The Philippines has just two seasons: raining and not raining. One September, the same month a typhoon wrecked the sea wall at Roxas Boulevard in Manila, a young woman walked into the room I was in and fell into a chair next to me. And I knew that from then on I would have just two seasons as well: before her and after her. Before I even knew her name, I thought: “Come with me. Take me with you.”

In the weeks before we met, I had been trying and failing to navigate my mother’s home country alone. I knew a little Tagalog; I had been here on short visits.

But the Philippines’ storms, its traffic, its poverty, the scrutiny I faced for my pale face, dark hair and oddly Italian last name — all of it drove me to spend my days indoors, feeling overwhelmed, instead of fulfilling the research tasks of the six-month grant I had earned.

My Filipino friends tried to teach me to use the trains and jeepneys (open-air buses). They urged me to practice my Tagalog. “Leave your house for a walk at least,” they exhorted.