Better Blocks in OKC

From my TravelOKCity Column

Living in the city, I have always been drawn to creative dynamic districts. Instead of going to the hippest nightspot, I prefer places alive not with blaring Lady GaGa but with folksy local tunes. I love places of diversity where owners of pop-up businesses can share artisan coffee with conglomerates and talk about homegrown art. A thriving place that offers a wide variety of options for the craving palate and the hungry soul seeking self-expression and stimulation. A green society that creatively benefits from the environment without taking advantage of it.

Better Block OKC is in the process of building these communities, street by street, block by block.  A city movement, Better Block OKC is a community revitalization project initiated by Urban Land Oklahoma Institute (ULI), an organization that advocates the responsible use of land and supports in creating and sustaining thriving communities. In alignment with ULI’s commitment, Better Block OKC aims to change the way we live in an urban landscape by temporarily demonstrating how to improve an area with pedestrian and public infrastructure combined with art, culture, pop-up businesses, and street life. I’ve heard a few call it the dream of the Millennials, a place similar to the plazas and markets in Europe where people can lounge, commune, and be inspired. 

 

Indeed, wouldn’t it be wonderful to step out of your home into a block party or a town fiesta? Or to have a buzzing market with fresh produce and affordable crafts just a walking distance away? I’d like to have a used bookstore and a café just next-door where I can take a break from my writing without breaking the bank.

Last month, I stepped into this aspired world at NW7th and Hudson where Better Block OKC launched its first project, transforming an area that would have been otherwise just another region in the city into a hub of activity.

 

 

Trucks lined the streets selling all sorts of food fare from waffles to eggrolls.  Establishments took their café tables and chairs out to join the party. Makeshift stalls sold fresh fruits and vegetables. Shops like OUI showcased handmade and one of a kind jewelry, paper garlands, weavings, and ceramics from independent artists and designers from LA, NY, and OKC.

A pop-up flower shop bloomed with rainforest-certified, free-trade roses from Ecuador. Farm-direct flowers like ranunculus, jumbo hydrangeas, Starfighters, and white Oriental lilies filled the air with the smell of spring and the promise of a blossoming summer.Art installations also decorated the sidewalk, adding to the festivities.  Recycled bottles were used as planters and hung in strings forming a “green” curtain against a brick wall.

 

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While lining up for Belgian waffles, I witnessed street art in the works. Two young men busied themselves with spray paint, one balancing on a small ladder, the other on a bicycle. Their masterpiece expressed the sentiment of the entire state: a bright yellow thunder rumbling over the opposing team.   

The whole process was art itself, including the spectators taking it all in with their eyes and their camera phones. They gathered around in an almost perfect half circle as the artists moved, in sync to the music, sometimes in unison, sometimes in response to each other’s movement as if they were in a standoff. Their agile bodies swayed this way and that, stretching their arms as far as they could reach to bring forth color.

 

 

Better Block OKC was also Better Bark OKC. The 2 day event encouraged furry friends to come by as long as they were on leashes.

 Everything inspired creativity and community to urge the people to get more involved.  An interactive chalk wall encouraged revelers to share their thoughts about community building or simply have fun by making up their own once-upon-a-time –stories by filling in the blanks.

 

 

Little notebooks were handed out for visionaries to write their ideas and suggestions for the city.   “Think big and broad. Now and later. Detailed and big picture. But most of all, remember that your ideas matter,” encourages the first page.  “Be a player in your neighborhood; champion its needs, and help us build a better OKC.” Pages are like worksheets or activity sheets where people can draw, doodle, or simply dream.

I don’t know when the next Better Block party is, but soon as I hear about it, I’ll let you know and we’ll have a party.

 

 

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A Message to the Universe

Published by Action and Fitness Magazine, 2008.

Wrote a letter to the universe and mailed it via the South China Sea from Batanes.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.” Like him, I believe that if I want something bad enough, the winds will waltz with the waves to deliver my granted wish. But how do I let the wind know of my whims? How does the ground beneath my restless feet know where I want to go? Some may shout it out to the world at the top of a mountain. Others may sit in a space of silence and whisper their desires to God, while I, well, I send a message in a bottle.

