A Trip To Manila ... and Finding My Home

NOTE: most of the photos here are my own, others were shamelessly borrowed from friends, or attributed to the owner when possible.

Welcome to Manila!!

So, Liz, your “Recovered Third Culture Kid” fans are waiting with bated breath to hear about your trip!  I’m sure your jet lag has passed by now; what the heck is taking you so long? 

I’m glad you asked! Yes, the dragon-like, multi-horned and scaly, hideous beast that is jet lag has been permanently exorcised from my brain.  I don’t remember it being quite the soporific, coma-inducing incubus that it was before.  No amount of sleeping potions would make me sleep at night; but oh boy would I sleep during the day! It finally, finally left the night before I was to return to work.  A reparative, delicious slumber.

How to begin?  My dear husband unfortunately had to stay behind due to illness.  I missed him so much, and longed to share my feelings and reactions to being in the Philippines with him.  We were able to stay in touch due to modern technology: a wonder of telecommunications called Viber. 

Somewhere over the North Pole (or Russia)

On the 3^rd of January, I flew from Austin to Detroit, Detroit to Seoul, and Seoul to Manila.  Let me tell ya, those Koreans have made life so much easier for long-haul travelers. I don’t know about you, but there’s something about a 14-hour flight that makes you want to de-louse when you touch down.  Is it the pressurized air that you breathe?  The exhalations of strangers around you that cause the accumulation of that unnamed, insidious muck that covers you when you arrive?  What is it?  I had heard that there were showers at Incheon Airport … and I was on a heat-seeking mission to find them.  And I did!  Up in the transit lounge, you walk in, grab a towel and find an empty shower room (hopefully the person in the occupied ones remembered to lock the door!) and … glorious, cleansing, steaming water to wash away your travel sludge. Every damn airport in the world should have them. 

As we were landing in Manila, I was riveted to the window, watching the night city sparkle nearer and nearer, and wowed to myself at the lights floating on Manila Bay. By that time I was so tired, and ready to be there, but the adrenaline was doing its thing, and I was giddy with anticip …

... ation. 

My dear classmate Norbie had volunteered to do the airport retrieval for lots of us; thank you so much for making my arrival so painless!  The Manila Peninsula is still there; it was where my parents and I stayed in 1978, when we flew back from Singapore for my graduation from IS Manila. I saw the balcony above the lobby where my boyfriend and I had said a sad goodbye.  (Truth: he was a blind date a friend had set me up with for the senior prom.  We had a very fast (less than a week!) and intense relationship!) 

The next morning, I met up with the four Mulcahy sisters – I had been friends with Mary, and when Mitch was unable to come, I asked if I could be a Mulcahy for the week, and they happily “adopted” me!  Thank you sissies! We went on a walk to a small open-air market with a group, led by our fearless leader, Rick Velayo, the Kissing Bandit.  You may ask .. WTH? I’ll tell you! Rick has created this persona that has lasted through the years.  He told me once that long ago, someone was taking a picture of him and a classmate, and as the count went down, three, two, one, he suddenly shifted and kissed her on the cheek, making a photograph that lives in infamy.  He gives you a kiss on the cheek and you win a button!  The KB lives on.  I personally have accumulated two or three buttons over the years at reunions.  It’s all aboveboard, get your mind out of the gutter. We all love Rick.  And now he’s famous!

With the Kissing Bandit, and old friend Russell S.

I can’t remember every single thing we did; my brain was in a whirl.  I remember shopping at Greenhills (north of Manila) and going a party at a friend’s house.  Another friend was happy to lend me his driver (I know, I know, only a TCK would think that was normal!) to drive by my old house on Cambridge Circle.  Not the same house any more, sadly.  Like I said before, a slight tropical breeze would have knocked it over back when we were living there; no surprise it’s been replaced.

There was lots of sitting in the lobby meeting up with old friends and new ones; chismis-ing (chatting in Tagalog) and just enjoying being there. The conversations easily flowed like silk, smooth and comfortable.  It was an eclectic mixup of all the hundreds of people from Facebook that I had only known in pictures, and the ones I did know, either from school or reunions. There were squeals and hugs and Oh my god!s.  The peninsula became chismis central … a meeting place, a drinking place, a remember when place, all serenaded by the tinkling of the keys from a piano on the mezzanine.   

