
When we arrived, we didn’t just drop her off at the curb — we parked, all of us walking in together like we could somehow slow the clock by staying close.
We helped her with the luggage, but we weren’t allowed inside the check‑in area for security reasons, so we stood behind the barrier and watched her move through the line by following the two bright orange suitcases inching forward. Once the last bag disappeared onto the conveyor belt, she came back outside and we all went to find a place for one last lunch together. It felt almost normal — eating, talking, pretending we weren’t counting down the minutes — but underneath it all was that familiar ache.
And then came the tears. One by one, everyone wrapped their arms around Rica, holding on a little longer than usual, whispering promises to stay in touch, to message when she landed, to plan the next trip, to meet again somewhere, someday. When it was finally time for her to go inside, none of us moved. We stayed behind the barrier, waving and waving, not wanting to leave until Rica was completely out of sight — and she kept turning back, waving right along with us, until the crowd finally swallowed her up.
The walk back to the car felt slower, quieter. Part of it was the silence, part of it was the empty space where Rica should have been, and part of it was knowing that in just four days, we would be doing this all over again. Another farewell, another round of hugs and tears, this time when Ronald, Ella, and little Ryzen would head back to Singapore. It was like the goodbyes were lining up, waiting their turn.
But even with the sadness sitting with us, we knew the next couple of weeks would be spent up north with Onieh’s family for Holy Week — a different kind of togetherness, a different kind of comfort. It would still be a good time, full of family and familiar rhythms, just with a few missing pieces from our circle.
The anniversary meal turns into its own celebration. The highlight — without question — is the lechon. It arrives glistening and golden, the skin perfectly crisp, the kind that cracks when you tap it with the knife.
Another surprise highlight is the sushi. It feels like a lifetime ago — that 33‑day cruise where I searched for sushi every single day — and now here, in the middle of today’s festivities, sits a huge wooden “boat” overflowing with it. Rolls, sashimi, nigiri, all arranged like a little harbor of color and freshness. I can’t help but smile at the full‑circle moment.
And the food doesn’t stop there. Platters and trays keep appearing from every direction — Filipino dishes of all kinds, everyone’s favorites (especially the lumpia), plus desserts and anything anyone felt inspired to cook. It’s loud, it’s joyful, it’s chaotic in the best way. And somewhere between the lechon, the lumpia, and everything else on the table, I realized something funny: I’m positive I ate more garlic this past month than I’ve eaten in the last five years — and more than I’ll probably eat in the next ten.
And the house is full. Ella’s family is here — her mom, her sister, her brother‑in‑law, and her nephews. Jo’s family is here too — her parents, and her brother and sister‑in‑law, their presence adding another layer of warmth to the day. And of course, Ate Tessie is here, along with her son John, her pastor, and the pastor’s two daughters — all part of the joy and noise filling the house. Rica’s godmother Susan and her husband Rodney are here as well, rounding out the circle of familiar faces. The only ones missing are Mae and Jo — but even from far away, they feel woven into this celebration.
All gathered, all talking at once, all part of this noisy, happy day — the kind of day that reminds you why you came home.
The anniversary celebration carried on long after the plates were cleared, the house still buzzing with voices and laughter. And later that night, just when we thought the day was finally settling down, Ate Tessie’s daughter Jacky and her granddaughter Angela arrived. More hugs, more stories, more catching up — the kind of late‑night reunion that stretches the day in the best possible way.
I wake up early and head to the kitchen for coffee, already anticipating Ate Tessie’s arrival later this morning. But when I turn the corner, I stop.
Instantly, I know it’s her. Of course it’s her. Ate Tessie is sitting at the head of the table, calmly drinking a cup of coffee.
Those eyes — the same smiling eyes I would recognize anywhere. Time has changed us both in a hundred ways, but not those eyes.
I walk toward her, and we fall into each other’s arms — smiling, crying, holding on like we’re trying to make up for fifty years in a single embrace.
She isn’t supposed to arrive until 10 a.m., but here she is, already settled in as if she’s been here for hours — and she has. They arrived at 2 a.m., while I was fast asleep.
She came with her son John, her pastor, and the pastor’s two daughters — all of them traveling together to bring her to me.
And then I hear the rest of the story:
Ate Tessie and Onieh stayed up half the night watching Korean dramas, laughing, giggling, swapping stories, catching up as if they haven’t seen each other in years. The house was full of voices and excitement.
I didn’t hear a single thing. Not the arrival. Not the greetings. Not the laughter. Not even the commotion of people coming in with bags in the middle of the night. Twenty‑five years of night shift and earplugs will do that.
