South of Amsterdam, about a dozen kilometers on the freeway, you’ll find Hilversum. It’s a small town the size of Parañaque, by area not people. Hilversum and Parañaque could not be more different. Hilversum fits into one city of the many who make up my hometown. 

Manila is a city of cities. 

Manila is an old whore. She’s the most abusive relationship of my life. No matter how I bounce around the world, I find myself coming back to her. Hilversum is like her snazzy younger sibling who never got thrown out of the golden circle.

Dawn happens slowly in Holland. It rolls awake languidly stretching into day. Manila snaps awake with a spasm of sunshine, the mayas and the pigeons already screech their welcome. In Hilversum, it’s the crows. They wake first.

I chose to leave Manila 4 years ago. I was already set on the shores of New England where I spent my rearing. 

And then the pandemic happened.

Plans are jokes to the gods. Days passed into weeks which snowballed into years. I almost lost hope, and then I found myself packing my bags not for the familiar windblown North, but a North of a different kind. A new adventure rather than the retracing of an old one.

Petrifying.

For 4 years I have been lying in wait to execute the move. We left so quickly there were many things I had to leave behind. The flight was unremarkable. It was a blur of excitement and non-remembering. It was a flight of lists and hoping we stayed under the weight limit.

It rained the day we arrived. Fog obscured the flat lands and the windmills. I stood outside and hooted like a madwoman in a movie. As if the rain could wash away Manila.

The Dutch are centaurs on two wheels. Their children are born on bikes, they are on another level. 

Biking is very different here in Europe. Some call it the “Olde Worlde”. I don’t.

Hilversum is almost as old as Manila. It was founded in 1424. It was a village when Manila was a bustling kingdom. The “Olde Worlde” is a lie we were taught in school.

The streets of Manila prepared me for the bike lanes of Holland. I have come to ignore the angry bells and go at my own pace. I ignore the impatient ding, urge my bike to the side and get passed by an octogenarian in a babushka cussing my name and dashing up the hill without gears leaving me in her Shalimar smelling wake.

I put Penelope to shame.

My bike is named Penelope; I bought her on the streets. She’s a bucket of bolts but like Corellian freighters, cargo bikes never die. I keep her unlocked in my front garden because… who would steal her?

For now, she is my constant companion. I feel the need to earn gears and whistles. I’m not there yet.

I buy a basket and saddle bags and feel more “Dutch” by the day.

Weather here makes you understand why people talk about the weather. It’s like traffic. Ever present but just as unpredictable. Sometimes EDSA is clear. Sometimes it’s stormy. Rain here falls in days not sheets. I have rubber boots. I came prepared. 

Hilversum sleeps early. As the dusk rolls in for the long twilight, the shops close and the people go home to their lutong bahay. Their spices leave us wanting more. 

Manila stays up late, she keeps her red light on and dashes through the night, unsleeping. Delivery boys keep her blood going, bringing anything from fries to fondue at midnight or later. 

Hilversum likes to sleep. It likes to take its time at the register. It waits behind a delivery truck without blowing the horn. There is no swerving.

I gravitate to the grime in the corners. Density being my safe space. I look for the detritus of community. It’s proof that the place lives and breathes. 

Hilversum is quiet enough to hear the birds. Especially the crows in the morning.

I went from megalopolis, the center of Makati, to a groot dorp. A “big village”. It gets crowded on Saturdays when the market is in town. Just like in the fairy tales. The Dutch talk about crowds like we wear sweaters in “winter” against the “cold”.

The sun sets, the moon rises. The town goes to sleep. My light remains on in the attic. I am calling home. Manila always finds ways to draw me back.

Snow Schnabel is a Historian as well as a Creative Director. She writes and hosts the award-winning podcast What’s AP: Araling Panlipunan Rebooted on the PumaPodcast Network and has co-authored 5 children’s books about Filipinas in history.

She moved to Hilversum, North Holland in February and is slowly, painfully learning how to cook.