I posted a short video on my stay at the El Nido Beach Camp. Here’s a little bit more info, and a few more pictures from my five nights there.

I arrived after getting off the three-day boat excursion from Coron to El Nido and this sunset was my first sight when I arrived. Way to make an impression, El Nido! The cost of my tent accommodation was $13 a night which includes breakfast (or in my case, all the coffee I could drink). Each tent includes a power outlet and a fan. The power is on from 6PM to 6AM and then for about six hours in the middle of the day. There is a shared shower and bathroom which was about 150 meters from my tent which made late night bathroom breaks an adventure.

I was able to keep all of my bags and goods next to me inside the tent but some folks who slept two to a tent kept their backpacks outside the tent where they were at the mercy of the insect hordes. I quickly got the hang of entering the tent without tracking any sand inside. A short learning curve.

Yes, it’s roughing it, the water pressure was low, the electricity was not reliable, the wifi was four out of five stars, but the place had essentially everything I needed. The “restrobar” at the camp served some good food, but it took me a couple of tries to find the food I really liked (spicy stir-fry noodles with vegetables and chicken, please. 350 pesos, or around $6.05).

The other downside of this property is the dirt road leading to it. It is 650 meters of roller-coaster-like hills. When I arrived, a gentleman offered to give me a ride with my backpack and sling on the back of a motorbike. I politely declined. I walked the 650 meters instead and I was wiped out as a result. Leaving was harder because the walk up to the road from the beach was more uphill than down. And even though I tried to ride on the back of the motor bike on my last day, getting up with first hill was impossible, so I had to walk. Oh, well.

Overall, I would stay here again. Highest beauty-to-cost ratio of anywhere I’ve stayed so far.

I haven’t seen all he animals I have drawn for my Visual Language Travel Guide, but I’m more than halfway to crossing most of them off my list. I may not get to the mountain gorilla or the ring-tailed lemur on this trip, but you never know. Here is a breakdown of some of the animals I’ve encountered. Not pictured: Galapagos tortoise, blue footed boobie.

Disclaimer: I have no credentials in this field. I am not a degreed or licensed therapist or social worker. Please understand that you follow any of my advice, experiences, and thoughts at your own risk. 

I recently read that people make positive changes to their lives more often after travel than after therapy. And that intrigued me, so I looked into it.

This sounds like something AI might make up and use as click bait on social media. As it turns out, there are some studies to back up the idea that travel is therapeutic. This article outlines the major pieces of research: https://www.sacredtreks.com/transformational-travel-vs-therapy/. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version.

One study at Cornell showed that experiential purchases boosted happiness to a greater degree than material purchases. (That makes sense to me.)

In another review of the existing literature, there was a clear connection between happiness and travel before and after the trip. Travelers showed “increases in emotional resilience, openness to new experiences, and overall life satisfaction.” And these effects grew over time.

And University of Surrey researchers found that planning and anticipating a trip boosted happiness for an average of eight weeks. 

In my admittedly limited experience, it appears that the benefits of travel check off on the basic goals of therapy. Happiness, perspective, improving on one’s self-image, reducing anxiety and more. 

Now I’m not knocking traditional therapy. I love therapy. I find it valuable. And there are some things that traditional therapy does really well that travel might just make worse. Like dealing with trauma. If you have a toxic event or relationship in your present or past that is consciously or subconsciously eating you up inside and sabotaging your relationships and happiness, a trip to Indonesia is probably not going to help. At least not in the way that sitting down with a professional and uncovering the layers of mental scar tissue and creating a hard-won process of healing will. It’s painful, but necessary. 

That said, here are some observations that have lead me to be a travel therapy advocate.

Travel helps you adopt a new perspective. — We have a huge problem in society. Especially in the generations raised in the digital age. Human brains are subconscious comparison engines, and this is the source of untold pain. Who said, “Comparison is the thief of joy?” Teddy Roosevelt. A wise man who never owned a smart phone. Today, social (and other) media uses our comparing brains against us by bombarding us with lifestyles we can’t possibly attain. And as a result, we feel inadequate, envious, and unfulfilled. But travel helps you use your comparison engine brain for positive means and see the world in new ways. I’ve met people on this trip who live in a shack with no electricity or drinkable water, who are joyous about their lives. Do they need a drone, the latest iPhone, an Eames chair, or a new wardrobe to be happy? No. 

