Sitting on the flight back to Seattle, watching the lights of the bustling city of Manila fade into the clouds, I realized that this was more than a vacation—it was a bridge linking where my family came from, who I am, and a future that is connected to its roots.
I’ve been to the Philippines twice before this trip, but once as a toddler. The other was December 2013, which was my freshman year of college. Decades apart with a difference in stages of life, mental states, and aspirations.
As I was traveling this time around, I was more observant and willing to learn than a younger version of myself that had ventured here 11 years ago. There was an internal desire to know who I am, know about my family, and understand the “why”—a shift from the rambunctious, thrill-seeking college kid I was.
Through this trip I met many family members, experienced a world that was reminiscent for my family, ate amazing food, and saw beautiful places.
Coming from a place of privilege—something I try to stay aware of and meet with humility—this trip grounded me in a way that few experiences have. Seeing life so close to my roots, yet so distant from the comforts I’ve known, brought everything into perspective. Maybe it’s age, or maybe it’s just where I am in life, but I found myself grappling with big questions about identity, purpose, and direction. It felt like an existential crisis disguised as a vacation. I mean, I’m training for a half Ironman—if that’s not a sign of someone searching for meaning, I don’t know what is.
Day 1: Amadeo
We landed early in the morning, greeted by a van packed with warmth—Titos and cousins. We skipped the toll roads and cruised through the winding backroads toward Amadeo, a quiet municipality in the province of Cavite. This was going to be our home base for the trip—a family compound, Villa Maurina (named after Tita Mau), with four units, bunk beds, an open-air kitchen, and a pool. This spot would quickly become a gathering spot for laughter, karaoke, and conversation.
Maybe a quarter of a mile away, my parents own a modest plot of farmland currently used to grow banana trees and eggplant. Walking there, we passed other farms where bok choy, bananas, and jackfruit thrived in the humid air.
That first day was mostly about settling in, overcoming jet lag, and easing into the rhythm of the trip. We got to know Mother Rose’s family—her brothers and their kids, who are Pio and Angel’s uncles and cousins. By extension, they’re ours too. There was no pressure to do or be anything other than present. It was a soft landing into what would kick off the rest of the trip
From our very first day at Villa Maurina—and consistently throughout the trip—one thing was always true: there was more than enough food for everyone, every meal. Nanay, Tita Maurina’s mom (Mother Rose’s brother’s wife), was the main chef behind this incredible hospitality. She tirelessly prepared nearly every meal, often having breakfast ready by 5 a.m., meaning she must have been up even earlier. At any given time, there were at least twelve mouths to feed, and for larger gatherings, like our family party of around forty people, her generosity never wavered. Each meal featured at least three different dishes, thoughtfully accommodating my wife Shelby, who doesn’t eat red meat. Nanay’s kindness shined through in every meal, supported lovingly by family members and helpers. Her cooking, especially her tinola, was among the best I’ve ever had.
Day 2: Quezon City
On our second day, we ventured into the city, a 1.5 hour drive away packed in a couple of hiace vans and went to Vikings Buffet for lunch and to celebrate a couple cousins birthdays. Afterward, we paid a visit to Pio and Angel’s childhood home in Quezon City. Their family compound stood tucked away steps from streets buzzing with people.
Between Two Worlds
As I made my way through the trip, the feeling of being caught between two worlds kept bubbling up. It’s something I’ve always lived with—being Filipino-American in some ways means never feeling fully at home in one place or the other. Not quite Filipino enough for the Philippines. Not quite
whiteAmerican enough for America.In my head, I’m still that lanky Filipino teenager trying to figure things out, even though life has nudged me firmly into adulthood. I’m a first-generation American, here because my family made the choice to leave everything they knew behind. Being here made me realize how much bravery that took—and how easy it is to take it for granted when you’re growing up surrounded by comfort. I don’t know if I could pack up my whole life and start fresh in a new country the way they did.
At the same time, feeling stuck between two places isn’t all bad. It’s a connection point too. It made me think of the friends I’ve made back home—other Fil-Ams who get it without needing a long explanation—who know the smell of sinigang on a rainy day, the sticky hands after eating suman, the magic of ube, or the quiet excitement of finding out someone else actually knows what dinuguan is.
Coming back to the Philippines made me see the “in-between” differently. It’s not a gap—it’s a bridge. A bridge built from all the sacrifices, love, and dreams that got me here.
