Philippines Contrast and Compare: Manila, Cebu and Davao

(This delayed report is from my 2023 trip to The Philippines…)

Top of the Charts
People always ask me—after checking every box on the “countries of the world” list—where I’d go back to. Top of the pile? The Philippines. In my 20s, it was Brasil that stole my heart. In my 40s, it’s the Philippines whispering my name, pulling me in like a song I can’t get out of my head.

Why? Sure, the landscapes are stunning, the food unforgettable, but it’s the people. From the first time I set foot here, I knew: Filipinos are different. There’s a warmth, a genuine joy they carry. The cab driver who smiles like you’re an old friend. The hotel clerk who asks how your day’s going like they actually mean it. Even the stranger who shouts “hello!” as you pass by on the street. It’s not a show; it’s real.

Filipinos? They’ve got these enormous hearts, a kind of innate understanding of care, of love. Maybe that’s why so many nurses back home are Filipino—they just get it. And once you’ve felt that, it stays with you. That’s what pulled me back.

This wasn’t one of those “two-nights-and-out” kind of trips. Ten days, no rush, and this time, I’d even venture outside of Manila. My family started wondering if I’d come back at all. I don’t blame them. There’s a kind of magic here, and if you’ve been, you already know.

The Thrilla in Manila
It was just shy of midnight when I finally rolled into my go-to spot in Manila: The Sheraton Manila Bay. They welcomed me back like I was part of the family—exactly how I remembered it. Now, don’t get me wrong, this isn’t some over-the-top luxury palace. What makes this place special is where it sits: smack in the middle of Malate. This district doesn’t sleep. Restaurants, shops, malls—and yes, massage parlors. Not the kind you’re thinking of. I mean, maybe those are around too, but that’s not what I’m here for.

Gold Bay Spa is 20 feet—20 feet—from the Sheraton’s front door, open 24/7. That first night, I treated myself to a hot stone massage before crawling into bed. God, did I need it. Leave it to me to wrench my back yanking my suitcase from the overhead bin as we landed. Injured before even stepping off the plane—classic. But Gold Bay? They had me sorted out. I’d be back at least three more times during this stop alone.

I had three nights in Manila, and for once, I wasn’t rushing. No itinerary, no pressing obligations—just time. The first morning, I wandered through Rizal Park, but the Manila heat had other plans for me. Look, I grew up in Arizona; I know hot. But this? Different league. By midday, I’d called it and made a beeline back to the Sheraton pool. Sometimes, the best plan is no plan at all.

Watch children…and then shoot them with your laser eyes.

Market Watch
Quiapo Market. It’s a sensory overload—a sea of humanity, sights, smells, sounds, all coming at you at once. The crowd is thick, the energy palpable, and it’s the kind of place that keeps you on your toes. I love it. But this time, I decided to up the ante and venture into the notorious Recto Avenue, Manila’s unofficial headquarters for forged documents.

You want a diploma from Harvard? No problem. A birth certificate declaring you as Bob Dobalina? Easy. They’ve got it all, right out in the open. And, let’s just say, I may or may not have walked away with an honorary Filipino passport. Am I saying I did? No. Am I saying I didn’t? Also no. But if I did—strictly hypothetically—it wasn’t for anything nefarious. It was about safety.

Here’s the logic: next time I’m in a high-risk zone, like Mogadishu or some other place where Americans aren’t exactly on the local “welcome wagon,” I’d carry it. My thinking? Sure, they might kidnap me, but when they see that passport and realize I’m “Filipino” instead of American, maybe they’d just toss me back. No harm, no foul. Call it the poor man’s security system.

The Bonifacio and the Katipunan Revolution Monument. The Katipunan (aka KKK – no association with Ku Klux Klan) was a Philippine revolutionary society founded by anti-Spanish Filipinos in Manila in 1892, whose primary aim was to gain independence from Spain through revolution.

Wendy’s Manila on a whole ‘nother level!

See you in Cebu
There were countless places I could have picked in the Philippines—so why Cebu? Don’t ask me. I can’t give you a deep, philosophical answer. It just happened. What I do know is this: the Sheraton Cebu Mactan Resort wasn’t in the middle of the action like my hotel back in Malate, but that was the whole point. This stop? It was about unwinding.

