It’s raining when I land in Manila. Clouds drape the sky like a velvet blanket that won’t let go of the gray. I grab my bags, step through the sliding doors, and feel the warm humidity on my lips—wet concrete in the air, the city’s tears pouring down in a steady drum. It feels like both welcome and warning. By nightfall, a detective will ask me why my ex tried to call the morning she died.

I swipe open Grab and order a car to the hotel, avoiding street taxis. From a distance, a woman stands outside her car in the shadow of the airport canopy, rain shimmering just beyond the curb. Jeans, light-brown blouse, hair in a tight ponytail. Our eyes lock, and she gestures me over. I don’t realize I’m already two steps off the curb until my phone pulses in my hand: my Grab’s still minutes out. I step back onto the sidewalk and hold my phone up to show her my screen and thank her. The automatic doors sigh open behind me, and luggage rattles past. My Grab pulls in.

My driver offers a quick smile and loads my bags into the trunk. We slide into the city’s tangled web of lanes and skyways, snaking like a current through a slow river of vans, jeepneys, buses, scooters, and motorcycles—everyone inching, negotiating over cracked asphalt. The driver seems to feel each brake a heartbeat before it comes. Every shudder of the seat reminds me I’m grateful not to be driving. Sweat beads my forehead. He bumps the A/C, and cool air needles the damp of my shirt. Street sounds rise, muffled by the glass—horns, a vendor’s call, a scooter’s two-stroke cough. For a mile or two, it almost feels like Phoenix. Almost.

The rain thickens, hammering the windshield. Stalls huddle under tarps. Rain pings on corrugated roofs. A child laughs and vanishes behind hanging laundry. For a beat, the rain feels like a thread between us, and I leave my phone in my pocket. We pass the Filling Station in Makati, and I snap a quick photo through the window.

“Salamat, po,” I tell the driver as he pulls into my hotel. It’s one of the few phrases I know. I say I’ll rate five stars and leave a tip through the app. He nods at the word “tip,” though by his half-smile, I’m not convinced he fully understands.

I arrive before check-in, but the hotel finds me a room. They tell me it won’t have a tub, just a shower. That’s fine. I drop my bag on the bed, then head to wash off my long trip. The cool water needles my scalp. Citrus from the hotel soap permeates the air, cutting through the haze of my flight fatigue. My stomach grumbles, airline coffee still ghosting on my tongue.

I get dressed and ride the elevator to the rooftop bar and pool. From the edge of the deck, I film a slow 360-degree sweep and send it to my American-Filipina friends. I leave my passport in the safe, with a printed copy in my pocket. Paranoid? Maybe. Makati has its edges. My favorite way into a place is to ask people about themselves. “Where are you from? Tell me about your family.” Eventually, someone pulls on my sleeve and leans in to say, “You’re too friendly, po. Be careful.”

I check my phone and send a quick text to my kids to let them know I’ve arrived. Guilt gnaws at me, despite all the planning and how long this trip has been in the works. I’ve left my teenage daughters at home for the first time. My mother’s voice rises: “Why? What are you doing in the Philippines?” Her question echoes my own—What are you doing? A good parent doesn’t do that.

The moment won’t hold. Warnings tug at other warnings. I walk to the rail, look out. The rain has stopped, and the city breathes steam. I ride down to the lobby. The attendant holds the door. I step into midday air, thick with leftover rain—diesel, frying pork, horns stitching the block, a vendor calling from somewhere unseen. My stomach growls again. I walk.