Solo Travel But Not Really

If there is something more concrete as my words, I would still, share none of it so detailed. When something feels so good out from something so ordinary, you just let it be.


A book for a company, and a coffee for one is too cliche for someone trying to weave the tiny moments whole by herself.

I wish I could tell you of a guy I met this summer occupying the empty seat beside mine, and that I fell helplessly for a fleeting moment of what, might, felt like forever.

I wish I could tell you of a summer fling, some holding hands, and giggles during night fall.

But I haven’t, I didn’t, and there was none.


I did meet a guy. Scratch that. He found my carelessly written words nearly two years back, and I wish I could say the rest was history but it was not. It was more interesting than just that. And take it from my badly scribble travel journal I wrote during a solo trip to Biri Island, Northern Samar, “If summer is for salty water swims, and sand covered feet; for midnight sounds, and strange adventures; and some sweet words, and rambling conversations — then I may have had plenty of it already. But I write this after spreading my scarf on very doubtful sheets, tugging the side table, and barring it against the door. The stillness of the night carried the masculine voices from the outside in. Even the lizard at the ceiling stopped at it’s track hearing them roar in laughter with obvious intoxication. Dinner for me is the unfinished pack of chips, biscuits, and a citrus fruit from the transit with the fear of getting unwanted attention while finding a decent meal this late. And then he called again, the third time today.


… after nearly a year of this, his need to communicate has become consistent. When I tried sleeping, but could not, I wrote instead. Getting this sorry-for-an-excuse lodging at the dead of the night was a God-send but I was tortured by it’s conditions. With some occasional wake ups in betweens, I did get some sleep. It was not pure comfort, but it was better than nothing. Before the sun could peak over the horizon, he called again. His promised wake up call was accurate. And when I did say thank you, my thoughts really just wanted to ask — tell me, why are you so kind?”


I went out an ear shot good distance from everyone when my phone rang. I paced on the even walkway at  the front yard looking up to see the sky looking down at me. My laughs of his jokes will reach both stars, and my sisters ears. Yes, one so familiar of this talk time, and one making it difficult for me. Sisters have a way to torture the youngest one when she’s home.

Tacloban was late, dark, and of fully booked hotels. After maybe more than ten blocks of going around in circles, I was close to tears. I took another turn and looked at the dark skyline for the familiar old building where I was first dropped off. I sent him a message saying that I was still walking around. looking for a place to stay, and ending it with, “I’m dying here”.