Right after I graduated from high school in 2006, I went to visit my father in Cebu, Philippines. The plane ride was nearly twenty-two hours long with three strenuous stops, so when we finally arrived at Macktan International Airport, I was excited to get off and see the tropical island my father often described to me over the phone. However, when I stepped outside of the airport I was in for the biggest culture shock of my life.
My sister and I were hurriedly introduced to relatives we had never met before and were suspiciously buckled into a white van that weaved through a city of devastating poverty, crime and corruption. The citizens of Cebu City lived in shacks with detachable tin roofs and cardboard walls. These shacks, which bordered dirty cockroach-infested roads where stray dogs and cats mingled with naked beggars (some of them young, malnourished children), also served as personal shops.
Newspaper boys waded through traffic, waving tabloids in the air with headlines criticizing President Arroyo and other political figureheads. Thieves brushed past them with some unfortunate woman’s jewelry or some ignorant tourist’s backpack. Teenage girls stood at street corners in skimpy dresses, standing next to older men. Students dressed in white and plaid stood nervously next to them, waiting for a jeepney to come to their rescue. A gang fight was in progress in one of the alleyways, while in the middle of the Plaza, a policeman was beating down a boy no older than sixteen. Every so often, we would pass a chain-linked, barbwire fence with a military tank planted behind it. The airport disappeared in the rear view mirror. I knew I was going to be stuck in Cebu for a month.  
When we got to my father’s house, I was relieved that the Spanish-architecture establishment formerly belonged to an army general who was on-duty somewhere in Australia. I felt safe behind the iron fence that blockaded the chaos from our family. My sister and I were hysterical, so my father suggested that we unpack our things and take a nap. I thought this was an excellent idea, for I could wake up and everything could be one, big nightmare. However, this was not so, and when I woke up it was nine o’ clock (it gets pitch dark in the Philippines around four or five) and I was starving.
My father took us out to a Filipino restaurant on top of a mountain peak. I remember that was the exact moment my attitude changed. This open-air Filipino restaurant exposed me to one of the most marvelous sights I had ever seen: the entirety of Cebu City looked like an expansive ocean of glittering light that stretched far beyond the eye. After dinner, he drove us farther up the mountain to a scenic view where multitudes of tourists, artists, photographers, musicians, families and couples congregated to revere the magnificent beauty before them. From that point forward, I fell in love with the Philippines.
Every morning, I woke up to the sound of roosters crowing in the distance near the banana trees and every night, we gathered around a bonfire and made smores as if we were still in America, listening to a nylon guitar being strummed by some faceless neighbor we could never see. Over the course of a month, my father exposed me to the beauty of Cebu. The further away we were from the city, the more paradisiacal the island appeared to me. There were vast, green rice terraces, lavish Taoist temples, lush palm-tree topped mountains, strong pillars of bamboo trees, silent mahogany forests, bountiful farm markets, crystal-clear lagoons, pristine, cascading waterfalls and the soft, powdery white sand beaches that touched the turquoise waters of the Pacific Ocean. Native Filipinos enjoyed the raw, virginal beauty of Cebu’s greatest secrets from their nipa huts, protected from corrupting cities and hordes of tourists. Towards the middle of my stay, we ventured to the island of Bohol and saw the marvel of the Chocolate Hills, the Loboc River, and the Tarsier monkeys. I had already learned a bit of the Tagalog and Cebuano language, and had no intentions of returning back to the United States.
Returning to Cebu, I became immersed in city life and freely socialized with other teenagers through my cousins. One of the most striking characteristics of Cebu was the overall friendliness of its citizens. In the United States, people will only talk to you if they have a reason to talk to you. Nobody will generally approach you and start talking to you. In the Philippines, anybody can approach you to talk about anything and everything. Filipinos are very hospitable and outgoing with a positive, happy-go-lucky air about them. I made at least twenty new friends over a three day span in what would normally take a couple weeks in the States. My sister, who is very sheltered without any friends, became very popular because of her red hair (which stood out like a sore thumb).
One of the biggest social activities in Cebu is clubbing (they call it “disco”). Dancing is a big part of life over there, just as singing. Everybody in the Philippines sings – even the most serious-looking priest or policeman. I was immediately drawn to this life-is-too-short-to-be-serious outlook, and it made me feel like an entirely different person. In the United States, people are so focused over work that they completely forget to enjoy life and appreciate their friends and family. I totally think that human relationships are an important part of life, a crucial part of life – and America is slowly disintegrating socially with an emphasis on business, disappearing family time, and online communication.
I learned the most from my cousins who live in poverty on Ramos Street. While Americans are always asking for more and trying to own the next big thing, Filipinos are happy with what they have and are most appreciative of the smallest, meekest possessions. The real importance, to Filipinos, is the family. From a single month abroad, I felt like my character, philosophies, and aspirations had changed drastically, shaping me into a well-rounded individual. After a tearful goodbye, I landed in Newark International Airport and appreciated New Jersey, let alone America, more than I ever did.
I was thankful to own a car, despite all the problems that came along with it. I was thankful to have a job, when so many Filipinos my age were denied one. Even when I became homeless, I was thankful there was a supportive shelter there to take care of me, when so many Filipinos my age and younger lived on the streets with no help, no clothing, and no food. I was thankful for a stable government encouraging fair laws, representation, and trials, when the Filipino judicial system was corrupt to its core. Most of all, I was thankful for an education – an education that would some day lead me towards making some sort of impact on Filipino social issues, some how. This is what I experienced when I went to an entirely different country – a transformation.