It was an ordinary morning at La Paz Public Market in Iloilo City, and just like any other day, it was business as usual at Madge Cafe. As soon as my husband and I entered the iconic coffee shop, we were greeted by a man who was all smiles. He then led us to an empty table and handed us the menu.
That morning was far from ordinary for me, though. While looking at the list of coffee beverages printed on the menu, all I could think of was how much I’d miss drinking coffee. My stomach had been acting up again in the last couple of days, and it was such a hassle that I thought I should probably put an end to my decades-long coffee obsession. But before giving it up, I wanted to savor one last coffee. Since we were already in Iloilo, I decided to have it at Madge Cafe.
Of course, the irony of it all wasn’t lost on me. I’d been dreaming of visiting that cafe for nearly a decade. In fact, when we started planning that very trip many months ago, Madge Cafe was one of the first stops added to our itinerary. Knowing the rich history of the place, which has been around for over 80 years, I saw that visit as a kind of pilgrimage—one I needed to complete to further affirm my faith in my favorite drink.
But what was I to do? I was growing more worried about my health each day, thinking that if I did not stop, I might soon experience the same level of pain that had sent me to the ER earlier that year. I was so afraid of that possibility that as soon as my husband and I agreed on what to get—puro tab-ang (mild black coffee) for me and iced coffee for him—I had to make a disclaimer that I might just have a sip or two of my coffee. I also suggested that we get some bread to soften the blow of the caffeine on my stomach, even though my stomach wasn’t empty to begin with since we’d just had La Paz batchoy and puto at a nearby Netong’s.
I almost cried when our orders arrived, but I tried my best to not let my tears flow, scared of what the people at the other table might think when they saw me, an overly dressed tourist crying while drinking coffee at Madge Cafe. Instead, I offered a moment of silence. I also took a photo of my drink while marveling at how ordinary it looked, from the stone mug it came in to the blackness of the liquid itself—reminiscent of the barako coffee prepared by my late grandmother in the chilly mornings of my childhood in Antipolo.
I don’t know what exactly happened, but that morning at Madge Cafe felt like a full-circle moment. And somehow, I found peace. All of a sudden, I was fine with the idea, even telling myself: If this really were my last coffee ever, so be it.
Comforted by this realization, I picked up the mug and took a sip of the now-cold coffee. Then I took another, completely forgetting about the bread that was also in front of me.
I succeeded at avoiding coffee the rest of the trip. That was a huge surprise, given the abundance of good cafes in the city. I didn’t become bitter, though, even though my stomach didn’t immediately get better despite the divine combination of my holy sacrifice, my newfound dietary discipline, and some doctor-prescribed medication. I even managed to accept the possibility that we might not be able to travel to nearby towns to see old churches because my stomach issues would probably make commuting difficult.
But then I had a burst of motivation, thinking that things should be okay soon because I’d already done my part. It happened while we were at Breakthrough in Villa Arevalo District on the last full day of our trip.
After a hearty meal of sinabawang isda, chicken inasal, and fresh buko juice, I decided that since we were already there, we should at least tick one item from our list: visit the Santo Niño de Arevalo Parish Church. I’d been wanting to marvel at its architectural beauty with my own eyes, alongside four other churches: St. John of Sahagun Parish Church in Tigbauan, San Nicolas de Tolentino Parish Church in Guimbal, Santo Tomas de Villanueva Parish Church in Miagao, and San Joaquin Parish Church in San Joaquin.
We did exactly that. From the restaurant, we took a pedicab to Santo Niño de Arevalo Parish Church, home to the third-oldest image of Santo Niño in the Philippines. Seeing it got me so excited about visiting more old churches—something I continue to be passionate about even though I now identify as agnostic.
But before going to the next one, we first dropped by Avanceña-Camiña Balay nga Bato, where we were served tablea tsokolate and biscuits after the tour.
My stomach stopped feeling weird entirely, and before I knew it, we were on a jeepney to the next church on our list, pumped with adrenaline and optimistic about the adventure waiting for us in the towns we were about to visit.
In the end, we didn’t just complete our mission; we also made a quick stop in Oton, where we saw the Parish of Immaculate Conception. It might not have been part of our list, but we were glad to also see it with our own eyes, given what we’d learned about it and the old church that used to stand just a stone’s throw away from where it is now.
While marveling at the new church’s facade, which is far simpler than its predecessor’s, I couldn’t help but be amazed at that day’s turn of events and how they had been made possible by my willingness to go with the flow.
Still feeling the high from our triumph, we booked a Grab car to take us back to Iloilo City. It was our the last night of our trip, so we treated ourselves to a nice dinner at Muelle Deli and Restaurant while enjoying the view of the river and the provincial capitol.
Here’s what I didn’t know at the time: It would take only 10 days before I’d start drinking coffee again. But the pain would not return. I’d limit my caffeine intake, give up alcohol for good, and take eating healthy more seriously.
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