If I won two plane tickets—just two—I wouldn’t spend hours debating where to go. I already know. My heart would answer before my mouth could. The Philippines and Norway. Not because they’re trendy or picture-perfect, but because they are two places that hold the deepest parts of me and the man I love. If I were to choose where to go, it would be simple: one flight to where I began, and one to where Jan did.
The Philippines, my homeland, is not just a place—it’s a collection of sounds and smells, wounds and wonder. It is the humid air pressing against my cheeks, the chaos of tricycles zigzagging through sleepy towns, the scent of garlic rice at sunrise. It’s my mother’s quiet voice over coffee. It’s the sight of my younger self standing on dusty roads, looking up at the sky and dreaming of somewhere far away, never knowing that life would actually take me there.
And yet now that I am far—living the dream I once whispered into night skies—my longing always circles back to the place I once couldn’t wait to leave. Isn’t it strange how home has a way of pulling you back, not because you’ve failed, but because some pieces of you were never meant to be carried away?
If I could return, I’d walk barefoot in Awihao again. I’d visit the graves of those who left too soon. I’d hug my brother and mother longer. I’d listen better to the silence that only makes sense when you’re surrounded by the familiar. That’s what the Philippines is for me now: not a destination, but a reunion. A sacred kind of remembering.
**And Norway—**oh, Norway. I’ve never been. But through Jan, I’ve glimpsed it. Through the way he loves calmly, listens fully, and keeps the cold out with the warmth of quiet presence. He doesn’t often speak of his childhood, but when he does, it always sounds like stillness and snow.
I want to see it with him—not as a tourist, but as someone who wants to know him better. I want to feel the softness of his memories. I want to walk in his winter and understand how it shaped the steady calm that I lean on during my storms. I want to see the lake he used to pass by on his way to school, the street where he and his mom used to hike, the kitchen where his mother made meals that still live in his memory. I want to meet the boy he once was before he became the man who now shares my life.
And maybe that’s the kind of journey I crave now. Not one filled with bucket-list thrills or Instagram backdrops, but one that feels like a conversation between who we were and who we’ve become.
When we travel, it’s often to get away from something. But if I could go anywhere, I’d travel to go back. To go deeper. To understand—not just the world, but each other.
Two tickets. Two hearts. Two homes.
One, mine. One, his.
There’s something sacred about returning to the land that raised you. But there’s something equally beautiful about being invited into the land that raised someone you love. That kind of travel isn’t flashy. It doesn’t come with fancy itineraries or big reveals. But it holds the kind of quiet magic that stays with you far longer than souvenirs ever could.
Because at the end of the day, maybe we don’t just want to see new places. Maybe we want to be understood. To be known in the landscapes that built us. To look at the person we love and say, “This is where I come from,” and then watch them see you with softer, fuller eyes.
So yes, if I had two tickets—just two—I’d go home. And then I’d go to Jan’s.
Because love isn’t just about where you’re going. It’s about walking with someone through where you’ve been.
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