Uncharted Territories

I’d always been told I looked “British… but not quite.” My features bore the signature marks of my mixed roots—light brown hair that caught golden flecks under the sun, a jawline that hinted at English sharpness, softened by the warmth of my mother’s Southeast Asian lineage. My skin wasn’t pale like my father’s, but rather a sun-kissed tone that made people pause before guessing where I was from. My eyes, a shade somewhere between hazel and warm brown, were framed by thick lashes I’d inherited from my mom. It made for a face that stood out in London just as much as it blended in—almost—here. I was used to people staring for a moment too long, as if trying to solve a puzzle they couldn’t name.

I’d always been told I was a little shorter than most Brits. But at just under 5’9″, I didn’t mind. Plenty of tall men were either awkward or lacked the charm to back it up, so I figured I’d gotten a fair deal. My mom loved to tease me about being the “short one” in the family, a trait she liked to attribute to my Filipino blood.

But here I was, about to set foot in the Philippines for the very first time. Raised in London with English traditions and a British passport, I’d traveled all over but had never touched down on my mother’s side of the world. This time was different. Manila wasn’t just a quick layover or a cultural excursion. It was a new chapter—one that came with responsibility. My mother had recently stepped down from her role as Chairwoman of the family business here, and the torch had been passed to me. The idea was to oversee operations, bring fresh eyes to the table. I knew how to run a business. But navigating Manila was a whole different ballgame.

The plane touched down, and as soon as the seatbelt sign clicked off, I felt a thrill—a mix of nerves and excitement. I was stepping into my mother’s world, into a city that felt both foreign and, oddly, familiar. I could already feel the heat and brightness pressing against the glass as I disembarked, a stark contrast to London’s gray skies.

The arrival hall was a burst of energy: people everywhere, voices bouncing off each other, faces both hurried and relaxed. The scent of roasted coffee mingled with the distinct tang of the tropics. My gaze shifted across the sea of people until I spotted a man holding a sign that read, “Chester Greene—Hilton Hotels.” He had a friendly, easy smile.

“Mr. Greene, welcome to Manila,” he greeted me, his voice smooth with that melodic Filipino accent.

I returned the smile, letting some of the tension slip away. “Thank you.”

The car ride to the hotel was a blur of colors, passing vendors and lively storefronts. The city hummed with a raw energy, less polished than Singapore or Tokyo but more alive somehow. I couldn’t quite place it—just that Manila was a city that felt everything and wasn’t afraid to show it.

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