There are days on the campaign trail when, as you approach a place, you can't help but wonder:
Will anyone even come out?
Will anyone still hold up a red balloon?
Will anyone still offer flowers?
Because the welcome isn't always guaranteed.
Especially in places that aren't your stronghold, areas they call "territory of the other side."
And today, we were headed to Barangay San Nicolas, Balas, and Sitio Macabacle in San Francisco, places where, to be honest, you wouldn't really expect such an embrace.
But like so many chapters of this journey, our expectations were wrong.
As the first vehicles arrived in San Nicolas, it seemed quiet at first.
Just a few kids peeking out from windows.
A handful of shops open.
But the moment the campaign jingle played on the first speaker, people began to come out one by one.
As if they were called not by the radio but by their hearts.
Children with red ribbons.
Mothers fanning themselves with fans printed with Mayor's face.
Elderly folks, slower on their feet but not missing the chance to shake Mayor Andy's hand.
One grandmother said:
"I've been waiting so long for him. I may not see him much on Facebook, but here in my heart, I know him."
Along with those words, she offered a garland lei made from roses, santan, and gumamela, carefully sewn together, wiped clean before placing it on him.
At every corner of the barangay, people waited.
There were snacks laid out on tables.
One woman handed Mayor fried duck.
"Mayor, this is all we have, but it's from the heart."
But the surprises in Balas didn't end there.
As we continued the house-to-house, one man set off DIY confetti, he'd cut up old magazines into bits, stuffed them into a small plastic bag, and threw them in the air while shouting:
"Long live Mayor Andy!"
Mayor laughed and applauded not at the fanciness of the confetti, but at that simple dedication.
"Amazing! You even made confetti!" he chuckled.
And before we even left that corner, another man came up wearing a mask of Mayor's face.
Literally! he had cut out Mayor's photo, colored it in, poked holes for the eyes, and tied it with string.
As he got closer to the real Mayor, he raised Mayor's own hand in the air like a champion.
Mayor doubled over laughing, holding his belly:
"Thank you, thank you! You made all my tiredness disappear!"
It felt like a fiesta, but without a band.
The only music was the unending chant:
"Andy! Andy! Bring back the red!"
A woman even came forward holding ice cream.
Yes, ice cream.
We didn't even know why, but as she handed it to Mayor, she smiled and said:
"I know you're tired. I just wanted to sweeten your day."
She laughed as she made sure to get a photo with him.
One scene i'll never forget was a woman who seemed to have come straight from work.
"Mayor, even if I lose my job, I just want to show you my support!"
Mayor fell silent for a moment. He took her hand gently and said:
"Please don't sacrifice your job. Your support like this, it's already more than enough."
But in her eyes, it was clear, she hadn't done it for attention. She did it because it was true.
As Mayor Andy continued going house-to-house, a family who'd clearly been waiting approached.
They brought something you wouldn't expect to see at a campaign, an old framed photograph.
The color was faded, obviously years old, but the smiles in it were still clear.
Mayor was in that picture, looking younger, maybe slimmer, but with the same caring smile.
"Mayor, please sign this. So we'll always have a memory. Because you're not just a politician to us—you're part of our family,"
said the elderly man holding the photo.
Mayor nodded silently, stepped closer, and carefully signed the bottom of the frame. His eyes seemed to drift back to that time.
"This must've been the 2015 campaign," he said softly. "But you're still here even now..."
After that, some teens came over not for selfies, but asking him to sign their bikes and motorbikes.
One by one they lined up handlebars and helmets.
"Mayor, right here on the gas tank..."
"Mine, on the side mirror..."
"Me, on this sticker..."
And with every signature, it wasn't just ink being left behind.
It was a memory of a day when the leader they once only saw from afar became part of their own story.
—
When we reached San Francisco, the car hadn't even fully stopped yet but you could already see the crowd.
It felt like they'd been waiting for a festival. Eyes were eager.
Hands ready to reach out.
Hearts beating in unison.
Our motorcade could barely move forward.
With every step Mayor took, someone handed him flowers.
As he approached the crowd, people hung garland leis over him crafted from all kinds of flowers: roses, santan, bougainvillea, even gumamela from their own gardens.
Every single one offered.
Every single one placed with care.
Inside the car it looked like a little storehouse of love, bags of bread, bags of puto, bottles of water, drinks in plastic, styro boxes of pancit, banana cue wrapped in banana leaves.
All given with smiling faces saying:
"For Mayor."
You couldn't help but stop.
Look up at the sky.
Whisper to yourself:
"Aside from him, who else has been loved like this?"
This wasn't just support.
It was devotion.
Amid all the cheerful chaos, there was one woman standing quietly to the side.
She didn't shout.
Didn't try to push forward.
But when Mayor got close enough, she slowly stepped up and handed him a rosary.
There was a peaceful smile on her face.
"Mayor," she said, "I can't always be there with you. But with this rosary, you'll be in my prayers every day."
Mayor nodded, quietly took the rosary, and gently kissed it before tucking it into the pocket of his polo, close to his heart.
And from somewhere in the crowd, a man's voice rose:
"Mayor! San Francisco loves you! We won't let you down!"
Mayor turned to him, and then to all the people around a brief look filled with gratitude, with promise, and with faith.