Baguio always has a way of teaching you things you didn’t come for. I’ve been to the city countless times for lazy escapes or as a band-aid remedy for the chaos of life. But one December trip felt different. Maybe because at that time, I wasn’t traveling to reset. I was traveling with my son, Noa, who was just beginning to find his own rhythm.
He was in his second year of culinary school, at an age when dreams still smell like burned butter and midlife crisis. We checked into The Forest Lodge in Camp John Hay, a place that looked like it was built for tourism brochures: pine trees brushing against cold mist, architecture hinting at its exploited past, and a lobby that smelled faintly of firewood and freshly unboxed plastic Christmas trees.
On our first morning, Noa woke up earlier than usual, already fiddling with his jackets. “Tatay, the weather is perfect outside,” he said, pointing at the fog that cascaded through the window like the ebbing breath of nature. There was something refreshing about seeing Baguio again through his eyes—less nostalgia, more wide-eyed curiosity. It felt like the perfect time to teach him a few lessons about life.
Our first stop was La Trinidad. I told him to wear old shoes; strawberry picking isn’t meant for OOTDs. The rows of planters stretched endlessly across the valley—specks of red against green, like the field itself had decided to paint dots of joy into the soil. As he bent over the rows of strawberries, choosing the ripest ones, I stopped him.
“Don’t pick the plumpest strawberries,” I said. He looked at me, perplexed. “By the time we reach the hotel, those will be the most bruised.”
He smiled—that kind of smile that mixes amusement with realization. “So… don’t go for what’s perfect?” “Exactly. What looks best now might not sustain its perfection.”
It wasn’t about strawberries, of course. It was about timing, patience, and knowing when to wait for life to ripen on its own.
After lunch, we wandered through the ukay-ukay stalls near Session Road—the kind of thrift apocalypse that smells like balikbayan boxes and mothballs. The shops were decidedly gloomy, as if haunted by the ghosts of old wardrobes past. Noa laughed at the racks of studded jackets and tried on a leather one that looked straight out of April Boy Regino’s closet.
“You sure this isn’t just a pile of trash?” he teased.
“What’s junk to others could be treasure to some,” I said. “Perspective makes all the difference.” I plucked a pair of old Dickies trousers and a vintage oversized shirt. “See? That’s identical to Zara’s lookbook. Fashion just moves in circles.”
He nodded, thinking it over. “So it’s not about having everything new—it’s about seeing things differently?”
“Exactly. A good perspective is worth more than having everything handed to you on a silver platter.”
Later, we stopped by Burnham Park. The air was thick with the smell of steaming corn, margarine posing as butter, and overly sweet strawberry syrup on a hot cup of taho. He insisted we try the boats. As we paddled across the lake, I told him another thing I’d learned too late: “Sometimes, you’ll feel like you’re rowing hard but not getting anywhere. That’s okay. The point isn’t always distance—it’s rhythm. Keep your rhythm, and you’ll find yourself forging on.”
We tried synchronizing on his count. “So, you won’t get mad if I’m not as successful as you were at my age?”
“This isn’t a race,” I said. “Dance to the beat of your own drum and enjoy the journey.”
As afternoon settled, we followed the scent of coffee into Rebel Bakehouse—a modern warehouse café with brutalist interiors, sprouting greens, and unapologetic pride colors displayed on its posters. They served as the backdrop to the true art pieces—the pastries.
Noa’s eyes widened the moment he walked in. “This place,” he whispered, “it’s different.”
He watched the baristas move like clockwork, the bakers laser-focused behind the glass, the way the café felt like a community rather than a business. “One day, Tatay,” he said, staring at the perfect roll of croissant on his plate like it was the Northern Lights, “I’ll be part of something like this.”
I smiled. “Or maybe this exact one.”
He chuckled, not knowing I meant it.
More than a year later, I was back in Singapore, nursing my afternoon kopi-o when the phone rang. Noa’s name flashed on my screen. I picked up, expecting the usual chatter about classes, kitchen-day drama, or incidental expenses I had to shoulder. But his tone was different—shaking between excitement and disbelief. “Tatay,” he said, his voice barely keeping up with his heartbeat, “Rebel called…”
Exactly.