Day 3–6: Coron, Palawan
After a short flight into Busuanga, we made our way to Coron Town and checked into Zuri Resort. The first day was slow and easy—pool time, a bite to eat, a massage, and wandering the town for dinner.
The next morning, we met up with our boat crew and set off for our first island tour. Coron’s waters are the kind you can’t quite believe even when you’re floating in them—extremely clear. We snorkeled over a sunken Skeleton Shipwreck, drifted in the stillness of Kayangan Lake, and swam in the beauty of Barracuda Lake. We spent the day bouncing between Atwayan Beach, CYC Beach, Coral Garden, and Twin Lagoon. Bright coral still alive with color, schools of fish moving like confetti—it felt like swimming through a living dream.
One thing I didn’t dream about: the sunburn. After hours in and out of the water, I ended up with one of the worst sunburns I’ve had in years. Living in the Pacific Northwest has softened me…
During the trip, our guide, John, shared a lot of local history with us. Much of Coron Island is under the stewardship of the Tagbanua tribe, one of the oldest Indigenous groups in the Philippines. They protect most of the island’s sacred spaces, only allowing tourists to visit places like Kayangan Lake and Barracuda Lake. The entrance fees help support their community.
John was a charismatic and knowledgeable tour guide. We liked him so much we asked for him again the next day, and this time he brought along his wife and one of their kids. Somehow, on a Bangka boat packed with fifteen people, the crew cooked a full lunch—grilled fish, lumpia, chicken, rice, and fresh fruit—all on a tiny stove while bouncing over ocean swells.
That second tour day took us to Malcapuya Island, Bulog Dos, and Ditaytayan Island—beaches with powdery white sand and clear water. Afterward, John showed us a local market where we picked up toasted cashews and other treats. To wrap up the day, we ended it by grabbing a late meal at the newly opened Jollibee in town (which, unsurprisingly, was packed).
On our final morning, we squeezed in one last hike to Mount Tapyas Pavilion. Half of us piled onto a tricycle—and started the short ride toward the trailhead. About halfway there, a stray dog appeared, trotting alongside our tricycle as we bounced down the road. When we got off to start the hike, he stuck with us, padding just ahead like he knew the way better than we did. He led us up the long staircase, pausing whenever we caught our breath, and never straying far. At the summit, he sat nearby as we took in the sweeping view of Coron waking up for the day. When it was time to head back, he followed us down the stairs, then quietly wandered to a residence—as if he had simply been making sure we got there and back safely.
After the hike, we made it back to the hotel just in time for breakfast. Among all the usual choices, there it was—Filipino-style corned beef, sautéed with onions and potatoes, tucked into a warming tray like it had been waiting for me. I hadn’t had corned beef like that, or maybe even any corned beef at all, since middle school—over fifteen years ago. One bite and it was like being snapped back into a memory I didn’t even realize I was carrying. A small, simple thing—but somehow the perfect way to close the trip before heading home.
Day 6: Back to Amadeo and a Night Out in Quezon City
After flying back from Busuanga to Manila, we returned to Villa Maurina. The rest of the day was slow and easy. We lounged around, swam in the pool, and watched a few cows lazily shelter under a tree.
That night, we made our way back into Quezon City for a night out with cousins. We ended up at a spot called “The Beech”. It wasn’t a nightclub—more like a loud, lively beer hall or food hall packed with a younger crowd. Big communal tables, food and drinks flowing, and R&B and hip-hop blaring through the speakers all night long. It was still busy when we left around 2 or 3 a.m. like the night was just getting started.
We grabbed a table, loaded up on food and drinks, and settled in. Pio was tipping the staff at different moments when they opened a drink for us, which I didn’t think much of at first. After a while, though, I started noticing something strange: one of the staff—a guy built like a bouncer—kept flashlight-guiding me back to my seat every time I got up, even shining the light directly on the chair like he was making sure I found it. At first, I thought maybe I was just drunk and imagining it. But after the fourth or fifth time, it was hard to ignore. Only later did it click that all the tipping probably had something to do with it.
After eight or nine Red Horses, I knew I was at the tipping point. I slipped outside to catch some air and chat, trying to resist the “just one more” that would have pushed me over the edge.