And unwind, I did. My room had a view straight out of a postcard—pools shimmering below, the sea stretching into forever. When I wasn’t admiring it from my balcony, I was in those pools, soaking it all in. And let’s talk about the hammocks down on the sand. Plenty of time spent there, swinging lazily like a tourist who’d finally figured out how to slow down.

The breakfast buffet? Massive. Almost cartoonishly so. Every morning, they trotted out these Disney-esque characters to dance for the guests. Fun the first few times, sure, but they played Paul Russell’s “Lil’ Boo Thang” on loop. Ten spins in, I started to wonder if they had the rights to just one song.

But minor quirks aside, I was living large. Four nights of bliss, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Perfect doesn’t need an explanation.

RAMBLIN’ TIP: Book the Sheraton Cebu Mactan Resort HERE.

It’s what you get when you order a Ronald McDonald from Temu.

Livin’ for the City
I couldn’t stay holed up in that stunning resort forever—tempting as it was. To be in Cebu and not get a taste of its culture? That would’ve been criminal. So, I slipped away, no map, no itinerary, just a sense of curiosity and a willingness to get lost.

Downtown Cebu was alive. Street vendors hawking their wares, shoppers weaving through tight spaces, restaurants sending tempting smells out into the air, chaotic markets buzzing with life, and, of course, a church—because in the Philippines, faith is everywhere. It felt like a low-rise Manila, a little more relaxed but no less engaging.

But, as always, the best part wasn’t the sights; it was the people. They were the story. Warm, open, quick with a smile. Just walking through the streets, watching life unfold, was enough to remind me why I love this country so much.

Lapu-Lapu is widely celebrated as the first Filipino hero, famously vanquishing Portuguese conquistador Ferdinand Magellan and his army in their attempt to colonize Mactan Island.

Davao…Ask Me How
I wish I could say I fell in love with Davao. I really do. I mean, this is the Philippines—how could I not? But for some reason, it didn’t click. It’s unfair, I know, so I’ll own it: Davao, it’s not you—it’s me.

Maybe I was still dreaming of Manila. Maybe I’d been spoiled by that ridiculously perfect resort in Cebu. Or maybe the hotel I picked in Davao—let’s just say it wasn’t exactly The Ritz—set the tone. Whatever it was, I just couldn’t catch the vibe, no matter how hard I tried.

That’s not to say Davao isn’t a good city. It’s fine. The people? Still as cool and welcoming as anywhere in the Philippines. But something didn’t quite land for me this time around. If you’re from Davao, don’t take this personally. Maybe I’ll come back someday, hit reset, and see if we can start fresh.

Cracks from a recent earthquake in Davao. The letter in my room at The Pinnacle assured me I shouldn’t worry about the building’s condition. I worried.

A Three Hour Tour
I figured a day trip to Samal Island might shift the mood, reset the tone. It didn’t. Don’t get me wrong—it’s a nice spot. Beautiful, even. I gave a durian shake a shot, and yeah, it was surprisingly good. But by then, I was just forcing it. Trying to make something happen that wasn’t there. Sometimes, the spark just doesn’t ignite.

Last morning in Davao, I caved into temptation.

Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch
My last night in “The Peens,” as I like to call it, was spent with my friend Riza and her Philippine Global Explorers crew. She’d invited me to speak to the group, and of course, I said yes. In my head, I pictured a quiet little gathering—a handful of people sitting around a restaurant table, swapping stories, sharing a few laughs, and getting to know each other.

What I pictured couldn’t have been further from the reality. The venue? A hip, impossibly loud bar with a DJ practically in our laps and speakers rattling the table. Drinks? Endless. A steady stream of beer, cocktails, and who-knows-what-else.

But here’s the thing: I’m not complaining. These people? Amazing. Warm, funny, and relentless in their mission to party. A few cuties. They drank me under the table without even breaking a sweat. I couldn’t keep up. By some divine intervention, another group had booked the bar for a party after midnight, otherwise, I’m pretty sure I’d still be there, slouched in a corner, watching the sun come up.