…..I was en route to the Philippines. Factoring in the difference in time zones, the 747 had lifted off from Nagoya for the final leg of journey to Manila. The flight was largely uneventful and consequently received very little time in the journal save for a few remarks about the girl seated next to me in the window seat who had perhaps the worst cold in recorded history. I just knew that in a few days time I too would have the worst cold in recorded history, but the gods of travel favored me that time around and a cold never came to pass.
On that flight I jotted a few notes about the anxiety and thrill that come with visiting a place for the first time, those feeling of uncertainty, the looming unknown in which one will soon find themselves for which one can only plan up to a point. It’s that moment of reflection, the deep breath before the plunge; you hope that upon hitting the water you’re able to navigate the rushing currents of culture and life.
It’s remarkable to consider that two years have passed. Wandering around Manila, both on foot and via Jeepney and exploring the rice terraces and mountains around Sagada seem much more recent a memory. The trip was memorable in many ways and I’m looking forward to a possible return later this year.
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