I’ve arrived in Innsbruck, Austria.
Snow-capped mountains surround me like a painted backdrop except they’re real. The air is crisp in a way that feels clean and ancient at the same time. You breathe differently here. Deeper.
And suddenly, without warning, I’m a child again.
Sitting in front of the television.
Rewatching The Sound of Music.
Again. And again.
It was one of my favorite musicals growing up —alongside Grease (because who didn’t secretly want to be a greaser?) and Lady and the Tramp. Music, movement, romance, rebellion —they all imprinted on me long before I knew they were shaping my imagination.
But The Sound of Music felt bigger.
The hills.
The openness.
The idea that you could sing into the landscape and the landscape would answer back.
Standing here now, surrounded by the Austrian Alps, I understand why that movie felt magical. The scale of it. The freedom of it. The hills here almost demand it —a deep breath and a loud note just to see it echo.
The hills are alive.
And for a moment, so am I in that same uncomplicated way I was as a child —before ambition, before burnout, before overthinking.
Just mountains.
Cold air.
And the quiet urge to sing.
Sometimes travel isn’t about discovering something new.
Sometimes it’s about remembering who you were when you first learned to love wonder.
And honestly, that alone is fun.