The ride home was brutal. Eleven of us crammed into a van for the hour-and-a-half ride back to Amadeo in the early morning (late night?). Some didn’t make it without getting sick, which made an already long ride feel even longer. But a funny end to the night out nonetheless.
By the time we stumbled back into Villa Maurina, I knew I was done. And sure enough, thirty hit hard the next morning. Turns out, resilience isn’t just surviving a hike or a long travel day—it’s surviving a night out drinking in Quezon City when your body’s not twenty anymore.
Hustle, Resilience, and Family-Centered Culture
One thing that stood out to me every day in the Philippines was how deeply hustle, resilience, and resourcefulness are woven into everyday life. It’s not a slogan—it’s survival. And at the core of it all, connecting everything, is family.
You see it almost immediately. Getting off a plane and driving through Manila, takatak boys move between cars selling cigarettes and candies to passengers stuck at red lights. Vendors are a constant presence—whether at palengkes or local sari-sari stores woven into neighborhoods big and small.
In Coron, even in the middle of open water, a man paddled a small boat up to ours to sell snacks.
No one waited for opportunity to come to them—they carried it in their hands, shouting offers with a mix of persistence and hope: “Bili na! Sir, Ma’am…!”
There were harder things to see, too. Late at night, young children were still out on the streets, asking for spare change. It’s complicated—often a reflection of the economic pressures that families face, and a system that leaves the most vulnerable with too few options. It’s not a romantic story, and it’s not something easy to witness. But it’s part of the reality that shapes so many lives here.
Still, even in the middle of hardship, what stood out was how tightly family ties everything together. On our boat tour in Coron, our guide John brought his wife and young child along—not because he had to, but because that’s simply how life is shared here. Work and family aren’t always separate. Meals are family-style. Markets are run by families, sometimes across generations. When people work, it’s often with, for, and alongside the people they love.
Day 7: Dela Cruz Family Gathering in Amadeo
Back at Villa Maurina in Amadeo, we spent the day with family—specifically, relatives I had never met before. Most were the kids of Papa’s brother, Pablito Dela Cruz.
At first, it felt a little awkward. I was still shaking off the Red Horse hangover from the night before, and as more people arrived, it was tough to keep up with all the names and faces. I felt a little out of place—trying to catch conversations, smiling a lot, not always sure how to jump in. It reminded me of being a kid at big family parties again, shelling up a bit while the day buzzed around me.
The conversations that did happen were a mix of English and Tagalog. They made the effort to speak English for me, which I appreciated more than I probably showed in the moment. If anything, it made me more aware of how much I still have to learn—and how much work it takes to meet someone halfway across cultures.
As the afternoon went on, it got easier. I found myself chatting with a few cousins around my age, trading stories, sharing small jokes. At some point, someone brought out beers, and I ended up showing a few of them how to shotgun one. Achieving a college degree came into use for this.
The rest of the day unfolded easily after that. We ate, we hung out, we talked when conversation came naturally. No pressure, no expectations—just family spending time together, slowly building connections.
Day 8: Taal Volcano and Mahogany Market
We spent the day exploring Tagaytay, a city known for its cool air, sweeping views, and Taal Volcano. Taal Volcano is an active volcano that’s famously an island within a lake, on an island within a lake, on an island. Fun fact: Taal Lake, which surrounds the volcano, is home to the endemic Tawilis, the only freshwater sardine species in the world, found exclusively here.
After taking in the view, we had lunch at Leslie’s Forest Garden Restaurant, a spot that felt a little like a Filipino version of Rainforest Café, tucked into the hills with the volcano as a backdrop. Lunch left all of us stuffed, so we made a quick stop at Robinsons Tagaytay Mall to walk it off. From there, the family split up—some headed to Sky Ranch, the nearby amusement park, while a few of us broke off and made our way to Mahogany Public Market.
Mahogany Market was packed, with rows and rows of vendors offering everything from fresh produce and meats to dried goods (dried tawilis, truly local!), snacks, and plants. You couldn’t just walk by unnoticed; every few steps, someone would call out, waving you over with a smile or a shout, trying to pull you toward their stall. It wasn’t aggressive—it was lively, personal, part of the everyday rhythm of a real Filipino market.
We ended the day at SM Dasmariñas, where I decided to grab a quick haircut and shampoo. What I didn’t expect was the full experience that came with it: a neck massage, a hot towel treatment for my face, and the kind of service you’d easily pay four or five times more for back home.
