Blame it on the high, polished ceilings. The swish of silken gowns. Or the tinkle of a grand piano and spoons on porcelain cups. Whatever the reason, to step into The Manila Hotel is to slip into another era. An age of debutantes and balls smoking rooms and telegrams. A time when passenger ships glided in from the Pacific Ocean and disgorged traders, soldiers and women in hats and long dresses. When horse-drawn carriages ferried guests from the port to the green-roofed, white hotel presiding over Manila Bay.

