P for Philadelphia

At almost 10 in the evening, traffic was extremely heavy on the road to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Endless lines of cars endlessly moving forward as rain threatened to fall and add to the sour mood of all the commuters. It seemed that the City of Brotherly Love was acting petulantly that day by refusing an easy and quick entrance to locals and visitors alike.

And like a beacon in the night, this building loomed beside the crowded highway. With a glowing letter P on its face, it was like a giant cheerful mascot welcoming motorists into Philly. Immediately, thoughts of cheese steak, How I Met Your Mother, and Cold Case filled my head.

How plebeian, scholars would say. After all, Philly is the seat of American independence, home of the Liberty Bell and the meeting place of the Founding Fathers. But, after hours and hours in traffic with no food or toilets, and only my brother's lame jokes for entertainment, history was hardly on my mind.

There would be time for that soon enough.

A Filipino on an All-American Roadtrip

The journey of a thousand miles begins at five in the morning. The sun was not up yet, and neither were the natives. Liars, I thought to myself. New York City does sleep after all.

The orange glow of the streetlights and the tiny incandescent light on the porch illuminated the otherwise dark driveway, where my father and brother were loading suitcases and plastic bags into an old red two-door Chevrolet. Beads of sweat were already forming on their foreheads as they tried to fit three large pieces of luggage into the tiny car’s even tinier trunk.

Before the first stirrings of dawn could brighten the sky, I got into the car and attempted to get comfortable in the cramped backseat. My Aunt Alexis squeezed in next to me, while my brother called shotgun, and my dad got behind the wheel. Within minutes, the junker sputtered to life and we were off.

Jolly, Green, and Giant - Life on Mt. Makiling

Life-long city dwellers have taken to saying, “You know, back when I was younger, there were hundreds of butterflies here, some even bigger than my hand. Now, they’re all gone because the air is so dirty.”

A butterfly as big as a hand? Even the preserved specimens in collections were no bigger than a person’s palm. There were stories too of dragonflies the size of pencils, with wings shiny as sapphires, and of insects that would stay motionless on a finger because they weren’t afraid of humans. It didn’t seem possible.

But, apparently, it was. In fact, it still is.

"Come into my garden."

The road to heaven is good enough to eat

If it weren’t for a conspicuously bovine smell in the air, the brown-colored highway could certainly whet the appetite. Whether intentional or just an incredible coincidence, the road to Hershey, Pennsylvania is cocoa-colored, like a piece of bread slathered with chocolate spread. As long as the windows of the car are kept shut tight, driving along that particular American highway feels like cruising on a long, coarsely-blended bar of milk chocolate. Cars don’t speed along this special highway – most drift leisurely, as if the people in the vehicles were distracted by the imaginary aroma of a bittersweet candy bar to speed past the delectable stretch of pavement.

Like the yellow brick road that led Dorothy to Oz, this highway leads travelers to the Hershey compound, where a billboard with a giant Kisses mascot greets visitors. Here, the chocolate street reaches its end, only to be replaced with regular streets named Cocoa Avenue, E Chocolate Avenue, and Cherry Drive.

Revisiting an old friend

“We’re going to Puerto Galera.”

The moment my mother said these words, a rush of memories filled my head. I remembered riding a big boat, a roro, I think it’s called. I threw up once, while riding the roro. I was six years old. There were so many people crowded on the boat, and the sun was mercilessly shining that day. I ruined my grandmother’s pants, soiled my cousin’s slippers, and smelled vile. It would have been a horrendous (not to mention, a terribly embarrassing) experience, were it not for the dolphins. The friendly creatures chose that moment – my moment of shame and sickness – to put on the show for the roro passengers. There were three of them jumping in and out of a crystal-blue sea, keeping up with the boat as it made its way to the beautiful island of Puerto Galera in Mindoro. Thanks to them, I could almost ignore the terrible smell, the heat, my headache, and the bile threatening to rise once again in my throat.