Socioeconomic Realities and Cultural Contrasts
Throughout the trip, there were moments when the beauty and warmth of the Philippines bumped up against harder realities.
Election season was in full swing while we were there. Posters were everywhere—plastered across walls and dangling from telephone poles. Although I didn’t personally engage in detailed political conversations, a brief chat with my dad highlighted the general sentiment that political corruption is often accepted as part of everyday life, like background noise people have learned to live with. It’s one of many realities the country continues to navigate, even as resilience and hope push it forward. And while corruption is often the louder story, there are leaders too—quietly working to serve their communities and move things in a better direction.
We even had a few small brushes with the everyday realities people often talk about. On two different occasions, we were pulled over by police officers. Both times, they offered a familiar choice: either pay the official ticket, or pay them directly for less. The first time, it was almost funny—maybe we did barely run a red light—and after some quick negotiation, we handed over 500 pesos and went on our way.
The second time felt different. We were riding in a Grab when the driver was pulled over for supposedly going straight through the wrong lane at an intersection—something that didn’t seem entirely accurate. The officer quoted him a 2,000-peso fine but hinted it could be settled for 1,000. For context, Grab drivers make around 3,000 pesos on a good day, so even the “discounted” fine would have cost him a huge chunk of his earnings. The driver was visibly stressed, caught in a situation with few good options. My family stepped in, negotiated it down to 500 pesos again, and covered it—just a small way of paying it forward, recognizing how lucky we are to be able to help when we can.
Moments like that made me think more deeply about the everyday challenges people face.
Talking with Father Jon about his childhood helped frame it differently for me. He shared stories about growing up riding Jeepneys to school, helping at Mama’s carinderia, and weaving through the hustle of daily life with family at the center of everything. It was a life built on hard work and long days, but it wasn’t defined by hardship alone. There was love, pride, and a deep sense of community.
And still today, opportunities aren’t always easy to come by. Even with laws on the books to prevent age discrimination, the reality often tells a different story. In a country full of young people eager to work long hours for little pay, older workers can find themselves overlooked. The dream of moving to Manila still pulls many from the provinces, but the city doesn’t always deliver what it promises. Squatter communities grow, and survival often comes down to resilience, resourcefulness, and stubborn hope.
One thing I noticed again and again: work and family are rarely separated. Many households, even those without great wealth, have helpers (katulongs) who are woven into the rhythms of daily life. They’re often treated like extended family, included at meals, on outings, in celebrations. It’s a dynamic filled with both generosity and complexity, shaped by history, economics, and the deep cultural value placed on taking care of your own.
The Philippines isn’t easily summed up in simple contrasts. It’s faith and frustration, hardship and humor, resilience and resourcefulness—all tied together, moving forward, day after day.
Day 9: Porto Laiya (Batangas Beach Resort)
We spent the day at Porto Laiya, a beach community in San Juan, Batangas, where my parents had recently purchased a lot.
Family gathered at the community resort center in Porto Laiya, spending the day eating, swimming, laughing, and just being together.
The beach itself had clear water stretching out to the horizon, with schools of small fish darting around and horned sea stars dotting the sandy bottom.
Day 10: Mall of Asia
Toward the end of the trip, we made a stop at the Mall of Asia in Manila—a place I had visited before, but somehow it felt completely different this time around. Bigger. Brighter. Way more modern than I remembered.
Day 11: Outlet Mall and Kabayan Hotel
We spent the afternoon at an outlet mall—and, for me, a new piece of luggage to fit all the pasalubong we had collected over the trip. Afterward, we said goodbye to Kim, who was flying back to the States a few days earlier. It hit a little differently, knowing that the trip was winding down.
That night, we checked into what would be our final accommodation for the trip: the Kabayan Hotel in Manila. Nothing fancy, but comfortable, and close to the airport for our departure in a couple days.
Day 12: Jeepney, Monuments, and Manila
We started the day by hopping on a Jeepney—a ride that felt like stepping into the heartbeat of Manila. It’s not just transportation; it’s community in motion. You pay the driver by handing your fare to the person in front of you, who passes it forward like a chain of trust, and somehow, change finds its way back through the same hands. No receipts, no apps—just a shared system that somehow works.
