places & travel
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.
Monday, April 13, 2026
A slow Sunday wrapped in light, stillness, and the quiet beauty of a place that feels like a dream.
There is something quietly magical about slow Sunday afternoons—the gentle pause before another busy work week begins. Sundays are for attending church, lingering backyard picnics, early morning city strolls, or simply settling into a cozy corner of a neighborhood café. Little rituals like these feel like soft reminders to tend to the soul.
This week, a friend and I followed that Sunday instinct for something warm and comforting and found ourselves at the in-house bakery café of Balay Sueño—which charmingly translates to Dream House in Spanish. Tucked in a quiet street and just a short five-minute walk from Jaro Plaza, the heritage house felt like a hidden sanctuary from the sweltering dry-season heat.
Inside, the air was filled with the irresistible aroma of freshly baked cookies. The house itself felt like a gentle blend of eras—vintage details, modern touches, and colonial influences coexisting beautifully within the restored space. As golden hour slowly approached, soft sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow across the rooms and making the house feel even more dreamlike.
My friend ordered an iced coffee blend while I chose a hot ube latte—perhaps the newest café darling after the matcha craze. We paired our drinks with their yema cookie, which turned out to be wonderfully comforting. It wasn’t overly sweet, just rich enough to feel indulgent while still letting the buttery cookie shine.
Balay Sueño is not only a lovingly restored heritage home but also the headquarters of Sunday Bake Night, a gourmet cookie venture that has since blossomed into a full-service café and events venue. The passion behind their baking is unmistakable, carried in every warm batch emerging from the kitchen.
The ube latte was, quite simply, dreamy—its subtle sweetness perfectly complementing the mellow richness of the cookie. Together, they created a small but memorable moment of comfort on an otherwise warm afternoon. A perfectly balanced cookie break, if you will.
And as the light softened and the day slowly drifted toward evening, I couldn’t help but think that some places are meant for quiet Sundays and unhurried conversations.
Until the next slow Sunday, Sunday Bake Night.
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