This is why our wedding invites were in bottles.

While some people collect seashells from their travels, I collect bottles. It has been an obsession of mine since I first saw a green bottle on the beach of Obella. I like the idea of a lonesome bottle carrying a precious message, travelling through oceans and time to an unknown destination, and finally into the hands of a perfect stranger. He might or might not care, but for that brief moment, when he unscrews the cover, slides out the note, and reads my thoughts and enters my head, we’re connected. The anonymity of it all only adds to the romance, plus the idea that once you’ve thrown it out to the sea, it is no longer yours, the same way you surrender your dreams to the powers that be and wait for them to be thrown back, granted.

My first letter carrier came from the Marshall Islands,

washed up on the shore from the Pacific Ocean.

I don’t know what happened to the bottle I found by the bushes in the shore of Obella. It was colored emerald green with Japanese inscriptions at the base.  I figured it was washed up on the shore from the Pacific Ocean. Obella is a tiny island in the Marshall Islands in Micronesia, inhabited only by lonely sea turtles and old ghosts roaming the deserted cemetery at the heart of the jungle. Ironically, the cemetery is the only sign of civilization in Obella.

Answered wishes? We were surrounded by empty bottles

in our tiny hut at Little Corn (Nicaragua).

 

Surrounded by impossibly clear waters, Obella can be reached by boat from the nearby atolls that surround a lagoon. On low tide, you can literally walk from a neighbouring island to Obella. If you forge through the thick vegetation, you will find a small cove jealously guarded by a throng of pandanus and plumeria trees. Here, if you lie still for a moment, on a white stretch peppered with powdery crystals flirting with the sun’s rays, you will hear the breeze whisper secrets of old, when the Americans fought against the Japanese to claim ownership of this paradise several full moons ago. I’d like to think that the bottle was discarded by a Japanese soldier while hiding under the shelter of a plumeria tree, waiting for a G.I. to wander past. More than likely the bottle could have been thrown by a drunken fisherman tottering on a Japanese fishing trawler that came through the Central Pacific a few days earlier.     

Off to deliver our message to the universe.

Pacific Ocean

Choosing the former as my bottle’s origins, I wrote down my wishes on a piece of paper, put the paper in the bottle and screwed the cap tightly back on. On our way back to Roi Namur, the island where we came from, with the boat running at an even speed, and Tom Petty belting out "Into the great wide open”, I threw the bottle into the Pacific Ocean. The waves eagerly lapped at the bottle, wanting to know the wishes contained inside. 

My best friend lounging by Obella, Marshall Islands.

I wished that I would spend the rest of my life with my best friend who was driving the boat then. I prayed that we would have many adventures, travelling together. Just a few months later, after travelling to six provinces in twelve days, he proposed to me on top of Calvary hill in Leyte, Philippines with the statue of the Sacred Heart looming over us, standing witness to our whispered promises.

Photo by Bern Mejias

Since then, every time I travelled, I would look for an empty bottle on the shore, waiting to deliver another message.   A few years back I found a clear bottle with a rubber cap  hidden between rocks at a beach in Sabtang, Batanes in the Philippines. This time it had Chinese inscriptions on the cap. Batanes lies where the Pacific Ocean and the South China Sea merge. I imagined the bottle came from Taiwan, Honk Kong, or China. When I opened the bottle, the sharp scent of gin escaped from the rim.

Roi Namur, Marshall Islands with my best friend. (photo by Kerry Young)

 As usual I wrote down my wishes on a paper, sealed it into the bottle, and then threw the bottle back to the sea. Later, a little commotion ensued by the shore. There was excited chatter from my caravan, crowding over something they found brought in by the tide. Some of them took pictures, excited by the fact that they found a “real” message in a bottle, perhaps cast by someone stranded on an island somewhere. Before they could open it, I ran and swiped my precious bottle away, ruining their fantasies altogether.

We are always surrounded by bottles.