Rediscover wonder. — The world is a beautiful place. Even the places in which we live every day. Take my hometown of Nantucket as an example. It’s stunning. One of the top ten most beautiful places on earth. But after a while, we forget to see the beauty around us, and it all becomes normal. It has for me. That’s why traveling to a new place, even a place that may not be as nice as where you are from, helps one to see the wonder in new experiences. Contrast provides opportunity. 

Get comfortable with yourself — In the US, and especially if we are addicted to social media and other online sources of entertainment, we tend to be bombarded with beautiful people who have beautiful bodies and it can be very difficult if you are not one of those people. Remember: comparison. The antidote to this is not to go to the gym (although the gym has some benefits) but instead to go to a public bath in Japan or take a beach excursion with a couple of dozen other tourists from places around the world, and you will quickly notice that folks from Europe or Asia have no shyness when it comes to wearing very little clothing or nothing at all. Soon you begin to see that bodies come in all kinds of shapes, and yours is just as “beautiful” as anyone else’s. (Those beautiful people with beautiful bodies are just not freakin’ normal.) Another thing that solo travel does a good job on is helping you to understand that voice in your head (if you have one). Time alone, listening to and becoming comfortable with yourself, can be healthy.

Find your brave — solo travel is a great way to overcome one’s anxiety around new situations and places. You get to (carefully) plan things. You get to predict the outcome. You get to experience the things that you might have been anxious about. And best of all, you get to make mistakes or take small risks and see that it’s not the end of the world. Yes, there is a lot of scary danger out in the big, wide world. But it’s never as bad as your brain inflates it to be. You got this. 

Add to your support circle — I’ve met some cool folks on this trip, and I hope I have an opportunity to see them again in the future. A friend is something you can never have too many of. 

Get away from toxic news and social media — Go someplace where the wifi and cell signal is weak or non-existent. Or, use your trip as an excuse to turn media off, or down. I took a news media break for over five years once and I have to say it was the best thing I’ve ever done for my mental health. The news is designed to make you anxious. How do I know this? Because the biggest sponsors of the news are the pharmaceutical companies selling the pills that are designed to attenuate the things that are making you anxious. 

Stop worshipping stuff — Something happens when you pack a carry-on bag and set out on an extended trip. The cool things that you thought you could never live without become useless and the small, vital items that you can actually carry become your favorite things. The most valuable thing I own right now is a small rechargeable flashlight that illuminates my tent at night. It’s two inches long and cost less than $15. My $1,000 guitar is useless in this context. And I’m glad I left it at home. Travel brings out a love for the essential. 

Eliminate self sabotage, procrastination, inertia — The act of traveling is also the act of making things happen. If you spend all morning doom scrolling, you miss your flight. If you get yourself tied up in knots not knowing what to do, you never get anywhere. If you snooze, you lose. Travel allows people who have had a tough time with habits and follow-through to build small wins. And the reward is a new beach or sunset or favorite food.

Build healthy habits — I have found that most of the food in the world outside the US is not processed junk, but healthy, clean whole food. Sure there is some junk. Plus, a traveler can get sucked into the drinking culture in places like Vietnam or Thailand (not me). But most of the time you can live much healthier away from the comforts of home. And as long as you follow a few simple rules about how to choose street food wisely, you can avoid food poisoning and eat like a queen or king.

Get strong — For the past month or so, I have found myself feeling stronger and better equipped to meet the physical demands around me. Part of it is healthy eating and part of it is carrying a heavy backpack and climbing in and out of tents and bamboo huts instead of luxuriously soft beds. And part of it is I haven’t touched a TV remote in three months. 

Okay, so what are the most common goals of therapy again?

I needed to get to my next destination from Coron Town in the Philippines to the main island in Palawan, the Philippines and a town called El Nido. Instead of flying, I took a three-day excursion to a bunch of little islands, beaches, snorkel spots and fishing villages.

The plane would have gotten me to El Nido in 40 minutes and when you add up the airfare, extra baggage fees, cost for food, costs for accommodations and the transfers to and from the airport, the three days on the boat was maybe $50 US more.

The great thing about the boat trip was that I met a lot of really nice people and saw some things some folks never get a chance to see. These photos are in rough chronological order. Let’s go.

