There are trips you plan. And then, there are returns that quietly reshape you.
My recent journey back to Baguio City began as a professional obligation: a national conference gathering business professors and researchers from across the country. Insights were gained from the lectures, ideas were exchanged and networks were strengthened. It was, on paper, an intellectual pilgrimage. But somewhere between the pine-scented air and the slow unraveling of familiar streets, the trip became something more personal — almost reflective, even restorative.
Baguio has always had a way of resisting haste. The moment I arrived at around 3 o’clock in the morning, the city’s cool embrace felt like a gentle insistence to pause. The hum of academic discourse during the conference was energizing. There is something deeply affirming about being in a room full of minds equally invested in inquiry and impact. Conversations spilled beyond session halls into coffee tables, where theories softened into stories and professional ties became human connections.
Yet it was in the in-between moments — the side trips, the unplanned detours — where the city revealed its quieter gifts.
One such moment unfolded in Tam-awan Village, where time seemed to bend gently toward heritage. I arrived just as young Igorot residents began performing traditional dances, their movements both deliberate and fluid, accompanied by the rhythmic pulse of indigenous instruments. There was no spectacle in the commercial sense, only authenticity that felt grounded, almost sacred. It was not merely a performance, but a living expression of identity.
I stepped into one of the traditional Ifugao houses, immediately struck by its intimacy. The ceiling was low, compelling a kind of quiet humility from anyone who entered. Shoes and slippers had to be left outside. So I stepped inside the hut barefoot. Wooden floors creaked softly beneath each step, and a small window, set unusually at floor level, filtered in light that felt both sparse and intentional. The space doubled as a gallery, its walls holding a collection of paintings in varying sizes that seemed to echo the community’s stories.
Among them, one image held me still: a portrait of Apo Whang-od. Whang-od is the legendary Filipina tattoo artist from Kalinga, in the Cordillera region of North Luzon. She is widely known as the last and oldest practitioner of traditional Kalinga tattooing, locally called batok or batek.
There was something arresting about her presence on canvas. The quiet strength, the enduring legacy etched not just in skin, but in culture itself. In that moment, the convergence of space, art, and memory became clear. The hut was not just a structure; it was a vessel—of stories, of lineage, of resilience.
The village located in Pinsao Proper, was established in 1998 by the Chanum Foundation, Inc. to promote Cordilleran art and culture. According to my research, it was founded by artists including Ben Cabrera (BenCab) and Jordan Mang-osan, to serve as a venue for art workshops, exhibits, and performances, managed by artists who focus on preserving indigenous traditions. Tam-awan is a local term which means “vantage point” because it offers a stunning view of the West Philippine Sea on clear days.
From the quiet cultural immersion of Tam-awan Village, my journey took a more vibrant and sun-drenched turn toward the strawberry fields of La Trinidad.
It was high noon, the sun apologetically blazing, yet nothing could diminish the excitement of harvesting Sweet Charlie strawberries straight from the soil. Armed with a pair of scissors and a small basket in tow, I stepped into the fields (white dress and all) unbothered by the heat of the possibility of getting a little stained. There was something liberating about it, an unfiltered kind of joy that did not ask for perfect conditions. I picked and tasted as I went along, fresh strawberries moving directly from the earth to my mouth, their sweetness carrying a subtle tang that no store-bought version could ever replicate. It was as authentic as it gets, a sensory experience that grounded me in the very source of what Baguio City is known for.
And then there was the so-called “dirty” ice cream—made by local farmers using freshly harvested strawberries. Unpretentious in appearance, but unforgettable in taste. It was not overly sweet; instead it carried the pure, unmasked flavor of real fruit, the kind that lingers and keeps you coming back for more. I found myself savoring each bite, knowing it was something I would talk about long after the trip—and I still do.
Before leaving, we happily gathered more than just memories—freshly picked strawberries, jars of preserves, and homemade jams found their way into our bags. Each one felt like a small piece of the experience we could take home, a way of holding on just a little longer to that sunlit afternoon in the fields.
Between the quiet reverence of Tam-awan Village and the sun-drenched fields of La Trinidad, I found two very different, yet equally grounding, ways of experiencing the city and its neighboring landscapes.
One invited stillness, an immersion into culture, memory, and identity. The other called for movement, hands in the soil, laughter under the midday sun, and the simple pleasure of tasting something real, something immediate. In both spaces, I was reminded that discovery does not always come in grand gestures. Sometimes, it reveals itself in quiet performances, in humble spaces, in strawberries freshly picked and eaten without ceremony.
These moments—unplanned, unfiltered, and deeply felt—became the true highlights of my return. They were not part of the conference program, nor were they carefully scheduled. And perhaps that is precisely why they mattered most.
I have a lot more to share, however, that will have to wait for my next column because these finds and experiences are too beautiful to cram in one short piece.*