I zealously held on to the bottle as our boat crossed the treacherous South China Sea. We spent a good twenty minutes by the shore as our boat battled against the waves, refusing to let us go.  We haven’t even left yet, but half of our group was already suffering sea sickness. We were finally released but not before a huge wave crashed over our boat, rocking it like a plastic toy and causing some of the passengers to scream and beg our boatmen to head back, but they ignored our pleas. It was an intolerable thirty-five minute ride as I braved the screaming wind blowing through my drenched clothes and the splashing seawater burning my eyes. Holding down the fear that threatened to surge from my throat, I looked out, never taking my eyes off the lighthouse from afar, a sign that land was close, then I realized I was still clutching dearly to my bottle as if it were a life saver. I threw the bottle into the dark waters, praying under my breath that I might live to see my granted wishes.

I believe there is no limit to the number of wishes you can make

In your lifetime. The universe is generous.

I have yet to see the bottle again. Often I search for it in the landscape of my dreams, around the edges of my adventures and on every crevice of the lands I explore, never once losing faith that my message will soon be delivered.

If you find one of my bottles washed up on your shore, will you email me at travel@anaviajera.com?

The universe answered our prayers at the San Agustin Church, Malate Manila.

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In Search of the Perfect Ceviche (Nicaragua)

From my TravelOkcity column, May 2012

Still life in Little Corn Island, Nicaragua

Bright red slices of tuna, firm pink slivers of salmon, and tender flaky grilled marlin - these were the things we dreamed of everyday, weeks before our trip to Nicaragua. Because of the country’s expansive coastlines, with the Pacific Ocean to the west and the Caribbean Sea to the East, and because it is home to the largest lake in Central America, we anticipated a fish and shellfish fiesta. We tasted succulent shrimps and crunchy fish tacos in our mouth every time we discussed our itinerary. And did I mention the lobster? Sweet whole lobsters in shiny red shells danced before us, haunting even our waking moments. Then we landed on the Corn Islands, east off the Caribbean coast, and discovered that it was not the season for lobster. In fact, there was hardly any seafood to be had.

Chalice of joy at Tranquilo Cafe, Little Corn

The Farm Peace and Love hosted our first dinner that night. An Italian lady was preparing an authentic Italian meal and on the menu: chicken. What else was there, we prodded, hoping for some mussels or shrimp in the pasta.  The answer:  primavera. Of course. 

All throughout our stay in the Corn Islands, we encountered a similar scenario.  One delicious disappoint after the other in the form of fried plantains and beef in tomato sauce. But on our last day in Little Corn, we found ourselves a sweet spot at the Tranquilo Café in front of the dock while we waited for our boat to Big Corn Island. Fresh Ceviche was on the menu.

A Creole cleaning his catch.

In most of Central and South America, the raw fish or seafood marinated  in citrus juices is known as ceviche, cebiche, or seviche. In Guam, it is called kilaguen. In most parts of the Philippines, it is kilawin. In the local regions, it’s kinilaw.  The Hawaiian version is poke. For us, dreaming of a seafood smorgasbord, it’s called: “I could eat this every day”.  It was our heaven in a goblet, everything we’ve dreamed of since we planned this vacation, served in a tall martini glass. It was the cup of promise, chunks of fresh kingfish marinated in lemon and spiced with chili peppers, onion, salt, cilantro, and pepper topped with a flaky cracker. Every bite was tender, juicy, and citrusy, full of the flavors of the ocean. If we couldn’t have the ocean bounty we were promised, we could have a spoonful of the sea anytime with ceviche. From then on, we searched for it in our every stop.

Our cup runneth over at Big Corn Island

At Big Corn Island we were served a helping of seafood salad: fish, shrimps, and lobsters. It went down well with a glass of margarita. We topped a cracker with a mound of the ceviche and enjoyed every morsel, believing that the piece of fish melting in our mouth had been caught just a few hours ago in the beach that we were currently looking out at. We thought it was the perfect companion while we watched the changing warm colors that the sun left on its wake.  Maybe it was the effect of the  sunset, bathing us  with an ethereal glow, or maybe it was because we had been so deprived of seafood after all the anticipation that made us think that it couldn’t get any better.

Back in the mainland, in Managua, in our effort to escape nightspots choked with cigarette smoke and blaring 80s disco music, we found the quiet Restaurant Gallery on top of the Seminole Plaza Hotel.

The perfect bite.

