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Author Beth Day with Philippine Foreign Minister General Carlos P.
Romulo and Manila Hotel General Manager Frans Schutzman in the
lobby of the Manila Hotel, New Year's Eve, 1976.
THE MANILA HOTEL:
The Heart and Memory
of a City
by BETH DAY
Midnight at The Manila Hotel
New Year’s Eve, 1976, a snake-like line of gaily
dressed merrymakers began forming in the spacious lobby
of the new-old Manila Hotel around nine o’clock. As more
and more cars pulled up beneath the handsome wrought-
iron porte cochere at the front entrance to disgorge their
passengers, the line swelled and lengthened until it wound,
like a vast colorful river, from the hotel’s grand entrance,
where slim, brown doormen in immaculate white uni-
forms, caps and gloves helped guests from their cars, past
the graceful row of white columns, across the vast
marble floored lobby and up the steps to the corridor on
the right which leads to the Fiesta Pavilion ballroom.
Before midnight over 1,500 people would pass this
way. Yet, despite the numbers, the crowd was amiable. No
one pushed or shoved or crowded forward. No one seemed
in a hurry to take their seats in the bahroom. There were
muted greetings, cries and hugs of recognition, occasional
bursts of laughter as old friends spied one another, ritual
kisses on each cheek between the women, carefully
sucking their freshly lipsticked mouths inward to avoid
daubing their friends with clown colors.
The atmosphere was nostalgic, dreamy. Curious dark
eyes peered along the hotel’s graceful corridors, noting the
layout of the public rooms. “Do you remember . . .? ” was
the start of many an overheard sentence, although for
some of those present tonight the memories were tinged
with pain.
No tourists, or visitors; these were Manilans. For
many it was their first view of the newly restored old
hotel. Opened briefly to accommodate some of the horde
of VIP guests who had arrived in October for the
International Monetary Fund conference held in the city,
the hotel had closed again to complete the construction
which had been delayed by the 1976 typhoon season.
Now, at the end of December, there were things yet to be
finished. But it had been decided by the management that
the hotel would celebrate New Year’s Eve so that local
families would have an opportunity to sample the beauty
and services of the restored building.
Judging by the line being welcomed at the door by
the restored hotel’s first General Manager, Frans Schutz-
man, it appeared that all Manila had turned out to do just
that. At a closer look, the gathering crowd was composed
of surprisingly diverse age groups. There was the predicta-
ble assortment of young and middle aged couples that
could be expected for any New Year’s revelry : the men in
tuxedos, dark suits or the formal Filipino dress shirts, the
sheer, richly embroidered or pleated barong pilipino; their
wives, hair freshly coiffed, wearing their newest long
gowns. An occasional lady had chosen the native Filipino
mestiza dress, or terno, the counterpart of her husband’s
barong, a sheer embroidered gown with butterfly sleeves
that framed the face.
But amid this adult crowd a scattering of teen agers
could be found, as well as a dozen or more much younger
children: the little girls smiling self-consciously in their
ruffled party dresses and shiny patent Mary Jane slippers;
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the little boys, their black hair ostentatiously slicked down
above their pintsized formal embroidered barong shirts.
There was also a surprising count of gray heads — at
least 20 percent of the assembled crowd could clearly be
labelled septuagenarian.
For the insider, entire families could be spotted:
grandparents, children, grandchildren of such oldtime
familiar Manila families as the Aranetas, Trinidad:, Puyats,
Romeros, Romulos, Gabaldons, Yuchengcos, Cruzes ....
Many of these families would spend the night at the
hotel, taking advantage of the management’s “package”
offer: New Year’s Eve tickets which included the dinner
and floor show, featuring American singing star Dionne
Warwick, in the Fiesta Pavilion ballroom, and then a hotel
guest room for the remainder of the night; with brunch
served the following day in the Champagne Room res-
taurant. Not to be officially opened for business for still
another month, the hotel’s formal dining room was to be
inaugurated by these guests on New Year’ Day, in order
that Mamlans themselves could preview what promised to
be the city ’s most elegant dining room.
The hotel public rooms’ names were familiar ones,
although the position of some of them had changed during
the restoration. “Remember, the Jungle Bar was over there,”
a feminine voice recalled. “That’s where Mike and 1
courted in 1950:” — “And the old Champagne Room — it
was over there near the pool, where the Cafe Hang Hang
shop is now.”
“I hear they serve all the Filipino specialties at the
Hang Hang: adobo, kare-kare. Someone said they even have
puto bumbong. . . ”
“I’m anxious to see the Champagne Room tomorrow.
It’s where the anteroom for the old Fiesta Pavilion used to
be ... . The Pavilion was all open, in those days. You
could hear the waves splash on the seawall when you
danced . . . .”
“Remember how President Quezon used to come
there every few nights, just to dance the tango ? ”
“President Quezon? He was a beautiful dancer,”
agrees a big, still handsome middle-aged woman, dressed in
flowing beige chiffon.
“Conching! ” a friend greets her. It is Miss Conchita
Sunico, Miss Commonwealth of 1935 (the year Quezon
became the Philippine President), now one of Manila’s
best-known hostesses.
Someone recalls the “dark girl” the President often
chose for a partner. “But what about you, Conching? ”
another asks, “You danced with him. ”
“Not the tango,” Conching laughs. “That was Ampa-
ring Karagdag.”
“Remember how we used to kiss behind those
columns? ” Look again at the speaker of this whispered
confession: a woman whose gray hair is swept up into a
formal pompadour. She touches her aging husband’s arm
tenderly; her dark eyes have a merry glint of memory.
The crowd sweeps forward like an amiable river,
greeting one another, sharing memories, commenting on
how the hotel has been changed. Some of the faces appear
romantic, others nostalgic, some simply curious as they
glance at the familiar surroundings, to see what is different.
Their glances are familiar, possessive. These people have all
danced here and loved here before. Many held their wed-
ding receptions in this building. Those who are over forty
can recall when the hotel was the residence for the Japanese
military during the occupation of Manila in the Second
World War.
“Which floor was it, Jorge, where General Mac-
Arthur had his suite? ” a man asks a pink-cheeked oldster,
wearing a beautiful pale blue pleated barong. “Tony thinks
it was on the fifth floor. But I always thought it was the
sixth, where the roof garden used to be. ”
