The plane had been delayed departing Seoul and, on reaching Manila, was at first unable to land. For over an hour we circled in the heavy, gray air. Suspended like this, I wondered why I had been so determined to return to the Philippines and was not altogether sure, beyond knowing that my aunts would be happy to see me. In the darkness below, I could sense Manila’s ever-expanding hive, its choked highways, teeming tenements, and raucous babble. When the plane finally touched down, it was with an alarming shuddering of the overhead compartments, vibrations I could almost feel in the roots of my teeth. I found the possibility that one might crash on landing comforting, in a darkly humorous way, because my life had become chaotic. I did not want to crash, but it was a prospect that offered resolution. The outer edge of an early-season typhoon was dropping impressive amounts of rain and glazed the windows with thick, sheeting water. Contorted in the aisles, we waited to disembark. Lines through immigration were long. There was a band playing somewhere in the terminal’s bowels, and traditional Filipino songs—cheerful guitar, love-soaked lyrics—echoed from the source.

The crowd at the baggage carousel was composed largely of overseas workers in bright sneakers and flashy clothing, but the girl blocking my access to the carousel, who had walked to stand directly in front of me, was a well-fed, solitary blonde. She was wearing a sleeveless plaid shirt that exposed a tattoo on her right bicep, an outline of a circle in black. Doubtless she was waiting for a backpack. A stream of boxes thudded down the chute, the girl’s backpack, which she quickly shouldered, and, finally, my yellow suitcase.

There was no one to meet me because my family didn’t know that I had returned. I hesitated by the sim card booths before exiting the terminal, put off by the thundering rain. A pair of children­—­boys, brothers—were shoving a wheeled suitcase at each other, back and forth, laughing like maniacs, until their frazzled mother yelled at them. When the sliding doors released me, it was through a wall of heavy heat and the dim flicker of fluorescent bulbs into a black night shot through with headlights. Horns sounded all around as if a force of nature.

At the taxi stand, the girl with the circle tattoo was looking into a battered Hyundai, speaking to the driver. “Cocoon Boutique Hotel?” she asked. “Do you know where it is?” The taxi driver did not seem to understand. “Kyoozon City?” she said, consulting a piece of paper. Leaving the girl to flounder had its appeal, but I did not feel up to being so callous.

“Excuse me,” I said, interrupting. “It’s Quezon City.” I pronounced it in the acceptable Spanish way. “You’re going to the Cocoon Hotel? Let’s share a cab. It’s not far from where I’m headed.”