Beautiful white chunks of fresh water bass were brought to us lying on a lettuce leaf in a crystal cup. A slice of lemon on the rim indicated the promise of a refreshing experience. It did not disappoint. The briny sweetness of the sea spiked with a subtle tanginess and the surprising crunchiness of red and green peppers made us smile. Never mind that the fishy taste and smell lingered the entire night on our tongue and lips, the brand of guilty pleasure.

The peeling and weathered paint makes pictures look like Van Gogh paintings.

When we headed to the colonial city of Granada, every beautiful door opened to more fresh servings from the Pacific, the Caribbean, and Lake Nicaragua. Without a doubt, our cup runneth over. Again, never mind that the strong aftertaste haunted our senses. It even seemed like our fingers smelled.

In search of perfection by the Parque Central

At Nuestra Mundo by the Parque Central, we sat outside to watch the horse-drawn carriages while sipping on Coke and Flor de Caña rum and enjoying a generous  heap of ceviche.

Every day, it was one chalice of joy after the other. Could it be that every serving presented to us was perfection? We couldn’t decide which one we’ve had so far was better. Not one won over the other; each one had something slightly different to offer but always satisfying and always leaving us with that strong taste in the mouth that reminded us of the marine life of Nicaragua. 

A walk back in time.

Near the conclusion of our holiday, we discovered La Gran Francia right off the main square, a stately ancestral casona painted in yellow and accentuated by white washed balconies, wooden beams, and terracotta tile roofing, built just a few years after the founding of Granada in 1524. Inside is like a museum of colonial history. Massive paintings and relics adorn the walls and statues of saints look down with disdain on guests. We learned to ignore the ornamentations once the salmon Carpaccio was served at the table - a wonderful blend of smokiness, saltiness, and a whisper of sweetness that played with our palate.  We took our time before we ordered, looking out at the narrow streets of Granada, knowing that our reliable chalice of bliss would not disappoint. For a second it did though as we perused the menu, our eyes flying through many European dishes and then suddenly realizing with dismay that ceviche was not in the list. We looked at our waiter, Juan, perplexed. With a knowing smile he responded: “I’ll ask the chef to prepare one for you.

Perfection

It stood tall and regal crowned with a purple frill of lettuce, sharply cut avocadoes, and firm tomatoes giving color to the precious white meat swimming in opaque water that almost looked like coconut milk. The first spoonful brought forth a swirl of flavors like rushing water in the mouth. The mild taste of fish was sweet and exciting with the piquant juice that oozed out of it, punctuated with a burst of cilantro sunshine.   Whether  it was the strong shot of lime or cilantro, I’m not sure, but there was hardly any of that pungent taste that seem to linger in the mouth. The experience was as spirited, smooth, and clean as the glass of mojito that we were having with it. The search was over, we thought. We had found the one. We asked   why such an exquisite dish was not in the menu. In broken English he replied, “It’s made on special request for preferred customers.”

The saints were smiling on us that day.

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Taking the First Dive (Anilao Batangas, Philippines

Published by Oklahoma City's The Tribune in my TravelOkcity column (December 2010).


The days are beginning to get colder and shorter, making me long for days under the sun and the feel of the warm tropical water on my skin.  To briefly escape the snow flurries and the blustery wind, I’d like to take you with me on a little diving expedition in the Philippines where the water is friendly and as blue as the wide open sky. 

                               One of the first wonders I saw was a clown fish welcoming me to its world.                                          Photo by my gorgeous ninang and dive instructor Susana May.

An archipelago of 7,107 islands covering a land area of 115,739 square miles and a coastline twice as long as the United States, the Philippines is an ideal place to explore sea life with 40, 15,444 square miles of coral reefs teeming with underwater creatures, a universe so different from ours.

To my dearly departed friend Zen Robleza (in striped shirt) who started this adventure with me.

        

If the cold has not frozen your sense of adventure yet, take off your mittens for  a moment, slather on some sun block, and defrost with me as I take you on my first diving adventure...

Celebrating after my check out dive aboard the Strega de Mare.

Taking the First Dive

The sun was blissfully burning my cheeks as Strega de Mare, the white witch of the sea, sped past the island of Sombrero. We were a few meters away from Beatrice, our first dive spot in Anilao. 

