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.

The Mountain Roads and the Rice Terraces

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 to us, 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.

The Journey

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.

A Day of Family Reunions

This day was about family—reunions after fifty years, faces I hadn’t seen in decades, and names that carried stories across generations.

A Note on Kinship Terms

Filipino families use kinship titles more broadly than in the United States:

• Lola means grandmother, but it is also used for all of a grandmother’s sisters, not just one’s direct grandmother. My maternal grandmother was Lola Olympia, and her sisters—including Lola Mameng and Lola Milyana were also my lolas.
• Ate is a respectful title for any female older than you—an older sister, cousin, or even a family friend.
• Kuya is the male counterpart, used for any older brother, male cousin, or older male figure.

That’s why in this chapter you’ll hear me mention many grandparents, Ate Tessie, and sometimes Kuya, these terms reflect the Filipino way of honoring elders and older siblings, extending respect beyond immediate family lines.

Malabon – Meeting Lola Mameng’s Family

Our first stop was Malabon, where my grandmother’s sister, Lola Mameng, once lived. Here I met her adult children, my aunts, uncles and cousins, many of whom are my age or just a little older. If I had passed them on the street, I might not have recognized them, but once their names were spoken, memories rushed back. Faces matched the tales I had carried for decades.

Of course, you cannot step into a Filipino home without food being served. I warned Rica and Jay not to eat too much, because within an hour we would be meeting the next batch of aunts, uncles, and cousins and I could almost guarantee another feast would be waiting. After catching up on each other’s lives, we took many photos and promised to stay in touch this time. Ironically, everyone is on Facebook except for me.

Fun Fact on the Ride Between Stops

As we got back in the van, everyone was commenting on how full they were. I reminded them once more that I had told them not to eat too much. They laughed and said they knew, but it was impossible to stop eating because everything was just so good.

Bulacan – Closer Ties and Laughter

From Malabon, we headed to Bulacan, where the adult children of Lola Milyana were waiting with a lovely lunch. I was closer to these cousins, aunts and uncles so the stories flowed more easily, and the laughter came quickly. We reminisced about the time I fell off a water buffalo—unfortunately, the buffalo was not in the water when I fell, which made the story even funnier in hindsight.

One cousin pulled out old photographs of us as teenagers. We dreamt of meeting The Beatles one day. I was always sure Paul would find me, but instead he found Linda—which, I suppose, worked out perfectly fine for him, though I still like to joke that he missed his chance. We passed around those faded photos, took new ones with the old ones, and enjoyed another meal together.

During this visit, I was introduced to Ate Tessie’s son, John. Ate Tessie and I had been very close, and every time I spoke with my uncle when he was still alive, I would ask about her. I did the same that day, asking John where she was. I would have given anything for him to go home and bring her to the gathering, but she wasn’t available. I made John promise that he would bring her to the house in Olongapo.

That’s when Onieh, my uncle’s wife, chimed in with a smile and a warning. She told John that if his mother found out I was home and he hadn’t informed her, there would be consequences for him. We all laughed at the thought—because in Filipino families, those kinds of playful threats carry both humor and truth.

Looking Ahead

By late afternoon, it was time to move on. We said our goodbyes, packed ourselves back into the van, and pointed toward Olongapo—our home base for the trip. We arrived, got settled, and slipped into the everyday rhythm of being home. Laundry was done, and Jay even had a haircut right at the house, thanks to a home visit from a man who used to do my mother’s hair and nails. It felt like a small but meaningful connection to the past, woven into the present.

Of course, meals at home were just as memorable as the reunions. We gathered around generous spreads, and one evening we shared a traditional kamayan—a meal eaten with our hands, laid out on banana leaves. Locals also call it a boodle fight, a feast where everyone digs in together. It was joyful, messy, and delicious.

We also visited Rica’s godmother, who had recently relocated back to the Philippines from Las Vegas. It felt ironic to see her here—because I first met her 52 years ago, and now, half a century later, our paths crossed again in the Philippines. The timing was striking: I left the Philippines 50 years ago, and here she was, arriving just recently.