On Sunday there was merienda at the lovely home of our guidance counselor, Vicky SyCip Herrera.  What can I say about Vicky?  She has been the glue of our school; she taught us Composition and later became a counselor. There was something about her that I’ve never seen in a guidance office here in the states.  She and her crew knew how to deal with us TCKs and all of our issues.  One friend I ran into told me the story of how when he first moved to Manila, he was apathetic, depressed, and not eager to go to school.  He would be dropped off in the morning and then hightail it over to a little bistro near campus and just sit and drink beer.  After a few weeks of his truancy, the school (and his parents) caught on.  Rather than punishing him or expelling him, Vicky and the headmaster said, okay, we’re going to help you.  We’re going to get you caught up with your classes, and encourage you, and be there for you.  My friend felt that he mattered, that someone cared about him and he responded to that.  He was able to start going to classes and excelled.  I could say that the US could learn something from this, but that’s too big a hole to jump into. 

The iconic Vicky Sycip Herrera

I brought Vicky a copy of my book; after all I got my writing chops from her Freshman Composition class!

Vicky has a room in her house that is covered, floor to ceiling, with pictures of her past students.  We all had fun finding ourselves (some of us – me – were horrified!) and reminiscing. 

At the end of the afternoon, I met up with Clenia Dimanche, the widow of the priest at our Episcopal church in Makati. The church was a short walk from Vicky’s house, and Clenia and I meandered over there, hand in hand.  She is one of the sweetest, most elegant Filipina ladies that I know.  The story is that her husband, Gaby, was a Belgian Jesuit priest (Catholic) sent to teach in a school in the Philippines.  One his students was young Clenia.  They fell in love, and he left the church to become an Episcopalian priest.  They had three beautiful children, and both had a long career as the leaders of Holy Trinity church in Forbes Park (in addition to Gaby’s career on the Board of Directors at ISManila, and at the Brent School.)  My parents and I were faithful congregants of the church all the years we were there (okay, I was somewhat reluctant – I was a teenager, for Pete’s sake).  I was the first female acolyte there, part of the youth group, and taught Sunday school to the little kids.  For all the changes in Manila, Holy Trinity remains the same, a tiny microcosm amidst the Big City.  My father had been a part of the committee that built a columbarium behind the sanctuary, and I was proud to see his work still standing after all this time. 

After that visit down memory lane, I was driven by yet another friend's driver to the Urdaneta apartments to join a party thrown by siblings who are the third generation of their family to live in Manila.  One of the sisters still lives there and is a family physician; another sister had been in my French class … their brother I had met when he visited Austin once.  They were so generous to host a get-together for us; the pool-side area was chock-a-block with people dancing and mingling with their barkada, new and old.

I fell, exhausted, into bed as soon as I got back to the Peninsula; the next day marked the beginning of the official school events.  Buses took us to the new campus in Bonifacio Global City (or for the hip people in Manila, “BGC”) where we wandered agog at the state-of-the-art building that resembled a highly endowed university.  Seriously.  Tennis courts on the roof!  Two (or maybe three) swimming pools.  Robotics lab … little theater that could have competed with Carnegie Hall.  We listened to a lecture about the Battle of Corregidor, and ate lunch in the cafeteria, which could pass as a millennial urban bistro. Former school sports stars reunited on the playing fields and basketball courts to see if they still had their mojo.

Well loved by so many!

That night was a cocktail reception in the ballroom of the Peninsula.  There had to be 600+ people in there, and it was more chismis-ing and mingling.  Surprisingly, every event meant meeting more people that I had missed at the other functions.  The vibe in the room was electric … so many familiar faces, so many more hugs and cries of recognition and bear hugs. While we “old folks” were there in masse, we could pick out the young ‘uns who graduated more recently; they were just as ecstatic to be there as we were.  After that (if you are tired just reading about this, imagine how I felt!) we went to another hotel in Manila for a karaoke party!  Or should I say “Rockeoke” party.  Let me tell you, there are some extremely talented people who went to my school!  It was not the “bad” singing that you usually encounter at karaoke; there were some Broadway stars there!  Any talent scouts there would have taken home a treasure trove. 

