Discovering La Union: The New Summer Hotspot for LaborUnion Festivities
La Union Trip Summary
Day 0: April 29, 2025 - The Manila Misadventure
- Setting the Stage: Crashed at a friend’s in Manila before an early La Union trip with Andrew. Struggled to find a place to stay during peak season.
- Accommodation Hunt: Secured Wychwood for one night, with a vague plan for the rest.
- Pre-Trip Pampering: Hit RWellness Hub with the Manila squad. Highlights: sauna/steam/pools with gorgeous crowd, strong drinks, meh massage. Late-night congee run with overheard frat-boy banter.
- Travel Drama: A’s indecision and J’s bus-booking chaos sparked early morning arguments. A carpool was eventually agreed upon, but not without soap-opera-level tension.
Day 1: April 30, 2025 - Flaky Friends and Grindr Ghosts
- McDonald’s Misery: Waited two hours at Centris McDonald’s for A, who arrived unapologetically late. J, still asleep, caused more drama but joined the carpool.
- Road Trip Chaos: Endured A and J’s endless chatter and unsolicited Baguio plans. Stopped at Robinsons La Union for lunch; J hunted for fancy alcohol.
- Wychwood Woes: Checked into Wychwood Apartment—cute but with a creaky bed and noisy aircon. Andrew arrived late, shared messy situationship drama over dinner.
- Beach Night Fiasco: Planned beach drinks, but A and J’s poor navigation led to a sweaty trek. Met two local guys, only for A and J to get paranoid and ditch them in a spy-thriller-style escape. Ended the night with barbecue and regret.
Day 2: May 1, 2025 - Clean Beach, Dirty Plans
- Clean Beach Breakfast: Ate at Clean Beach (a restaurant, not a description). A and J arrived late, acting like VIPs. Ordered mojitos; food was great, coffee was tragic.
- Plan B Fail: Waterfall plans were canceled by A and J. Retreated to an upgraded Wychwood room with a busted shower, bucket-bathed, and napped.
- Group Fun Flop: Attempted to organize “group fun,” but flaky attendees and ghosting galore derailed it. Braved a bus to Robinsons for supplies alone. A and J bailed on Flotsam plans; ended up at Flotsam alone, disappointed by beer-only menu and more ghosting.
- Midnight Mediocrity: Group fun started at midnight, but fizzled out quickly. Energy tanked, and people left like it was an awkward reunion. A and J made a brief, pointless cameo.
Day 3: May 2, 2025 - The Redemption Arc (Kinda)
- Andrew’s Exit: Woke to Andrew’s 5AM horror-movie-style goodbye. Left alone in the apartment, too drained to chase more drama.
- Packing Struggles: Stuff multiplied; gave leftovers to a Grindr acquaintance. Left Wychwood with mixed feelings.
- Bus Fiasco: No seats at Partas Bus Terminal, so stood for the ride back to Manila. Sat next to a cute couple, endured their PDA, and panic-ate lunch at a stop.
- Back to Reality: Reached Cubao by 5PM, met a friend at Starbucks, and went home exhausted.
Day 0.
April 29, 2025: The Manila Misadventure
I crashed 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:
- The Circle Hostel: ~5k per person. Sounds cozy, but it’s a hike from the beach. Passable, but not ideal.
- Wychwood Apartment: ~2k per person. Practically spitting distance from the surf. Jackpot.
I managed 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 decided 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 spent 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 chaotic. 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 up. 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 Apartment 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, Substances, 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.
May 1, 2025: Clean Beach, Dirty Plans, and the Great Group Fun That Almost Was
Woke up still hungover from yesterday's sins and sunscreen. The plan? Breakfast at Clean Beach. Now, when I first heard "Clean Beach," I thought it was a description—like, “Let’s eat at that clean beach, you know, the one without the tetanus-riddled bottle caps.” But no, surprise! It’s the name of the restaurant. Genius branding. Honestly, good for them.
Call time was 7am—because vacation apparently means military wake-up hours. Of course, A and J showed up fashionably late because God forbid they miss a moment to make an entrance. They swanned in acting like VIPs who discovered the place (spoiler: they were here yesterday sipping overpriced cocktails like influencers without followers).
They picked a front-row ocean view table, because #aesthetic. Never mind that you could sit closer to the beach if you’re okay eating like a pretzel on a picnic mat. But it’s breakfast, not yoga, so we chose chairs and dignity.
Clean Beach itself was giving... rustic influencer retreat meets city folk fantasy. Native interiors? Check. Organic chairs probably made by someone's lolo? Double check. A menu that whispers, “You’re not in Manila anymore, darling”? Absolutely. It’s that kind of place where if you don’t post about it, did you even go to La Union?
We ordered cocktails because that’s the kind of bad decisions we endorse here. The weather was perfect: just enough sun to feel alive, not enough to cook you. I got a mojito, because mint makes alcoholism cute. The rest of my party? Boring. I longed for my true tribe—the professional drinkers who know how to turn “a few drinks” into an entire subplot.
