The Sight at the Top of the Steps

There are moments in life when you do not realize you are standing at the edge of becoming someone new. For me, that moment started with a plane ticket to Europe.

At the time, Luke and I were going through one of those emotionally strange seasons where grief and excitement exist together. We had recently lost our dog, and home felt heavy in a way that is difficult to explain unless you have lived it. Every room carried reminders. Every routine felt different. And yet, at the same time, we were preparing for something we had dreamed about for years: our first trip to Europe.

The original purpose of the trip was simple. A close family friend was stationed in a small town in Germany, and before their deployment ended, we promised we would come visit. We planned the trip around Oktoberfest, added a few cities, and figured we would see a little bit of Europe while we were there. I had no idea the trip would completely change the way I saw the world.

Even getting there felt like an adventure. After landing in Frankfurt, we were determined not to spend money on an expensive taxi. We had convinced ourselves we were seasoned international travelers despite having absolutely no idea what we were doing. That confidence lasted about twenty minutes. At one point, we were dragging luggage through parking structures and near barriers, trying to locate an Uber pickup area that may or may not have existed. Looking back, it was honestly like a comedy sketch. Eventually, exhausted and defeated, we climbed into a taxi.

The driver immediately started pointing out landmarks, explaining different parts of the city, asking where we were from, and welcoming us to Germany. Somewhere during that drive, I realized something important: travel was not only about landmarks and famous attractions. It was also about tiny human moments. Conversations. Unexpected kindness. The stories that happen in between the plans.

Once we reunited with our friends, the trip began unfolding in ways I never expected. Germany felt both foreign and strangely comfortable at the same time. We wandered little streets, grabbed kebabs from local shops, crossed borders casually for meals, and learned quickly that Europeans approached life differently. People lingered. Meals lasted longer. Public spaces felt alive. There was less rushing and more experiencing.

Then came Oktoberfest. We had absolutely no reservations. No carefully organized itinerary. Just optimism and a willingness to figure it out. And somehow, that became part of the magic.

We squeezed into crowded beer tents surrounded by strangers singing songs we did not know. Massive pretzels and overflowing steins moved across tables while entire groups of people locked arms like lifelong friends. It was loud and chaotic and joyful in a way that felt impossible not to get swept into.

But as incredible as Germany was, Prague changed something in me.

I can still picture the exact moment. We had taken the subway into Old Town after eating one of the richest plates of goulash I had ever tasted. As we climbed the stairs from underground, I looked up and froze. There, directly in front of me, stood this massive historic church rising into the sky. I remember physically stopping on the steps. It is hard to explain what hit me in that moment. It was awe, but it was also something deeper than that.

Suddenly, history no longer lived inside textbooks or movies or photographs. It was real. It was towering over me. People had stood in this exact place hundreds of years before I ever existed. I felt tears welling in my eyes before I even understood why. Everything around me suddenly felt bigger than the life I had always known.

The streets of Prague seemed almost unreal. The astronomical clock. The castle overlooking the city. The musicians playing in the square. Buildings older than my entire country. Every corner felt layered with stories and time and resilience. For the first time in my life, I truly understood why people say travel changes you.

As the trip continued, that feeling followed me everywhere. In Budapest, ruin bars, filled with mismatched furniture and history layered into the walls. In Salzburg beer halls, Luke somehow carried on an entire “conversation” with a man named Harry despite neither of them understanding the other’s language. In quiet car rides, watching landscapes roll past the window while realizing how much existed beyond my little corner of California.

When we finally came home, I remember feeling different. Not in some dramatic movie kind of way. Just… expanded.

The grief we carried into Europe had softened. The world no longer felt so small. I had discovered something inside myself that wanted to keep exploring, keep learning, keep stepping into unfamiliar places.

And now, every time I help someone plan their first international trip, I think back to that version of myself standing at the top of those Prague subway stairs, staring up at a church with tears in my eyes because the world had suddenly opened wider than I ever imagined.

That was the trip that changed everything for me. And I think a part of my heart has been wandering ever since.

Together we trek.