When all this happens to be part of a comfort package of a seventh-floor suite at the Ocean Wing of the Shangri-La Mactan Island Resort & Spa, well, blessed is the weekend, and a Happy Easter to all of you, too!
For one, the guest can imagine that this suite on the penultimate floor, below only the Ocean Club, on the building’s very corner facing the rest of the gallant spread  thus privy to splendiferous bougainvillea cascading down yet close enough to touch  was occupied by a very head of state only weeks back, during that ASEAN shebang.
Maybe his official retinue kept coming to intrude on his privacy, shoving papers up his nose, a pen to sign on many dotted lines, queries as to public time for bilateral one-on-ones and group photo-ops, plus sheaves of reports on matters of state prevailing back home.
No such luck for this leader or that to simply while away the time, pad barefoot past the sliding door, make sure he slides it back into place (as the rooms are climate-controlled for energy conservation), and venture out on the balcony to take in the gorgeous wraparound view.
For a guest who’s more privileged with the freedom of irresponsibility, however, why, he can ask for a bowl of halo-halo as handmaiden to Philippine summer. He may relax on one of the pair of armchairs divided by a glass table, but married together by all of that bright, comforting sun.
And while sipping, munching, pushing the ice away, he can regard that view: the strait ahead, unfurling into deeper blue towards Olango Island; the stretch of white-sand beach curling below, a good seven or so floors down, punctuated by rock grottoes at two points; and gazing directly down past the balcony grill, a large multi-form pool, as inviting as the fringe of shore in turquoise.
Setting the remains of the halo-halo aside, he can pad to the corner with the bougainvillea and take in the spread to the south and west, the gardens of Shang-Mac a lush carpet of foliage around the original main pool, the rock jetty that extends from Cowrie Cove at the end of the beach, the earlier buildings in self-same cream, and the low hills well beyond.
Ah, this is a corner of paradise as viewed from high. And everything seen, even in the distance, becomes part of a privately regarded Eden.
No boredom overtakes one in this sanctuary, for when it becomes too warm outside, one can slide back indoors and watch an NBA game on a Sony Plasma screen in the sala, where a lounging sofa and armchairs are also set, as well as a dining table  all the amenities of domesticity.
The bedroom has its own cornucopia starting with sunlight, plus TV across the foot of the California king, access to the balcony and view, a window to the garden below, another beside the bathtub in the capacious, swanky banyo, again to regard the distant hills, maybe those of Cordova or if one leaned forward to soap a toe, one will know if it’s morning or afternoon in the world outside, but oh what a beautiful life.
Seven floors down is Acqua for breakfast, all postmodern spare amenities but for large glass jars on a bartop filled with dried bivalves. In the Mediterranean, it would be capsicum and all colors of spices. Here in Mactan, center of a diving industry, marine wealth serves as appropriate display.
One can saunter out to the terrace for coffee and eventual buffet, look out to the clear pools where families may still enjoy the yelps of little children. Past the pools is the northern end of the beach, and one crosses past colorful sails of Hobie cats to dip, finally, into the sea.
Ah, ees the life. The water is warm, the surf gentle. Yonder in very blue sky a parasail takes a lucky tourist up for a first experience.
It may be a normal scene for an ordinary start to the summer. But when one turns around, neck-deep in the brine, he smiles because that Ocean Wing of a building is right there, a welcome sight if only because he knows that when he tires of sun and surf and sand he can walk up a bit, press a lift button, and it’s back to enclave edenic  food and coffee and maybe even romance at his wingtips.
I’ve always thought that Shang-Mac is arguably the best of the ritziest resorts in the country. One feels rich and spoiled here, because he knows the amenities are not only luxurious but also homey.
It feels particularly rewarding, when one is down at that beach edged with tropical chaise lounges and umbrellas if you wished for them, to look up and see the balcony, your balcony, awaiting you for the obverse view.
Now you’re down here laving on seawater, or having cappuccino on a table setting upon a rock grotto. And the next minute you can be up there, in seventh heaven with a view, of such a sea azure, such as you knew.
Years ago, I was privileged with nearly the same experience, with family in fact, the three kids still sportively kiddie thus given to yelping voices of delight.
The Ocean Wing didn’t yet stand there, so close to the sea. We’d go down from the original angled wings that housed the main lobby and long walkways in which to appreciate tropical air and splendor of flora, and romp around the large pool with its half-submerged chairs in the wading area. We’d swim a bit to the waterfall for a pounding as imagined massage, wait as the kids ran around again, and again, to partake of the slide back into the pool.
When we tired of chlorine and other bathers we traipsed up the garden paths, played billiards and ping-pong in a recreational pavilion, watched the putting and pitching exercises on the six-hole golf course, or the craft lessons and displays by the walkways leading from the grand airy lobby.
It was the life all right. But even life as excellence of privilege moves on. So that amendments are made and installed, and a five-star spa called Chi is now situated in the grounds, while Cowrie Cove has been modified and extended for enhanced bounty of sundowners or seafood dinner al fresco, by the water’s edge.
The new Ocean Pavilion now stands past Cowrie Cove, connected to it by wooden bridges. It hosts private parties and conferences. The sounds of mirth inside are yet another gesture of acceptance that here in the Philippine South, in Cebu, on Mactan Island, the notion of civilization has gone past the sixes and sevens that are characteristically felt while in the maw of fresh recreational experience.
The irony is not lost on me that while this near-fantasy setting has even seen improvements as to demand company for sharing  high occupancy rates the whole year round notwithstanding  now I am solo to take in all of the offerings.
I can only go back to my room  my designated suite!  and wish for old friends in the Queen City to come share the luxury. And could you please bring a kilo of Cebu lechon, maybe some sinuglao, so we don’t have to step out for pulutan at the old sutukil wet market and cook-it resto center, now brightly lit as part of controversial pre-ASEAN party preparations. And we can partake of my fine whisky in this oracular setting, that can only tell of the future in all of us  were we all smart and wise enough to rise to the top of weekend expectations.
And the following morning, the sea so close still whispers, enjoy it enjoy it enjoy it... So who am I to stave off the bright prospects of happenstance destiny?
Back on the beach, back in the healing waters, back to an inward view of island, I am reminded of Lawrence Durrell’s early poem, "Carol in Corfu," that starts with the line "I per se I..."
Only the sun agrees with me that the prime prize of a day in tropical summer, in such hog-heaven conditions, is beside, or beyond, all knowing.
Why, I can go up to that bougainvillea-wrapped balcony, bring out the laptop, and craft poetry of the first water.
Why, I can be happy here, without you or you or you, and enjoy it enjoy it enjoy it, as long as the view holds promise of infinity.