Before we got on, my dad shared stories about taking Jeepneys as a kid, how he and my uncle relied on them to get around. My uncle would even wait for a driver he knew just to snag a free ride. Riding one myself—feeling the weaving through traffic, the constant shuffle of hands passing fares forward and back—gave me a small glimpse into the everyday life they once knew.
The Jeepney dropped us near two of Manila’s most important landmarks: the Lapu-Lapu Monument and the José Rizal Monument. Two towering figures in Filipino history—symbols of the long, complicated fight for independence and identity.
After visiting the monuments, we spent the rest of the day exploring more of the city. We used Grab for the first time on the trip, and it was surprisingly easy—and ridiculously affordable compared to back home. Whether it was hopping between neighborhoods or grabbing late-night snacks at the hotel, Grab made everything simple.
We visited Makati, which stood in sharp contrast to the parts of Metro Manila we had seen so far. Clean sidewalks, organized traffic, polished storefronts. It felt like stepping into a different version of the Philippines.
You could also feel the shift in the country’s energy. It was Holy Week, and many people had already left for the provinces to spend time with family. Streets were quieter, shops were closed, and the night before, we had seen buses so packed that passengers were almost pressed against the glass, standing room only, heading home.
Holy Week and Faith in Everyday Life
Visiting during Holy Week wasn’t something we had planned, but it made sense once we were there. Catholicism runs deep in the Philippines, and as the week went on, the city slowed down—shops closed, museums shut their doors, and many families returned to their provinces.
Mother Rose and Father Jon shared stories about their childhoods, when Holy Week came with strict traditions: no playing, no unnecessary activities, and superstitions about injuries not healing if they happened between Good Friday and Easter.
I also learned about more extreme traditions in certain areas, like reenactments of Christ’s crucifixion where some participants are whipped or even nailed to crosses.
Day 13: Antipolo and Departure
We spent our last full day in Antipolo, visiting more of the Dela Cruz side of the family.
Before heading to the main gathering, we stopped by my uncle’s house, where he runs a small sari-sari store out front. It was part of the home itself.
The gathering itself was for a family Pabasa—a Holy Week tradition where groups sing or chant the story of Christ’s Passion for 24 hours straight, leading up to the afternoon of Good Friday.
During the singing, there was eating, catching up, and meeting more cousins, aunts, and uncles. It felt like stitching together pieces of the family tree in real-time, especially when Mother Rose helped identify relatives, putting faces to names I had only heard about before.
The Pabasa wasn’t polished or formal—it was steady, heartfelt, and deeply rooted in family tradition.
When the final reading ended at 3 p.m., we packed up, said our goodbyes, and set off for the airport—tired, emotional, but full in every way that mattered.
Gratitude, Heritage, and Looking Ahead
As a Filipino-American, there’s a lot I’m grateful for. This trip grounded me in ways I didn’t fully expect, pulling me back to the roots that shaped my family—and, in so many ways, me.
Things that once annoyed me as a kid—like being told not to waste food—now make sense. I understand why. I saw why. The values I grew up with—resilience, respect, resourcefulness—aren’t just virtues. They’re survival tools here, passed down through generations who had no choice but to make the most of what they had.
I’m proud to be Filipino. And as someone who, at times, let that part of himself drift quietly into the background, I’m committed to carrying it forward with more intention. I want to improve my Tagalog. I want to document the family stories that once felt distant but now feel urgent.
I want to stay connected to Filipino media, history, and traditions—and share them with others in ways that go deeper than the usual food stereotypes people recognize first. I love lumpia and adobo, but being Filipino is so much more than just what’s on the table. It’s the stories, the resilience, the music, the language, the spirit that ties it all together.
With Thanks
This trip wouldn’t have been possible without the parentals (Mother Rose and Father Jon)—whose support made every step of it possible. I’m grateful for my wife, Shelby, for being open to every new experience and for being the best travel partner, as always. I’m grateful for my siblings, for making memories across the world and for setting the foundation for more adventures ahead. And to all the family and friends I met along the way—every moment, every conversation, every shared meal added up to something I’ll carry with me for a long time.
INSERT ALL GROUP FAMILY PICS HERE
Thank you to:
- Father Jon (Jonathan Dela Cruz)
- Mother Rose (Rosalie Dela Cruz)
- Shelby Dela Cruz
- Kimberly Dela Cruz
- Pio Gaffud
- Angel Gaffud
- Pau Gaffud
- Esper Dela Cruz
- Leo Lontoc
- MORE