Of childhood cravings, borrowed melodies, photographs, and a world I have yet to see.

At some point during my childhood, I was convinced that happiness could be purchased in the form of a cupcake. Preferably one with an unreasonable amount of icing, enough sugar to concern a dentist, and absolutely no consideration for the consequences that would follow. I loved cupcakes with the sort of devotion normally reserved for grand ambitions and lifelong commitments. Even the occasional toothache failed to discourage me. My reasoning was simple: the cupcake was delicious, the toothache was a problem for later, and later was a country I had no immediate plans to visit. I suppose that was my earliest experience of living dangerously, although my adventures were confined to a bakery.

I have always been a dreamer, but when I was little, my dreams were wonderfully uncomplicated. I wanted sweet things, enjoyable afternoons, and the freedom to spend my time doing whatever seemed interesting. The future was something adults discussed with serious expressions, usually while reminding children to study hard and behave themselves. I was more concerned with whether another cupcake might be available. Then, quite without consulting me, life began changing. Childhood has a peculiar way of disappearing while we are occupied with being children. One day, the greatest disappointment is being told that you cannot have another sweet treat. A few years later, you discover examinations, expectations, responsibilities, and the increasingly complicated business of deciding what sort of person you want to become. Nobody hands you an instruction manual explaining when the transition will begin. You simply wake up one morning and realise that the things which once occupied your entire imagination have been joined by questions you cannot answer quite so easily.

By sixteen, I was beginning to discover that there were entire worlds beyond the small routines I had grown accustomed to, and music was one of them. I cannot remember the precise moment when listening to songs became something more than an occasional pastime. I only know that I gradually developed a habit of surrounding myself with melodies, particularly when I was alone at home or travelling somewhere far enough away for the journey to feel like an adventure. There was something appealing about being left alone in the house with my favourite songs playing. Without conversations to interrupt me or anyone asking what I was doing, I could listen properly. Sometimes I paid attention to the lyrics. Other times, it was the melody that caught my interest. A song could make an ordinary afternoon feel surprisingly significant, even when nothing particularly interesting was happening.

I also discovered that music and long road trips made excellent companions. There is something almost cinematic about sitting beside a window while the scenery changes and a familiar song plays in the background. You begin imagining that you are part of a film, preferably one in which the main character has an interesting future, excellent taste in music, and enough money to travel wherever she pleases. Naturally, I appointed myself the main character. The passing trees became part of the scenery, the distant mountains acquired a certain dramatic importance, and even an ordinary stretch of road could feel like the setting for an adventure. I would watch houses, vehicles, and unfamiliar places appear and disappear beyond the window, wondering about the people who lived there and the destinations I had not yet visited. It was during those journeys that my imagination became particularly ambitious. I wanted to see more, not necessarily because I was unhappy with the places I already knew, but because I was curious about everything that existed beyond them. The world seemed impossibly large, filled with cities, landscapes, buildings, and cultures I had encountered only through books, television, and photographs. And I wanted to experience them for myself.

Around the same time, I discovered another interest that would become rather important to me: photography. I cannot claim that I understood everything about cameras, lighting, composition, or the complicated technical vocabulary that professional photographers seem able to discuss with extraordinary enthusiasm. I simply enjoyed taking pictures. There was something satisfying about choosing a moment and preserving it. A photograph could capture the way sunlight touched a familiar place, the expression on a friend’s face, or an ordinary afternoon that might otherwise disappear into the hundreds of similar afternoons making up our lives. I liked the thought that I could return to those moments simply by looking at an image. Of course, photographs have their limitations. They cannot reproduce every sound, conversation, or feeling associated with a particular day. A picture of a beautiful landscape cannot tell you what the air smelled like or what you were thinking when you pressed the shutter. A photograph of friends laughing may preserve their expressions without explaining the joke. Yet somehow, those little rectangles of captured time possess an extraordinary ability to remind us of things we thought we had forgotten.

Perhaps that is why I became so fond of photography. I was fascinated by the idea that something happening now could become a memory worth revisiting years later. Even the most ordinary scenes seemed to deserve consideration. After all, how could I know which moments would eventually become important? There were photographs of people, places, scenery, and whatever else happened to catch my attention. I had no particularly sophisticated artistic philosophy. Sometimes I simply liked the view. Other times, I wanted proof that I had been somewhere or shared an experience with somebody. And occasionally, I took photographs because I thought something looked pretty, which seems a perfectly respectable reason, if you ask me.

