Filipinos love to eat. It is my firm belief that food is the singular language that each individual in a country of 7,641 islands (yes, not 7,107, contrary to popular belief) speaks. It is embedded into our culture, on the same pedestal as our love for celebrating–no matter where we are in the world, it seems.

So I find it only fitting to celebrate my first-ever visit to the United States and memorialize the Center Stage tour of the Helobung Community Dance Troupe last year through the many flavors the trip offered. The Filipina in me listed down food and beverages that evoke a wave of nostalgia for certain moments on tour, deeply etched in my heart.

Maple old fashioned Washington, DC

It was our second night in the United States. Center Stage hosted a dinner for its participants, artists from different parts of the globe. I remember feeling uncharacteristically shy. Was it because I was late (the first of many, much to the dismay of our tour manager, Diego)? Was it because I was still jetlagged? Was it the fact that I was a hundred miles away from home for the first time in my life?

I decided to order an old fashioned, thinking something familiar would make me feel more comfortable. Sure, it had some maple syrup which I’ve never had with my usual poison of choice but it’s essentially the same, right? Around the same time, Theresa, Center Stage's tour manager for Ethio Classic Quartet, started talking to me about how their tour has been so far, what differences in cultures I’ve witnessed, and what our preferences in music are. Soon enough, I found myself in the middle of conversations so compelling, it made me stay a bit longer even when others have called it a night.

It was then that I realized that I had nothing to be shy about. I was in the right place at the right time. I was in the company of individuals who value arts and culture as much as I do, if not more. I was in familiar ethos territory but it was mixed with something new that made everything exciting and more appealing–just like the maple old fashioned I had that night.

Strawberry rhubarb pie Washington, DC

When I think of America, I think of apple pies. Blame it on Waitress or Madonna if you must, but it was one of the things I was most excited about the trip. It’s not as popular in my country but pie has always been my favorite dessert.

So the search for pie ensued. I found a place literally called Pie Shop and they claimed to have the best pie in D.C. When we arrived, though, I surprised myself by getting a strawberry rhubarb pie instead of the usual apple.

“Are you sure?” Asked a close friend. She and her husband are based in D.C. now and have accompanied me on my quest. “You’ve never had rhubarb before. It might come as a shock.”

“No better time than now,” I shrugged, taking a big bite. 

A filling that’s both sweet and tart. The crust, golden brown and flaky. A touch of sugar dusted on top. I remember how my first slice of strawberry rhubarb pie tasted like it was just yesterday. My friend was right, that pie gave this sudden, but not unpleasant, jolt. 

In hindsight, so did the rest of my stay in the American nation’s capital. Seeing art pieces at the National Gallery of Art’s East and West buildings brought about feelings, both sweet and poignant. (I bawled when I saw Jackson Pollock’s Lavender Mist for the first time in real life.) My days spent there, golden yet fleeting. (I will never forget the sound of small bells filling the streets of D.C. while the dance troupe roamed its streets.) A dash of everyday life topped the experience off. (I ate at a diner, read books at an independent bookshop, and even watched a gig at a local music venue!) 

Watch a reel of our time in DC here.
 

That trip to America, I realized, was no apple pie. It was neither warm and homey nor familiar. It was strawberry rhubarb through and through, exciting and complex. But one wholehearted bite and I’m sure, you’d be grateful for the chance to explore new flavors you didn’t even know you liked.

Peel-and-eat shrimp NOrfolk, VA

It wasn’t just another shrimp dish. The Philippines is rich in fish so I’ve had my fill of sumptuous seafood. But the peel-and-eat shrimp we had before Helobung’s performance at the Chrysler Museum was special because of how it was prepared (I’ve never had cold shrimp) and because of the company we had over lunch that day. 

It was in Virginia that we met some of the warmest people one would have the pleasure of meeting. They came in the form of our gracious hosts and they were all Filipinos, by blood or in law. Last year’s tour provided countless opportunities to connect with unique individuals and hear their stories. At the forefront were the many Filipino Americans and the vibrant communities they have built across the United States.

The tour may have been about bringing the culture of the Tboli to a distant land but it was also about testifying how Filipino Americans honor their roots. They have organized dance troupes that practice our traditional dances. They wore our traditional garments like a badge. Some still even speak their native dialect.

Of course, where there are Filipinos, there is food from home: different they might be in iteration but familiar in taste nonetheless. The lumpia (spring roll) and pancit (noodles) at every Filipino community center were delicious but that tinola (chicken ginger stew) and monggo (mung bean soup) we had while visiting an auntie and uncle’s farm at Goochland County ultimately deserve their own article.

A week into the tour, I knew that this wasn’t just your usual cultural showcase. The people we’ve met weren't the type you’d simply forget. It wasn’t just another tour.