And now here she is, her eyes still smiling the way they always did
This is how March 31 begins
Ate Tessie stands centered in the back row. Me and my mom are in the front row.
The anniversary celebration will come later — the food, the noise, the family, the joy. But that belongs to the next chapter.
After a good night’s sleep and a breakfast made up of all the little odds and ends we’d collected along the way we headed out to spend the day at Las Casas Filipinas de Acuzar. The drive from Yas Villa took only about seven minutes — the shortest travel time of all the places we had been to on this entire journey. After so many long, winding drives through mountains and provinces, it felt almost unreal to arrive somewhere so quickly. But it also felt like a small blessing: an easy start to what we hoped would be a beautiful day.
Las Casas is the kind of place that makes you slow down the moment you enter. It’s a sprawling heritage village built along the water, where Spanish‑era Filipino houses — real ancestral homes from different parts of the country — have been carefully dismantled, transported, and rebuilt piece by piece. Walking through it feels like stepping into a preserved memory: cobblestone streets, arched bridges, wide plazas, and grand wooden casas with capiz windows that glow softly in the light.
Some houses are simple and humble, the kind that once belonged to families who lived quiet, hardworking lives. Others are ornate, with carved details and wide verandas that hint at the wealth and stories of the people who once lived inside them. Everywhere you look, there’s a sense of history — not in a museum way, but in a lived‑in, breathing way, as if the past is still lingering in the corners.
We joined a guided tour, which helped bring the place to life even more. Our guide shared stories about each house — where it came from, who lived there, how it was moved, and what parts were original. Some of the tales were heartbreaking, others inspiring, and a few were downright surprising. It felt like walking through a timeline of Filipino life, architecture, and resilience.
By lunchtime, we’re ready for a break — and honestly, ready for something not Filipino for once. The whole family has been spoiling me with all my favorite dishes since we arrived, so an Italian restaurant sounds like the perfect treat for all. We’re already dreaming of pasta, pizza, maybe even a salad.
Then the food comes out… and it’s Filipino.
It’s not bad at all — just not what any of us expected, and that’s travel for you: even lunch likes to keep us on our toes, those little mismatches that end up becoming part of the story.
After lunch, we took the boat ride, which turned out to be one of the highlights of the day. The boat glided along the canal, the casas looked even more majestic from that angle — their reflections shimmering on the surface like scenes from an old Filipino film. The ride gave us a different perspective of the village, almost as if we were drifting through time.
We got off at one of the most beautiful houses along the route, and the moment we stepped inside, we were all amazed. The intricacy of the architecture was breathtaking — carved wooden panels, sweeping staircases, capiz windows that filtered the light in a soft, pearly glow. Every corner had a detail that made you pause: floral motifs etched into balustrades, hand‑painted ceilings, antique furniture that looked like it had been waiting for visitors for decades.
As the day goes on, it hits me: this is the last day we are all together as a complete group. After nearly a month of shared roads, shared meals, and shared discoveries, this is our final adventure with everyone still by my side.
Our journey quietly traces a long, looping arc across Luzon — from Manila to Tagaytay, through Malabon and Bulacan, west to Olongapo, then up to Clark for the flight that carries us to Boracay, before heading back to Olongapo for some rest. From there, we go on to Baguio and Banaue, circling back through Las Casas and finally returning once more to Olongapo. Altogether, we cover roughly 1,480 to 1,720 kilometers (about 920 to 1,070 miles) — a stretch of road piloted with good humor and steady hands by Obet, our ever‑patient captain at the wheel. The van carries all of us faithfully, packed with laughter, snacks, and Buddy on the parts of the journey he is able to join. Looking back — even as we’re still in it — it isn’t just the distance that matters, but how every kilometer stitches together the people, places, and moments that make this homecoming feel complete.
Later today, we head back to Olongapo, and the house will fill again with the familiar rhythm of family. But the mood is already shifting — a gentle turn toward goodbyes.
Rica starts packing tonight, getting ready for her flight back to the USA on April 1. I can already feel the weight of that approaching moment, the way a mother senses a goodbye long before it happens. She has been with us through every stop, every detour, every reunion. The thought of her leaving makes the day feel even more precious.
And tomorrow, March 31, is a full celebration at the house — a lively, joyful gathering for Ella and Ronald’s anniversary. Their actual anniversary is on April 17, but with everyone together now, it feels right to celebrate early. Family from all sides are coming, turning the house into a true reunion — noisy, warm, overflowing with stories and food and laughter.
