February 2006. I still remember the feeling in my chest—something between excitement and disbelief—as I prepared for my first-ever trip to Europe. It felt surreal, almost cinematic, like stepping into the pages of the geography books I devoured as a kid. Long before I ever held a passport, I had already traveled the world through those pages.
One of the books that shaped my imagination was A World View, a title I borrowed from the Mintal Public Library so many times that the librarian already knew it was me the moment she saw the checkout card. I would sit there for hours, tracing my fingers across maps, letting my mind drift from the deserts of Africa under impossibly blue skies to the snow-covered landscapes of Scandinavia. I didn’t just read about these places—I inhabited them in my imagination.
During school breaks in fourth grade, my friends and I even turned maps into a game. Dante, Michael, Dalton, and I would flip through the atlas and challenge each other to locate places we’d never heard of. “Biloxi, Mississippi!” someone would shout. “Tallahassee, Florida!” another would counter. We didn’t know it then, but those playful competitions were early sparks of wanderlust—tiny seeds that would eventually grow into a lifelong desire to see the world.
And in February 2006, that desire finally took flight.
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My route wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t even common. I flew from Hong Kong to Vienna via Aeroflot, with a long stopover in Moscow — in the dead of winter. This was a time before iPhones, before Google Maps, before the convenience of digital everything. I carried printed itineraries, handwritten directions, and a small stack of paper maps folded and refolded until the creases nearly tore. Instead of the numeric iterations of phones that are generally used to take photos in recent years, at the time I had my old Pentax digital camera, powered by 6 or 10 or whatever Megapixel that was.
Moscow’s winter greeted me like a slap. The cold was sharp, almost metallic. Even inside the airport, the chill lingered. Passengers wore thick coats, fur hats, and boots that looked like they were built for Arctic expeditions. I felt underdressed and out of place, clutching my jacket — which, I would later learn, was laughably insufficient for European winter.
But the journey had only begun.
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Every first-time international trip has a hero behind the scenes. For me, that hero was Girlie.
Girlie was the reason Vienna became more than a dream. She encouraged me to visit, guided me through the paperwork, and sent the invitation letter that made my entry possible. In the pre-social media era, when communication wasn’t instant and information wasn’t easily searchable, having someone patiently explain each step felt like a blessing.
When I arrived, I didn’t stay in a hotel. I stayed at place of Lily — Girlie’s friend and neighbor — who welcomed me into her home like a friend she knew many years before. She was warm, practical, and generous in the way Filipinos abroad often are. Her apartment became my base, my refuge from the cold, and the place where I learned the rhythms of daily life in Vienna.
Her place was just a few minutes from Hundertwasserhaus, via a walkable tramline atLöwengasse.
By day, the neighborhood feels artsy and slightly whimsical, with colorful facades brightening an otherwise quiet residential stretch where even the small Turkish bar beside Lily’s place seems half‑asleep. At night, the area settles into an even calmer rhythm, the streets dim and peaceful, with the same bar glowing softly but drawing only a trickle of patrons, giving the whole block a subdued, almost village‑like stillness.
Lily’s place felt like a cozy little time capsule, its shelves lined with vinyl records that gave the apartment a warm, analog soul, yet that night we chose to stream RTLradio instead, and as we ate our late‑night snacks, “Another Cup of Coffee” by Mike and the Mechanics drifted through the soft lighting with a serenity that made it feel almost like a Mozart sonata while I settled into the neatly prepared bed.
It was also my first real encounter with the concept of time zones—Vienna sitting a full eight hours behind Hong Kong and Manila—so as I lay there battling jet lag, half-awake and half-dreaming, the quiet European night wrapped around me like a gentle reminder that I was truly far from home.
Waking up to a clear blue sky after that long, disorienting night felt like stepping into a postcard. When I peeked out the door and saw a fresh layer of soft snow blanketing the ground, it felt like a small, quiet miracle, yet utterly delightful.
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Traveling in 2006 meant navigating a thick stack of documents: invitation letters, bank statements, employment certificates, photocopies of everything. It was a test of patience and persistence. But because Girlie and Lily were there, the process felt less intimidating. Their support turned what could have been a stressful ordeal into a manageable, even meaningful, experience.
Looking back, I realize how essential it is to have a friend who believes in you. When you’re young and inexperienced, the world feels enormous. But when someone extends a hand, suddenly the world becomes accessible. That’s what Girlie and Lily did — they made Europe feel possible.
When I finally landed in Vienna from Moscow, the cold hit me like a wall. It wasn’t the gentle, fashionable winter of Hong Kong where people wear scarves more for style than necessity. This was real winter — frigid, biting, unapologetic. People around me wore thick coats, layered scarves, and boots built for snow. I felt intimidated, almost embarrassed, by my thin jacket. Girlie eventually lent me an extra one, saving me from freezing during my first days.
Vienna in February is a study in contrasts: grey skies, grand imperial buildings, and streets that feel like they belong in a historical film. The architecture — baroque, gothic, neoclassical — stood proudly against the winter gloom. Coffee houses glowed with warm light, offering refuge from the cold. Inside, people lingered over pastries and conversations, creating a sense of timelessness.
Vienna wasn’t loud or flashy. It was elegant, dignified, and quietly confident.
With only one week to explore, I moved with a mix of urgency and awe.
Schönbrunn Palace was my first taste of European royalty. Even in winter, with its gardens bare and silent, the palace radiated grandeur. The Hofburg, equally majestic, offered another glimpse into the world of the Habsburgs.
Stephansplatz was unforgettable. Emerging from the U-Bahn and seeing St. Stephen’s Cathedral towering above me felt surreal. Its patterned roof tiles shimmered even under the grey sky. As a member of Singles for Christ, I naturally gravitated toward churches. But I felt a quiet sadness walking into St. Stephen’s. It was beautiful, yes — breathtaking even — but it felt more like a museum than a place of prayer. Tourists snapped photos, voices echoed, and the sacredness felt diluted.
Years later, in Australia, I would see the same trend. Churches becoming venues, museums, or even businesses. One Anglican church in Port Pirie was sold and renamed “Church of Fish and Chips.” It was humorous on the surface, but deeply symbolic of a spiritual shift happening across the Western world.
It made me reflect on the role of faith in modern society — how easily it can fade when not nurtured, how sacred spaces can lose their meaning when community disappears.
I didn’t have the budget for an opera performance, but just standing outside the Vienna State Opera felt like a privilege. The Museum Quarter, with its blend of old and new, hinted at the city’s deep artistic roots.
One of the highlights was our trip to Semmering. It was there that I experienced playing with snow for the first time. I remember stepping onto the powdery ground, laughing like a child, and scooping snow into my hands. We played, took photos, and soaked in the novelty of it all. For someone who grew up in the tropics, snow felt magical.
We also traveled by train from Vienna to Munich — a journey of just a few hours, made easy by Europe’s efficient rail system. Munich greeted us with frigid, cloudy weather. The trees were bare, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching into the sky.
We explored the Rathaus, wandered through the 1972 Olympic venue, and marveled at the Allianz Arena — its unique exterior glowing faintly under the winter light. It was a different kind of beauty: stark, cold, and modern.
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Travel today is unrecognizable compared to 2006. Back then, I relied on printed maps, handwritten notes, and the kindness of strangers. Today, everything fits in your pocket — digital maps, instant translations, online bookings, real-time reviews.
Travel has become easier, but in some ways, less mysterious.
Vienna remains a core memory. It was my gateway to Europe, the moment when childhood imagination met reality. It taught me courage, gratitude, and the importance of community — especially the Filipino kind that shows up for you when you’re far from home.