At exactly 7:00 am,. Camille Reyes unlocked the glass doors of the cafe in downtown Dubai, just a short walk from the towering Burj Khalifa. The air smelled of roasted beans, fresh croissants, and something bittersweet like longing.
Camille, 27 had been working as a barista in the UAE for almost four years. She came from Tagaytay, where she used to help her parents sell fresh vegetables in the public market. After high school, Camille studied hotel and restaurant management but couldn’t find decent work in her hometown. Her diploma sat untouched in a drawer while she took waitressing jobs with minimum pay.
One rainy night, after their family lost half their produce in a storm, her mother quietly said, “Baka kailangan mo na talagang mag-abroad, anak.” The next morning, Camille went to an agency in Manila.
Her first year in Dubai was overwhelming. The city was fast, the heat was brutal, and the loneliness was sharp. Her job as a barista wasn’t just about coffee it was customer service in five languages, memorizing orders under pressure, and standing for ten hours with a smile she had to force some days.
She shared a small room with three other Filipinas in workers apartment. They took turns cooking sinigang, steaming rice in borrowed pots, and crying silently into pillows when homesickness struck hardest.
Still, Camille endured. She sent money home every month. With her help, her father repaired their market stall and her younger brother enrolled in college. Her parents often told her, “Kahit malayo ka, ramdam ka namin araw-araw.”
She found unexpected comfort in the cafe. It became her second home. She memorized the names and coffee preferences of regular customers Mrs. Kapoor and her almond cappuccino, the Moroccan professor who always ordered Americano with honey. She even started learning Arabic greetings to connect better with the locals. But it wasn’t all easy.
During the pandemic, the cafe temporarily closed. Camille spent three months unsure if she’d still have a job. Her savings dwindled. She thought about going home but flights were scarce, and she didn’t want to return empty-handed. Instead, she volunteered in a church based food distribution group, handing out essentials to other OFWs who had lost jobs entirely.
Eventually, the cafe reopened, and Camille was rehired. Her dedication didn’t go unnoticed. A few months later, she was promoted to shift supervisor. It wasn’t a fortune, but was stability and respect.
Camille saved more aggressively. She cut down on line shopping, refused to buy another phone even when hers cracked, and only splurged during remittance days when she sent extra for her brother’s internship and her parent’s medication.
On her fourth year, she finally went home for a short vacation. At NAIA, her mother hugged her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Her father, once so proud and strong, now leaned on her slightly. Her brother smiled and whispered, “Ate, graduate na ako.”
That night, over hot chocolate and laughter, Camille look around their small but cozy home the one her remittances helped rebuild and smiled.
She had spent years serving coffee to strangers, far from family, chasing a dream. Now, the cup was full.