On the way back from visiting her, we stopped by Jo’s family—Mae’s partner in Sydney—completely unannounced, which is common in the Philippines. Since their home was along the way, it felt natural to drop in. Meeting Jo’s family abroad added yet another layer of connection, bridging friendships overseas with family ties at home.

Another important stop was at my uncle’s grave site, a quiet and reflective visit that reminded me how much of this journey is about honoring the past as much as celebrating the present.

It was a quiet pause before the next adventure. In just a few days, we would be heading to Boracay, ready to trade family reunions for white sand beaches and turquoise waters.

Tagaytay: Taal Volcano and Brunch

After only a short sleep, we were up and out for another full day. The van wound its way up to Tagaytay, where the air was cooler and the views stretched wide. From the ridge, we gazed down at Taal Volcano, one of the Philippines’ most iconic landscapes. It is a volcano within a lake, and within its crater lies yet another small lake—a geological nesting doll of water and fire. Though deceptively serene from a distance, Taal has erupted many times in history, reshaping the surrounding communities. Standing at Taal Vista, the panorama was breathtaking: the volcano’s silhouette rising from the shimmering waters of Lake Taal, framed by the morning haze.

On the Road South

The drive itself was full of things to see. Rica was wide‑eyed at the traffic, marveling at the motorcycles weaving in from left and right, a choreography of speed and daring. Along the roadside, makeshift stalls appeared one after another, selling heaps of fruits and vegetables, each town proudly displaying whatever it was famous for. We passed through many different towns and barangays, and I found myself trying to compare what those divisions might be equivalent to in the United States—small municipalities, neighborhoods, perhaps even counties. Each had its own rhythm, its own face, and together they stitched a patchwork of everyday life that unfolded outside our windows.

Villa Escudero Plantation – Lunch by the Falls

From Tagaytay, we climbed back into the van and drove south to Villa Escudero Plantation, a heritage estate that blends history, culture, and leisure. The plantation began as a coconut estate in the late 1800s, and today it welcomes visitors with museums, carabao cart rides, and its famous riverside dining. We arrived just at the tail end of lunch. Though I wasn’t hungry at all, the setting was irresistible.

Tables were laid out at the foot of a man‑made spillway, where water from the Labasin Dam flows gently over the rocks. We sat with our feet in the cool, running water, the sound of the cascade mingling with laughter and chatter. Platters of food were still being served: grilled meats, fresh vegetables, and steaming rice wrapped in banana leaves. There were tropical fruits—mangoes, pineapples, bananas—bright and sweet, their scent mixing with the damp freshness of the water. Someone passed around kakanin, sticky rice cakes in coconut milk, and even though I had sworn I wasn’t hungry, I found myself reaching for a piece.

It was less about the meal itself and more about the sensory delight—the mingling of food, nature, and playfulness in one unforgettable scene. The cool water against our legs, the chatter of companions, the taste of something sweet after the savory—all of it folded into memory, a reminder that sometimes the setting makes the simplest meal feel extraordinary.

Cultural Performances and Kayak Adventure

After lunch, we enjoyed watching native dances performed with vibrant costumes and rhythmic music, a celebration of heritage that felt both festive and grounding. The performers moved with such energy that even the audience seemed to sway along. Later, we took a ride on a kayak, gliding across the calm waters. Sadly, Rica and I had not been given instructions on how to turn left or right, so our attempts at steering became a sight in themselves—zigzags, circles, and bursts of laughter echoing across the water. It was one of those moments where the missteps became the memory, a playful counterpoint to the serenity of the plantation.

Parish and National Shrine of Padre Pio

Before heading back to Casa Manila, our temporary home in the city, we made one last stop at the Parish and National Shrine of Padre Pio. The order of its name confused me at first—parish, shrine, national designation—but the reverence was unmistakable. The shrine honors Saint Padre Pio, beloved for his humility and miracles, and the atmosphere was hushed yet welcoming. Pilgrims moved quietly, lighting candles, offering prayers, and celebrating his legacy. For us, it was a pause—a moment of reflection after a day filled with sights, laughter, and food. The shrine’s calm presence seemed to gather all the day’s experiences into a gentle close.