Back in June, I made some predictions and sadly one of them has come true:

“Prediction: I’ve reached a point in my life where the people I love are starting to die at a greater rate. This is just a part of what it means to be in one’s sixties. I hope it does not happen, obviously, but it is conceivable that while I’m traveling, I will get a call and will need to return to the US for a funeral.”

https://circlethe.world/2025/06/17/change-and-predictions/

I got the news yesterday evening when I called home. I am pretty much devastated. My friend, Greg Hinson died suddenly in his home of natural causes.

He was one of the most extraordinary people I’ve ever met.

Aside from hospital administration, I was likely the first person Greg Hinson met in person on Nantucket. But he met a bunch of folks before then. Greg (ACKDoc) was a member of the online discussion group I started called YACK. (It later became YACKon.com). He actually became a regular poster on YACK well before he got to the island. One day in 2001, I got an email from Greg saying he wanted to get together and discuss the community. He was being courted by the hospital to join as a family physician and OBGYN. We met at the Brotherhood and (this was before I stopped drinking) several Whales Tail Pale Ales (mostly by me) were consumed during and after the meal. I gave him the straight scoop about raising kids here, how newcomers are viewed, and the cost of housing. I did not sugar coat things. He took the job anyway.

(An aside: Greg claimed he knew the identity of the most infamous anonymous YACK member, ACKPeep, but he may have taken that secret to his grave.)

That was 25 years ago and we spent a good amount of time together since then.

I watched several Super Bowls at his house — including the one with the Janet Jackson Halftime show. Greg had one of those fancy video recorders so we could rewind and confirm that we saw what we thought we saw during that broadcast.

I helped him lay down the fancy hardwood floor in his master bedroom.

I got my first hernia in the process of helping him move a play structure in his back yard. That thing was heavy.

He was instrumental in diagnosing my second hernia (a rare Spigelian hernia).

We spent some quality time on his boat. Especially the day we got stuck on a sandbar due west of Eel Point and I had to get out and push.

I made the trip when he needed someone to go off island with him and pick up a car he bought on eBay — a vintage Jeep Cherokee in green.

His dog, Kaboo, was not a fan of my dog, Seven. But she loved me. His next dog, Smudge, was a fan of Seven’s and me as well.

We had barbecue together. We shared recipes. He turned me on to using pomegranate syrup to marinate steak. We discussed cast iron pans at length. We talked about his grandfather tricking his grandmother into making fried chicken by getting Greg to ask her.

There were beach parties and get-togethers and concerts at the Chicken Box — more than I can recall.

After he left the island, my ad agency picked up a product naming project for a surgical device company, I hired Greg as a creative consultant and we got together in his Portsmouth apartment to write about 500 name ideas. That was a blast.

This past summer, his wife Jenny and he invited us to be guests in their new home in New Hampshire. That was a wonderful, memorable day in Stratham and a perfect dinner in Portsmouth.

Most recently, we were trading WhatsApp messages a little over a week ago as Jenny and Greg were looking into flights from New England to Vietnam or Sri Lanka or wherever they could meet up with me. I was really looking forward to that.

I will be home for the service in the Spring. And then (hopefully) back to my adventure.

He was brilliant. He was funny. He was my kids’ doctor. He was my doctor. He was my friend. He is gone from this earth far too soon. He was so freaking full of life. He is loved.

J. Greg Hinson 1965-2026.

Like a lot of people in New England, and unlike everyone I’ve talked to in the Philippines, I am a fan of the New England Patriots.

And also like a lot of people in New England, I didn’t really think that the Patriots would make it back to the Super Bowl this year. They only won four games last season. How good could they be? Back in May, I canceled our cable. Which saved me about $160 a month. Worth it, I think?

Even when the Patriots were in the playoffs, I wasn’t counting on them getting to the big game. I figured they would get one week deep in the playoffs and we could all talk about what a miraculous season it was after last year’s showing, and then I could go on my trip and not have to worry about where I was going to watch the Super Bowl.

With this mindset firmly planted in my being, several weeks ago I booked a boat excursion, from a tiny island in the Philippines to a slightly larger tiny island in the Philippines, on Super Bowl Sunday. I was going to be snorkeling and gazing at clown fish and sea turtles around the time when Bad Bunny was doing his thing. Some of the Patriots players might even be on my boat, I reasoned.

But the universe has a funny way of messing with us sometimes. I got the message loud and clear that I must watch the Super Bowl first when the Patriots won the AFC Championship game (which I missed but watched on YouTube the next day) and then, three days ago, my boat trip got canceled because of a typhoon (a baby typhoon, not to worry…). Now I had to watch.

