I never quite understood the gravity of Paquiao's boxing matches until today.

After bumping into Kuya at church this morning, he asked me if I wanted to tag along to watch the Marquez-Pacquiao fight. I've never actually watched any of Paquiao's fights with my full attention, let alone watch it with a room filled with strangers. But I was up for it anyway. I didn't have anything else to do but walk around and get lost in the city (except maybe treat myself to a Karaage Cheese Curry -- again).

So off we went to Rooty Bay, which is 40 minutes north-west off the city. The room was packed with Filos (Aussie for Filipinos). It suddenly felt like I was in the Philippines again, so it was weird having to order food in English when my stomach started to rumble before the fight. By the time the main fight started, none of the seats were vacant. The room was filled over, if not to its capacity -- around 1000 men, women and their children.

It was one of the best experiences of my life. I don't think I've ever felt as one with that many people (just to clarify - I've felt one with other crowds before, just less than 1000). Each blow was met with "OHH!s" and "YEAH!s" that you just knew that these fights could perhaps be the only thing that ties our nation in the midst of diaspora. It is what the children of Filipino migrants grow up with, and eventually learn to love. It is the venue in which Filipinos are reminded that no matter how far they stretch out into the rest of the world, they will always find ways to feel at home.

That we will always, and only, ever find home in each other. Thank you, Manny Pacquiao.