i woke up in bacolod and the air was sticky like a stranger's handshake

i just checked and it's 24.72°c there right now, feels like 25.68°c, humidity at 93%, basically walking through a cloud of someone's morning breath. but you know what? i kinda liked it. it's that kind of heat that makes you slow down and notice the cracked paint on the old buildings, the way tricycle drivers shout your destination like it's a battle cry. i'm not even sure what day it is anymore, and honestly, that's the best part.

"don't go to that new ramen place," a guy at the corner store told me. "it's overpriced and the broth tastes like instant noodles." so of course i went the next day, and yeah, he was right. but the garlic rice at that carinderia two blocks down? chef's kiss.

Bacolod isn't trying to be anything it's not. it's not cebu with its shiny malls, not iloilo with its spanish nostalgia. it's just... bacolod. and if you get bored, *silay and talisay are just a short drive away, both full of old houses that look like they're holding their breath.

i stayed in a place near the plaza, paid like 800 pesos a night, and the ceiling fan sounded like it was about to take flight. but the sheets were clean, and the lady at the front desk gave me a map she'd drawn herself, with little stars for her favorite barbecue spots. speaking of which, if you haven't had inasal here, you're doing it wrong. go to manokan country, ignore the tourists, and sit where the locals are. the chicken will ruin all other chicken for you.

low-angle photography of brown concrete 2-storey building between trees

i tried to take a photo of the san sebastian cathedral at golden hour, but a group of highschoolers kept photobombing me on purpose, laughing like hyenas. i didn't even get mad. that's the kind of place this is-people aren't performing for you, they're just living, and you're allowed to watch.

someone told me that the negros museum is "boring unless you're into sugar history," but i went anyway and ended up staying two hours. the guide was this old dude who spoke like he was narrating a soap opera, and suddenly i cared about the hacendero lifestyle like it was my own family drama.

a group of people standing next to each other

if you're into coffee, kuppa is fine, but pedro's* has better vibes and a barista who draws latte art that looks like abstract heartbreak. also, their ube cheesecake is illegal in three countries, probably.

i heard that the nightlife here is "dead," but i ended up in a karaoke bar at 11pm, singing air supply with a bunch of strangers who bought me beers because i didn't know the words. that's not dead, that's just private.

selective focus photography of teacup beside tissue and drinking glass on top of table

anyway, bacolod doesn't need your hype. it's not trying to trend on instagram. it just exists, humid and stubborn, and if you stay long enough, it'll let you in on the joke. or at least buy you a stick of pork barbecue and ask why you're not married yet.

check out more about bacolod's history here or find local spots on tripadvisor.

i woke up in bacolod and the air was sticky like a stranger's handshake

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About the author: Chloe Weaver

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