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How The Philippines Made Me A Kinder Person
Reflecting on my two year journey in the Philippines
Before I knew it, my vocal cords were doing proverbial backflips.
There I was, singing country music for a bunch of Filipinos, as a shot glass and bowl of chicken feet got passed around like popcorn.
A dirt floor laid beneath my shoes. A rusty tin roof sheltered my head. The walls were made of heavy concrete blocks. It was a gray dwelling, but it turns out the walls didn’t need any color. The people inside gave the evening all the color it needed.
Besides, the TV had the greatest karaoke B-Roll I’ve ever seen. Slow motion surfing, amusement parks, and beaches danced on the screen. I drank so much beer I thought my voice was actually somewhat good, and I forgot the fact that my forehead had heavy beads of sweat forming near my hairline.
This is a typical party in the Philippines.
Signing, drinking, finger foods, laughing, and shouted conversations (because the music is so loud).
It goes without saying that you literally cannot buy an evening like that in America. You can’t replicate the house, the singing, the sweat, the beer, or the chicken feet — at least not all at the same time.