Around us, the usual suspects: sunburnt tourists pretending the UV index doesn’t exist, couples doing synchronized selfies, and that one guy filming a TikTok no one asked for. A paramotor zipped above, a.k.a. a human drone with a giant electric fan strapped to his ass. Peak adventure tourism.
Now, today's original plan was to visit waterfalls. I wasn’t thrilled but I’m a team player (sometimes). But A and J, in their consistent spirit of spontaneity and chaos, decided to cancel last minute. Why? I don’t even remember. I mentally unsubscribed from their drama. My only response was, “Cool. I’m going back to bed.”
Our breakfast arrived. Honestly, it was the best thing about my mood swing. Kaya toast? Chef’s kiss. The coffee? Tasted like regrets and burnt earth. Adding sugar somehow made it worse—dark magic, truly. The rest of the meal was solid though: bacon, sausage, veggies pretending to be healthy. It fed both my hunger and my apathy.
Before leaving, I spotted a few familiar faces—people I met through, let’s say, non-traditional gatherings (wink). Said the usual hi-hello because I’m polite, then fled. I was too tired to recount our previous shared events.
Back at Wychwood, a miracle happened: the upgraded room was ready. Finally, something went right. Two bedrooms, a sitting area, a kitchen—you’d think we were hosting a Netflix cooking show and an afterparty. The only issue was the busted shower, so we bathed the old-school way: bucket and ladle. Rustic charm, right?
I moved our stuff, took another shower because it was hot (again), and passed out. I woke up to Andrew knocking like he was auditioning for The Shining. He loved the new room. We even agreed: one room to sleep, one room to... entertain.
The Group Fun (aka Herding Cats in Heat)
Now let’s talk about the supposed "group fun" I planned. Oh, boy. Getting people together for this was like assembling the Avengers, if the Avengers were flakey gays with commitment issues and unreliable data. Everyone had “plans” or “schedules” or just the audacity to ghost.
Even A and J backed out—because of course they did. Still, I pushed on like a horny hero with a dream. Andrew was down, bless him, so I went full logistics queen. The only problem? No supplies. And because we were practically in the jungle, I needed a ride to civilization. I texted A and J again—crickets. So, what did I do? I braved the public bus system with my pride in one hand and a shopping list in the other.
Made it to Robinsons like a survivor in a post-apocalyptic movie and bought everything we needed. Alone. Like a champ. I came back loaded with groceries and zero help—A was literally napping when I returned. Amazing. Andrew and I made RPGs (Red Horse + Pineapple + Gin = good choices, bad decisions). A left again before we could finish. “Dinner first,” he said. Priorities.
Around 5pm, a couple of new guys came by. I thought they were here to party. Nope. Just wanted to “hang out.” Yawn.
By 6pm, J and A returned, and—surprise again!—they weren’t going to Flotsam after all. New plan: Kabsat. Honestly, their “plans” had more plot twists than a telenovela. I told them I’d go to Flotsam alone to reserve our spot. Spoiler: they never came.
Flotsam: The Flake Fiesta
Flotsam was... artsy. Think “beach hut with feelings.” I scored a ground table near the DJ because all the good ones were taken by early birds and actual planners. The vibe? Boho chic meets sweaty rave.
But here’s the thing—only beer. No mojitos. No cocktails. Just foamy yellow sadness in a bottle. I waited an hour before the two “just hanging out” guys showed up again asking where everyone else was. Group chat says: they bailed. No Flotsam. Off to Hara instead.
At that point, I was done. Not annoyed—furious. You make all the effort, lay the groundwork, and what do you get? Flakes. At least tell me you’re not coming. At least pretend to be considerate. But no. Ghosting was the theme of the day.
So, I turned my rage into detachment, drank what was available, and enjoyed what I could. At 10pm, I left Flotsam and returned to our room. The group fun, small as it was, finally commenced.
The Midnight Group “Fun” (If You Can Call It That)
It was supposed to start at 10pm. Keyword: supposed to. But of course, in true La Union fashion, the provincial boys took that as a soft suggestion rather than an actual schedule. Apparently, punctuality is just a myth down here—like unicorns, or guys who actually read the group chat.
I spent the entire evening playing Human Grab Driver, collecting these elusive creatures from various locations. Every time I sat down, someone new messaged, “Where u?”—like I was the lost one. Meanwhile, Andrew was left in the room entertaining the early birds who, bless them, had nothing better to do.
Now, by the time midnight rolled around (a full two hours after the agreed call time), we finally opened the dark room and kicked off what was supposed to be the “group fun.” And yes, it started out promising—kinky vibes, anticipation in the air, shadows moving like we were filming a very low-budget remake of Eyes Wide Shut.