And that meant I had to find a breakfast place on Coron, Palawan, The Philippines that was showing the Super Bowl at 7:30 AM on Monday (This time zone is 13 hours ahead of Eastern Time).

How hard could it be?

I soon learned that the NFL has four strikes against it (I know, that’s baseball. go with it…) when it comes to the Philippines. Strike One, it’s on Sunday during the day and at night, which means it gets aired Monday morning, a little bit after 2 AM and the Sunday night game pops up on Filipino TV around ten in the morning on Monday when everyone’s at work. Second strike: many NFL games are played in the cold weather, often in the snow. To people in the Philippines that’s kind of like playing croquet on the surface of the moon. It just doesn’t make any sense. Strike three: the Wi-Fi and TV reception here is less than stellar. As a result, there is not a lot of TV watching. I’ve walked around Coron town a little bit and I think I can count the number of large screen TVs I’ve seen on one hand. It’s just not a big thing here. The fourth strike? No one here knows what the Super Bowl is. Everyone I asked about seeing the Super Bowl during breakfast had no clue what it was or even that it existed, except one woman who excitedly told me that, “The Açai Bowl at the coffee shop down the street is great for breakfast! It’s very large!”

But I was not daunted. I sent emails and WhatsApp messages to all of the major resorts on the island asking if they would be showing the Super Bowl with breakfast in the morning. The answer, from those who actually returned my email, was a very polite, “We are very sorry, sir.”

So I decided I needed to break down and pay for the NFL Sunday ticket for the Super Bowl. Even though it goes against every fiber of my being because I’m trying to save every penny for the trip and not spend on things that don’t matter, like a sporting event.

As it turns out, I shouldn’t have worried. The cost for the Super Bowl on the NFL Sunday ticket was a massive 55 Philippine pesos. That’s $0.94 to you and me. So I’m setting my alarm for 6 AM. Hopefully the Wi-Fi will hold out in my accommodation.

Go, Patriots!

My new friend Tata (his actual name) picked me up this morning and took me to a secluded beach outside of Coron Town, Palawan, the Philippines. This trip opened my eyes to a problem.

Tata drives a motorized tricycle — a vehicle that represents an unholy marriage of a motorbike, a third tire, and a covered steel cage that offers very little protection for the driver or passenger(s), aside from the welcome shield against the powerful SE Asian sun. This particular trip cost me $13.57 plus the $0.85 admission fee to what is possibly this island’s nicest beach.

It’s true, there are nicer beaches nearby that are accessible by private outrigger. And that might cost me $30-$35, to arrange a charter. Also, I took a full-day tour a few days ago with a crew of four and 22 other tourists, and we visited some quite picturesque places with some of the clearest water I have ever seen.

But today, I just wanted to go for a swim and catch a little sun. Not too much, mind you, because I have a sneaking suspicion that the local sunscreen I purchased on Monday might not have the SPF-30 protection or waterproof staying power it claims to have on the tube.

The route to this beach starts out rough and gets rougher. Tata caught a few bone-rattling potholes on the way up a good-sized hill. I sat in the back of the tricycle, on a seat designed for dainty Filipino asses, not massive red, white, and blue ones — a literal description of my ass once the ride was over. The seat selection was Tata’s strong suggestion, not because it was safer than the front seat (which is to say, not really much of a safety upgrade), but because it positions the 250-pound tourist over the rear tire of the motorcycle, which greatly improves traction. This was shown to be a wise decision after we left the roughly paved road and took on the partially washed-out dirt road to the beach.

I took some video footage, shown here, while we were on the paved road. My phone went back in the sling bag, and I hung on with both hands when we hit the dirt. We were only on the dirt road for 10-12 minutes, but it felt like double that. And the trike, with its loud 4cc powertrain, sounded like a squealing prized hog holding a megaphone.

Once we arrived and paid the 85-cent fee, Tata parked his rig and his slight frame under a shade tree, and I ventured onto the beach.

The wind was onshore but light. I was the third person to lay out my blanket, and then I went right into the water because even at 10 AM, the sun was relentless, and the air temperature was scalding. That’s when I realized the info about the Philippines I had read a month or so ago was true.

The Philippines has a plastic problem. The trash was flowing in.