Looking Ahead

Tomorrow will bring us to Olongapo, the only place I ever truly considered home, and where Rica lived until she was four years old. We will be returning to the very same house, now serving as our home base during this journey. But before settling there, we will stop in Malabon and Bulacan to visit cousins, aunts, and uncles I have not seen in fifty years—reunions carefully arranged by Onieh before we arrived.

After a good night’s sleep, with all ten of us gathered under one roof, we shared breakfast together before heading out for the day. It was the kind of morning that felt both ordinary and extraordinary—ordinary in its routine of coffee, rice, and conversation, yet extraordinary in the way it marked the beginning of our journey through Manila.

We were not alone in this adventure. Our driver, Obet, joined us not just behind the wheel but as part of the family circle. He would eat and sleep alongside us for the entire trip, becoming one more thread in the tapestry of companionship that held us together.

Luneta Park and Taft Avenue

Our day began at Luneta Park, where history and memory converge. The Rizal Monument stood solemnly at its center, a reminder of sacrifice and nationhood. José Rizal, the national hero, was executed here in 1896—his writings had awakened a people, and his death became the spark that ignited revolution. Standing before his monument, I felt the weight of his belief that freedom could be won not only through arms but through education, dignity, and the courage to speak truth.

Nearby, another monument honors Lapu-Lapu, the warrior chieftain of Mactan who resisted Ferdinand Magellan in 1521. His defiance delayed colonization for decades, and he remains a symbol of courage and independence—the first Filipino hero remembered for meeting foreign power with strength. Together, Rizal and Lapu-Lapu embody the two paths of resistance: the pen and the sword, intellect and valor, each reminding us that freedom is never easily won.

We walked the length of Luneta Park until we reached the end, where Taft Avenue stretched wide before us. Across that busy street stood Santa Isabel College—the school I had attended sixty years ago.

Santa Isabel College

We all crossed Taft Avenue together, but only Jay, Rica, and I were permitted to enter the school grounds. The guard hesitated, uncertain, until I explained that I had once been a student there. He allowed us to walk the outskirts of the campus.

Inside, time folded in on itself. I pointed out the old directory sign that directed visitors to the principal’s office. In my day, I knew exactly how to get there.

I’ll never forget the Saturday morning I dropped my laundry bag from the fourth floor down the spiral steps, hoping to save myself from lugging it down four flights of stairs—there were no lifts or elevators on campus then. When I reached the ground, Sor Theresa was already there, her sharp‑pointed shoe planted firmly on my laundry bag. You can only imagine how that ended for me: another trip to the principal’s office, where lessons were taught not only in books but in obedience.

The chapel was unchanged, standing as it had in my youth, though the quadrangle seemed smaller than I remembered. Looking up at the fourth‑floor dormitory windows, I was reminded of how I used to gaze out and see Luneta Park in the distance. I was lucky to have a bed next to the window, where the view stretched beyond the school walls and gave me a sense of connection to the wider world.

Then I saw the sign: Parents are not allowed beyond this point. Simple words, yet they carried the weight of memory. They reminded me of how the nuns controlled our lives, shaping discipline and order in ways that seemed unquestioned.

My best friend in school was Edith delos Santos

Quiapo Church

Later that same day, we traveled to Quiapo Church. My mother used to bring me here, and the memory of those visits returned as soon as I saw the crowds pressing toward the Black Nazarene. The church was alive with devotion—candles flickering, prayers whispered, the air thick with incense and faith.

The Black Nazarene stood at the heart of it all, dark and solemn, carried in the prayers of thousands who believed in its miraculous power. As a child, I had watched my mother bow her head here, her devotion steady and unshaken. Returning now, I felt the continuity of generations—the same ritual unfolding, the same faith binding people together, unchanged by time.