But the most exciting part of tomorrow is Ate Tessie.
Her son John, whom we met in Bulacan a few weeks ago, is bringing her to the house in Olongapo. They’re expected around 10 a.m., and I can hardly believe it. The idea of seeing her again after fifty years — of hugging her, of hearing her voice — feels almost unreal. So as we walk through the last few casas, taking in the carved woodwork and the soft glow of the capiz windows, I hold onto the moment: the beauty of the place, the warmth of the day, the presence of everyone still together, just for now.
Because tomorrow brings celebration. And the next day brings goodbyes. And today — today is our last day as one complete circle.
We left the beautiful Baguio lodging this morning with one simple hope: to arrive early enough at our next place to enjoy the pool. After days of long drives, detours, and late arrivals, the idea of slipping into perfectly warm water felt like the reward we all needed. We chose a place in Bagac, Bataan because of its proximity to our destination the next day — Las Casas Filipinas de Acuzar, a heritage village where Spanish‑era Filipino houses have been carefully restored and rebuilt. It’s a place that feels like time paused: cobblestone streets, grand wooden homes transported from all over the Philippines, and architecture that looks like a living postcard from another era.
Before we even left Baguio, I received a message from Yas Villa letting me know that the caretakers, Laine and Doven, would be waiting for our arrival. That small gesture — knowing someone was expecting us — made the long drive feel a little lighter. After so many days of arriving late, tired, and hungry, it felt comforting to know that two people were already preparing to welcome us.
But first — breakfast.
We headed to Choco‑late de Batirol inside Camp John Hay. After the long, unexpected detour the day before, sitting down with a hot batirol chocolate felt like the perfect reset — thick, warm, and comforting in a way only Baguio mornings can be. We ordered our favorites, passed plates around the table, and let the slow, easy morning settle in before starting the day.
After eating, we drove around Baguio for a bit. We made a quick stop for some shopping, and that’s when Ella found the crocheted headbands — soft, colorful, handmade-looking pieces that instantly caught her eye. She picked one for Rica, one for herself, and one for me. Ella helped me slip it on, and I couldn’t help laughing; it felt like stepping straight back into the hippie days.
Baguio has always had its own personality — the cool climate, the mountain air, and the way it grows things the rest of the Philippines can’t. Strawberries, lettuce, and crisp greens thrive here, the kind you never see in the lowlands. Even the markets feel different: piles of fresh produce, woven crafts, and rows of those iconic Baguio house brooms. Every household seems to have one, and somehow they sweep better than any broom you buy anywhere else.
Then we headed to Mines View, where I stood in the same spot where a photo of me had been taken almost sixty years ago. Everyone tried to figure out the exact angle — the railing, the backdrop, the line of mountains — but the landscape had clearly changed over the years. New trees had grown, old ones had disappeared, and the view had shifted in subtle ways only time can create.
Still, standing there felt like touching two versions of myself at once — the young girl who once stood in that spot, and the woman who had finally come home to meet her again.
Only after all that did we finally start the long drive toward Bataan — and in true fashion, we didn’t actually get on the road until 1 p.m.
The zigzag descent out of Baguio was familiar by now, and we made our first stop at the Lion’s Head, just as we had on the way in. Another scoop of ube ice cream — because at this point, it was tradition.
From there, we continued down the mountain and made a meaningful stop at Manaoag to have our palm blessed for Palm Sunday. The church — the Minor Basilica of Our Lady of the Rosary of Manaoag — rose up like a quiet landmark of faith, its cream-colored façade warm in the afternoon light. Inside, the air felt still and reverent, filled with soft prayers and the scent of candles. Even with the crowds, there was a sense of calm, as if everyone who entered carried their hopes gently in their hands. It felt grounding to pause there in the middle of a day that was otherwise all motion.
We didn’t stop for a formal lunch — we had enough snacks in the van to feed a small barangay — so the drive continued, winding through towns and highways until the sun began to dip again.
And, just like all our other adventures, we arrived late.
Our place for the night was Yas Villa, tucked away and quiet. It wasn’t as beautiful or as polished as Whyte Payne Transient House, but the people more than made up for it. Their warmth was immediate, genuine, and effortless — the kind of hospitality that stays with you long after the trip ends.
When we finally arrived, tired and hungry, I asked about breakfast for the next morning. Laine asked what time I wanted it, and I jokingly said, “What about now?” She didn’t even blink. She simply turned around and said she would prepare it right then and there.
