It is the body that knows first that summer has arrived. Sweat trails the scalp, the spine, the forehead. It is the exposed skin that turns a shade darker. It is the nape that feels the uncomfortableness of of the heat. It is the body that screams for an escape to the mountains, islands, beaches, and perhaps even the city.
Summer has a way of surprising us. It is the place, the time where, when everything seems pleasurably doable without the usual bout of guilt and remorse. We bask in summer warmth, glorify the equal blueness of the sky and sea, celebrate the postcardness of everything.
Summer is scaling mountains. Ah, mountains, trails—they remind me of us, humans. They can be unpredictable, predictable. They can be selfish, unyielding, indifferent.
Climbing peaks can be romance strengthening. Or unfolding.
For S1Expeditions, summer is a fling with his GPS. The tracks are his treasures, the roads his guides, the seas his comfort, the mountains his ambitions, and the sands as uncountable as memories. Travel mapping is something that intrigues me because how can you trace something as deceiving, honest as a map.
I saw a couple atop a peak with the soft light on their faces, a husband holding the umbrella for his dear beloved. Perhaps a relationship tested by Mountains and Beyond comes out fortified like a citadel, a natural citadel like a proud and tall mountain.
Soles of Missy have indeed touched, kissed, rendezvoused too many mountains that her soles can be considered as treacherous as some summits she has peaked. But mountain climbing reminds me a lot of love, of an affair. One wants to finally give up but simply can’t.
Summer is having the saltwater kiss the skin. Summer sea is serene, welcoming with its shades of blue: translucent, cerulean, indigo. The beach strikes me as the place where sins can be executed, washed away, forgotten especially an island’s. For islands are metaphors of the heart, no matter what poet says otherwise.1
But for Traveling Morion’s Siargao—as beautiful as any secluded island can be—is the place for poets, writers . . . the place where
The beach is a place to take a dip in our trivialities, to not take life oh so deeply. Say, for Layover to Life, summer beaching is an act of emptying the mind from worries, lounging, letting the saline breeze graze the sun-kissed skin. Summer beaching is like polaroids, so dreamy, so romantic.
Summer, for Ava Was Here, is a happy assault on the senses, a short yet much-needed disconnect from the world, an intimacy with islands. Indeed, an island with its sense of isolatedness can be a refuge from the desolate—and often—cynical world.
For Journeying James, [summer] is full of life and it is all blue. Oh, it was Jason Mraz’s, not James’. Mistaking freedom for summer is forgivable. James cruised the bay, displayed his half-nakedness while Jason crooned “I see birds fly across the sky / And everyone’s heart flies together.”
For Nomadic Experiences , love is as uncertain as turbulence, but as assured as touchdown. Summer is not a season but a place where love is confirmed, strengthened. I find it rather interesting how a place contributes to the blooming of a new romance.
Falling in love with the place itself is a feeling, giddiness all travelers share. It is a kind of love where remorse doesn’t wag its tails in front of one’s face. Contour Blog fell for the summery, crowdless Gumasa. It is an affair between a traveler and a place. We know the story all too well.
Whereas I take freediving as an act of submerging, surfacing, gasping for air for dear life, the veterans see it as an act of going as deep as possible. Doesn’t it sound erotic? Perhaps it does, since The Travelling Feet and Lakbay Diva are obsessed with exploring depths and drops. They test the boundaries of deepness, they push the boundaries of themselves.
A similar pursuit, scuba diving and beyond filled My Comings and Goings’s summer. Because summer should make one feel hot, steamy, sexy, like a woman in a wetsuit. Yes, summer has a way to make us change the way we see ourselves.
The sea, a festival, flower photographing, and an inked pointer are indications of a summer well-spent. Rj ‘D Explorer explored places, painted purple hope on his fingernail, and perhaps awaited that hope to turn into a summery reality.
There is nothing heavier than Pinoy Adventurista’s summer. Places, memories, smiles, faces swirled under “the warmth and sun that beats everyone down.” His summer is like the sun: everywhere, bright, beaming.
Gloom, frustration unpredictably convulsed one summer night for a solo traveler. But Pinay Travelista had someone a ring away to chase the doom away. And summer can be like that, a feeling or a someone who can brighten a morose trip.
Summer can be a love story between a girl and the big, big world. It can be a love story with a forked ending yet to be determined. It can echoe Anaïs Nin‘s words that Traveling Light epigraphed. Summer blooms are the most beautiful.
Summer makes some unheard-of, untouristy places accessible for Edmaration. The kind of places that worthy of a long travel narrative. Because northern Luzon—except for Baguio, I might say—has not marred by tourism yet. His summer is my kind of summer.
And yes, summer is a transition, a happy one. Just like Lakwatserong Tsinelas, I see nimbus hovering over the city—the city which is much-ready for the rain. But I conceded to him, summer is eternal.
Because, I’d like to believe, summer is an attitude. Just like any trip, a summer one, is a “travel to stumble into the unvisited corners of yourself.”2
1 Jeanette Winterson
2 Pico Iyer