It’s Saturday in Las Vegas, the day after Black Friday. Didn’t go shopping. Didn’t shove anyone in a checkout line. Just casino-hopped with my husband like a couple of tired middle-aged tourists who’d rather gamble calories than coupons.
Earlier that day, we walked over to the Sphere. You know, that enormous high-tech eyeball thing that stares into your soul and possibly your browser history. I decided to treat my better half to a little culture — we watched the Wizard of Oz immersive experience. It was trippy in a wholesome way. Everything was glowing, twinkling, and spinning like a childhood fever dream.
He smiled politely, but I knew deep down he would’ve rather been at a psychedelic tie-dye concert yelling “FREE BIRD!” at the ceiling. But he was sweet about it. Drinks were $20, which felt criminal, but hey came in a souvenir cup, so we felt like slightly robbed winners.
That night, my daughter treated us to Enchant — a holiday maze filled with more lights than a Taylor Swift concert and enough artificial snow to confuse your pores. And then, the impossible happened.
I went ice skating.
I know.
Me.
A 53-year-old Filipina grandma. Raised in the asphalted tropics. Grew up knowing more about typhoons than snowflakes.
I slipped a little the moment I stepped on the ice. But determined to check “ice skating” off my must-do-before-I-die list, I kept going. I didn’t quit. My stubbornest determination kicked in. I gripped the railing like my future depended on it and dragged myself around for one full loop. I was part Bambi, part Tita with bad knees, but I did it. Upright. Skating. Technically.
And yes — the cold did bother me anyway.
After that, we walked the maze holding spiked hot cocoa, whispering “is that a real elf or just a teen with a bad attitude?” to each other. And eventually, we made it back to the hotel — the Paris Hotel in Vegas, not the actual Paris, France. (Let’s not get carried away — I’m spontaneous, not rich.)
Hot shower. Fuzzy socks. Quiet moment.
And that’s when my mind floated.
Not back to the rink or the light maze.
But to Bonaire.
I wasn’t expecting that.
We had just been there. Our second port stop during the cruise. And yet here I was, back in Vegas, hair still frizzy from cold dry desert air, already missing the warm island wind and salty peace of that one perfect beach day.
Bonaire is known for world-class scuba diving — a real diver’s paradise. And yes, we’re certified. Certified… and currently in denial about our aging eyeballs. We didn’t dive. Didn’t snorkel. Because these days, we’d need prescription goggles just to tell if that’s a parrotfish or someone’s lost GoPro.
Instead, we took the water taxi to No Name Beach on Klein Bonaire, an uninhabited island just off the coast. It’s considered the most perfect beach on the island — public, protected, and part of Bonaire’s commitment to conservation and sustainable tourism. The sand was white (not powder-soft, more like exfoliating scrub), and the water? Crystal clear. Postcard-level clear.
There are only two small shelters on the beach, and almost no shade — just some determined shrubs and a bold community of iguanas acting like they own the place. Which, honestly, they kind of do. We came with dreams of a lazy nap, but ended up sun-toasted and surrounded by lizards with attitude.
Still — it was worth it. A long walk on warm sand, wide-open space to just breathe, and right at our feet, a big school of fish swirling and playing like we were background extras in Finding Nemo. No snorkel gear. No effort. Just magic.
After we got back to town, we wandered through a small local artisan market. And that’s where I saw it — a ring. Simple, handmade, silver toned. Not flashy. Not shouting for attention. Just quietly existing on a small table next to some bracelets.
And I asked the seller:
“Is this tungsten?”
Because tungsten is one of the hardest metals. But it can also be brittle.
And I thought: our marriage is stronger than that. It bends but doesn’t break.
The ring was $10.
And like any Filipina with a pulse and a childhood near Greenhills (a legendary shopping district in Manila where haggling is a way of life, a sport, and possibly genetic), I leaned in and asked the vendor,
“Can we get it for $8?” She said yes.
My husband just shook his head, amazed I actually got it lower. We laughed. Not because we needed the discount — but because apparently, I can’t turn off my Greenhills reflex, even on a Caribbean island. Bargaining is muscle memory. I probably came out of the womb asking for a better price on the hospital bill.
The thing is — this was our tenth anniversary.
And over the summer, my husband lost his wedding ring while we were camping near Jed Smith.
It slipped off into the river, or the dirt, or the cosmos... or maybe he packed it up with the tent. Who knows.
He didn’t tell me for weeks.
He was scared I’d be mad.
But I just laughed.
Because that ring wasn’t from Tiffany’s. It was from a tiny shop in St. Thomas during our honeymoon.
Not expensive. No velvet box. But it was tied to a memory.
And honestly? That meant more than the gold.
Now here we were, months later, in Bonaire — at a tiny artisan market — finding a new ring.
It wasn’t diamonds.
It wasn’t grand.
But it was a moment. A story. A choice.
Just like the last one.
Just like us.
Because that ring — like this one — was never about status.
It was about saying, again and again: “I choose you.”
We both had grand weddings before.
To other people.
With big ballrooms and tall wedding cakes and all the drama.
Those didn’t last.
This marriage?
We got married in a small, quiet ceremony.
No glitter. No crowd. Just us.
And it stuck.
It still sticks.
Sometimes I wish the kids had been there. But when I think of The Bridges of Madison County, there’s this one line I always remember:
“This kind of certainty comes but once in a lifetime.”
I felt it when I met him.
Like I’d known him before this life.
And even when people told me I shouldn’t hold on, I couldn’t let go.
So maybe it’s a little $8 ring from a tent in Bonaire.
But it means more than any diamond in a velvet box.
Because this love?
It’s earned.
It’s patient.
It’s ridiculous and steady and full of real conversations and loud laughter and grocery lists and stubborn dreams.
And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Except maybe... those prescription snorkel goggles.
Because those things are expensive.
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