As my interest in photography grew, so did my desire to travel. I began making mental lists of the places I wanted to visit, although my ambitions were considerably larger than my financial resources. This was a minor inconvenience that I preferred not to examine too closely. Dreaming, fortunately, required neither an airline ticket nor a passport stamp. London occupied the first position on my list. I cannot entirely explain why the city fascinated me so much. Perhaps it was the combination of history, architecture, famous landmarks, and the possibility of walking through places I had previously seen only in photographs. Whenever I imagined travelling abroad, London appeared almost immediately. I wanted to see its streets, explore its historical places, and experience the atmosphere of a city whose name seemed to belong to so many stories.

Most particularly, I wanted to visit the Tower of London. There was something intriguing about the idea of standing before a building that had witnessed centuries of British history. I imagined bringing my camera, finding a suitable angle, and taking photographs that would prove I had finally reached a place I had spent years imagining. I could almost picture myself standing there, probably smiling rather excessively, completely unconcerned with how many photographs of the same building a reasonable person ought to take. Knowing me, one photograph would never be enough.

Paris came second, and even the name seemed designed to encourage elaborate daydreaming. I imagined beautiful streets, remarkable architecture, cafés, and the pleasure of wandering through a city whose landmarks had appeared in countless films and photographs. Naturally, the Eiffel Tower was part of the attraction. I wanted to see it with my own eyes rather than through somebody else’s camera lens. I wanted to discover whether the experience of standing beneath such a famous structure would feel different from imagining it while sitting at home. I wondered what it would be like to take photographs there, to walk through unfamiliar streets, and to hear conversations in a language I could not necessarily understand. Perhaps I would get lost. Actually, considering my occasional lack of direction, that possibility seemed rather likely. But even the thought of getting lost somewhere beautiful felt exciting, provided I could eventually find my way back.

It is remarkable how generous the imagination can be when money and practical arrangements are not yet involved. In my daydreams, flights departed conveniently, the weather cooperated, and every destination welcomed me with the sort of scenery normally reserved for travel magazines. There were no exhausting airport queues, misplaced luggage, or complicated questions about accommodation. Just me, my camera, and a world waiting to be explored. Perhaps someday, I told myself. I liked those two words because they left room for possibilities without demanding immediate explanations about how I intended to achieve them. At that stage of my life, I did not know whether I would ever have the opportunity to visit London or Paris. I had no detailed itinerary, no confirmed travel plans, and certainly no guarantee that my circumstances would allow me to explore the places occupying my imagination. But I enjoyed dreaming about them, and I think there is value in allowing ourselves to become curious about things that exist beyond our present reach. Not every dream has to begin with a carefully calculated plan. Sometimes an interest develops because we see a photograph, hear a story, or become fascinated by a place we know very little about. Curiosity comes first. Practical arrangements can follow when circumstances permit.

I have also begun to realise that dreams change as we grow older. The little girl who once considered a cupcake the height of happiness would probably be rather confused by the sixteen-year-old who preferred listening to music and staring thoughtfully through a vehicle window. And that teenager might be equally surprised by the person I am gradually becoming. Yet I suspect there is something connecting all those versions of me. I have always enjoyed discovering things that make ordinary life more interesting. As a child, it was the delicious possibility of another cupcake. At sixteen, it was music and the imaginary adventures accompanying my favourite songs. Later, photography gave me a way to preserve the people and places I encountered. Now, travelling has become another way of imagining what my life might contain.

I do not know how many of these dreams will eventually become reality. Perhaps I will visit London first, just as I have always wanted. Perhaps Paris will surprise me by becoming my first international adventure. Perhaps I will discover destinations I have not even considered yet. There is something pleasant about leaving those possibilities undecided. For now, I am content to keep dreaming, taking photographs, enjoying music, and imagining the places I might visit someday. My camera may not yet contain pictures of the Tower of London or the Eiffel Tower, but the spaces reserved for them are already occupied in my imagination. And if I ever find myself standing in London with a camera in my hands, looking at the Tower I once knew only through photographs, I hope I remember the girl who dreamed of being there. Perhaps I will smile at how far her imagination managed to travel before the rest of her had the opportunity to follow.

I might even celebrate with a cupcake. Although, having learned a little more about consequences since childhood, I shall probably stop at one. Then again, that younger version of me might have a few objections. She never did understand why something so delicious should come with so many restrictions. Perhaps I owe her a little indulgence if I ever make it to London, even if the grown-up me has to pay the bill. After all, if a little girl from Cebu can spend her childhood dreaming about distant cities she has only seen in photographs, perhaps she deserves to stand in one of them someday, holding a camera in one hand and a cupcake in the other, wondering which one she ought to enjoy first.

For the places I have yet to visit, the photographs I have yet to take, and the girl who believes that the world is worth seeing.

— Just Anj