This memory is the most vivid of all my experiences in and going to the island – a meaningful statement considering that I’ve seen mini tornadoes, sea turtles washed up on shore, and seahorses playing in the shallow pools along the coast of Puerto Galera. With all of these wonderful and not-so-wonderful recollections in my head, I could barely contain my excitement that I had an opportunity to go back to my favorite place in the Philippines, the beach of my childhood.

The boat trip this time around was a far cry from the roro commute I had done 12 years ago. For one, I didn’t ride on a roro. My mom rented a bangka, or the local speedboat, to ferry us to Mindoro. No dolphins swam alongside the boat. The sky was overcast, and rain seemed to be on the horizon. But I didn’t care. Things changed, I told myself. I was going back to Puerto Galera. That was all that mattered.

Bangkas waiting for passengers idle by the shore.

The realities and fake DVDs of Manila Chinatown

Wow! Mukhang mayaman! Pwede ba kita kidnapin?”

The streets of Manila Chinatown are rarely this empty - unless it's Holy Week or during a Manny Pacquiao fight, of course.

Getting ogled and asked by random passersby if they may kidnap you is one of the risks of going to Manila Chinatown. Carrying around and displaying a giant digital camera in an open marketplace tends to attract all sorts of vagrants, from beggars and snatchers to would-be kidnappers. But, most of the people on the streets of Binondo are harmless, and any kidnapping requests are probably just jokes. Probably. In any case, showing off gadgets and money in this area isn’t the brightest thing to do.

The risk of losing wallets, patience, and excessive amounts of sweat apparently isn’t enough to keep either the tourists or the locals away from Chinatown. Everyday, a tide of people crashes into Binondo and the surrounding areas for its shopping and unique cultural atmosphere – but still, mostly for the shopping.

Dirty dreams in New York City

Not at all like the movies.

The filthy, gum-blackened steps of the Subway station in Jamaica, Queens, where rats fearlessly crossed pedestrians' paths, was a far cry from the bright lights of the New York City dream. No trace of Broadway glamour -that spark that made the city one of the best in the world - could be found among the human detritus piled in the corners of the 169th Street Station.

Only the bright lights of the Subway station in Times Square, Manhattan
reflects the glitz of the city.

Commuters waited in line to swipe their Metrocards. Native New Yorkers breezed through, while others were quickly exposed as tourists when they held up the queue because of their unfamiliarity with the fickle machines. The train platform fared no better than the rest of the station. Posters on the wall had long fallen victim to vandals. A cold draft circulated a musty, earthy smell around the terminal. The gloomy interior brightened every few minutes with the arrival of the F train, only to go back to the dismal quiet it was before.

The train was long. Empty, too. Where were all the people? New York is famous for its sardine can-packed cars. No one complained, however, because a seat on the lengthy ride to Manhattan was always a blessing. There was nothing to see out the window, but the inside of the car was a different story. The few people inside the car were an odd mix; no nationality was left out. Hispanic, Middle Eastern, African, European, American, Asian – a mini UN, right in that small, ancient train compartment. The relative warmth in the car was cultivating a nasty combination of human odors, but this unplanned gathering of people, who obviously hailed from different walks of life, revived the New York dream. Maybe behind all the dust and debris, the Big Apple really is what it is made out to be - America's melting pot of culture.

A bite of Malaysia

A melting pot of culture, Malaysia is home to the whole gamut of eastern ethnic groups, from native Malayans, to Chinese, Indians, and even small Thai, Indonesian, and European communities. It shares a colonial past with many other Asian countries, having been controlled by Great Britain in the late 18th and early 19th centuries.

With such a wide mix of peoples and a colorful history, it’s no surprise that Malaysia has such a diverse culture. This diversity is reflected in Malaysian food – literally, culture served on a platter. The large Chinese and Indian populations have greatly influenced the national cuisine.

One of the most famous dishes in Malaysian cooking is even an adaptation of the Indian roti, or bread. There are several variations of roti in Malaysia, the two most common ones being the roti canai, which is part pancake, part crepe, and the roti jala, which is thinner and net-like. Both types of roti are typically eaten with curry.

Lamb curry with just the right amount of kick.