After church, my mother and I would always walk to a nearby Chinese restaurant. The memory is so vivid: we never needed a menu, because we always ordered the same dishes—egg foo yung and camaron rebosado. The flavors linger in my mind even now, tied inseparably to those afternoons of devotion and comfort.

Intramuros and San Agustin Church

From Quiapo, we made our way to Intramuros, the old walled city that has stood through centuries of upheaval. Its cobblestone streets and Spanish-era walls seemed to whisper stories of resilience. We ate lunch at a wonderful place just across from San Agustin Church, a UNESCO World Heritage site. The meal was one of many we would share during this 28‑day adventure, each table becoming part of the journey.

As we finished, we were fortunate enough to witness a bride and groom stepping out of the church, celebrated by their friends and family. Weddings are among my favorite sights when traveling—moments of joy framed against walls that have endured centuries.

The Alley of Vendors and Manila Cathedral

After lunch, we wandered down a side street where vendors were cooking every imaginable Filipino delicacy. The air was thick with the scent of freshly grilled chicken feet, skewered squid, and bibingka warm from the coals. Not that we were hungry after such a meal, but we found a way to buy snacks to bring back to the place where we were staying. It wasn’t a hotel—it was more like an Airbnb, a temporary home in Manila, where these flavors would later remind us of the day’s abundance.

At the end of the alley, we encountered the Cathedral of Manila, its grand façade rising above the bustle of vendors. The sight of the cathedral, timeless and solemn, seemed to anchor the day’s wanderings in history and faith.

Chinatown

Before calling it a day, we made one more stop in Chinatown. Again, the air was alive with food—smells and flavors drifting through the streets, queues wrapped around corners as people waited for a piece of whatever was being offered. It was amazing to see how Jay and Rica tried so many different foods, each bite a small adventure. The streets themselves seemed to pulse with life, a reminder that Manila’s story is told not only in monuments and churches but also in the everyday rituals of eating, sharing, and savoring.

Reflection

That first day in Manila unfolded like a tapestry of memory and devotion. Luneta Park, Santa Isabel College, Quiapo Church, Intramuros, San Agustin, the vendor alley, Manila Cathedral, and Chinatown each carried echoes of the past, layered with the present.

Santa Isabel, in particular, reminded me of the rhythms that shaped my youth. I woke each morning to the sound of a bell ringing in my ear, though Sor Remedios allowed the younger children a little more time to sleep. From kindergarten to college, faith was not just practiced; it was our life. I could recite the entire Mass in Latin, and we attended services daily—sometimes twice in one day. Even the smallest routines carried discipline: shower days were Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, with Sunday left as a free‑for‑all. Looking up at the fourth‑floor dormitory windows, I remembered how fortunate I was to have a bed by the window, where I could gaze out toward Luneta Park and feel connected to the world beyond the school walls.

The signs, the chapel, the Black Nazarene, the remembered taste of egg foo yung, the laughter over lunch, the sight of a wedding procession, the indulgence of street snacks, and the queues for Chinatown delicacies—all became threads in the larger story of homecoming. Manila was not simply a city to visit; it was a place where memory and history pressed close, reminding me of discipline, devotion, and the quiet rituals that shaped a life.

This journey was first imagined in 2020, but the world had other plans. My uncle passed before we could make it, and so we traveled with his family to honor him, carrying his memory with us.

Onieh, his wife, joined us, along with cousins Ronell and Ronald. Mae and her partner Jo were meant to come, but Mae’s new job in Sydney kept them from joining. Because of that, we chose to stop for ten days in Sydney before continuing on—a pause that carried their presence with us even though they could not be part of the trip. Ronald arrived with Ella and their son, Ryzen, while Buddy—Onieh’s brother—completed the circle of companions who would share this pilgrimage.

On March 13, 2026, our threads began weaving across continents. Jay and I left Sydney, Rica departed San Francisco, and Ronald’s family flew from Singapore. By design and by chance, our flights converged on Manila. Rica’s layover in Singapore gave her the gift of meeting Ella, Ronald, and little Ryzen for the first time—a moment that felt less like coincidence than destiny.

