places & travel
Sunday, October 11, 2026
On Boracay, where the days are often measured in beach parties, sunset cocktails, and the familiar rhythm of island life, there is another side to discover—one that is quieter, more secluded, and best enjoyed slowly.
Boracay has never been short on beautiful places. Its powdery white sand, impossibly blue waters, and legendary sunsets have long made it one of the Philippines' most beloved island destinations. But beyond the lively beachfront and the familiar buzz of Station 1, there are pockets of the island that invite you to experience Boracay at a gentler pace.
Shangri-La Boracay is one such place.
Set amid lush tropical greenery, with sweeping views of the sea, the resort feels like a world unto itself—a secluded hillside sanctuary where nature and understated luxury come together. It is a different kind of Boracay, far removed from the crowds and the bustle, where the pleasures are found in the details: the shifting colors of the sky, the rustle of leaves in the tropical breeze, and the simple luxury of having nowhere else to be.
And the lovely thing is, you don't necessarily have to check in to experience a little of this island escape.
A Window to Paradise
At Vintana Asian Café, the resort's all-day dining restaurant, the experience begins with the view. Vintana, a word that translates to "window," is an apt name for a restaurant that frames the surrounding seascape so beautifully. Here, the ocean becomes part of the experience, changing character with the passing hours and lending every meal its own particular mood.
The menu brings together Filipino and Asian favorites alongside international dishes, offering something for different tastes and appetites. Whether you're stopping by for lunch, settling in for afternoon tea, or planning a leisurely dinner, the setting encourages you to take your time.
There is something especially appealing about an afternoon spent this way. A table overlooking the water, a good meal, and the luxury of watching the day unfold without feeling the need to rush off to the next destination. In a place as beautiful as Boracay, sometimes the best thing to do is simply stay put for a while.
The Art of Slowing Down
Part of the appeal of Shangri-La is the sense of distance it offers from the island's more energetic side. The lush surroundings and expansive ocean views create an atmosphere that feels private and restorative, making it an appealing choice for travelers who prefer their tropical escapes with a little more breathing room.
For me, these quieter experiences are part of what makes traveling worthwhile. Beyond the usual sightseeing and the obligatory photographs, there is pleasure in discovering a place that allows you to pause—to enjoy a meal without watching the clock, to appreciate the landscape beyond the camera lens, and to let a destination reveal a side you might otherwise miss.
Luxury, after all, doesn't always have to mean an overnight stay in a beautiful suite. Sometimes, it is an afternoon well spent in a lovely setting, with good food and an uninterrupted view of the sea.
A Different Side of Boracay
For those planning a visit, Vintana Asian Café offers a way to experience Shangri-La's distinctive atmosphere without committing to a resort stay. Reservations for dining experiences can be made online, although it is worth checking current availability, menus, and visitor access arrangements directly with the resort before your visit.
Boracay will always have its lively beach scene, its sunset crowds, and its spirited island energy. But there is also a quieter side to discover, one that rewards travelers who are willing to venture beyond the familiar.
And sometimes, all it takes is a reservation, a window overlooking the ocean, and a little time to yourself.
A small indulgence, perhaps, but a lovely way to experience the island anew.
Friday, October 9, 2026
An overdue seaside escape, captured in little moments
It’s been ages since I last set foot in Boracay.
Long enough for the memories to feel a little hazy. Long enough for me to forget just how beautiful this island can be.
And then, suddenly, there I was again—standing by the water, watching the waves roll gently onto the shore, wondering why I had stayed away for so long.
A Little Escape
Boracay · October 2026
An overdue beach holiday.
For someone who is instinctively drawn to mountains, forests, and cooler places, I have to admit: the sea was exactly what I needed.
No grand plans.
No packed itinerary.
Just a few days of sunshine, saltwater, long walks, good food, and nowhere urgent to be.
Sometimes, a holiday doesn't have to be complicated.
Emerald Hours
The water was impossibly clear.
Crystal-clear emerald stretching toward the horizon, shifting shades with the changing light.
I spent far too much time simply looking at it.
There is something about the sea that makes everything feel a little less heavy.
The deadlines can wait.
The responsibilities can wait.
Adulting can wait.
For now, there is only the sound of the waves.
Beach Walks & Barefoot Days
There were no particular destinations.
Just walking.
Stopping whenever something caught my eye.
A boat floating quietly in the distance.
A coconut tree leaning toward the sea.
Clouds gathering above the horizon.
The occasional burst of laughter from somewhere along the beach.
The kind of ordinary moments that somehow become the best parts of a trip.
Sky Notes
Things I remembered to notice:
☐ The color of the water
☐ The clouds changing shape
☐ The warmth of the afternoon sun
☐ The sound of waves after sunset
☐ How good it feels to have absolutely nothing to rush toward
I think I needed this reminder:
Life isn't always supposed to be productive.
