places & travel
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.
Tuesday, March 24, 2026
Because spring never stays—only the pages we keep can hold what the petals leave behind.
Spring feels like the most magical season of the year. There is something dreamlike about the beauty of cherry blossoms—soft, fleeting, and ethereal. I often find myself wishing that everyone could experience, at least once in their lifetime, the wonder of standing beneath the loveliest of trees in full bloom.
For those of us who live in the tropics, spring can feel like a faraway romance. We can only imagine the delicate fragrance of sakura blossoms drifting through the air, the cool breeze of a crisp spring morning, and the quiet joy of witnessing the earth in one of its gentlest, most youthful moments.
As the seasons change and we make our way through another year around the sun, we are reminded of how quickly time moves. Memories soften, places transform, and people inevitably grow older. Yet some moments remain with us—especially the ones we choose to keep close. Through scrapbooks, journals, handmade books, or memory boxes, we give those fleeting fragments of life a place to stay.
There is something deeply comforting about memory-keeping. It allows us to hold on to the little things: a beautiful day, a heartfelt conversation, a quiet afternoon, a season that passed too quickly. These small moments may seem ordinary at the time, but years later, they often become the very ones we treasure most.
And perhaps that is what makes spring so special. It reminds us not only of beauty, but of its impermanence. It teaches us to notice, to feel, and to preserve what matters while it is still in bloom.
Maybe one day, when you are 50,80 or beyond, you will turn the pages of your own eternal spring and realize that the best things in life were never the grand occasions, but the little moments lovingly preserved in time.
Happy spring!
Saturday, March 21, 2026
Eggs Benedict or Eggs Benny as I lovingly call it, has always been my ultimate breakfast indulgence. Back in the day, I would make my own at home—carefully poaching eggs until the yolks turned perfectly runny, layering them over toasted English muffins with ham or bacon, and finishing everything with a luscious, lemon-kissed Hollandaise sauce. A sprinkle of parsley and a light dusting of paprika, and just like that, brunch was complete.
It’s the kind of dish that feels both comforting and a little luxurious—something I don’t come across often in Iloilo’s café scene. So when I heard that the newly opened branch of Born in Bread along Commission Civil in Jaro was serving Eggs Benedict, I knew I had to go.
After wrapping up a few early morning errands, I made my way to the bakery café, craving something familiar yet special. From the moment I stepped in, the space felt warm and inviting—cozy interiors, thoughtfully designed, and the comforting aroma of coffee lingering in the air.
What stood out immediately was their brunch menu. Instead of the usual tapsilog-style offerings, they present a more curated selection of continental breakfast dishes—refined yet approachable, and perfectly paired with their impressive lineup of croissants, both sweet and savory.
I ordered the Smoked Salmon Eggs Benedict, along with an iced mocha, and couldn’t resist taking a cream puff to go. The dish arrived beautifully plated, and more importantly, it delivered. The serving was generous, the smoked salmon added a delicate richness, and the Hollandaise sauce struck just the right balance of creamy and citrusy. The egg could have been softer though. A lettuce salad with bright and tangy vinaigrette dressing balanced the dish. Every bite felt indulgent without being overwhelming.
It’s rare to find a place that gets Eggs Benedict just right, but this one certainly did.
I’m already planning my next visit—to try their other Eggs Benedict variations and explore more of their croissant creations, especially the Bacon Jalapeño and Banoffee Croissant. And next time, I’ll be sure to linger a little longer, coffee in hand, soaking in the café’s cozy atmosphere.
Because honestly, Born in Bread? It feels more like Born for Bread—and definitely born for brunch.
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