Just a few of our closest friends.

Photobombing!

Tuesday morning my body said, when presented with idea of getting up, said Nope.  I listened to it, and ordered room service, taking my time to reenergize and recharge my batteries.  It had been a lot.  And there was more to come. My constitution is a little less lively these days, and I was pushing it to the limit.  I ordered room service, “Filipino breakfast please!” that included rice and eggs and beef and mango and calamansi juice (of which I had a lot while I was there). It was divine. There’s just something about eating garlic for breakfast that is quintessentially Filipino!  Love it.

Filipino breakfast!

That afternoon was a bus tour of Makati and environs, including BCG.  We found the place where Our Old School had stood, now Century Mall, next to Trump Tower.  We did find the famous plaque which memorializes the old IS Manila … but it was disorienting to find ourselves surrounded by concrete monoliths.  No one could really envision where the school had been.  Which way was up?  That part was very sad for me.  I get that big cities make progress, and progress involves replacing the past, and improving on infrastructure.  The Manila I knew was gone, with flashes of familiarity here and there.  Far fewer open spaces with lush green landscapes and palm trees (though there are some!)  Heavy sigh.  

We drove to the American Cemetery, which I remembered being not far from our house.  Having made the dive into genealogy recently, I found that a cousin of my mom’s had been a pilot during the war.  He was flying wounded soldiers from somewhere in Australia to somewhere else, and his plane was shot down.  There, among the names of soldiers, Marines and sailors whose bodies were never found was the name of William P. Ragsdale, Jr., along with 30,000 (yes, thousand) others, (Americans, and Filipinos) who were lost during World War II.  There are too many names, carved on curving marble walls.  The heroes whose bodies were found are buried in immaculate concentric circles.  That part of Manila is the same, and will never change. 

We ended up again at the school … there was to be a huge variety show in the Little Theater and we settled in for skits and music. Much to many of our surprise, the Kissing Bandit performed the song “Manila” by Hotdog, surrounded by a crowd of dancing girls. We recognized the oldest alum attending the reunion, who was from the 1940’s, and the lovely Ming Ramos, the wife of the former President Fidel Ramos, who never quit her job at the school, and told us that since the President’s wife didn’t get a salary, she had to work!  We heard about how President Quezon had helped 1100 Jews escape the holocaust. We saw how many of our classmates who dated in school actually married each other.  We laughed, we cried.  It was the show of shows.   

From the theater, we were serenaded by a marching band as we made our way to the “Barrio Fiesta” that was set up on the school grounds.  Dancers in native garb lined the way to the dinner, and a band played traditional music all the while. 

Wednesday began with a Filipino cooking class for our class, 1978.  Thanks to Jos Ortega, Grace Jong and Bong Bernas (who did I leave out?) for putting this together.  We were kitted out in special shirts and aprons, and learned to make Chicken Adobo, and Leche Flan.  Afterward the restaurant served up a 6-course meal!  Oof, the food just kept coming and coming!  Lots of fun visiting with our smaller group.

There's always room for dessert! (Chris Cabe Photo)

Chris Cabe Photo

Chris Cabe Photo

Wednesday night was a big to-do at the Manila Polo Club.  My parents hadn’t been members, but I had plenty of friends whose families were, so I spent a great deal of time there.  I remember sitting in the middle of the polo field at night (we may or may not have been smoking or drinking something), looking at the stars.  We had a school Sadie Hawkins party there.  Lots of my friends were seriously into horseback riding, and that was where they spent many an afternoon after school. There was a huge pool and a duck pin bowling alley. (Google it). Back in the day I thought it was pretty chi-chi, and for sure it is even more so today.  The party was in the ballroom and extended outside to the edge of the polo field, with the backdrop of BCG skyscrapers and their cascade of lights. Unfortunately for me, all my binging on Filipino food had caught up with me; the dress I brought specifically for this function would not fit on my well-fed body.  I ended up in a lesser and more casual version of the original … I’m sure everyone noticed (not).  There was music, there were class pictures, and just … being there.  And so, the celebration was over.  The official part, anyway. 

