Ordinarily, I’m not the kind of traveler who circles back to a place. Like many, I’d rather put the cost of airfare flying abroad toward discovering a new city or country. But something about Hoi An’s Old Town lingered with me, an appeal that made the idea of returning feel less like repetition and more like certainty.

My first visit to George Town, some years before the pandemic, was little more than a quick fix; a shore excursion on a cruise that sailed along the Malaysian coast before returning to Singapore. I had barely three hours on land, just enough to sense the outlines of something intriguing: the smell of spices and coffee in the air, the pastel shophouses, the street art that tells a unique story. Ever since, the city has lingered in my mind like an unfinished conversation or an itch I’d been meaning to scratch.

Seated on a mat laid over the cool sprawl of lawn of MiraNila, a heritage house and events place in Quezon City which now holds outdoor film showings and a house tour as part of its offerings, I stretched my legs, letting my sock-covered toes press into the softness of the earth. Overhead, the night shifted in slow, deliberate movements, with the nighttime skies parting just enough to unveil a waxing crescent moon. On the huge screen set up on MiraNila’s spacious front yard, Greta Lee’s Nora leads Teo Yoo’s Hae Sung through the bustling streets of New York City in Past Lives—a film driven by the weight of life’s what-ifs.

Anyone who has entered an old house, especially a well-preserved ancestral home, can compare the experience to visiting a museum. As one observes a piece of furniture, a painting adorning the wall, or an eye-catching design detail, including the very architecture itself, a rich narrative unfolds—one that stretches across decades and, in certain instances, even a century.

Most of us, perhaps unknowingly, catch a glimpse of New Manila from the window of LRT line 2 as it passes by Gilmore station. Then teasers of it until the next two, when we hear the catchy announcement of "paparating na sa Betty-Go Belmonte," which marks the boundary of the former Mariana administrative division in Metro Manila, the Magdalena Estate, and now New Manila.

There’s always something about old houses transformed into bed and breakfasts or restaurants that piques my fascination. If given a choice between a postmodern establishment or a repurposed heritage home, I’ll pick the latter any day.

Although I've visited Intramuros multiple times—excluding the time I was baptized at the Manila Cathedral—I've never gone on a thorough loop exploring its every nook and cranny. Once, I biked to Papakape, an artisan coffee shop inside Fort Santiago. Another time, I indulged in the flavors of several spirits and whiskey at the Destileria Limtuaco Museum, while at other times, it was on a date to Museo de Intramuros or attending a friend’s wedding at San Agustin Church. I’ve never really explored the whole of Intramuros like a curious tourist before.

It made perfect sense that museums were housed in repurposed historic structures, as there was no better way of narrating the significance of the past than inside a building whose four walls hid heaps of stories to be told.

Hitting the ground running within moments of our arrival at Bicol International Airport, we headed to the picturesque Sumlang Lake where a filling grub was made more memorable by the beautiful backdrop of Mayon Volcano. A demonstration of preparing the native cuisine Pinangat and the process of stripping and weaving abaca, followed by a scenic bamboo raft ride rounded off our stay before departing for the town of Bacacay shortly before sunset.

During the first months of the pandemic, churches everywhere in the Philippines closed as a way to follow social distancing and quarantine protocols. After more than a year of being at home and attending online masses, several churches were then reopening and accepting devotees and people who needed divine intervention in their lives.