TRAVEL | The Great La Union Labor Day Fiasco

So, picture this: I’m sprawled on my couch, recovering from the financial bloodbath of back-to-back shindigs in Bangkok and Puerto Galera, when ping—a random message about a La Union trip for Labor Day pops up. My brain’s like, “Bruh, you’re broke, and this is soon.” But my heart’s screaming, “YOLO, it’s La Union, let’s surf this wave!” So, naturally, I yeet caution to the wind and say, “Screw it, we’re doing this.”

To read more about La Union, click here:
Discovering La Union: The New Summer Hotspot for LaborUnion Festivities

Day 0.
April 29, 2025: The Manila Misadventure

I crash at a buddy’s place in Manila since the La Union crew’s rolling out at the crack of dawn. At this point, it’s just me and my ride-or-die, Andrew, who’s already shelled out his share of the cash. No backing out now, unless I want to be that guy. The problem? Finding a place to stay in La Union during peak season is like trying to snag a front-row seat at a Taylor Swift concert—good luck. Most spots are booked solid, but I narrow it down to two options:

1. The Circle Hostel: ~5k per person. Sounds cozy, but it’s a hike from the beach. Passable, but not ideal.
2. Wychwood Apartment: ~2k per person. Practically spitting distance from the surf. Jackpot.

I manage to lock in Wychwood for one measly night. One night! My plan’s half-baked at best—show up, vibe, and pray we find another spot. Maybe The Circle Hostel for night two, if I’m feeling fancy. Wychwood’s got that prime beachfront real estate, so I’m leaning hard into it. Decisions, decisions.

The night before the trip, my Manila squad decides to pamper ourselves at RWellness Hub. Oh boy, this place deserves its own review saga, but here’s the quick review:

• Vibe: Tiny building, but the wet area—sauna, steam, and two mini pools—is where the magic happens. It’s like a runway show for gorgeous humans. 10/10 for eye candy.
• Bar: Small, but the drinks pack a punch. Think “one sip and you’re ready to karaoke.”
• Massage: Meh. I’ve had better backrubs from my dog.
• Location: Tucked away in Pobla. Easy to get to, impossible to find without GPS and a prayer.

We spend most of our time splashing around in the wet area, living our best lives and flirting with the hot crowd. Around 2 a.m., me and M peel ourselves away for some late-night congee at a nearby joint. We’re slurping away when we overhear three college dudes at the next table—total frat-boy energy, debating professors and finals. I’m 99% sure one’s from UP, the others probably La Salle. They’re adorable in that “aww, straight boys” kinda way. We chuckle, finish our food, and I drag myself to M’s condo to pack for the morning’s chaos.

Now, here’s where it gets spicy. A’s driving us to La Union, which is great because splitting gas is cheaper than a bus ticket. But this man was so wishy-washy about coming that I didn’t think he’d actually show. Then there’s J, another maybe-traveler who got fed up with A’s vague texts and booked a bus. Cue the 6 a.m. drama: A’s begging J to ditch the bus and join our carpool. I’m just sitting there, coffee in hand, thinking, “I did not sign up for this soap opera.” But La Union’s calling, and I’m too stubborn to back out now.

Day 1.
April 30, 2025: A Cautionary Tale of Flaky Friends, Fried Chicken at Dawn, and Grindr Ghosts

Let me start this blessed journey by saying: never, ever wait for anyone at 4 a.m. at a McDonald’s in Centris unless you enjoy watching call center agents inhale chicken and rice like it’s their last supper on earth. I sat there for two hours—because clearly, I hate myself. I tried to be chill about it, like, “Sure, I’ve got nowhere else to be,” but internally I was carving a mental gravestone that read: “Died waiting for a friend who doesn’t believe in time.”

So I did what any bored, under-caffeinated gay guy would do: I ate my breakfast while scrolling through Grindr, hoping for something better to show up than my lukewarm hot choco. Spoiler alert: it didn’t. Manila gays, God bless them, will agree to meet up, tell you they’re “on the way,” and then vanish like political promises after election day. I tried inviting some randos to join our La Union trip, but since it was last minute, nobody bit. I should’ve known better than to expect commitment from men who can’t even commit to punctuation in their bios.

