The Tourist Gaze

The morning air in Baguio carries a kind of stillness I haven’t felt in weeks. The scent of pine wafts through the faint fog that drifts between the mountains. The heat of March is settling in, but the air still carries hints of the chill. There’s a kind of peace that should be comforting, but my thoughts are too restless to fully embrace it.

I’m here to accompany my parents to my cousin’s seminary graduation. It’s a milestone event for him and a moment of pride for the family. But as I step into this city’s cool embrace, I feel the weight of the life I’ve left waiting for me at home. I am facing an uncertain future that seems heavier with each passing day.

A few months ago, the company I’m doing freelance work for announced that our department would be shutting down. The news came like an avalanche, sweeping away every sense of stability I thought I had. Since then, I’ve sent out résumés, rewritten cover letters, and done Zoom interviews that ended in polite rejection emails. “Thank you for your interest, but…” The phrase is burned into my mind. I’ve tried not to let it, but doubt has started to creep in.

This trip wasn’t planned. I agreed to come along because maybe a change of scenery will clear my head, I’d told myself. Maybe the mountains will give me answers.

The morning stretches ahead of me, and I decide to take a walk before the day’s events. Mirador Heritage and Eco Park isn’t far from where we’re staying, so I head uphill. The crisp air fills my lungs as I climb.

At the top of the hill, a bright red torii-like gate rises against the sky. It reminds me of the photographs I’ve seen of Japan, of sacred sites and winding paths. I’ve never been, but standing here, I feel like this gate could lead me somewhere I’ve been searching for.

I follow the path downhill, passing a small bamboo grove. The sunlight filters through the slender stalks, casting shadows that shift with the breeze. It’s not Arashiyama, but it’s enough to make me dream. Perhaps some dreams are still worth chasing even when they feel far away.

By late morning, I find myself at Burnham Park. The park is alive with joggers, families, and cyclists weaving their way around the paths. I settle into a small café nearby, nursing a cup of coffee as I watch the world move around me.

There’s a strange comfort in sitting here, unnoticed and unhurried. For the first time in weeks, I let myself simply observe. A boy and his father steer a rented bike too big for them. A couple argues playfully over where to sit. It’s the kind of life that feels far removed from the chaos of my own, but it reminds me that the world keeps spinning, no matter how stuck I feel.

Later, I head to Sky Ranch, perched near SM Baguio. The Ferris wheel catches my eye as its colorful cabins slowly make their ascent. I buy a ticket and step into one, the door shutting with a soft click.

As the wheel turns, I see Baguio stretch out below me—rolling hills, clusters of houses, the haze of fog softening the edges of the city. The ride is steady, predictable, unlike the tumultuous cycle I’ve been stuck in. Up, down, around again. There’s something comforting in its simplicity, in knowing that even after the highest point, the descent is just part of the journey.

The next morning, I’m at the seminary, joining my parents at the graduation ceremony. The convention hall is filled with laughter and proud smiles as families celebrate their loved ones’ achievements.

I watch my cousin from across the hall, his joy evident as he shakes hands and poses for photos. I wonder what it must feel like to stand at a moment like that, knowing exactly what comes next. I feel a pang of envy but also admiration. It’s a reminder that milestones, whether big or small, are worth celebrating, even if they’re not my own.

Sometime during the ceremony, I step outside for some air. The pines stand tall and silent around me, their presence grounding in a way I didn’t expect. My dad’s words from earlier in the evening echo in my mind. He had shared a story about his time in seminary, how he’d faced his own moments of uncertainty and how, eventually, things fell into place.

“You just have to keep moving forward,” he’d said simply.

Sometimes, a pause is enough to remind you that the story isn’t over yet.