Park.
I was getting used to the busy traffic when one of those funny bus things stopped beside us, mere inches from the side panel of our car. I directed his attention to the banged up vehicle painted with garish graffiti. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What are those?”
“Those are jeepneys.”
We jerked to a stop, and I was glad I’d tightened my seatbelt. I could have reached out and shaken the hand of a weathered old man in the vehicle. Men, women, children, and grandparents were crammed inside like corn kernels in a can. “Jeepney? What’s a jeepney?”
“After WWII, the Americans left a great many Willys Jeeps behind. The Filipinos revamped and renovated, and arrived at this cheap form of transportation. Cars are expensive, taxis are expensive, but jeepneys are very economical.”
We bumped over a slight rise to see a cluster of low buildings on the left.
Timothy gestured toward the complex. “Over there is one of our famous marketplaces. Vendors sell pearls, jewelry, perfume, gold, wood carvings, shoes, anything you can think of. Good prices. Good bargains. I’d be glad to take you around the place whenever you want to go.”
I could always shop. This odd country might not be for me, but it would be nice to take home a pearl necklace or a pretty blouse for Brianna—and a new one for me. My nieces and nephews always adored gifts, and I should pick up something for Lily. My head buzzed as I thought of all of the presents I could purchase for a song.
A prominent plateau emerged up ahead, imposing sentinels guarding the gate.
Timothy showed his driver’s license, explained we were Americans, and they let us through without any hassle. We drove at a sedate pace through well-manicured grounds, past a plaza with a fountain, and rolled to a stop at the visitor’s center.
As we walked toward a vast stone memorial building, Timothy slowed, moving with reverence. In front of the memorial was a grassy mall surrounded by gray headstones arranged in a circular pattern. All of the tombstones were fashioned in the shape of a cross, every stone in perfect alignment. Planted throughout the grounds, a variety of trees and shrubs created a peaceful atmosphere. I wasn’t the type who fancied historical parks, but this one was different. A person couldn’t help but feel a deep appreciation and respect for the fallen.
“Over 17,000 soldiers from World War II are buried here. Every state’s represented, as well as some of our allies.”
We climbed a short flight of stone stairs, and Timothy pointed out the Great Seal of the Commonwealth of the Philippines etched into the pavement. To the right and left of the seal an inscription read: In proud remembrance of the achievements of her sons and in humble tribute to their sacrifices, this memorial has been erected by the United States of America 1941-1945 . My throat constricted as I took a moment to absorb the meaning of the words.
Swallowing hard, I shielded my eyes from the merciless sun as I searched for a patch of shade. My skin was beginning to scorch under the hot, tropical rays that hammered down with a vengeance.
Timothy glanced at my reddening arms. Cupping my elbow, he guided us toward a covered open-air building. “I apologize. I should have reminded you to bring a hat and some sunscreen.”
“And how is it you’re not burned to a crisp with a name like Flynn?”
Timothy slowed his pace so I wouldn’t have to hurry to keep up. Those long strides could eat up the ground. “My dad’s side originated in Ireland, but my mother was Italian.”
That would explain the thick, dark hair covering his head and bronzed forearms. Irish-Italian was a striking combination. I’d have to take a better look at the portraits of Timothy’s parents.
We ducked under the roofed shelter to find large mosaic maps recounting the battles of the United States Armed Forces in the Pacific, China, India, and Burma. Carved in the floor were the seals of American states and
I was getting used to the busy traffic when one of those funny bus things stopped beside us, mere inches from the side panel of our car. I directed his attention to the banged up vehicle painted with garish graffiti. “I’ve been meaning to ask. What are those?”
“Those are jeepneys.”
We jerked to a stop, and I was glad I’d tightened my seatbelt. I could have reached out and shaken the hand of a weathered old man in the vehicle. Men, women, children, and grandparents were crammed inside like corn kernels in a can. “Jeepney? What’s a jeepney?”
“After WWII, the Americans left a great many Willys Jeeps behind. The Filipinos revamped and renovated, and arrived at this cheap form of transportation. Cars are expensive, taxis are expensive, but jeepneys are very economical.”
We bumped over a slight rise to see a cluster of low buildings on the left.
Timothy gestured toward the complex. “Over there is one of our famous marketplaces. Vendors sell pearls, jewelry, perfume, gold, wood carvings, shoes, anything you can think of. Good prices. Good bargains. I’d be glad to take you around the place whenever you want to go.”
I could always shop. This odd country might not be for me, but it would be nice to take home a pearl necklace or a pretty blouse for Brianna—and a new one for me. My nieces and nephews always adored gifts, and I should pick up something for Lily. My head buzzed as I thought of all of the presents I could purchase for a song.
A prominent plateau emerged up ahead, imposing sentinels guarding the gate.
Timothy showed his driver’s license, explained we were Americans, and they let us through without any hassle. We drove at a sedate pace through well-manicured grounds, past a plaza with a fountain, and rolled to a stop at the visitor’s center.
As we walked toward a vast stone memorial building, Timothy slowed, moving with reverence. In front of the memorial was a grassy mall surrounded by gray headstones arranged in a circular pattern. All of the tombstones were fashioned in the shape of a cross, every stone in perfect alignment. Planted throughout the grounds, a variety of trees and shrubs created a peaceful atmosphere. I wasn’t the type who fancied historical parks, but this one was different. A person couldn’t help but feel a deep appreciation and respect for the fallen.
“Over 17,000 soldiers from World War II are buried here. Every state’s represented, as well as some of our allies.”
We climbed a short flight of stone stairs, and Timothy pointed out the Great Seal of the Commonwealth of the Philippines etched into the pavement. To the right and left of the seal an inscription read: In proud remembrance of the achievements of her sons and in humble tribute to their sacrifices, this memorial has been erected by the United States of America 1941-1945 . My throat constricted as I took a moment to absorb the meaning of the words.
Swallowing hard, I shielded my eyes from the merciless sun as I searched for a patch of shade. My skin was beginning to scorch under the hot, tropical rays that hammered down with a vengeance.
Timothy glanced at my reddening arms. Cupping my elbow, he guided us toward a covered open-air building. “I apologize. I should have reminded you to bring a hat and some sunscreen.”
“And how is it you’re not burned to a crisp with a name like Flynn?”
Timothy slowed his pace so I wouldn’t have to hurry to keep up. Those long strides could eat up the ground. “My dad’s side originated in Ireland, but my mother was Italian.”
That would explain the thick, dark hair covering his head and bronzed forearms. Irish-Italian was a striking combination. I’d have to take a better look at the portraits of Timothy’s parents.
We ducked under the roofed shelter to find large mosaic maps recounting the battles of the United States Armed Forces in the Pacific, China, India, and Burma. Carved in the floor were the seals of American states and
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