Polo Fields with BGC 

Thursday, we drove in a caravan of minibuses 3 hours south of Manila to Calatagan, where Vicky’s resort, Stilts, was waiting for us.  After seeing it in pictures, we could only gasp at how much more beautiful it is in person.  We all shared cabanas (excuse me, floating cottages over the water) so it was like a big pajama party. The next day, after lounging around the pool, we joined up for a sunset cocktail party and then a dinner under the stars that could have rivalled any wedding reception I had ever been to.  Fire dancers, live music, buffet of Filipino delicacies … it was outstanding in every way.  

Tagaytay, overlooking Taal Volcano

Like celebrities arriving at Stilits.

A cheerful fellow, in spite of his job!

The next day was a visit to a special ed school that had been built with the generosity of the Mulcahy family (including my "sissies", their brothers John and Bill, and all of the Mulcahy grand and great-grandchildren) in memory of their mom, who had volunteered in special ed school when they lived in Manila.  Vicky’s late father’s foundation also helped make the dream a reality.  There are so few special ed resources in the area, and this was a very important contribution to the people of the area.  It was emotional for the sisters, and after the official ribbon cutting and blessing of the building, we were regaled with the children dancing and singing, and lots of speeches of gratitude. It was moving beyond words.

The beautiful SpecialEd building

The Mulcahy ladies: four "sissies" who kindly adopted me!

 Saturday included a barbecue at one of my classmates’ home near Calatagan.  Ricky was the “it” guy in our class, very suave and debonair.  He later became a professional polo player; now he is, among other things, an artist and a politician … he carves wood into charming objets d’art that festoon his house and grounds. There was lechon to eat, (turn away vegetarians!) and paella … delicious in so many ways. 

The view from Ricky's House, with Mindoro in the distance

In the distance beyond Ricky’s hilltop house was the ocean and the island of Mindoro, across the Verde Islands Passage, where my dad used to scuba dive.  My family would drive to Batangas and negotiate with a local banca owner to ferry us across the sea.  One time a storm was brewing, but we set out anyway, only to turn around when the banca was nearly swamped by a rogue wave that nearly killed the sputtering engine. Maybe that’s why I have a phobia of the ocean.

I thought I was going to get some rest at the beach … forget that!  There were more and more “meet me at the pool” and snorkeling trips, and “join us for sunset watching” parties. Each and every sunset was unique in its own way. I had forgotten how awe-inspiring they were in the Philippines.  There are colors on the horizon surrounding the setting sun that I’ve never seen on the spectrum. 

Oh, and lest I forget to mention the volcano …

One evening, I appeared at the Mulcahy sisters’ cabin for a “finish the liquor” party the night before we left.  Beth (one of my “sissies”) grabbed me and pointed off into the distance.  “LOOK!  LOOK!” she said.  Now, I have a pretty long bucket list, but I can state emphatically that seeing a volcano erupt is NOT and never has been on that list.  I am a lover of nature and its extremes, including tornadoes and hurricanes, but I never want to see one of those extremes in person. That includes volcanoes. Everyone on the lanai was watching it spew ash in an otherworldly display; almost like a nuclear mushroom cloud.  As it got darker, the lightning in the plume began to flash in earnest, and there were lots of oohs and aahs, as if we were watching a fireworks display.  No one seemed very worried, and even though inside I was terrified, I kept it to myself. I figured if they weren’t worried, why should I be?  Once I realized my personal safety wasn't at risk, the second thought I had was to remember the Icelandic volcano back in 2010, where people in Europe were stranded for weeks after the European airspace was closed.  I can’t imagine a better place to be stranded than in the Philippines, but having just started a new job, I was afraid that I wouldn’t have one if I was delayed further. 

My third thought was about all the people who lived around the volcano, and how their lives had most likely been affected by this. We had drive through dozens of tiny barrios and towns on the way to Stilts and I imagined that they were covered in ash and people were evacuating to points north. I thought about the beautiful Tagaytay, with its resorts overlooking the lake in which the volcano sat, with scenic views and manicured gardens ... what would be left of them?