Sometimes it is enough to sit by the sea and watch the sky change colors.
Golden Hour
And then came the sunsets.
Dreamy skies painted in soft afternoon light, slowly turning warmer as the day faded.
Boracay sunsets really do have a way of making you stop whatever you're doing.
So I did.
I stopped.
I watched.
I took pictures.
And for a few quiet minutes, I wasn't thinking about work, plans, responsibilities, or what comes next.
Just the sunset.
Postcard from Boracay
Dear future me,
Remember this.
Remember how clear the water was.
Remember the warm breeze.
Remember walking without anywhere to be.
Remember how good it felt to step away from the noise for a little while.
And remember that you are allowed to take a break.
Even from your own life.
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A Few Days Later...
I left Boracay feeling lighter.
Not necessarily refreshed in the dramatic, new person kind of way.
Just... lighter.
Sometimes that's all a holiday needs to accomplish.
A little less stress.
A little more sunshine.
A few beautiful photographs.
And enough memories to carry home with you.
Until next time, Boracay.
I have a feeling it won't be another few years before I come back.
— Christy
Wednesday, June 17, 2026
In a world that rewards speed, Earth Market offers a gentle reminder that some of life's richest experiences are best enjoyed slowly
Not to be confused with a sleepy city, Iloilo has long carried a reputation for being laid-back and languid. Free from the boisterous energy and overstimulation of larger urban centers, it pursues growth in its own measured way, balancing big-city aspirations with enduring provincial charm.
When the tempo is a half-beat slower, life naturally follows. On a leisurely Sunday afternoon, I slowed things down even further with a mindful walk along the River Esplanade, keeping watch on the monochromatic clouds that threatened rain on an unusually hot day.
It had been a while since I last sat by the river. The tide was low and the water was not particularly picturesque, but I found myself appreciating the singular flutter of avian life that briefly interrupted the stillness. On that day, the usually busy river walk was surprisingly empty. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though I had the river all to myself.
The plan was not merely to soak in the calming riverside views. I was also headed to the Slow Food Community at Riverside Boardwalk, one of the local advocates of the slow food movement that champions food that is good, clean, and fair for everyone.
That weekend, the community was staging Earth Market, a pop-up gathering that showcased seasonal produce, local ingredients, and innovative culinary creations from food artisans and advocates.
Iloilo City is certainly not on its way to becoming a fast-food wasteland. In many ways, the city's designation as a UNESCO Creative City of Gastronomy has strengthened efforts to preserve culinary traditions while promoting sustainable farming and responsible food production. Beyond celebrating heritage dishes, it has also encouraged conversations about building a healthier and more equitable food system.
For me, this unhurried Sunday was about savoring food thoughtfully prepared with local ingredients such as Darag native chicken, ube kinampay, and Criollo cacao—ingredients that speak of place, tradition, and craftsmanship.
I gravitated toward dessert. The best-selling Kamuros Ibos with mango and homemade tultul-salted ice cream proved irresistible, especially when paired with a slow-crafted matcha concoction from Neighbor Coffee. Together, they created a gentle waltz of sweet, earthy, and savory notes on the palate.
More than the food itself, I appreciated the luxury of unstructured time—the simple pleasure of sitting down, lingering over every bite, and feeling no need to rush. In a culture that often celebrates speed and productivity, perhaps the slow food movement offers a quiet reminder that some experiences are best savored.
After all, slowing down is not about doing less. It is about paying closer attention to what truly nourishes us.
Thursday, April 23, 2026
The kind of place you return to—not for perfection, but for the way it makes you feel.
Hi hao.
There’s a certain kind of comfort I keep returning to at Chinatown Cafe in SM Central Market—the kind that doesn’t try too hard, yet lingers long after the meal ends. As someone who gravitates toward Chinese cuisine, I’ve found myself slipping into its orbit more often than expected.
The space leans unapologetically into a Hong Kong-inspired aesthetic: brightly lit neon signs, a deliberate clash of color and light, and an eclectic layering of Chinoiserie details that feel both nostalgic and modern. It’s garish in a way that works—playful, cinematic, and oddly comforting.
What I appreciate most is how the restaurant accommodates both solitude and company.
There’s enough intimacy for solo dining, yet it remains warm and inviting for groups. The menu, meanwhile, is approachable and thoughtfully priced, making it easy to return without hesitation.
A small but memorable detail: the rice toppings served in stainless steel lunch boxes. It’s simple, almost utilitarian, yet it adds a tactile charm that elevates the experience. And then there’s the DECS dimsum to-go—convenient, familiar, and consistently satisfying.