For Rica, this was more than a reunion. It was her first return to the Philippines since leaving at the age of four—a journey back to a homeland she had only known through stories and photographs.

When she landed, Ronell, Onieh, and Buddy were waiting, their welcome a gentle embrace after her long journey. Hours later, Jay and I touched down almost in step with Ronald, and together we made our way to our “home base.” Laughter, anticipation, and quiet awe filled the air. After fifty years, the Philippines was no longer a distant memory—it was a living embrace, ready to unfold.

Time with Mae and Jo

After weeks at sea, two ocean crossings, and what felt like an eternity of anticipation, the morning finally came. The ship eased into Sydney Harbour, the Opera House glowing in the early light, and everything inside us said the same thing: they’re here. Disembarkation days are usually a blur of luggage and logistics — but this one felt different. This one felt like stepping into a long‑awaited chapter.

We collected our bags, found our arranged ride, and made our way toward Mona Vale. As the car pulled into the driveway, there she was — Mae, waiting with that unmistakable smile that somehow held nearly two months of her new Australian life and six years of our stories. The moment we stepped out, the reunion hit us all at once. The hug was long, tight, and full of happy tears — the kind that only come when time apart has stretched far too long.

Later that afternoon, Jo came home from work and the house once again shifted instantly into that warm, familiar rhythm only family can create. It didn’t matter that they had just relocated from Singapore with one suitcase each two months ago, the second we were all together, everything snapped back into place.

Beaches Walks and All The Firsts

They were determined to show us their new corner of Australia, and we were determined to savor every moment. We hopped from beach to beach, each one a different shade of blue, each one a reminder of how lucky we were to be here together after so many years.

Back at home, the kitchen became our shared playground. They cooked for us with such pride, and we introduced them to foods they’d never tried before. It became a running theme of the visit: What’s today’s first?

Stone fruits were the stars — peaches, nectarines, pears — each one met with wide‑eyed delight. Then came brussel sprouts and beets, sweet and earthy. They tried everything with enthusiasm, and every bite felt like a tiny celebration of being reunited.

And while the fruits and veggies were memorable, I do think bagels, prepared both sweet and savory, ranked pretty high on the favorites list. They were a home run, the kind of discovery that instantly became part of the family’s new routine.

Jo’s Steak Lesson (and the Smoke Detector Incident)

Even before we arrived, the steak lesson was already in motion. Mae had mentioned that Jo wanted to learn how to cook a proper steak, and that was all the encouragement we needed. Still on the ship, somewhere between ports, we discovered that Amazon.au would deliver straight to their door. A stovetop grill was ordered before we even reached Sydney — a quiet little surprise waiting for the first cooking lesson.

Once we were all together, it was time. The grill went on, the steaks started sizzling, and the house filled with that mouthwatering aroma that makes everyone hover around the kitchen.

And then it happened.

The smoke detector — which they had never heard go off in their entire lives — suddenly shrieked like it was announcing the end of days.

Jo froze. Absolutely still, wide‑eyed, as if waiting for instructions from mission control.
I started barking out orders like a drill sergeant in a kitchen comedy: “Fan it! Aim for the detector!”

Mae grabbed a handheld fan, scrambled onto a chair, and started directing gusts of air toward the alarm like she was single‑handedly saving the household. Meanwhile, the rest of us scattered like a comedy sketch, waving towels, lids, cutting boards, anything we could find to push the smoke toward the patio.

It was pandemonium. It was ridiculous. And it was hilarious.

By the time the alarm finally stopped, we were doubled over laughing, breathless from the chaos. The steaks survived, the lesson was a success, and Jo declared it the most exciting cooking class she’d ever had.

Live photos not available for this fiasco!

The Costco Expedition

Another “first” came in the form of a simple errand that turned into an adventure: Costco.

They had never been, and we were determined to fix that. Getting there required a bus, a tram, and another bus — a full public‑transport relay. Spirits were high as we stepped off the final bus… and then the heavens opened.

