I would like to see the old Manila.
I joined a group on Facebook that had all sorts of photos of my city, when it was covered in grandeur and adorned with beautiful people.
The ports, the modest Spanish-inspired buildings, the women with their abanicos.
Circa 50's, 60's.
I obviously didn't get to see the city in all its glory.
I was born in 1982, when the martial law was about to end in a few years.
I was born under the Marcos regime, when just before his great fall.
I remember seeing people wearing yellow Ninoy shirts when I was three, chanting endlessly in the hope of achieving change.
Now as I look back, I can only sigh.
There were lots of chances for change.
Lots of opportunities given to lots of people to make things right.
The freedom that we aspired and attained through peaceful means is now blurred by a lot of other things that came with it - corruption, nepotism, the spread of prostitution and drugs, and the mounting garbage that we do not know where to dump.
Manila, my Manila.
When I come home in December, I will still look for a calesa to hop on and a big serving of palitaw.
I will still stroll on the streets and say hi to the shirtless children on the pavements.
But will pinch my nose before the stink reminds me of how bad the once magnificent place has become.