〔 APRIL 1997 〕
We had talked about this trip for so long that it almost felt imaginary, like one of those plans you keep for comfort rather than for action. For years, it lived only in conversations. We would say, this time, we will finally do it. We repeated it often enough that it began to sound believable. And yet, something always intervened. Graduation scattered us into different countries, different time zones, different versions of ourselves. Slowly and quietly, life rearranged us. Before we realized it, we were no longer in the same place, either physically or emotionally. Life moved forward, and we had no choice but to move with it.
When things finally steadied, the timing felt different. Mike had just graduated from De La Salle University with honors, and that milestone made everything feel more urgent, more possible. It was no longer just talk. It felt like a window opening. So we told ourselves, no more postponing. No more "maybe next year." No more tentative group chats that faded after a few days. This time, we would follow through.
We chose Italy for the summer almost impulsively. At that age, bold decisions feel simple. They feel manageable, as if consequences can be sorted out later. Looking back, I realize that our confidence came from youth. We believed that things would work out because they simply had to.
Still, beneath everyone's excitement, I carried a quieter concern. I hesitated more than I admitted. At that time, my money was carefully measured. I had enough for fares, food, and my college expenses. Nothing more. Every expense had to make sense. While they spoke about train rides and coastal views, I found myself calculating conversions in my head. I could not contribute much financially. The only thing I felt certain about was my fluency in English, which would at least help when we needed to speak to locals. That was the quiet truth. Beside their enthusiasm, I felt small, almost undeserving of the same excitement.
At the same time, Mike carried his own unspoken pressure. He was the same age as Ed and me, but he finished later because engineering is a five year course. Now that he had graduated, and with honors at that, the trip felt tied to his achievement. Even if we never said it directly, it became a form of celebration. I think he felt responsible for making it grand, for spending more than necessary, as if the scale of the trip had to match the scale of his milestone. We kept telling him it was not about that. It was not about honoring one person. It was about all of us. About reclaiming something we almost lost to distance and time. We wanted to prove that we could still choose each other.
In reality, the planning reflected that mixture of sincerity and chaos. It was only half serious. There were loose itineraries saved in shared folders, unfinished spreadsheets, and endless messages that led nowhere. Between those plans were jokes, teasing, and random conversations. The boys teased me relentlessly about my hesitation until my resistance slowly softened into laughter. Even so, before I agreed to join the trip, I needed to settle everything in my own life. I made sure every assignment was submitted and every obligation accounted for. I double checked deadlines. I cleared responsibilities. Only when I felt certain that nothing would collapse in my absence did I allow myself to say yes.
And eventually, I did.
Once everything was finally set and packed to the brim, everyone else flew to Heidelberg and spent the night gathered around a barbecue grill. That evening felt like a transition, as if we were standing at the edge of something larger. The air smelled of smoke and sweet sauce, clinging to our clothes and skin. For the first time, the trip felt real. Everyone seemed lighter, freed from routines and expectations. In that softened mood, Jaime introduced us to his first girlfriend. At first, she barely spoke. She smiled politely and stayed close to him, quiet as a mouse. However, as the night stretched on and laughter became easier, she gradually opened up. By the end of the evening, she was laughing the loudest, her voice no longer hesitant. Watching her warm up felt like watching the night itself unfold.
We all stayed in the apartment that night. Blankets were spread across the living room and bedroom floor, and we lay down side by side like a can of sardines. It was cramped, but it felt intimate. At some point in the dark, I woke up and noticed a few of us staring in the same direction. The loudest snorer had claimed the center of the room, unaware of the collective frustration surrounding him. The silence was heavy with irritation, yet it was also ridiculous. It was both funny and exhausting. No one admitted it the next morning, but none of us slept well.
The following day was meant to be simple. We took taxis to Frankfurt to buy the things we had forgotten to pack. It was supposed to be a quick stop before our flight. Instead, our flight was canceled, and the inconvenience stretched into another unplanned night. Fatigue began to settle in. Still, Gabriel, who had recently developed a taste for partying, insisted that we make the most of it. He dragged us to a club whose name I can no longer remember. At that point, we were too tired to argue. We followed more out of surrender than excitement.
The details of that night are blurred in my memory. What remains clear is the morning after. I woke up with a pounding headache that felt both sharp and hollow. One by one, the others emerged from their rooms, squinting at the light. Almost immediately, everyone blamed Gab for the hangover that seemed to attack the entire group. The blame was theatrical, not cruel. It gave us something to laugh about while we groaned and searched for water. In that shared discomfort, there was still warmth. Even our complaints felt collective.
On the plane, exhaustion finally caught up with me. I slept for two straight hours, heavy and unmoving. When Ed tried to wake me, I instinctively smacked him before my eyes were even open. He muttered a soft protest, almost like a cat murmuring under its breath. By the time I was fully awake, we had landed in Naples and were waiting to board a train to Salerno. The realization came slowly. We were finally in Italy.
Even then, my body refused to cooperate. I fell asleep again on the train. Jet lag and a stubborn hangover clung to me, even after I swallowed aspirin without water. My body felt detached, as if it were floating slightly above the seat. Meanwhile, my head throbbed with a strange lightness. The pain wrapped around my skull like tight fabric, pressing from every side. I could sense movement outside the window, but I could not fully absorb it.
It was not until the next day that I saw Italy clearly. Without the haze of exhaustion, the city unfolded differently. The buildings looked sun washed, their colors warmer and more alive than I had imagined. Balconies leaned over narrow streets. Laundry hung between windows, swaying gently in the breeze. The sunlight rested softly on stone pavements, making even worn walls appear tender. For a moment, it felt almost perfect. Yet in certain corners, there was a lingering smell that caught me off guard. I am sensitive to scent, and it grounded me abruptly. Beauty, I realized, is never without its imperfections.
Gradually, we settled into a rhythm. Each morning, we ate breakfast at the hotel before heading out. Some preferred to explore alone, chasing their own curiosities. Others formed small groups, unfolding maps and tracing routes with their fingers. Regardless of where we wandered, the hotel remained our fixed point. It was our agreement. If anyone got lost, we would return there. That simple certainty gave us freedom.
Breakfast, in particular, became a quiet ritual. A cup of coffee to steady the mind. A cornetto, softer and slightly sweeter than a croissant, its layers yielding gently with each bite. In those moments, I felt a familiar comfort. It reminded me of mornings in the Philippines, when bread and coffee were enough to begin the day right. Like pandesal from a nearby bakery, warm and simple, best paired with a hot drink and unhurried conversation.
And slowly, somewhere between the bitterness of the coffee, the warmth of the sunlight, and the steady rhythm of unfamiliar streets, something shifted inside me. The worries I carried from home grew quieter. The numbers in my head faded. In their place was a calm realization.
I was exactly where I needed to be, and I was already loving the vacation.