It's been eight years, and I still remember the rich, expensive taste of Asian delicacies, with scent of fine spices and aromas that made your mouth slowly drip, like a leaky faucet. The shimmering look of the glaze that illuminated the sweet tasting ham, and the warmth it felt overwhelmed me as the food slowly slid down my throat and into my stomach. Although I was too young to realize this, the luck of being fed was enough to make anyone content. It might even be said that compared to some, I was lucky. Walking down the culinary streets of Manila, Philippines, I not only realized the island foods that were displayed all around, but also the poor, the beggars, the homeless, and the children. Children who limped slowly as if they carried weights behind their backs, their eyes teary from the stabbing pains they had not only in their stomachs but certainly in their hearts, lips so pale they almost matched the white of their eyes, clothes that have never been washed, and moans that seemingly followed me throughout my fine dining experience. Though young and inexperienced with the real world, I had many thoughts of what was going on. It not only left me in question, but also in sadness.
             I remember the restaurant, surrounded by windows that furnished all around as walls, tables that were elaborately decorated, fine China that colored the table, and soft oriental music that played so smoothly in my ears, like a lullaby being sung to an infant . As the family and I sat down, I had a great view of what was going on in the streets. I tried very hard to concentrate on what to order, but the simple thoughts of the little kids, kids that I should be playing with in the school grounds and the neighborhood, desperately scattering to gather trashed food to eat for the day. I finally ordered, and immediately, the food was served. I enjoyed my meal so much that the poor children slipped off my mind. After I finished my meal, I deci...