It might surprise people to learn that this archipelago nation reportedly produces 2.7 million tons of plastic waste annually, one-fifth of which ends up in the ocean. The Philippines literally creates a third of the global ocean-based trash — more than any other country in the world.

The US, on the other hand, produces far more plastic waste than the Philippines — 42 million tons — fifteen and a half times the amount created by the Philippines. But its contribution to ocean trash is small.

What is the reason so much plastic enters the ocean from the Philippines and other places like India and Malaysia, and not the developed world? Partly, it’s because these countries can’t afford to implement modern waste processing and instead, allow rivers to become the vehicle that carries their trash away. It’s also due to a reliance on saché-size product packaging for things like shampoo, laundry detergent, and coffee (I learned this the hard way when trying to find a two-pound bag of ground coffee in a half dozen local supermarkets. I found only hundreds of packets of single-serving instant coffee in nearly every store.)

The problem is real.

So what did I do when I encountered a very nice beach where trash was floating in on the incoming wind and tide? I picked up as much as I could, being the good Nantucket Clean Team founding member that I am. But the Philippines needs a lot more than my efforts and those of a thoughtful female tourist I saw also picking up trash. (Thank you, Miss.)

This is a global problem that impacts marine life in every corner of our oceans. It requires a global solution. Imagine if the First World could step in and provide modern waste management to the Third World? That would do it. We could save the ocean — a global resource that feeds the 8 billion people who live on earth. Unlike a lot of problems in this world, this one is fixable. We just need to start thinking globally and open our pocketbooks.

Then we can turn our attention to fixing the problem of Tata’s too-stiff trike suspension.

I made a trip to the largest overseas US cemetery when I was in Manila. It was an emotional afternoon.

Arguably, the most famous Consolidated B-24D Liberator bomber in WWII is one called The Goon. For three reasons. One, its nose art was featured in a 1944 issue of National Geographic Magazine. Two, among the crew was the top turret gunner in the war with 17 confirmed downed zeros, seven during one mission on Halloween of 1943. His name was Artie Benko from Brisbee Arizona. And three, for many years, if any kid in America wanted to build a scale model of a B-24D Liberator, they could purchase The Goon at their local hobby shop.

The nose art for The Goon was painted by my uncle Malcolm Stuart Sanders and is based on a character from the Popeye comic strip. He was the bombardier/Navigator of the 11-man crew.

The Goon flew her last bombing mission on November 15, 1943. The reports available online are conflicting. On the way to (or returning from) a mission to bomb Kowloon Docks across the harbor from Hong Kong, “The Goon” developed engine problems. To avoid crashing, the crew jettisoned everything they could to lighten the load. Then the pilot ordered a bailout. Seven (or eight) crew members bailed out, while three (or one) stayed with the plane and successfully landed it at Kweilin airfield. Benko and my uncle were among those who bailed out and were subsequently declared Missing in Action (MIA) and twelve days later, deceased. The other members of the crew made it back to an American base safely. One online report said that Benko and my uncle were captured by the Japanese and tortured to death and that missionaries supplied the military with photos of their crucifixion. (Those photos are not in any online official record and while I have the paperwork to petition the military for a release of service records, I’m not sure I want or need to do that. The plain facts of their deaths in November of 1943 are enough.)

Interesting side note: maybe 20 years ago, I was inquiring online about The Goon and if any of the crew was still alive. The pilot’s name was Sam Skousen and he had recently passed. But one of the pilot’s granddaughters got in touch with me. She told me her family had 30 minutes of color 8MM film footage of the plane and the crew. After some back and forth, I was able to take possession of the film and have it professionally converted to video tape and then I returned the original to the Skousen Family. One Father’s Day, in the early 90s, I was able to play the tape for my father, who was entering the early stages of Alzheimer’s. He was able to view moving pictures of his oldest brother for the first time in 50 years, before he succumbed to the disease. That was a special moment for both of us.

There are actually two memorial grave markers for my uncle Malcolm. One is on a snowy hillside in Marshall, Wisconsin, attached to the obverse of the marker for my paternal grandparents. The other is in Manila, the Philippines. My uncle’s remains were never officially recovered and he remains MIA to this day.

I knew all of this before I made my visit to the Manila American Memorial Cemetery last week.