Rain didn’t just fall — it poured. Sheets of it. The kind of rain that soaks you in seconds. This was, impressively, the second time on this trip we’d been drenched to the bone. But we pressed on, laughing, dripping, and determined.

Inside, we got them their very first Costco membership — a milestone moment — and wandered the aisles like explorers. We left with just enough groceries for each of us to carry back through the rain, onto the bus, the tram, and the bus again. Among the haul: their first-ever bagels, which quickly became a household favorite — sweet and savory. A true home run.

Gratitude, Pride, and What Comes Next

Those ten days flew by faster than any of us expected. One moment we were stepping out of the car into Mae’s arms, crying happy tears in the driveway, and the next we were packing our bags again, wondering how time could possibly move that quickly when you’re with the people you love. Every beach walk, every shared meal, every new “first,” every laugh — it all passed in a blur of joy.

As sad as we were to leave, we were also filled with something else: pride.

Pride in Mae and Jo for uprooting their lives with one suitcase each.
Pride in how quickly they were learning their way around.
Pride in how they were settling into their new life with resilience, humor, and openness.

Watching them build a home, a routine, and a future in a new country was inspiring. They weren’t just adapting — they were thriving.

And the best part? We’re already planning our next chapter together.

By 2028, we imagine the rest of the family will have relocated, Mae and Jo will be fully settled, and we’ll all be ready for a little “seacation” — a reunion at sea with our Aussie and Kiwi friends joining in. The thought alone made us smile: the four of us, plus the extended circle we’ve gathered across continents, sharing sunsets, stories, and maybe even another cooking lesson or two (hopefully with fewer smoke alarms).

Leaving Sydney wasn’t easy. But as we closed the door behind us, we felt that familiar spark of anticipation.

Watch out family in the Philippines, we’re on our way!

Sydney greeted us with that familiar mix of sunshine, sea breeze, and the unmistakable feeling of coming home to people we love. After years of waiting — years that stretched all the way back to Christmas 2019 — we finally wrapped our arms around Mae and Jo again. No video call, no message thread, no shared photo ever came close to the warmth of that first real hug. It felt like time folded in on itself, collapsing the distance and the years in one breath.

Those first hours in Sydney were all about family: catching up, laughing at how much and how little had changed, and settling into the comfort that only cousins can give. But woven into this homecoming was another kind of reunion — the kind that travel gifts you when you least expect it.

Reconnecting With Friends Who Became Part of Our Story

Sydney isn’t just where our cousins live. It’s also where several of our travel friendships have taken root, each one formed in a different corner of the world and somehow leading us all back to this city.

We first met Shenna and Winny on a Trafalgar tour through Israel and Jordan— one of those journeys where the landscapes were unforgettable, but the people were what truly stayed with us. From the very first day, Shenna’s warmth and Winny’s gentle presence made every stop richer, every long bus ride lighter, and every shared meal feel like dinner with family.

Seeing them again in Sydney felt like picking up a conversation we’d paused only moments ago, even though years had passed. There’s something rare about friendships that survive distance, time zones, and the unpredictability of travel — and rarer still when they grow stronger because of it.

Collage created by Winny

During our visit, Winny shared some of her incredible sketches with us — delicate, expressive, and full of quiet detail. It was a privilege to see her talent up close, a glimpse into the creative world she carries with her.

Before we said goodbye, our conversation drifted — as it always does with them — toward future adventures. We realized we weren’t ready to let this reunion be the end of the story. So we made a promise that felt both exciting and completely natural:
in 2027, we’ll plan to travel to South Africa together.

It’s a plan I’ll start researching when we get home in April. And just like me, Winny has her eye on Victoria Falls, already dreaming about the mist, the rainbows, and the thrill of standing at the edge of one of the world’s great wonders. It’s the kind of shared dream that makes a friendship feel even more like family.

A Sweet Afternoon With Kazune and Michael

Our next reunion was with Kazune, someone whose story has been intertwined with ours for years.

