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To walk through streets of old Vigan is to let spirits of centuries past brush through the senses, like layers of gauzy abel iloko in the breeze.

Each ancient, dilapidated house seems to be whispering, ah, I wish you would have seen me then, in my prime, when the I was not yet so burdened by memories and musty odors and rickety sounds.

 

Some of the buildings look absolutely stooped by the weight of history. Imagine the stories the walls have heard. I'd like to try living in one of those someday.

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