But after the first round, the energy plummeted faster than my expectations. Some of the guys basically clocked out—physically present but emotionally already booking a tricycle home. They just lay there like “download failed” versions of themselves. I kept waiting for a second wind, a resurgence, a pulse... but no. Apparently, stamina was not on the packing list for this trip.
At that point, I surrendered to the mediocrity. We moved from “group fun” to “group chat,” sitting in the living room talking about nothing until one by one, people left like it was an awkward family reunion. Even Andrew vanished into the night and didn’t return until the sun came up—hopefully having found a better party or at least a functioning second rounder.
Somewhere in between, A and J made a cameo appearance. For what reason? No clue. Probably just wanted to check if the disappointment was real (spoiler alert: it was). They didn’t stay long, and I didn’t bother asking questions.
Eventually, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and accepted the only climax of the night: sleep.
Absolutely! Here's your story rewritten with a sharper, more sarcastic and funny tone, while enhancing the storytelling and emotional beats. I've also cleaned up the flow and expanded on certain moments for more punch:
Day 3.
May 2, 2025: The Redemption Arc (Kinda)
I woke up this morning to a great mystery: Andrew had vanished. But not without a dramatic farewell. Apparently, he did say goodbye… but unfortunately, it was 5AM, I was half-asleep, and he decided that tapping my leg like a demon in a horror movie was the most effective method.
Picture this: I’m lying on the couch, clinging to whatever's left of my dignity, when something starts poking me. I open my eyes and there’s this shadowy human-shaped figure looming over me. Naturally, I scream like I’m being exorcised. Andrew jumps. I jump. We both scream. It’s chaos. Then we laugh like it’s all normal. Because nothing says friendship like mutual sleep-deprived panic.
He had to leave early for some mysterious commitment, probably involving people who actually show up on time. I, on the other hand, was left alone in our massive apartment fortress like the last survivor of a zombie apocalypse. I briefly thought about inviting new guys over—but honestly, I was too emotionally drained and had to pack. Plus, I didn’t want to risk another ghosting session in real life.
The morning light peeked through the window. Outside, the beach was calm, like it hadn’t just witnessed a weekend full of misfired orgies, flaky guests, and existential crises. The La Union energy remained the same: peaceful, unfazed, and looking like it didn’t give a single damn about my personal drama. Respect.
I considered messaging A and J—but let’s be real, it was 9AM, and I’m sure they were still curled up in bed dreaming of their next flaky decision. I decided to quietly ghost them for a change.
Now came the real challenge: packing. My stuff had multiplied like gremlins overnight. Fortunately, the universe (read: Grindr) sent me a savior. A friendly acquaintance messaged me and I immediately thought, “Jackpot.” I turned into Santa Claus and handed him a bag full of random leftovers I couldn’t carry—basically a grocery haul with a side of desperation. He got some snacks, random essentials, and maybe a mild sense of regret.
We both left the apartment together. I gave one last look at that giant room I never truly got to enjoy because I was too busy fixing disasters and chasing ghosts. Note to self: if I ever return, book the same place—minus the drama. With my bag dragging behind me and memories (some cute, mostly cringe) weighing heavier than my luggage, I left Wychwood.
After walking my new friend to his hotel, I stood by the road to wait for a bus. Spoiler: there were none. Every bus that passed was packed like a can of emotional sardines. So I waved down a tricycle and headed to the actual Partas Bus Terminal, thinking surely I’d get a seat there. Wrong again. The place was just a slightly more organized chaos with numbers and hopeful people clinging to queue slips like lottery tickets.
Then came the announcement: "Anyone willing to stand?" And I, a proud child of poor decisions, said: “Screw it. Let’s go.” I shoved my way into the human Tetris game that was the bus, got pushed all the way to the back, and that’s where I saw him. This gorgeous chinito guy—slim, wearing glasses, and radiating “hot nerd who reads poetry at night” energy. He was with his girlfriend, of course, because the universe loves irony.
They were adorable—disgustingly so—and I ended up seated right next to them, side-eyeing their romance the entire ride like I was watching a K-drama I didn’t audition for. It was both comforting and mildly infuriating. But hey, it made the trip more tolerable.
The journey back to Manila was otherwise uneventful, except for the lunch stop where I panic-ate squid and chicken liver in three minutes flat, terrified the bus would leave without me. Spoiler: it didn’t.
We got to Cubao by 5PM. I dragged myself onto a jeepney to meet another friend at Starbucks along Araneta Ave. We chatted briefly, and by then I was operating purely on willpower and caffeine fumes. So I did the adult thing and went home to cry in the shower—or nap, depending on the mood.
Post-La Union Reflection
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from this whole circus, it’s this: choose your travel people wisely. No matter how cute, funny, or convenient they seem—make sure they’re the type who won’t bail at the first sign of inconvenience or another shinier option.
It’s a give-and-take situation. And you deserve people who actually give, not just take selfies and disappear. Time is precious. And so is your sanity.
Lesson learned… until the next disaster.
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