We first met her on a Princess cruise, back when she was a ship photographer with a warm smile and a quiet talent for making everyone feel seen. A couple of years later, in 2019, we found ourselves in Tokyo — and she became our guide, our translator, our food scout, and truly one of the best companions we’ve ever had. She took us to places we still talk about today, each meal somehow topping the last, even though we swore it couldn’t be possible. That week with her remains one of our most treasured travel memories.

Life carried her forward in the most beautiful ways. She married in 2023, moved to Australia, and built a new chapter here. So when we realized our paths would cross again in Sydney, we were thrilled — not just to see her, but to finally meet her husband, Michael.

After a wonderful lunch together, we wandered through a nearby street market — the kind filled with handmade crafts, colorful stalls, and the irresistible smell of something sweet frying in the air. Naturally, we followed our noses straight to the donuts. Standing there with donuts in hand, laughing and catching up, it felt like no time had passed at all.

Before we said goodbye, we made a promise: we’ll see each other again in 2028 — and by then, we’ll get to meet the newest addition to their family, their baby boy who is expected this May, their happiest news.

Warren & Deborah — A Reunion Sparked by Serendipity

Some reunions begin with intention; others begin with a spark of coincidence. Deborah had been following our blog as we sailed across the Pacific, reading along as each port unfolded. One day, she noticed something uncanny: we were aboard the Coral Princess, the very same ship where two other couples they knew from our Antarctica voyage were also sailing. That little moment of recognition set everything in motion.

The instant she realized it, Warren sent us an email — one of those perfectly timed messages that feels less like chance and more like the universe giving a gentle nudge.

Catching up with them felt natural, as if no time had passed since our cruisetour from Rio to Antarctica. They welcomed us into their day with such warmth, taking us on a beautiful hike up to the Barrenjoey Lighthouse. The climb was worth every step — sweeping views, sea breeze, and the kind of conversation that settles in comfortably.

Lunch afterward was delicious, made even better by the stunning seafront setting. It was one of those afternoons that felt unhurried and full, the kind you tuck away as a quiet treasure of a trip.

We promised to stay in touch and keep them posted about our plans for the 2028 cruise. And next time, we’ll make our way up to visit them — perhaps by train, or maybe by then the cousins will be driving and can whisk us along. However it happens, we hope our paths cross again soon.

Leaving the ship on March 2 will carry that familiar ache — the kind that settles in when a journey has been so full of life, laughter, and unexpected connection that stepping away feels like closing a chapter we weren’t quite ready to finish. This voyage hasn’t just been about the places we visited; it’s been about the people who filled our days with warmth and meaning.

Some friendships were brief but memorable — a shared smile in the hallway, a conversation over breakfast, a moment of kindness that stays with us.

Others grew into something deeper, the kind of bonds that feel rare and precious. And this journey reminded us that those deeper friendships don’t just happen on ships; they happen on land too, in the places where our paths cross again with people who feel like family.

Spending time with Katrina, Phil, and Aidan — the wonderful Kiwis we first met on our Trafalgar trip to Turkey — was one of those gifts. From the moment we reunited, it felt like slipping back into a familiar rhythm, the kind that only happens with people who have become part of our story. Meeting Nadia, Lewis, and Jen added even more richness, each of them warm, open, and instantly easy to be around. Being with them reminded us how travel can bring people into your life who stay, who matter, who become woven into your memories long after the trip ends.

And right alongside that was our day with Rochelle — another Kiwi whose presence on this journey meant just as much. She welcomed us into her world with such generosity, taking us to her farm, introducing us to her cows (a dream I once joked about on the Croatia trip, never imagining it would actually come true), and sharing her life with a sincerity that touched us deeply. Catching up with Shane, who had been working while Rochelle toured us around, added another layer of warmth. And finally meeting Natalia — someone we had heard about, who felt like meeting a character from a story who suddenly steps into real life, made the day feel complete. Lunch at their table felt like being wrapped in kindness.