By 6 a.m., A finally arrived—sans apology, of course, like I hadn’t aged five years sitting under fluorescent lights next to a Ronald McDonald statue. But did I scream? No. I just mentally muttered, “Noted with bitterness,” and moved on. Then came the second disappointment: J, who was still asleep, claimed he didn’t know the plan and decided to take a bus. Honestly, at this point, I was ready to take a horse cart if it meant escaping the circus that was unfolding.

Eventually, after much badgering, J agreed to join. Apparently, A needed him to come along so he wouldn’t end up homeless in La Union. Classic. By 7 a.m., we were finally on the road. I sat in the back seat, fully embracing my role as “reluctant participant who naps and avoids all group decisions.” A and J chatted endlessly in the front like a podcast nobody asked for, and I tried not to scream every time they made yet another plan I didn’t agree to—including a random trip to Baguio I had zero intention of joining.

We stopped at Robinsons La Union for lunch. I didn’t even pretend to care about their beach lunch plans. I got my food, ate alone like a queen, and watched them munch on air. Then we drove around town looking for J’s bougie alcohol. When we finally made it to the beach, I was dropped off at my accommodation: Wychwood Apartment.

The Airbnb That Groaned Back

Honestly, Wychwood was cute. Right next to Flotsam, beach-adjacent, and had its own café. My room, however, came with a creaky deathtrap of a bed and an aircon that sounded like it was powered by steam and old prayers. But hey, for the price, I couldn’t complain. (But I did. Internally.)

I showered, settled in, and waited for my roommate Andrew, who was also coming from Manila. He told me he was “near,” which, in Grindr-speak, apparently means “still on the expressway.” I waited, took a nap, and eventually he arrived. We had dinner downstairs, where I learned intimate details about Andrew’s messy situationship, his trauma, and people exploiting his kindness—all over lasagna and iced tea, naturally. Bonding through carbs is always a vibe.

Dinner, Drugs, and Unsolicited T-Shirts

Later, A and J popped in. Surprise: they all knew each other! Andrew even handed out souvenir T-shirts like Oprah, and in return, A and J paid for dinner. (Balance restored.) Dinner was at this random restaurant with stairs and air conditioning set to cryogenic freeze. Topics included mutual friends who destroyed their lives via drugs—a real buzzkill over salad, but OK.

The Beach Drink Saga and Grindr Drama 2.0

The night didn’t end there. We decided to drink by the beach, so we gathered alcohol, mats, and phone flashlights because, yes, we were about to turn into amateur survivalists for the sake of beach vibes. In the darkness, we talked about sex, business, life—all the things that make drunk conversations so wonderfully pointless.

Enter two local guys who were supposed to join but took forever. So we, in our drunken brilliance, decided to go find them. A and J’s navigational skills were… questionable. We walked under the blazing midnight humidity, me screaming internally, until Google Maps revealed we had overshot the place. When I called it out, J gave the most insincere “my bad” ever. Honestly, at that moment, I wanted to throw myself into the sea.

When we finally met the two boys, things took a turn. J and A got weird. Paranoid. Suddenly, they were sending us secret Viber messages about how we shouldn’t trust these guys. Like we were in a low-budget spy thriller. Apparently, one of the boys had a reputation (don’t they all?), and they were afraid he’d steal our lube and dignity.

Instead of just vibing, we turned into “Operation: Bail Out.” We made excuses, ditched the boys, and took a different route home to avoid being followed like it was a scene from Mission: Improbable: Grindr Edition.

To de-stress, we ended up at a barbecue stall, where I broke my self-imposed ban on mystery meats. While gnawing on chicken intestines, J tried to justify the chaos by claiming he “had a gut feeling.” Yeah, well—so did I. It was called indigestion and social regret.

Day 2 - 01 May 2025

Day 3 - 02 May 2025