That moment said everything about the place — simple, humble, and full of heart.
After settling in, some of us still slipped into the pool, which was perfectly warm and exactly what we had hoped for earlier in the day. Even with the late arrival, that small moment of floating under the night sky felt like a gift.
Tomorrow, we continue to Las Casas Filipinas de Acuzar, the final stretch of our journey together.
We left Banaue behind and made our way toward Sagada for a quick stop at the Hanging Coffins before heading back to Baguio. All of us were excited for another night in that beautiful home — a chance to rest, breathe, and enjoy the night market without rushing. That was the plan, anyway…..
The Hanging Coffins
I had only ever heard about the Hanging Coffins, a burial tradition practiced by the Kankanaey people for more than two thousand years. The idea of raising the dead high on the cliff face comes from ancient beliefs — that the higher the body, the closer the soul is to the ancestral spirits watching over the living.
The coffins themselves are carved by the elders while they are still alive, a way of preparing for the next world. The bodies are placed in the fetal position, returning to the posture they entered life in. Some coffins are centuries old, weathered and gray; others are newer, larger, and marked with names and dates.
The tradition blends pagan and Christian practices today. Families still honor the old rituals — the death chair, the smoking of the body, the belief in ancestral spirits — but many now include Christian prayers and blessings as well, which is why some coffins have crosses on them. Two belief systems, woven together on the same cliff.
After visiting the Hanging Coffins, we started the drive back, already talking about how good it would feel to stretch out in that peaceful house. Ronald was in charge of the map, and somewhere along the way, he closed his eyes for what he swore was “just two minutes.”
That was all it took
We reached a roundabout, and instead of going straight, we made a left. None of us questioned it at first, Obet was confidently at the helm, the scenery was beautiful, the road was smooth, and the mountains were doing their usual magic. I even mentioned that I was waiting to see a landmark I’d spotted on our way up so I could take a photo of it on the way down.
That’s when Rica said, “We’ve never been on this road before.”
That’s when Ronald woke up, looked around, and realized we had made the wrong turn. We were in Ilocos Sur — a place none of us had planned to visit that day, and a place none of us had ever been to before. We would still get to Baguio this route, but it was going to take longer. Much longer.
Obet kept driving, calm as ever, while the rest of us tried to process the fact that we had somehow drifted into an entirely different province. The van went quiet for a moment — the kind of silence where everyone is thinking the same thing but no one wants to be the first to say it.
Then Ronald cleared his throat and said, “It’s okay… it’s just one more hour.”
We all looked at each other. We had heard that before
And that was it — the moment the detour officially became a story. The wrong turn, the unexpected province, the scenic route none of us asked for but all of us would remember. The mountains rolled on, the road stretched ahead, and we settled into the kind of laughter that only comes when you realize you’re too far in to turn back.
At this point, we were all hungry and started looking for a place to eat. The thing was… we were in Ilocos Sur, a province none of us had ever set foot in before. The dialect was different and the food was also different. Their specialties weren’t the dishes we cooked at home, and we had no idea what we were about to find.
And that’s when the detour turned into a discovery
That’s when Ella found DB2 Panciteria. She spotted it on her phone, and it immediately rang a bell. Both she and Ronald had heard about it before, though none of us had ever been to one. So even though it looked like a total hole‑in‑the‑wall from the outside, the fact that they recognized the name gave us just enough confidence to pull in.
Inside, we realized it wasn’t just a random roadside eatery — it was part of a local chain, clearly loved by the community. The menu was full of comfort foods, with one dish we didn’t usually cook at home. Some were familiar, but Batil Patong was completely new to us.
After the meal, with full bellies, we got back in the van to make the final stretch to Baguio — a stretch that was clearly going to take way longer than any of us expected.
Ronald checked the map again and said, “One more hour.”
We all stared at him. Ten minutes later, he looked again. “Okay… maybe two more hours.”
That’s when Rica let out the most dramatic “Ay naku!” — and the funniest part was that she barely speaks Tagalog and only knows a handful of words. But this one? She used it perfectly. The whole van burst into laughter because at that point, what else could we do? We were already committed to the scenic route, the accidental province, and the long road home.
The sun was dropping lower, the mountains turning gold, and the van was filled with that mix of exhaustion and hilarity that only happens when a simple plan turns into an all‑day adventure.
And still, Ronald kept saying it. “One more hour.” Always one more hour.