Chinatown Cafe may not fully align with more traditional or exacting standards of Chinese cuisine, but that isn’t quite the point. It succeeds in delivering something else entirely: atmosphere, ease, and a sense of everyday indulgence.
It’s not about authenticity—it’s about mood. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you’re craving.
Tuesday, April 21, 2026
Saved somewhere between pixels and memory—a place you can revisit, but never quite return to.
Edinburgh used to live quietly in my daydreams.
Not loudly, not urgently—but in that soft, almost storybook way. Castles tucked into hills, cobblestoned streets worn smooth by time, and people who seemed to move gently through it all, as if they belonged to a slower, more thoughtful world. I imagined Scottish terriers being walked past stone buildings, and conversations that sounded like poetry even when they weren’t.
My curiosity about Edinburgh began, oddly enough, on the internet—through a Scottish blog I used to read a couple of decades ago.
It was one of those rare spaces that felt intentional. The kind you don’t scroll through, but linger in. Alan, the writer behind it, shared fragments of literature—poems, excerpts, little marginal thoughts that felt like they belonged to a much older, quieter world. Even the comment section (Haloscan, of all things) felt like a continuation of the writing itself: thoughtful, sometimes melancholic, always human.
Then one day, the posts stopped.
There was no announcement, no farewell—just silence. And later, through a friend, we learned that Alan had passed away in hospice care. He had been quietly living with a terminal illness all along, something none of us ever knew.
It felt strange, grieving someone you had never met.
But his absence was real. His words had a kind of intellectual lightness—an effervescence—that stayed with you long after you closed the page. And now, all that remained were his archives. His permalinks. Little glowing doorways to a voice that no longer existed in the present.
For a long time, I imagined Edinburgh through him.
A city of writers and thinkers. Of tartan caps and long walks. Of people who carried entire inner worlds as they moved through ordinary streets. I imagined Alan as one of them—walking along the Water of Leith, a dog by his side, thoughts unfolding like the poems he used to share.
In 2022, I finally went.
I was visiting my sister in London, and we decided—almost casually—to take a three-day trip to Edinburgh during Valentine’s week.
It was cold in the way that seeps into your bones. There was freezing rain, then sudden pale sunshine, then grey again. The kind of weather that makes everything feel cinematic, but also a little lonely.
We walked everywhere.
Past gingerbread-colored buildings and narrow streets, past steeples reaching into a sky that never quite brightened. Edinburgh was exactly as beautiful as I imagined—maybe even more so. But there was something else, too. A quiet sadness I couldn’t explain.
As if the city held onto memories more tightly than most places do.
One afternoon, I found myself standing on a bridge near Dean Village, watching the brownish water of the Water of Leith move steadily below. It wasn’t dramatic or breathtaking—it was just… steady. Persistent.
And suddenly, I thought of Alan.
Of his words. His silence. The strange, invisible thread that connected me to this place long before I ever arrived.
I said a quiet prayer for him and picked up a small pebble—smooth and unremarkable—and tossed it into the water.
Just like that.
A small gesture for someone who once made a quiet corner of the internet feel like home.
That night, I remembered a poem he once shared. It was a Pablo Neruda poem "It is Born" from the beautifully illustrated collection of poems- On the Blue Shore of Silence:
It stayed with me all these years, and somehow, it felt like it belonged to that moment:
Here I came to the very edge
where nothing at all needs saying
everything is absorbed through weather and the sea,
and the moon swam back,
its rays all silvered,
and time and again the darkness would be broken
by the crash of a wave,
and everyday on the balcony of the sea
wings open, fire is born,
and everything is blue like morning.
On Valentine’s Day, my sister and her friends decided to explore more of the city. I stayed behind.
Not out of disinterest, but because something in me wanted stillness. I wanted to feel the place without rushing through it.
The Airbnb we were staying in along Princes Street was warm and quietly cozy—the kind of space that makes you slow down without asking. Outside, the streets felt almost empty, like the city was taking a breath.
I spent the day in small, simple ways.
Watching bits and pieces of the 2022 Winter Olympics. Letting MTV ’80s play softly in the background. Looking out the window more than I looked at my phone. Noticing a bird perched on a wire, singing into the cold air like it didn’t mind the weather at all.
I made coffee.
And had a slice of Tesco’s Billionaire’s Chocolate Cheesecake.
It wasn’t grand or particularly memorable in the usual sense—but it felt full. The kind of full that doesn’t come from doing more, but from being present enough to notice.
Edinburgh, I realized, isn’t just beautiful.
It’s a place that gently holds your memories up to the light—especially the quiet ones. The ones you didn’t realize were still with you.
And maybe that’s why it felt a little lonely, too.
Because sometimes, beauty makes space for the people we’ve lost.
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