FIFTEEN minutes away from landing at the NAIA, my thoughts flew eight years back, to the day I was at this same airport, headed for the post-collegiate grand tour of continental Europe that had once been de rigueur for young men and women of my age. From there I had flown to San Francisco, hoping to begin a life in one of the world?s most charming, cosmopolitan cities. Besides needing a break from the congestion, pollution and corruption of Manila and the same old Malate-Makati-Tomas Morato circuit, I felt my green card, acquired through my paternal grandparents, was begging to be put to good use.

I recalled that fateful Wednesday morning with my parents, who had come to the airport to see me off. After receiving last minute admonitions to behave myself, I hugged them and ran off to catch my British Airways flight. My mom dryly recalls getting teary-eyed after that hug and turning to scrounge for some tissues in her purse. When she looked back up, I had gone through passport control and all she saw was me walking briskly, determinedly, toward the gate. I was raring to go.

I?d meant to come back sooner, but something would always come up. There were always other options more attractive than blowing my savings on a trip back home. And, while my parents offered a roundtrip ticket home on a number of occasions, I was wary of the possible strings attached to such bequests [?What do you mean you?re going out with your friends ? we paid for your ticket so you?re coming with us to watch your tone-deaf cousin?s piano recital if it?s the last thing you do!...?]. Anyhow, my family was in the US frequently enough, as were many of my friends. So I figured, why go to Manila when Manila was coming to me?

So now, 2,896 days hence, thanks to invites to participate in three separate weddings of good friends taking place within ten days of each other, as well as a father who was ailing, I found myself on the approach to that very same airport I?d left oh-so-long ago. I started wondering what experience would best symbolize the fact that I, like MacArthur, had returned. Would it be rondalla singers clad in native garb singing a kundiman to arriving passengers? Or the traffic and the heat that would assault my San Francisco-softened sensibilities as I walked out of the terminal? Perhaps the sight of Manila Bay, the Makati skyline, or the Malate bar that my friend had promised to take me to.

Moments later, we landed ? and it happened. As soon as the wheels thumped down on the tarmac, a round of applause rang out with such volume as to ensure that the captain of the aircraft, the people in the control tower, and perhaps various relatives anxiously awaiting the homecoming of their loved ones in remote provinces would have heard it. A few Caucasians and other non-Filipinos looked around with some alarm. I turned to those across the aisle and volunteered, ?The loud clapping upon arrival is an old Filipino tradition. It drives away the evil spirits.? This seemed to put them at ease, and we settled back in our seats as the plane taxied to the gate.

Next day dawned bright and early ? literally. I?d forgotten to close the blinds so a sunlight so bright it could only be one of the tropical variety poured into my room. So much for sleeping in to start my vacation. I showered and headed out to get my week-and-a-half Philippine sojourn into gear.

What I found alternately depressed and, to my surprise, delighted me. The depressing parts should be familiar to anyone who either lives or has ever been to Manila. The scorching heat, and the 9,000 percent humidity that exacerbates it, drenched me in sweat three seconds after I stepped out of any air-conditioned space. The traffic, despite the expanded LRT system and various traffic reorganization schemes, seemed to have gotten worse. I left Legaspi Village in Makati to visit some of my old professors at La Salle in Taft on a Friday morning, and it took an hour and 15 minutes! Piles of garbage, poorly maintained infrastructure, and pervasive pollution yanked me back to those years when I lived in Manila, and still proved to be an annoyance upon my return. I?m not even going to delve into the various cases du jour of government vice, political incompetence and street crime that friends and family freely discussed during dinners or over drinks.

Plus there were some new wrinkles in Manila?s urban fabric. Among the most maddening were the security procedures at nearly every shopping mall I went to. Given the bomb explosions and other terrorist threats the country constantly faced, this was not exactly surprising. However, what was irritating was the manner in which it was performed ? utterly casual, to the point of being perfunctory. At entry point after entry point, I would have to stop, unzip my bag, let the guard poke a little wooden stick into it, pat me once or twice around the torso and on my behind, and I?d be waved through, often without the guy?s conversation with his fellow security guards getting interrupted. While my ass was certainly grateful for all the attention, the rest of me grew simply more exasperated each time it happened.