By the time we finally made it back to the Baguio house, the sky had already gone dark. It felt almost funny at this point — once again, we were arriving late, too tired to enjoy the place the way we had hoped. We slipped inside, grateful for the quiet and the cool mountain air, but there was no time to linger. We showered, repacked, and got ready for the early morning ahead.
Even with the little time we had there, the house left its mark. It was peaceful, welcoming, and thoughtfully cared for — the kind of place that feels like a retreat the moment you walk through the door. If I ever return to Baguio, this is the house I would seek out again, and I would recommend it to anyone making this trip. Some places stay with you, even if you only get to borrow them for a night.
Tomorrow, we head to Bataan — the next chapter, and the final stretch of our homecoming journey as a group.
After a few restful days in Olongapo, we packed up again and headed for Baguio. We had rented a beautiful home, Whyte Pyne Transient House, for four nights. The house felt like a peaceful mountain retreat: clean, spacious, and thoughtfully arranged, with cool Baguio air drifting through the windows.
Our host Joseph was waiting for us onsite, ready to give a full orientation—where everything was, how things worked, and what we might need during our stay. Though we never met Rose Ann in person, she was equally delightful, always replying quickly to any question we had. Their warmth made the house feel like a true home base.
The plan was simple
Night 1 in Baguio → Overnight trip to Banaue → Back to Baguio for two more nights of exploring.
The Plan Meets the Mountains
The next morning, we packed light overnight bags for our trip to the Banaue Rice Terraces. The idea was to view the terraces, enjoy the scenery, and return to Baguio by evening.
People’s Lodge was rustic, welcoming, and overlooking rice terraces — just not the ones I had in mind.
Some in our group decided to ride like the locals!
But the terraces had other plans for us
What was supposed to be a simple viewing turned into a full‑on mountain hike—up and down steep, ancient steps carved into the landscape. It was breathtaking, but also strenuous, the kind of climb that makes you question your life choices halfway through.
Onieh stayed at the trailhead, wisely avoiding the climb the rest of us underestimated.
When we finally reached the target viewpoint, we took a well‑earned break and, believe it or not, enjoyed fresh fried lumpia right there on top of the rice terraces. Only in the Philippines can you hike a mountain and still be fed like family.
750 Steps to the Waterfalls… Each Way
From the viewpoint, the guide told us the waterfalls were 750 steps each way. As it was explained tous,that sounded doable. In reality, the terrain was steep, uneven, and unforgiving — and I obviously did not hear the part where the 750‑step count didn’t even start until the blue house, which itself was already at least 250 steps down
I decided to stay back with Ella, Ryzen, and Obet, while the rest of the group pushed on toward the falls. The day was slipping away, and the trail was long.
While we waited, we settled into a little hut, grateful for the shade and the chance to rest our legs. We ordered a fresh coconut, cracked open right in front of us, and sat there sipping and catching our breath.
What we didn’t know yet was that this humble hut would turn out to be a lifesaver.
The Internet That Saved Us (and Our Underwear)
By late afternoon, it was clear we would never make it back to Baguio that night—especially not poor Obet, who had hiked every step with us and still had to drive. We were nowhere near the starting point, the sun was dropping fast, and our legs were staging a full rebellion.
While we were sipping our coconut, Ella casually asked the coconut vendor about internet. Without hesitation, the woman gave us the password — one hour of access for five pesos, maybe fifty. At that point, we would’ve paid anything.
Thanks to that precious hour of internet, I was able to get onto Booking.com and secure a place for the night.
And then reality hit us:
We had only packed clothes for ONE night — but at least we had our sleepwear from the night before.
Still, the situation sparked a whole round of “creative problem‑solving”
• Some were planning to re-wear everything.
• Others debated washing clothes in the sink.
• A few decided they would just wear the same clothes they wore for the drive to Banaue the day before.
• And yes, the idea of turning underwear inside out absolutely came up.
Normally, I travel with disposable underwear, but this time—of all times—I didn’t have a single pair in my backpack. Not one.
And then there was Ella, who solved the problem in the most practical way possible, she simply decided she would wear her pajamas the next day. No fuss, no drama — just pure, efficient survival mode.
The Hike to Our Unexpected Home
When we finally made it back to the trailhead, the group split:
• Six of us hiked to our lodging for the night.
• Obet, Ronell, and Ronald rode back to town with the guide to retrieve our van and bring it closer to where we were staying.
The lodging was a 10‑minute hike from the exact spot where we had been dropped off that morning. And it turned out to be everything I had hoped our first stop would be—right in front of the rice terraces, with a view so beautiful it felt like the mountains were welcoming us in.