Area of ashfall, with our location circled

Not my picture ... 

Early that evening, we heard that we were going to leave first thing in the morning to go back to Manila.  It seemed a little counterintuitive to me to head towards the ashfall (which miraculously missed the tiny promontory on which we sat) rather than away from it, but it was the way to get nearer to the airport.  I had booked a room at the NAIA Hilton (Ninoy Aquino International Airport) so I resolved that I would end up there, stranded or not.  We drove right past the volcano on the way back, which had calmed down a bit, but that was still looking angry and volatile.  The roads were covered in ash, and we all wore facemasks. The ash from a volcano can contain tiny shards of glass from the molten lava: not a good thing for lungs. We stopped at every Mercury Drug store to stock up on extra masks, but they were all sold out. “Walang Facemasks” became the theme of our journey, “out ob stock”. The airport was shut down for the immediate future, “until further notice” so there were a lot of unknowns ahead. 

The volcano as we drove by on the way back to Manila

Cavite Police on duty

Ash covers Manila

We made it without incident and checked into the oh-so-opulent Hilton.  The pool and patio were closed due to the ashfall, but I didn’t care about anything other than taking a nap and checking the Delta app to make sure my flight was going to leave the next morning.  We all met up once again for dinner (I groggily tore myself out of bed one more time) and said our goodbyes.

Miracle of miracles, the runways were cleared of ash overnight, and the airport was open.  The volcano had settled down to a dull roar, and everything looked good for an on-time departure.  I didn’t have much trouble checking in (and clearing out the souvenir shop near my gate) and we even took off a little earlier for Narita.  Quick stop in Japan, and it was off to Detroit, then home to sleep for a week (see above).

Are we there yet? (and yes I busted out the sheckels for an upgrade - cheaper when bought last-minute!)

As it is oh-too-common with these grand events that are planned and anticipated for a long time, it was all over too quickly, and coming down from the high was difficult.  Looking back, I realized that there were times during the celebrations when I felt a little of the high school ennui creep back into my consciousness. Occasionally I found myself alone, separated from the ones I knew, with that same fear of “damn, who will I sit with” only to hook back up with the friends shortly thereafter.  I found out that some people had done things that I would have liked to have done and had missed the boat, because there simply wasn’t time to do everything. I felt anxious, and the clock was running out too quickly.  I realized that I would probably not return to the Philippines any time in the near future, if ever. I guess the sense of closure, while emotionally healthy, was on some level sad beyond measure.  I like the word “ennui” because it’s really not something you can put a finger on, other than calling it “cognitive dissonance”.  It’s unexplainable.  It’s “saudade”, the untranslatable Portuguese word that I have tattooed on my arm, a feeling of longing, melancholy or nostalgia; a feeling that has no cure.  There is no place to go to satisfy or lessen those feelings.  There is no “home”. Going back to a place is not the solution; we can’t escape carrying our longings with us.  And most of the time we don’t know what we are longing for. Our house was gone, the Intercontinental Hotel, where most of us stayed before our furniture arrived, was gone, the school was gone, our TCK infrastructure was just .. gone.

The "Intercon" as we knew it

Oy vey, drowning in my existential ennui (there it is again!) here. For us, “home” is not a physical place.  But then I think about non-TCKs, and how they grieve when their childhood home is sold. That place may have been solid ground for them, but the “home” that they are grieving is what happened in that place, and the people who lived in it, not the building itself.  (My mom gets furious when realtors talk about ‘new homes’ because they aren’t homes, they are houses!)  “Home” for me was and is the corporate body of people who attended the Centennial Celebration at IS Manila with me.  That whole group of 1000+ people, all the way from the 1940s students to the 2000s, they were home. 

During the “variety show” the head of the Board of Directors of the school spoke about how we, when we return to Manila, slip into speaking in a Filipino accent.  In some cases that could be seen as disrespectful or racist, but for us, it is a loving tribute to the Philippines and its people and reminds us of how we bloomed and grew in that place.  We love and honor our common history and the third culture that we formed when we lived there.