The trouble with staying in great hotels is getting so used to the treatment that you start expecting more of it at home.
Unsurprisingly, the cheapest international flights are those that leave Manila at midnight. Which means you arrive, fuzzy-haired, at some strange airport during witching hour, and you’re not sure whether the folks at immigration are squinting suspiciously at you and your passport photo or just trying to fend off sleep.
From Justin Quek’s Sky on 57 restaurant atop Singapore’s Marina Bay Sands, you get a perfect view of the world terraforming below. The land is flat—gray in parts where highways and buildings have risen, brown where construction is ongoing.
When Katrina Feliciano bought a pair of jeans from Regatta this summer, she had no idea the item would bring her and two of her friends to Shangri-La’s Mactan Resort & Spa for a three-day holiday.
There was a time in my life when the tiny, unexpected twists and dips during travel were considered fun. Wrong turns meant new sights to behold; lost wallets meant new strategies; and seedy, dilapidated hotels were “charming haunts full of character.”
Mt. Banahaw’s peak has been closed off to climbers and devotees for some time now, allegedly due to unchecked pollution and increased impact on the mountain. However, there are still trails below the peak that remain open to the public.
As a form of protest against low-cost carriers and perennially congested runways, I decided I would not click on Piso Fare links this month. Instead, all travels would be done on nothing more than a gas tank, a tent and a general idea of where I’m headed.
Sometimes, things fall so snugly into place that we just doubt the alleged randomness of life. Exactly a week before my trip to Malaysia, Borgy and I were at Naia Terminal 3, leading an angry mob before Airphil’s check-in counter. They had just cancelled all trips to Caticlan due to safety issues, and we were being rerouted to Kalibo.
About six years ago, I wrote a piece on Puerto Galera. I was in love with a French intern in Tabinay, and my article was peppered with lines like “a sea as blue as Paul Newman’s eyes,” and dreamy voyaging and sap and wanderlust.
The first time I ever went to Boracay was just after my senior year in high school. My twin sister, an older sister plus her friend, and I filled a giant duffel bag with canned goods and flew to the island, planning to bunk in with our aunt, who was staying at a little cottage called Gunding Torres for P300 a night. The year was 1999, and couples were still running around the beach naked.
