On my first trip to London, the first person who texted me after the plane landed was Ricky Lo. “Where are you? Are you here already?” he asked. He had traveled on an earlier flight.
I kept him posted as I took the tube from Heathrow and as I navigated the streets while dragging my suitcase. “Ingat ka,” he messaged.
When he found out I was already at the hotel, he texted again, asking for my room number. Within minutes, he was at my door. “I brought you bread,” he said. “Baka gutom ka.”
Here was this veteran journalist—no, a legend—standing in front of me with a bag of bread because he was worried I might be hungry. Then he handed me a Hop-On Hop-Off bus ticket…
Keep on reading: Remembering Ricky Lo, my only ‘tito’ in journalism