“Home is where the heart is”, it’s the truest cliche I’ve heard in years. Since I was young we’ve been moving from place to place. I have snippets of memories from each place; the Bukidnon hymn still lulls me to sleep even at twenty-two, Cagayan de Oro’s Gaston Park reminds me  of the blur of yellow christmas lights as I fell asleep on my father’s back.

Oroquieta reminds me of quiet afternoons napping on the hammock under our neighbour’s mango tree and days spent with friends, by the beach in our navy Stella Maris’ uniforms .

Cebu reminds me of reckless youth. I was living in a nun’s dormitory but somehow that never stopped me from coming home at 5 am, travelling to Argao without permission or sneaking out after curfews.

Manila was like going back to my earliest memories; the distinct scent of my grandmother’s house brought me back to summers spent with cousins, cuddling puppies in the garden, playing with old telephones and pretending to be the boss in our grandfather’s office. The Manila I know as a big girl is a little different, a little more sinister, a little more exciting. Everyday was an adventure, a risk, every day spent meandering about the city’s metropolitan was a test for the fittest. 

Then there were the vacations, rural areas, urban areas, Luzon, Visayas, Mindanao, provinces, towns and names of barrios I cannot recall anymore. All these have left a mark in my memory. 

But what about the cold west? So far, it hasn’t touched me in any way. With its post-card perfect scenes, immaculate city streets and modern buildings, I would have expected to warm up to the place so quickly. Instead, it feels cold and distant. I guess first-world pleasures never guarantee class A happiness.