It wasn’t just another shrimp dish.

Cuban mojo pork with rice and beans Richmond, VA

“I’ve never had this before,” I thought to myself when the dish of pork, black beans, and plantains arrived on our table at that Cuban-inspired restaurant. I was talking on the phone with one of my best friends who stayed up late so we could catch up. I was telling him about how everything in America was, well, vast. The expanse of land that we had to travel to get to places. The chance to connect with people I usually don’t have the privilege to meet. And the food servings. Especially the food servings. I looked down at my plate.

“I’ve never had this before,” I thought to myself on the first night of the Richmond Folk Festival. I was talking about how in awe I was not only of how the festival looked but also of how it sounded. As a music journalist, I have attended many festivals but not one had the same sound quality. I mentioned this to the organizers and they were delighted; they put in considerable effort to ensure performers sound good onstage. I was equally delighted. In the coming days, I closed my eyes and listened even more carefully.

“I’ve never had this before,” I thought to myself when I saw the Helobung Community Dance Troupe onstage at the festival’s In Harmony: Dance and the Natural World segment. I was talking about feeling that immense pride as I witnessed Tboli culture and practices shared on an international stage. I was effusive over the fact that we have such a rich culture and it is finally being recognized. I held my head up high.

Fruit-infused water yakima, wa

It started as a growing fondness. Every day, the jug at Hotel Maison’s lobby contained water infused with different fruits in season. For some reason, I absolutely enjoyed drinking from it. Maybe it was the seemingly endless supply of bottled water. Maybe it was the fresh produce harvested from fertile land; we were in the land of Washington apples, after all. Either way, there was a certain sweetness in every glassful and I couldn’t get enough.

At first, the water was simply refreshing, just like Helobung’s school performances in Wapato. It was energizing to be in a room full of young persons, their faces full of expression. Wonder. Joy. Boredom. Dismissal. Questions. Every youthful reaction made each interaction more colorful than the last. 

Watch a reel of Helobung’s showcase in Wapato here.
 

In time, it had become a constant. I knew that the faithful water jug in the lobby would be cool and bright, just like the humans of The Capitol Theater. The hotel also switched the fruits up so there was something to look forward to on the daily. Just like the amazing view of the yellow mountains and the adventure of trekking at Cowiche.

However, leaving infused water in your tumbler for quite some time might end up giving it a bitter taste in your mouth. Much like the bitterness I felt upon learning about the hardships the Yakama Nation endured, illustrated at their museum and cultural center. I drank my water that day, nonetheless, swallowing the tears I wanted to shed for their people.

The best thing about that water was the subtle yet distinct blend of flavors. Much like the persons who had both Native American and Filipino blood running through their veins. Much like the Native American and Filipino cultures blended into one harmonious dance at the Wapato Filipino Community Hall.

The less the water was in the jug, the stronger the flavor of the fruit infusion. The longer we stayed there, the stronger the bond I felt for that place. 

There’s something in the water in Yakima. And best believe I’d drink it up every single time.

Crispy fried pork belly Honolulu, HI

“Is that lechon kawali?!” I exclaimed as Peter, our host, presented our lunch with a flourish. He wiggled his eyebrows and beamed, looking as excited as I was. We had just finished a very fruitful workshop at the Filipino Community Center. Participants brought their own malong and learned the Tboli True Dance and Bird Dance. It was no surprise that everyone was amazing. We were in Hawaii, the land of hula.

See more of their workshop here.
 

Best believe we wolfed down that decadent feast. We were all famished from dancing. Instead of rice, though, we ate the crispy fried pork belly with some bread (malasadas and manapua). Perhaps proof of us adapting to the more Western preference in food?

Truth is, everyone was feeling a bit homesick. The tour was coming to an end and being on the road for that long would take a toll on anyone. My Tboli friends and I have resorted to shopping for household staples from Don Quijote for a taste of home. 

But there was no more perfect place to end our four-week journey. Aside from the sun and sand, Oahu is filled with people who look at Tboli culture in a different light. We were with people who not only understood rituals in the form of song and dance but practiced them as well. For Helobung, it might have felt like an unlikely homecoming, DonQui purchases notwithstanding.

Watch their showcase with Tau Dance here.
 

It was in Hawaii where I felt my liminality the most. During my short, impermanent stay there, I was given a safe space to redefine myself. I had the opportunity to explore parts of me that may have been kept hidden because of expectations of who I should be back home. In Hawaii, and the U.S. in general, I discovered who I am by trying new things like visiting libraries instead of going sightseeing, not being pressured to get in the water while in surf town, and yes, eating crispy pork belly with bread instead of rice.

I never thought I would find pieces of myself in a land so far away from home.