lost in the fog: a rainy weekend in baguio
the bus ride up was longer than i expected, winding through mountains that looked like they were drawn by a drunk cartographer. i kept thinking, "why do i keep doing this to myself?" but then the air hit me-cool, damp, and smelling like pine trees and wet earth. it was 26.32 degrees, which sounded perfect until i stepped off the bus and realized the humidity was 80%. my shirt was already sticking to my back like a second skin.
i checked into a guesthouse that looked like it hadn't been updated since the 70s. the owner, a woman named lola nida, handed me a key with a smile that said, "you're in for a treat." she wasn't wrong. the room had a view of the mountains, but also a view of the neighbor's laundry hanging out to dry. i didn't mind. it felt real.
first stop: the market. i heard from a guy at the bus station that the strawberry taho there was life-changing. he wasn't lying. it was like eating a cloud that had been kissed by a strawberry. i sat on a bench and watched people haggle over vegetables, wondering if i'd ever be brave enough to argue over the price of a carrot.
later, i wandered into a cafe that looked like it belonged in a Wes Anderson movie. the barista, a guy with a man-bun and tattoos, recommended the civet coffee. i said yes because i was too tired to argue. it tasted like regret and dark chocolate. worth it.
that evening, i met a group of street artists near burnham park. they were painting a mural of a giant pineapple wearing sunglasses. one of them, a girl named jessa, told me baguio's art scene was "alive but struggling." she handed me a spray can and said, "make your mark." i drew a wobbly heart. it looked like a potato. they still cheered.
if you get bored, la trinidad and sagada are just a short drive away. someone told me sagada's caves are haunted, but i didn't have the guts to check. maybe next time.
the next morning, i woke up to fog so thick i couldn't see the end of the street. it felt like the city was hiding from me. i grabbed a bowl of pinikpikan from a roadside stall-smoky, salty, and exactly what i needed. the vendor, an old man with hands like tree bark, said, "this will warm your soul." he was right.
before i left, i sat on the steps of the cathedral, watching the fog lift like a curtain. baguio didn't feel like a destination. it felt like a secret i wasn't supposed to know. and i was okay with that.
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