Getting suited up.

Located 140 km south of Manila, Anilao Batangas is known as one of the best dive sites in the country. It does not possess the powdery white sands and the lush resorts of other beaches in the Philippines, but its treasures can be found down below,  in the coral slopes and the shallow gardens with about 34 dive sites offering countless wonders.  I couldn’t get over the fact that in a few minutes, this secret world would be opened to me.  As the white washed boat slowed to a stop, I got ready for my first dive.

Resurfacing after the plunge.

All geared up, I jammed the regulator in my mouth and bit on the rubber fitting awkwardly. My first whiff of air from the mouthpiece sounded hallow. It was unnatural. Why was I breathing air from a 5.6 liter cylinder tank when I could breathe the salty air freely without this intrusive contraption in my mouth? Instinct urged me to breathe through my nose. I gagged as my inhalation came up with nothing. The rim of the mask bit into my cheeks as the deep breath vacuumed the mask tightly on my face. It took every ounce of will power to stop myself from yanking off all the tubes from my face. I breathed again from the regulator. And again. Nothing changed except for the fact that I was able to push panic a few inches away from the safety line.

Starting the descent.

To distract myself I looked around and observed the rest of the dive crew busy with their last minute set up. There was no room for fear or anxiety. It was either jump or suffer the humiliation while sweating in a dry wetsuit. One by one they toppled over on their backs and disappeared into the water until there was no one left but me. I had no choice. Fear was taken over by pride. I may be a 95 pound weakling, but I was not a coward. At least not from the outside.

Touchdown!

I held the alternate regulator against my chest, secured the regulator and mask on my face with the other palm, leaned back and let gravity do its work. Before the plunge, my neck was burning softly under the sun’s rays and my body was slowly warming beneath the tightness of the body suit. Suddenly coolness embraced me. It was actually quite a relief. Hundreds of tiny bubbles kissed my cheeks and for a moment, cold dark silence engulfed me. I flailed my arms to find balance and kicked to seek solid ground. Anything to anchor and stabilize me. From somewhere I heard my instructor Susana in her heavy Mexican accent, “Very good! Relax!” Suddenly I remembered one vital thing that I forgot to do: breathe. I sucked air through my mouth and heard that alien vacuum sound again as if Moby Dick was breathing beside me. I clamped tightly on the mouth piece of the regulator, afraid that water would seep in. Oxygen in my head got me thinking again as I slowly regulated my breathing. All of a sudden, without effort, my head bobbed above the water’s surface. As sunlight hit my face, the world made sense again. All these happened in a matter of seconds.

How beautiful the work of your hands.

As I breathed more regularly and as the coolness of the water soothed my skin under the neoprene material, my fears started to melt. Slowly we descended into the water, holding on to the anchor line. An inch at a time we descended deeper. We didn’t dare move faster afraid we would suffer from nitrogen narcosis or decompression sickness as the pressure of the water increased.

I uncovered one of God's greatest secrets in the form of this little slug.

I could see nothing but midnight blue, the color that dreams are made of. And it did feel like a dream as we moved in slow motion. Our bodies floated, disfigured by the moving water. We almost looked ethereal, illuminated by transmuted light from above. Somebody signaled to look down and suddenly I was transported into another dimension of my dream. The world below was awash with muted colors, unimaginable shapes and rich textures. I was supposed to check my gauge regularly to watch my rate of descent and the air level in the tank but the world beneath me was too distracting. I couldn’t take my eyes off it for one minute. I thought that it was unfair that this was kept secret from the rest of humanity.

Read the rest of the story  in my travel column, TravelOkcity, at Oklahoma City's The Tribune

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TravelOkcity: Oklahoma through the Eyes of a Child

TravelOkcity is my weekly travel column in Oklahoma City's The Tribune. Read about my recent travel tale in the Saturday paper. Below is the introductory/debut story.

TravelOkcity's debut story.

“What’s in Oklahoma?” is the question that I am always assaulted with when I tell people where I am moving to. I use the word “assaulted”, because the question is often asked with an incredulous tone,  like I’ve gone out of my mind, because I’ve decided to leave my  supposedly fabulous cosmopolitan life to milk cows and sleep on hay.  One even went as far as saying “what’s there aside from cows and tornadoes?” 