On Wednesday, I left my accommodations in Makati City and took a Grab taxi to the cemetery. I had seen pictures online but I was not prepared for the immense scale of the site. I later learned that this was the largest of all of the overseas American Battle Monuments Commission cemeteries with 17,058 interred, and 36,286 listed on the Walls of the Missing. That’s almost double the number of interred and 24 times the number of missing of the Normandy cemetery that is the most-visited among ABMC sites. That makes sense. The Pacific Theater was massive and involved the actions of four branches of the military over four years. The number of men in the Navy missing or buried at sea alone required half of the space on the Walls of the Missing in Manila. The Normandy site commemorates the dead from one military operation, albeit the most decisive one.

The Manila American Memorial Cemetery is beautiful, peaceful, and perfectly manicured. I was one of maybe a dozen visitors I observed that day. Why so few? The war ended 80 years ago. The number of people who have a personal memory of, or connection to, the dead is dwindling. My uncle died 18 years before I was even born and if my father, his youngest brother, were alive today he would be over 100 years old. That fact, plus the location of the site 10-13 time zones away from the US, means that there are no long lines to enter and honor the dead here.

I’m not certain, but I may be the only member of my family to make this pilgrimage since the site was dedicated in 1950.

I walked the grounds and then made my way to the visitor’s center. A very kind and professional woman looked up my uncle and printed out some documents relating to him and provided me with a memorial certificate of his service. She also offered me paperwork to dig into his service records further, which I may or may not do. Then she pointed me in the general direction of the location of his name on the Walls of the Missing. I started at the A’s and made my way to the S’s.

I found my uncle roughly at eye level after ten minutes. Then I retraced my steps and found Artie Benko, the top turret gunner in WWII. As I mentioned, both men’s remains were never identified and recovered, but there is a chance that they are actually buried here in Manila. The cemetery features dozens of crosses marking the final resting place of unknown “comrades in arms.” Part of me hopes my uncle eventually received a fitting and respectful burial there. It is a peaceful place to rest.

I left as quietly as I entered. Hallowed ground.

I could not visit Japan without staying in a capsule hotel. In fact, I stayed in two of them. They were significantly different. But the overall concept was the same. Low cost. Very small sleeping space. Communal living.

I think capsule hotels work well in Japan because people are so reserved. Even on the train when everyone is stuffed in together, Japanese people are adept at maintaining a personal bubble and respecting the bubbles of others. (Well, most of them are. The guy who fell asleep on my shoulder a few days ago was not.) I was in Japan for the better part of a month, and I can’t recall a time when a stranger and I struck up a conversation, or even made eye contact. This means that even with 100 people occupying the same capsule hotel, one can feel a sense of solitude.

The first capsule hotel I stayed in was called Nine Hours or “9h.” I booked one night there before my recent dog-sitting gig. The 9h experience is very high-styled with uniform graphics and signage (that a designer like me would appreciate), a cafe on floor one, lockers and showers on the second (male) and third (female) floors, capsules on floors five through nine, and a lounge area on the tenth floor with a nice view of the city.

The experience is simple. You receive a card good for a free breakfast the next morning and a key card with a QR code. The QR code unlocks the elevator (the left elevator is for men, the right one for women), your locker, and the door to your capsule room. They give you a bag with towels and loungewear. (My loungewear was child-sized, and they did not have anything even close to my size, so I just wore my NASA t-shirt and sleeping shorts.) The guest drops their bags and stuff in the (rather huge) locker and can retire to the lounge or their capsule.

The capsule itself is rather space-aged with shiny plastic sides and a rounded opening. A shade pulls down for privacy. There is light, ventilation, and bedding (the buckwheat hull pillows that are popular in Japan are curved at 9h to match the curved aesthetic of the capsule).

The sleeping situation is comfortable and slightly noisy. People coming and going right outside one’s space is hard to ignore, but I got used to it, and I got a very good night’s sleep. The showers in the morning were private and large. The coffee was tasty but lukewarm.

Two nights later, I returned to Tokyo and tried out another capsule experience at a place called Anshin oyodo. This place is very different from 9h. First of all, it features free — unlimited — food and drinks. I got my money’s worth on the free coffee alone (it wasn’t great coffee, but it wasn’t bad).

Anshin oyodo works similarly to the other capsule hotel I tried, but with a little less thought about the details. You check in and leave your shoes in a locker in the lobby. Anshin oyodo had brown, simple loungewear in my size, so I took them. They give you a wristband with a number that corresponds to your shoe locker, clothing locker (which was far too small for my backpack, so that had to go behind the front desk), and sleep pod, with a bar code that unlocks the pod bay door.

