Together, we slid into the taxi’s rear seat. “Cocoon Hotel,” I said. “Alam mo ba yon? Dumaan ka sa Timog.”

“You speak the language,” the girl said.

“Enough.” I smiled. “I’m from here.”

“You don’t look like it.”

I was too tall and too light skinned to be recognized as a Filipino by this girl, but my mother had been Filipino, and this is how I thought of myself. “Some Filipinos look like me,” I said. I caught the cab driver checking me out in the rearview mirror. “And what brings you here? Are you traveling alone?”

“I’m meeting my boyfriend in Cebu, but I have two days in Manila,” the girl replied. “We were on the same flight, but you were in Traveler Plus.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said.

“Do you travel a lot?”

“I do.” The taxi had made it off the curb and was slowly easing its way into the traffic. The driver wiped at the windshield with a sodden tissue, clearing a porthole through the condensation. “And you, do you travel much?”

“I was in Machu Picchu in January.” The girl was proud of this.

“Really?” I said. “I was in Peru last November.”

“Isn’t Machu Picchu amazing?”

“I wouldn’t know.” I smiled. “I spent all my time in Iquitos, except for a brief foray up the Amazon.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“There wasn’t time. I was doing a piece for a travel magazine and my assignment was to cover the Amazon River International Raft Race.” November was dry season in Iquitos, and the city, built on stilts but currently without benefit of flooding, had seemed to float above the packed dirt. Vultures dropped heavily into the shadows without warning. The town hall had reminded me of an old Manila building: the broad staircase, the heavy wood, the unchecked decay. The race itself did not intrigue me; it presented a predictable challenge, a victory—as with all races—given to whoever was fastest, assuming that speed was a universally valued thing. “Competitors come from all over the world,” I added.

“Who won?”

“Who won? Oh, some Peruvians, of course. Although one year, the Americans had it.”

The girl was looking out the window, her mouth agape, the bright lights slowly dragging across her face. Pedestrians rushed along the underpasses of Edsa. A jeepney stopped abruptly, releasing a number of people. The women had taken off their shoes, which were tucked under their arms, and they stepped cautiously into the ankle-deep water like socialites closing the final yards to the beach after a day spent yachting.

“Is it always this bad?” the girl asked.

“The flooding? Often worse, actually. Although if this continues, much of the city will be shut down tomorrow.”

The girl nodded as if registering something, but she remained openmouthed.

“Timog will be clear. Where your hotel is located is actually at a higher elevation.”