Buffalos roaming in the wild by Cherie M. Del Rio.

There is a big Filipino diaspora in the United States. Philippine immigrants are usually found nesting in big cities in the east coast or west coast, particularly in California. Most of these people are used to the glitter of L.A. or the Big Apple.  The idea of Oklahoma is as foreign to them as say, Granada, but sadly, not as interesting.

Guthrie is like a backdrop for a scene from the Wild West (Photo by Cherie M. Del Rio). 

 

So in a way, this column answers the almost insulting inquiry, because that kind of question cannot be answered in a sentence or two, not even a full feature can. To know what Oklahoma has to offer aside from the cattle and the fickle weather requires a lifetime. And I hope that we have that so we can go explore your beloved state every Saturday.

A prairie dog on a yellow field by Gerard Azel Villanueva.

Your tour guide won’t be an old local who has the veins at the back of his hands for his map. Rather, the guide will be yours truly, a relative stranger to the place who will take everything in and tell you all about it with childlike awe.  For instance, I consider seeing prairie dogs sitting on a yellow field, while wandering through the Buffalo Wildlife Refuge, an experience akin to a unicorn sighting. Then there’s the monthly art walks in the city which is probably common in every state; I look forward to  these exhibits because they allow me to view art not in a spot-lighted glass case but up close and personal enough to shake its hand.

Walking the streets of Guthrie by Cherie M. Del Rio.

While some outsiders see ghosts and tumbleweed haunt the streets of Guthrie. I see the vibrant town as it used to be. Towns like Guthrie or Medicine Park take me back in time, teaching me things that no journey to any continent can impart. I mourn the closing of the neighboring cafe like the departure of an old friend.  A visit to the OKC National Memorial and Museum is not only a lesson in history for me, but also a revelation of the kind of people that I now live with, a people of pride, compassion, resilience, and courage.

Guthrie, the first capital of Oklahoma by Cherie M. Del Rio.

I believe that sometimes it takes a stranger to reveal your home to you.  Often, we fail to visit the museum next door or the park around the corner, because we know it will be there when the time comes. Then a visitor comes to town, and suddenly we become tourists in our place.

You shall be missed (Photo by Cherie M. Del Rio).

Let me be your stranger. Let me be your guest.

Allow me to introduce myself briefly to you that I may not be too much of a stranger any longer. I am a freelance editor and a widely published feature writer and fictionist from the Philippines.  I was the editor in chief of a travel magazine distributed in Asia and some parts of the United States (east coast and west coast, of course). My wanderlust has led me to my favorite tour guide. Point any area in the world map, and he can tell you the exact place and a little trivia about the spot. After being stationed in three different continents, he returned to his birthplace to start our little family of three. And home is where the heart is - Oklahoma City.

Let me show you what I've seen out there so far.

Although we had planted our roots in the Midwest, we continue to branch out. Restless feet have to keep moving after all. As we explore new places, we invite you to join us. Just as this column endeavours to show you Oklahoma, Travelokcity will also encourage Oklahoma  to see the world beyond, the world that I’ve seen so far and the many wonders it offers. If you have a minute or two to spare every Saturday, come travel with me. You won’t need a passport, only the wonder and curiosity of a child.

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The Seven Stones that make up a Home (Boracay, Philippines)

Published by AsianTraveler Magazine, 2009

The season of Habagat -when the prevailing winds from the west came with a force that shook the palm trees and the beach huts, rattling them from their base - was the time when we arrived on the shores of Boracay, supposedly a sunny tropical paradise at the Northwest tip of Northern Panay in the Philippines. The sun abandoned us on the day we docked, and the wet winds soaked our flimsy clothes. But there it stood, the 7 Stones Boracay Suites, strong and unfazed amidst the tempest, promising us shelter and so much more - the 7 stones that the resort is known for.  

Don't rain on my paradise.

Upon arrival, I immediately picked up the first stone, the stone of impeccable service. Several attendants in shorts immediately came with umbrellas, sheltering us uselessly from the torrent of water. At the receiving area, they were apologetic, as if the gloomy clouds were of their own doing, as if the sun had never forsaken them before. They fussed about and ushered us in our rooms and closed the drenched world behind us. Suddenly there was great stillness, warmth, and comfort.

