Ilocos Norte, Philippines

This trip to the Philippines was supposed to be a reset—no maps, no "must-sees," no chasing the new. But the road always has a funny way of intervening. Sometimes, you don’t find the place; the place finds you.

I’m currently sitting on a beach so desolate it feels like a secret the world forgot to keep. My brain wants to solve the puzzle: Why isn't everyone here? I could probably guess—the bumpy roads, the lack of signal, the sheer distance from the "influencer" circuit.

But then, the wind picks up, the turquoise water hits the shore, and the questions just... stop.

In a world obsessed with the "next big thing," there is a rare, quiet power in finding a place that is simply enough. No beach clubs, no crowds, no noise. Just an outrageously, almost impossibly beautiful stretch of sand that demands nothing from you but your presence.

It’s pure. It’s raw. It’s a reminder that sometimes the best thing to do is absolutely nothing at all.

and 21 Years later..... The stories continue....

The dust-caked box in the back of my closet held more than just old documents; it held ghosts. Digging through it last week, I pulled out two faded passports, their covers brittle with age. I sat there on the floor, flipping through the stamps, but the rhythm of the pages faltered when I hit April 1993. The ink was dry, but the memory still felt damp.

Nothing in my world could have prepared me for Manila. I look back now and wonder if I was really that green, or if the city was just that teeth-rattlingly raw. I suspect it was both.

The air inside the terminal didn’t just sit there; it lunged. It was thick with the heavy, sour scent of mold—the kind of smell that feels like it’s trying to tell you a secret you don’t want to hear. The light was a dying breed, too. A few lonely incandescent bulbs swung from the high, cavernous ceiling, casting long, jittery shadows that made the whole place feel like a fever dream.

Then the doors opened, and the world came for me.

I’ve never been physically besieged like that before or since. It was a sea of desperate energy—hands grabbing at my sleeves, voices rising in a jagged chorus of shouts, a sensory ambush that left no room to breathe. Panic started to crawl up my throat. I stood there, a ghost with a suitcase, realizing I had no hotel, no local currency, and no plan. All that mattered was the mob and the heat.

Fast forward thirty years, and the shadows have been chased away. The modern terminal is all glass, bright lights, and sterile air—no mold, no chaos, no grasping hands. My wallet is heavy with pesos and my reservation is locked in.

This week, I’m stepping back into the heat of the city I once feared, but the air feels different now. I’m going back to the place I call my second home.

BTW, Manila's NAIA Airport Terminal 1 is still standing.  It's been upgraded several times, but still ranks high as the World's worst airport.