Hopias Over Jackpots

I've been to Las Vegas more times than I can count, it's just a four-hour drive from Phoenix, close enough for a quick escape but far enough to feel like a different world. I don’t go for the gambling; that’s never been my thing. I’d rather wander through the grand hotels, admiring their extravagant designs and unique features. The Bellagio, where this photo was taken, always leaves an impression.

Still, I shake my head at how expensive it is just to stay the night, room rates, resort fees, parking charges, taxes, it all adds up fast. I’d rather spend that money on something that brings me closer to home. That’s why every visit includes a stop at the Filipino grocery store. Phoenix doesn’t have one yet (though one is finally opening early next year), so we stock up on the things I miss most: hopia, rice cakes, and other treats that carry the taste of memory. Before heading back, we always sit down at the Filipino restaurant tucked inside the store. It’s more than a meal, it’s a way to soothe the ache of homesickness, to feel connected to the Philippines even while standing in the Nevada desert.

Home, Earned and Embraced

Standing on a hill with the American flag in the background, a quiet moment that speaks volumes about the life I’ve built. When I first arrived from the Philippines, everything felt unfamiliar, but I met each challenge with humility and an open heart. I learned to navigate this new world by respecting its culture, following its laws, and staying true to my values. Over time, Arizona became more than a place to live, it became a place to grow, to connect, and to belong. Now, with the city behind me and the flag above me, I feel the weight of my journey and the peace that comes from knowing: this is home.

Two Shores, One Journey

 

As I stand at the marina in San Diego, watching the boats sway gently in the water, I find myself reflecting on the journey of my life, from my childhood in the Philippines to the present here in Phoenix, Arizona. Back in Manila Bay, the marina was a place of peace, where I could walk freely, feel the sea breeze, and embrace the simplicity of life without a worry in the world. Today, life in Phoenix is so different, surrounded by desert landscapes, endless heat, and the fast pace of modern living. Yet, in moments like this by the water, I am reminded of my roots and the contrast between where I came from and where I am now. Both places, though worlds apart, hold pieces of who I am, one shaped my beginnings, and the other continues to shape my journey.

From Sacrifice to Serenity

The sun was warm that afternoon, casting a golden glow over the resort’s manicured lawns and glistening fountain. Sitting back in the wicker chair, I couldn’t help but think about how far life had carried me since 1996, the year I left the Philippines with my family, carrying nothing more than hope and determination.

Back then, the dream of a better life felt uncertain, fragile even, but we held onto it. The long flights, the homesickness, the moments of doubt, all were stepping stones to the life we were building. Every challenge faced in those early years made moments like this one possible: sitting peacefully in a place I never could have imagined as a young man in Manila, the sound of water trickling behind me, and the breeze brushing across my face.

I look out at the view, not just of the golf course and fountain, but of the years lived, the sacrifices made, and the blessings earned. What started as a leap of faith has become a story of resilience and quiet triumph. And in this simple moment of rest, I feel a deep gratitude for the journey that brought me here.

A Taste of Home, Thousands of Miles Away

When you arrive in a new country, everything feels unfamiliar, the streets, the language, even the air. But food? Food is memory. It’s comfort. It’s the taste of home when everything else feels far away.

When I first came to America, I tried to embrace the new, burgers, pizza, Chinese takeout. They were fine, but they didn’t speak to my soul the way a bowl of sinigang or a plate of adobo could. Back then, there were no Filipino restaurants in Phoenix.

Eventually, a few Filipino spots began to appear. Not many, but enough to feel like a small miracle. This photo was taken inside Max’s Restaurant in Las Vegas, a place that brought back memories. There are some Jollibee branches here too, which always bring a smile. But between the two? I still think Max’s fried chicken tastes closer to the kind of love I grew up with.

Funny how a single bite can take you back decades, across oceans, and straight into your mother’s kitchen.

Hope

I’ve lived through many seasons, some filled with joy, others with sacrifice. I’ve left one home to build another. I’ve watched my children grow in a country that gave us opportunity, even as I carried the ache of what I left behind.

And through it all, I’ve learned this: The belief in a better tomorrow is what separates hope from despair.

Hope isn’t just a feeling. It’s a decision we make when the world feels heavy. It’s what kept me going when I didn’t know how to navigate American systems, when homesickness crept in, when I wondered if I’d ever feel truly at home again. It’s what I pass on to my children, not just the dream, but the discipline to keep believing.

Despair whispers that nothing will change. Hope answers, “Not yet, but it will.”

So I choose hope. For my family. For my community. For anyone who’s ever felt caught between two worlds, wondering if they belong. Because tomorrow can be better, but only if we believe it’s worth building.

The Day My AC Broke (and My Wallet Did Too)

Phoenix is unbelievably hot, and the summer months are downright brutal. Here, air conditioning isn’t a luxury, it’s a necessity. A few years ago, my 20-year-old AC unit finally gave out. Most units only last around 10 years, so the technician told me it was well past its retirement age. And of course, it happened in the middle of summer! We went three long days without air, and while we managed to survive, it was an experience I wouldn’t want to repeat. To make matters worse, replacing it definitely put a dent in my wallet.

 

When Giants Become History

Standing beside this sculpture, I’m reminded that even giants can fade into history. Power doesn’t last forever, but the story always remains. What legacy will we leave behind?