[Unlock the pod bay door, Hal]

The onsen and showers are on the basement level. The sleeping pods are on floors four through eight. The food, drinks, and lounge were on the second floor. By separating the too-small lockers and the showers, that meant that when I needed to go somewhere, I had to go to the front desk, get clothes out of my bag, go to my locker and grab my toiletries, go to the basement to shower/bathe, go back up to my locker to dress and then leave the property. A pain.

This hotel was men-only, and as a result, it had a different vibe than my other capsule hotel experience. First of all, it was a little more depressing. Maybe it was the brown pajamas, but my fellow guests seemed a bit subdued. Since the hotel takes care of everything, from food to showers to beds, there’s very little need for some men to leave the hotel at all. I hung out in the second-floor lounge, caught up on some paperwork and a couple of writing projects for several hours, and noticed that there were a few gentlemen in their brown lounge wear, glued to their plugged-in phones, who never left. A little sad.

The onsen on the basement floor was a nice touch, however, and I did enjoy the bath for a brief time without passing out (which almost happened on my second Japan onsen visit in Kyoto) from the heat. The free drinks on the second floor revived me. The food was so-so (mid ramen and dashi rice bowls), but it filled me up. Not bad for free sustenance.

So that’s my capsule experience. For $22-24 a night, it’s definitely worth it for a layover or quick stop in a city. I would not want to spend too many days there, but that’s really not what it’s for. Your pod waits.

Leaving the airplane after a 5-hour flight from Tokyo to Manila, I was much less prepared for Manila than I have been for other destinations. In my mind I was just assuming I would chill here for four days and prep was not critical. I had not learned the five or six key phrases in the local language one needs to know because I had heard that English is widely spoken (it is).

Those phrases in Tagalog include Salamat po (Thank you), Magkano po? (How much?), and Para po (Stop, for public transport). Po is added for politeness. Kumusta is the daily greeting, and Pasensya na is excuse me or I’m sorry.

I had not even googled and downloaded the local ride-share app (Which is Grab, which I will use in lots of places in SE Asia, but I have not needed it yet). Which meant I needed to struggle with setting it up near the baggage claim at the airport.

I had not even counted the days on the calendar that I would be in the Philippines and was informed by the Immigration officer that I had to leave on the 26th not the 28th. But despite that snag, I got waved through customs like I was an unthreatening ghost (which is how I feel sometimes in these situations).

And I have to admit that I really did not choose my accommodations very carefully. I found a place on the (somewhat sketchy) outskirts of Makati City for three nights. In ten years, this neighborhood will be fully gentrified and walkable but right now, I would hesitate to go for a walk after the sun goes down. No matter; the skyline from the roof deck here is lovely.

I picked this place because it got good reviews, it had a pool and also offered a kitchenette so I could save on my one meal a day.

I also had not figured out where and how I could acquire a guitar for the next month. I’ve seen a few decent philippine-made guitars for $5800 PHP which is around $99 USD, but I was hoping to find something used and worn (and not too flashy). Today I will check out a couple of guitar stores including one called “Guitar Pusher.” Facebook marketplace, so far, has not provided any love, but I hold out hope.

On my first full day here, I took a Grab to the Manila American Memorial Cemetery. My uncle Malcolm is memorialized there in the Hall of the Missing. It’s quite the heart-wrenching story, as many WWII losses are, and I will write about it here, or in the pages of the I&M soon. But until then , here’s a picture of a wall in the Hall of the Missing featuring the name of the top turret gunner in the war, Sgt. Artie Benko, who died alongside my uncle, purportedly at the hands of the Japanese.

My Grab driver warned me not to walk back to my accommodations from the cemetery but the only thing that happened to me were a few blisters from not wearing socks for the first time in a month. That’ll teach me.

I picked up a French Press ($5.05) and some coffee ($6.10) on my walk. The options for caffeine in and near my studio are few, and as we all know by now, it’s all about the caffeine. I hope I can find a way to pack this thing when I leave tomorrow morning because it really comes in handy to have a way to make good coffee. It should survive if I stuff it full of clean t-shirts and wrap it in a towel.

Tomorrow, after I check out at noon, I head to Pier 4 in Manila harbor to board a boat to a (distant?) island. It’s an overnight voyage. All of my battery packs are charged. Let’s go.