Irritants major and minor aside, though, I had an amazingly, surprisingly wonderful time in Manila. I wandered around Makati, and was pleasantly taken aback by what I saw. Pedestrian walkways made it possible to actually stroll in semi-comfort from one end of the commercial district to the other. Lane markers, parking rules, and traffic patterns not only made some sense, but were actually being enforced. I walked around the Ayalas? new Greenbelt malls and saw stores and a scene that could easily be the equal of those in Rodeo Drive or Fifth Avenue. Of course, Filipinos have always been a mall-loving people, but these new shopping centers certainly give even this normally mall-averse guy a reason to visit.

Then there were the little things. Coin-operated racks that dispensed newspapers. Taxis that were all air-conditioned ? even if the air-conditioning didn?t always work. Sales clerks that seemed to be a lot more helpful than I remember, and at least unfailingly polite when they couldn?t be, always ending their statements with a ?po? or ?opo, sir.? Okay, so maybe that?s also an indication that I?m now old enough to qualify for a ?po? or ?opo,? but it?s the thought that counts?

Add to that a lot of the old familiar favorites that I remember from years back. Those fabulous tacos at Pancake House (I had five for lunch the first day I was back). The barbecued chicken at Aristocrat. Buying green mangoes wrapped in plastic, liberally sprinkled with bagoong, from an itinerant vendor on otherwise chi-chi Ayala Avenue. Hearing songs from Gary Valenciano, Zsa Zsa Padilla and other Pinoy artists on the radio ? especially when they played the more obscure releases (listening to Janno Gibbs? ?Hanggang Saan Aabot? blaring from a store in Greenhills has sent me on a Quixotic quest to find a copy of the album it came from). Actually being able to leave your belongings somewhere and thus be unencumbered while you shop the hours away in a store. The handmade stationery and paper products at Karton. CDs at half the price they?d cost in the US. The little wooden ?schwing? man-in-a-barrel. Walking Intramuros? cobblestoned streets. Having maids. And drivers. San Miguel Beer in a bottle. Filipino drag queens, still among the world?s best (and funniest). Barhopping with your friends at 3 a.m. on a Thursday.

Speaking of barhopping, I was quite impressed by the state of Manila?s nightlife. Very impressed, to be honest. When I?d left there wasn?t much in Malate aside from personal favorite Blue Café, and the old familiar Penguin. Makati wasn?t much better, with Faces having fallen, Mars in a muddle, and Euphoria not very, well, euphoric. The old Giraffe was always overcrowded, and its neighbor Zu never was. To revisit the scene and find it much revitalized was fantastic.

To cite but a few examples, I go to New York about two or three times a year, and places like Nuvo and Embassy and many other similar places could with ease have been the hip fixtures there that they were in Makati and the Fort, respectively. The quiet elegance of hotels like the New World Renaissance and the Peninsula was comparable to the best Singapore or Kuala Lumpur could offer. I wandered around Nakpil and Orosa Streets in Malate and was blown away by a vibe almost as lively as that of Rome?s Piazza Navona in the spring or Boston?s Back Bay in the summertime. Restaurants like Sala and People?s Palace were easily the equal of places like Tenorio in Barcelona or 12 Apostel in Berlin. The scene at Bed was nearly as hot as some of the gay clubs in San Francisco?s Castro district (even if many of the guys weren?t as buff). To put a new twist on an old slogan, ?Manila, you?ve come a long way, baby!?

I?d come a long way myself, and before I knew it, it was time to depart. I had a 7 a.m. Saturday flight to Hong Kong, where I was going to spend a few days before heading back to San Francisco, so a few friends and I decided to get the weekend off to a good start by partying the night away in Malate, after which they?d load me, suitably liquored, onto the Hong Kong-bound Boeing 777. We drank, danced, and renewed pledges of friendship that seemed all the more poignant after I got dropped off at the airport and they drove off into the sunrise. This time, with no peevish papa and no mournful mama to see me off, I ambled through the passport counter. A lot more slowly than I did the last time. And, before heading off toward the gate, actually turned back to wish the metropolis a fond, silent farewell.

It may have been eight years since the last time I lost myself in its maddening magnificence. But I was certain that it wouldn?t be another eight years ?til I?d be able to say, as the old song goes, ?Manila, I?m coming home?? ?