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Two weeks ago, Sorsogon celebrated its 115th anniversary as a province. There was the threat of yet another typhoon, and rains threatened to spoil the parade. But the skies cleared just in time, and we were treated to yet another traffic-stopping parade. (Traffic stopping is, of course, literal. The city has only two major streets, and everything and everyone stops whenever there is a parade.)

Street dancers from just about every town lent color to the parade. It seems that the surfeit of festivals has reached this far south as well. There must be some semblance of logic to half-clad bodies carrying religious icons, but then it made me wonder if the ancestors from whom the festivals were supposedly culled had to sashay down the streets in yards and yards of uniform synthetic silk.






Despite smirks from Snarky Sister, and despite the fact that after a while the streetdancers seemed to be but blurry variations of the others, it was a happy affair. Later that night, as I stood under the shade of the sprawling acacia tree and jostled with the crowd at the park, I felt a connection to the Sorsogon of old.

As the last of the fireworks colored the sky, it felt good to be home.