By the time the three returned with the van, dinner was ready—freshly cooked and exactly what our tired bodies needed. Thank goodness the place offered meals, because none of us had the energy to think, let alone walk, anywhere else
The Perfect Place We Didn’t Plan For
But what made the place unforgettable wasn’t just the view — it was the staff and the cats.
The staff were warm, attentive, and genuinely kind, the sort of people who make you feel cared for without ever hovering. And the place was full of cats — friendly, curious, well‑fed mountain cats who treated the lodge like their kingdom. There was a mama cat with her kittens tucked into a cozy corner, and a Siamese cat who made the rounds like he owned the place.
We were exhausted, hungry, and sore, and none of us—least of all Obet—could have handled the long drive back to Baguio.
The mountains had changed our plans, but they also gave us a story we’ll never forget.
We found this sign at our lodging and immediately thought of home — it’s nearly the same as the one I leave for Randy and Julie. Julie, of course, is the softie the cats always charm with their hungry faces!
The Next Morning
When we woke up the next morning, the first thing we saw was the breathtaking view of the rice terraces glowing in the early light. Layers of green stretched out in front of us like a living staircase, quiet and majestic. And drifting up from the kitchen was the warm, comforting smell of breakfast cooking — garlic, rice, something frying, something simmering. It felt like the mountains themselves were easing us into the day.
As we opened our door, the Siamese cat came trotting in like he owned the place, doing his morning inspection. He hopped onto everyone’s bed at least once, but he took a special liking to Obet. Maybe it was his calm energy — whatever it was, the cat claimed him. Watching that cat curl up beside him made me miss our own kitties even more.
Breakfast was simple but perfect — hot, fresh, and exactly what our tired bodies needed to start the day. There’s something about eating a meal in a place like that, surrounded by mountains and morning light, that makes everything taste better.
After a great breakfast to start our day, we packed up and made the 10‑minute hike back to the van, ready for whatever the mountains had planned next.
Our next stop: the Hanging Coffins — a place we hadn’t meant to visit, but one the road led us to anyway, long before we realized how unforgettable that detour would become.
From Olongapo, our fearless driver Obet dropped us off at Clark International Airport. Clark has its own history—it was once a major U.S. Air Force base, one of the largest outside America, before being converted into a civilian airport in the 1990s. Today, it serves as a hub for travelers heading to destinations across the Philippines and beyond.
From Clark, we flew to Caticlan, then took another van to the port, a speedboat across the water, and finally another van to reach our hotel. It was a journey with many legs, but each step brought us closer to the island paradise we had been waiting for.
Breakfast, Our Way
We had two rooms, each equipped with everything needed to prepare breakfast. When planning the trip, both Ella and Ronald insisted we skip the hotel’s breakfast package—they could prepare it for about one‑third of the cost. They were right.
Our first order of business upon arrival was to move all the kitchen supplies into one room, along with the chairs, so all nine of us could eat together. It became our daily ritual: noisy, cheerful, and full of the kind of laughter that makes a trip unforgettable.
Island Days
Boracay gave us everything we hoped for. We enjoyed the warm beach, strolled along the shore, and went island hopping. The water was clear, the sand soft, and the sunsets painted the sky in colors that made everyone pause.
And then there were the braids. Some of you know I’ve been toying with the idea of shaving it all off, but I’ve never been sure how my chipmunk cheeks would look baldheaded. So, I decided to get my hair braided. The first two days felt like my scalp was going to fall off, but I survived—and the braids gave me a good idea of what a shaved head might look like.
Fun fact: when you braid your hair, you must apply sunscreen to your scalp. I learned this the hard way, with a sunburn in places I never thought possible.
Boracay also offered its own quirky surprises. There’s a place on the island where they sit you in a giant pot as if you’re being cooked. Rica and Ronald tried it, laughing at the playful illusion—it was one of those moments that perfectly captured the island’s mix of fun and whimsy.
And for a touch of artistry, four in our group went out for henna tattoos, returning with designs that lasted just long enough to become part of our Boracay memories.
After four days of sun, sand, and braids, it was time to head back. We returned to Olongapo, our home base, where the rhythm of everyday life welcomed us again. Laundry was done, rest was taken, and this time we treated ourselves to a home‑service massage—another small luxury that made being back feel just right.
Closing Boracay
Boracay had been a chapter of joy, laughter, and even a little daring, but the journey wasn’t over. In just a few days, we would be heading north to Baguio and Banaue, ready to take on the rice terraces and the stories waiting there.
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