Travel is a great teacher.

I recently traveled to Europe with my twin sister and Mom (Dad had business to attend to). It was my first trip and their second, since I was in medical school when they first went there. Aside from attending a wedding, I met with relatives and some old friends and made new ones. I breezed through Amsterdam, Paris, Rome, Milan, Como, Switzerland, Venice and Barcelona in a month’s time. Which made me feel like a contestant in the reality TV show “Amazing Race.”

There were adrenaline-rush moments. I visited the Louvre in Paris, and remembered Dan Brown estimating that it would take five weeks to appreciate the 65,000 art pieces there. Some tourists said two days. I toured it for only 50 minutes before closing time. I had to sprint to catch a glimpse of the Mona Lisa and gawk at some Catholic paintings and gigantic sculptures. I went around St. Peter’s Cathedral in Rome for about 20 minutes. We were always panting away and running to catch our trains (usually after last-minute shopping), hopping on board as the doors closed.

There were also introspective moments. I drove a friend’s Peugeot at high speed and became fascinated with hundreds of fat cows and sheep freely grazing in the lush countryside in the Netherlands. I saw huge houses in the middle of vast patches of land, was told they were farmers’ houses. They also owned the land they tilled, reminding me that Filipino farmers worked the haciendas for ages and the land was still not theirs. Thanks to the plump cows and effective agricultural system, the Netherlands has been enriched by quality milk and cheese. And what happened to Philippine agriculture and our rich natural resources? We’re now importing rice from other Southeast Asian countries!

When Dutch citizens retire, they can depend on their government to provide free health care. In Italy, a cousin’s wife underwent numerous operations, and all were subsidized. These made me wonder how things could be made better back home.

Several times during our trip, I heard stories about personal strength and survival. A Vietnamese-Dutch friend was a newborn baby in a family of 14 when they fled Vietnam. The family had to sacrifice for two years to acquire enough gold bars to buy a boat they could ride to freedom. At one point in the open sea, they ran out of milk for five days, and my friend was near death. They landed in Singapore and stayed there for several months before finally settling in the Netherlands. His father got a business loan from the government and promised to employ other Vietnamese refugees. They strove hard and their eggroll factory became the first in Europe, my friend said.

A Filipino domestic helper in Italy, in her 40s, married and with a young son, told me about how she had lost a lot of weight which led to the removal of a cancerous pancreatic tumor. Her gall bladder had to be removed as well. The good thing was that her hospitalization and doctors’ fees were shouldered by the Italian government.

A middle-aged Cambodian-French cab driver, who drove us from our Paris hotel to the airport, fought back tears as she recounted how her family members were killed in Cambodia. She and an uncle fled to the mountains. Whenever she would ride on her bike, she was careful not to hit a land mine that could blow her up to smithereens. Upon her arrival in Paris, she studied nursing, worked in a hospital for years and then quit to work as a cab driver. She did not know a single French word when she first started out!

At the airport in Italy, I thought that everyone I saw could be a movie star back home. Filipinos would go gaga over the handsome features of the cab drivers, janitors, maintenance personnel, etc. But somehow they became less and less appealing the closer I got to them, and appreciated my countrymen who take a bath at least once daily.

In the middle of our vacation, we were disturbed by the news of two typhoons hitting the country. I read stories and saw pictures on the Inquirer website and watched videos of the twin calamities on Facebook and YouTube. As I basked under the Barcelona sun, my spirit was dampened by thoughts about our suffering countrymen. “Why the Philippines?” I kept asking. A predominantly Catholic country, we are said to be close to Mother Mary’s heart. Hadn’t we suffered enough? But irony of ironies, our pain only made our faith stronger and the more that we put our trust in Him and in our Blessed Mother.

Thousands of miles away from my inundated country, I felt our sense of unity amid adversity. The Sunro Money Exchange counter in Amsterdam had a poster on the window asking for donations for the typhoon victims. The Filipinos I bumped into everywhere in Europe—chefs, waiters, seamen, etc.—knew what happened back home and expressed their deep sympathy and concern. Everyone had received calls from relatives seeking financial assistance.

We had a bumpy flight from Spain. I felt my stomach turning as the plane went down and up and jerked sideways. Massive turbulence? It seemed more like an emergency landing. I became a child once again and squeezed my mom’s hand. In trepidation, I offered a medley of prayers and silently repeated the mantra: “This is not yet my time. This is not yet my time.” When the plane finally landed, all the passengers heaved a loud sigh of relief and gave the pilots a round of applause. I was happy to be alive, but at the same time I imagined how fellow Filipinos felt as they hung on to ropes and to anything for dear life as muddy waters rushed by.

At the end of my amazing race I collected my prize just like in the TV game show: being home. Despite the humidity that greeted me, the noise pollution, the air pollution, the hellish traffic, the many street children running around and now the devastation wrought by the two typhoons, there is joy in being back in one’s own country. Attending Sunday Mass, eating meals with the family, bonding with friends, hearing Tagalog or even Taglish being spoken—the list of things that warm the heart goes on and on.

Now I am pondering how to make our birthday celebration later this month more meaningful. Perhaps we can turn it into a fund-raising occasion. Next I have to prepare myself for the rigors and sleepless nights of hospital residency training. I am also looking forward to voting for the first time (better late than never!) in the 2010 elections. And I am eager to join the monthly marathon at the Fort.

Until my next amazing race, I will relish being home.

(Jamilla Llanes Gomez, 27, is due to begin soon her residency in internal medicine.)