Between Bubbles: A Journey Through Two Worlds in Manila
Broken Fridge, Deposit, and Suspicion: How Moving Apartments Made Me Reflect on the Gaps Between Worlds
📍Manila, Philippines
The move to my new apartment was supposed to be simple—pack, leave, move on. But somehow, the thought of that small deposit, just 3,000 pesos, turned me oddly anxious. I found myself cleaning the apartment like my life depended on it, putting every single object back in its exact place, as if someone was watching me over my shoulder.
"Why wouldn't they return your money? Are you crazy?" I asked myself, trying to reason. "They only keep it in case of real damage. Nobody
cares if the place is spotless."
But my fear just shrugged and said, "I'm doing this just in case."
The irony? My worries weren't entirely unfounded. I had spent a whole week living with a broken fridge. Every time I complained, they promised someone would come to fix it. No one ever did. So who knows—maybe they'd decide I was responsible for other problems too.
On check-out day, I followed the guy inspecting the apartment like a shadow. He examined the room, the appliances, everything. I could almost see myself from the outside—a paranoid figure, suspicious of every move he made, hoping he wouldn't suddenly "find a problem."
"Everything's fine," he finally announced. "You can return the access card to the lady in the lobby, and she'll give you back your deposit."
This time, I was prepared. I recorded his words. Why? Because apparently, I am now someone who records conversations just in case... just in case... but in case of what? What happened to my basic trust in people?
"Better safe than sorry," I told myself, realizing that this is the tool I've chosen to navigate the world as a solo traveler in a foreign country.
The Grab taxi I ordered crawled through traffic for almost an hour. 403 pesos (about 25 shekels) and what felt like an entire world away separated my old and new apartments.
From Manila's bustling core, I had moved to what could be described as "The Petah Tikva of Manila"—a quieter, more spacious, more livable suburb.
When the gates opened to my new complex, I instantly felt the difference. Like my old high-rise, this place had a mall, a pool, a gym—but everything felt different. Fewer people. More space. More peace. The entire complex was gated, and though this place also had police officers on every corner, the sense of security was entirely different.
As soon as I walked in, I checked if the fridge worked. The apartment owner raised an eyebrow, clearly confused by my question. "Of course, Ma'am, the fridge works."
Everyone here smiles at me, calls me "Ma'am," and holds doors open for me. It reminded me of the time I stayed at the Sala Hotel in Koh Samui, Thailand, where I felt like royalty.
A whole month in this bubble costs me 1,053 shekels (471 AUD). And honestly? It's a pretty amazing bubble to live in.
Walking through the quiet hallways, I immediately noticed the difference. This building only has 23 floors—far from the 54-floor skyscraper I lived in before. On my way to the gym in the second tower, I passed by the ground-floor pool and immediately spotted something interesting—familiar faces. Not Filipino. Tourists. Business travelers. Maybe even digital nomads like me. I felt comfortable.
That night, I sat by the window of my new apartment, watching the lights of Manila's suburbs. Inside this luxury bubble, it was easy to forget the outside world. Easy to forget the paranoia that had followed me in my previous tower. Easy to convince myself that this was reality.
But this is not the reality for most people in this city. This is a bubble—comfortable, relaxing, beautiful—but still, just a bubble.
And when I think about it, I realize that my anxiety about the deposit, my suspicion toward the apartment inspector, all reflect something deeper. The feeling of never truly belonging to any of these worlds. The fear that one da, y, someone will figure out that I don't belong, and they'll ask me to return the deposit—both literally and metaphorically.
I am the eternal nomad, living in temporary bubbles—a hotel in Mexico, an apartment in Melbourne, a luxury complex in Manila. Every place is just another stop on the journey, and every stop teaches me something new—about the world, about people, about myself.
Moving into this new apartment is just another symptom of a bigger journey. A journey of moving between places, between cities, countries, but mostly, moving between worlds. Worlds that sometimes feel as far apart as heaven and earth. Worlds that exist side by side, sometimes even on the same street, but never truly meet.
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