Why, hello, sun! I'm so glad you finally showed up.

What is a strong foundation for a successful establishment? What is it that made this hotel stand resilient in the midst of a storm? For a luxury boutique hotel situated along a secluded beach in Bulabog, the strong foundation consists of 7 stones. It is from this concept of a strong foundation that the 7 Stones Boracay Suites got its name from.

 General manager Danny A. reveals the Seven Stones secrets.

In Inuit cultures, the man made stone landmark, also known as the inukshuk, is used as a point of reference, a navigation device, a marker for hunting grounds, and even as a food cache. From this idea 7 Stones was built by the beach as a landmark of luxury and more importantly, as a sign of home. The 7 Stones stands upright, much like a lighthouse, guiding travellers to its open doorway, welcoming them home. The inukshuk, several stones piled high, looking much like a figure of a standing man, comes from the word inuk, meaning “person” and suk meaning “substitute”. In a way, 7 Stones Boracay Suites stands as a substitute family for the traveller who is temporarily away from home. “The totem shows you your way home,” says Dani Aliaga, resort manager.

7 Stones was to be my temporary home in a season of unforgiving weather.  In the few days that I stayed in the resort, I was able to gather the remaining stones, one by one, that made up 7 Stones Boracay Suites. The second stone was green.

It's fun to go on assignment with a good photographer friend (Don Oco).

Nestled in what seemed like a fishing village along the Bulabog Beach, 7 Stones cannot ignore its neighbours. It recognizes its responsibility to the environment and to its community through its daily operations, evident even in my bathroom sink where coasters brandish the reminder “green initiative”. It was a subtle suggestion for me to be mindful of my water consumption and usage of amenities. If I needed my towels and sheets changed every day, they would. But through discreet and courteous notes, I was encouraged to reuse and therefore contribute in their “green initiative.”

The second stone that I collected was a representation of how traditional Filipino elements meld harmoniously with the modern in this boutique resort. The stunning suites are contemporary and spacious with a Zen like appeal. Each room is accentuated by Filipino handcrafted art from mixed media paintings made by local artists from Mariit Artworks. In my room the canvass paintings are simple – a goldfish in one, a hull of a boat in another – yet powerful, evoking the stillness of the sea currently ravaged by the Habagat wind.

Healing hands in paradise -with a beach side masseuse before the therapy.

On a rare moment when the wind abated and the sun coyly took a peek, I took a walk outside, out to the beach where I picked up the next stone, a gift from nature itself: the beauty of the sea which opens out in great magnificence at the entrance of 7 Stones. Here is a private cove, visited only by fishermen in their boats, away from the mad revelry of the White Beach where all the resorts and commercial establishments are. Here, I was protected from the hateful Habagat wind. Here the water was calm and inviting. Without hesitation, I took a dive.

 After my dip, I lounged on the cushy deck chair that faced the shore, taking in all the splendour about me. The sky, hanging low, was a weak blue, still mourning the sun’s absence. It brought about a serene feeling in the air, the calm before the storm. I breathed in and closed my eyes. This was the stone of indulgence. The fifth stone. I held it close to me like a child holding a precious marble and allowed the soft sea breeze to cuddle me to sleep.

I could live here.

After my nap, I headed back to my room, but along the way, I couldn’t ignore the call of the crisp 

water in the pool. It was a 25 meter lagoon type swimming pool with a Jacuzzi at one end. At the other end was a sunken bar where I was able to soak in crystal coolness while I refreshed myself with a tall cocktail. This was the stone of luxury, the sixth pillar to 7 Stones’ strong foundation.

Soon the sky became jealous again and opened up a drizzle of rain. I started to shiver and ran back to my room, a cozy shelter. The discreet beep of the sensor-controlled locks welcomed my arrival and automatically turned on the power. I took a shower, patted dry, and burrowed under the softest covers. While listening to Ian Wright traipse through Bolivia through my LCD flat screen TV, I slowly drifted off to sleep. But before I completely succumbed to oblivion, I thought, this was home, my temporary home, the seventh stone.

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