🍽️ The Ones Who Filled Our Evenings

Every night on this voyage had its own kind of magic, and much of that came from the four people we shared our dinners with — the little “family” we didn’t know we needed until we found ourselves looking forward to seeing them each evening.

• Andy, our fearless building‑jumper, whose Sky Tower leap became one of the big stories of the cruise. His energy, humor, and zest for life made every dinner brighter.
• Tammy, warm, steady, and always ready with a smile that made the table feel like home.
• Hector and Oilda, who celebrated their 61st wedding anniversary on February 14th, brought a quiet sweetness and depth to every meal. Oilda’s laugh — the kind that could fill a room and lift all of us with it, the kind that stays with you long after the moment has passed — became one of the sounds we’ll miss most. Watching the two of them together, still teasing, still tender, still so connected after all these years, felt like witnessing a love story still unfolding.

These four turned our dinners into something more than meals — they became a ritual, a comfort, a joy. And we hope our paths cross again one day.

These moments are why goodbyes at sea are never simple. The ship becomes a floating village of memories — and the crew, the heartbeat of it all. Their kindness, their care, their quiet way of making every day feel effortless… it stays with us.

Lex, a junior waiter with the instincts of a best friend, remembers everything about you — not just what you like to drink with each meal, but the little things too. He anticipates your preferences the way someone does when they’ve been paying attention from the very first day. Delfino, with his quiet wit and gentle patience, handled every one of my complicated dinner requests as if they were the simplest thing in the world. Nerisa greeted us each evening with the warmth of someone welcoming family — her joy was genuine, contagious, the kind that lifts the whole table before you even sit down. And Flor and Cicero, who made sure every meal was perfect, slipped Filipino dishes and rice onto our table whenever they could, little gifts from their hearts to ours, reminders that kindness often arrives in the form of food.

And then there was Mark, one of the sweetest surprises of this voyage. On this cruise he was stationed right across the hallway from us, and the moment he saw us, he recognized us instantly. It felt like no time had passed at all since our Greenland cruise, when we first met him and handed him my leftover peanut butter before leaving the ship — a tiny gesture that meant far more than we realized. And here we were again, leaving him our half‑jar of peanut butter, my breakfast staple that the ship never quite gets right. Watching his face light up with that same warm smile brought back all the tenderness of that first journey. Moments like that, simple and genuine, are what make it so hard to say goodbye.

These are the people who turn a voyage into a home, who make the days feel softer and the nights feel warmer, who remind you that the ocean may be vast, but you are never adrift.

But woven into the sadness is something sweeter — something that lifts our hearts even as we pack our bags.

Because when we step off the ship on March 2, waiting for us in Sydney will be Mae and Jo — family we haven’t hugged since 2019. Before COVID. Before the world stood still. Before time stretched in ways none of us expected. The thought of seeing them again, of hearing their laughter in person, of simply being together after so many years… that is the kind of joy that softens every goodbye.

And Sydney won’t just bring us back to family — it will bring us back to friends who have become part of our story. We’ll see Kazune again, the ship photographer who became family in Tokyo, and finally meet her husband Michael. We’ll reunite with Shenna and her mom Winny, whom we met on that unforgettable Trafalgar tour in Israel. And we’ll catch up with Warren and Deborah, from the Rio‑to‑Antarctica cruisetour. Somehow, all these threads — from cruises, tours, faraway cities, and unexpected moments — are coming together in one place, as if the universe decided to gather our travel family in a single embrace.

And after Sydney, our hearts will carry us onward to the Philippines — to more family, more warmth, more long‑awaited embraces. Another homecoming, another chapter waiting to be written.

So yes, leaving the ship is bittersweet. But endings like this — full of gratitude, full of connection, full of love — are the kind that stay with us. They remind us that every journey leaves us a little richer, a little softer, a little more open to the world. And as we look ahead, we hold onto the hope of meeting our ship friends again someday — because Katrina and Rochelle have already shown us that in this wide, wonderful world, anything is possible.

We have a habit of turning up at just the right moment—whenever that may be!