(source: http://www.philnews.com/)

It isn't very often that we here at PHILNEWS.COM find ourselves speaking highly about someone or something on our website. And while some of our readers tend to fault us for this, we do realize this "shortcoming" of ours but nonetheless feel that our job is not to wax poetic about the positive things we see, but rather point out the things that need fixing, need improving, or need changing. Using a pushcart classroom, Peñaflorida and volunteers teach reading and writing to children living on the streetsWell, this week we're making an exception to highlight an outstanding Filipino who was chosen by CNN (Cable News Network) as one of the finalists in their CNN Hero of the Year contest. He needs your vote to win. Click on this link to cast your vote online (you can vote more than once).

Efren Peñaflorida, was born and raised in the "squatter areas" of Cavite. Surrounded by gangs, drugs and poverty, Efren could have easily drifted into a life of crime or despair. Instead, this resourceful and determined young man decided to not just lift himself out of the predicament he found himself in, he decided to take along with him other young children in similar situations.

Barely sixteen years old when he started, Efren now 28, runs the Dynamic Teen Company and its "Pushcart Classrooms." These are pushcarts loaded up with books, writing materials, chairs, tables and even a chalkboard, that are wheeled around the slums of the city so children who would otherwise never have the opportunity to get aEfren Peñaflorida's Dynamic Teen Company offers Filipino youth an alternative to gangs through education decent education—and a fair shot at life—can at least learn the basics and maybe, just maybe pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.

And by doing what he and his team of volunteers are doing, Efren Peñaflorida might one day awake the rich and the powerful from their fairytale dream world where Rolex watches and thousand dollar dinners are the norm, and face the stark reality that their Philippines is now a third-world country and it is high-time all Filipinos work together to raise it back up to its rightful place as a proud and respected country among the global family of nations.

I could not recall the exact travel time we did from Zurich to Brussels, but I can remember that we had to regrettably drop-off of our itinerary the city of London, which we really would have loved to visit after Switzerland. When we bought our Globalpass, I thought that we can practically travel to any European city we choose. It was essentially right, but not in a case going to London, for example. We needed to pay more on top of what we paid for the pass in order for both of us to experience bulleting through the undersea English tunnel between mainland Europe and London. We opted out.

It was a rather quiet evening ride inside our TGV train cabin. Only a muted soft-pitch sound of steel wheels grating against to what might be a kinky rail was the occasional nuisance. There was no sightseeing of the countryside that happened in that particular train ride. Remindful of mischievous fireflies fluttering out in the darkness of summer night were those seemingly flickering lights from far villages that we passed by had become our consolation against the night’s black tinted sky.

Soon, we arrived at Brussels station late in the evening. The terminal’s customer service office was the only one open with an employee at the counter talking to couple of passengers, in between them was a glass window. I was a bit surprised at the early absence of activities at the terminal.

I came up and asked if we're in the right station we planned to detrain to one of the three gentlemen busily replacing poster from an advertising board at the station’s concourse wall afterward. Shortly, I went back to my wife who was nearby - smiling, I pulled her close to me and whispered, “We disembarked too early, ha ha! This is not the main station; this is why it is eerily quiet here!” We were two stations shy from the main terminal of Brussels. We continued to find the exit and left the station.

From the ground outside, I could tell the rain-shower had just abated. The light drizzle was above our heads. Several puddle on the street our feet and our hand-carry’s casters had to avoid were like patches of mirror reflecting weak gleam of light from city light posts. It was short-lived though, as the drizzle darts its way down through it, the reflection muddled abruptly.

The east indian restaurant we found nearby was an answer to my late craving and our refuge to our tired feet. While sipping tea and while waiting for our dinner to be served, I pulled out my travel guide and started flipping its pages to find a place to stay. I wanted to find a budget-friendly accommodation yet decent enough to sleep in. I found Les Bluets Hotel. It was close to our modest expectation.

“I have one remaining room available, but can only accept guests until 9:30 in the evening!”, says the lady on the other end of the phone. It was past nine when I checked the local time.

“Well, we’re actually in the middle of our late dinner right now. If you would be so kind to expect us no later than ten in the evening, it will be much appreciated. You see, our train just arrived awhile ago…”

“Not later than ten, then!” she interjected firmly without a perceived willingness on her voice to entertain further any negotiation for the extension I might have.

“Fair enough!” I said to myself. After my exchange of information with her, my wife and myself tried to finish our dinner without much rush, but still mindful of the time.

Soon, we braved the drizzle for the second time and walked out to a close by plaza where several cabs were in their queue ready to take in passengers…

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(continued...) I pulled out the cellphone from my pocket and called Dave.

"Hey, Dave! We just arrived here at Termini! What's your apartment number again? We..." I asked, but was cut with an equally over-eager voice from him.

"Don't worry about it, let me just meet you guys up at Rialto Bridge!" replying with a hint of seemingly concealed grin on his end.

That left me wondering.

After our phone conversation, and while looking at the map we just purchased from a souvenir shop at the terminal in an attempt to find our way to Rialto bridge, my wife and I chose to walk instead of boarding the Vaporetto (water-bus), which at that time was getting heavy with boarding tourists.

(When we met Dave later at Rialto bridge, he explained to me that it’s a lot easier meeting us in a public place such as this famous bridge rather than try our luck in unconventional narrow lanes of Venice. He proved himself right later on.)

We did the right decision to walk.

Except from transient beings, i.e. these wandering tourists - I felt as if I was walking in a place so different from any present-day civilization. The city's ancient elegance to me is beyond description. A moment in time when your eyes get spell-bounded by what it sees, and your tongue fails to process words to describe it. In the end, it is the heavenly sensation I felt that will testify to its impeccable greatness…and my camera, I guess.

We crossed several smaller bridge on our way to Rialto, each offering different views from the other. Vendors and tourist hawkers are everywhere. Some straight-faced, others would offer their traditional greetings: “Buon Giorno!”

I noticed most, if not all, alleys do not have letter signage in them, but only directional arrow pointing to city's main attractions (i.e. Piazza de San Marco).

Though I felt my feet becoming heavy at that point, we continued on, enjoying each view every time we passed by at narrow alleyways snaking over a turquoise canal.

A showcase of quaint and cozy shops spread on both sides of the alley enhanced our enjoyment. We did our occasional stops on arch bridge to take pictures of gondola gliding smoothly through meandering water canal as well. At times, the wife would giggle with enjoyment every time she hears fedora-clad baritone gondoliers sing their hearts out.

Meanwhile, Dave had been at the Rialto bridge way ahead, waiting for us. TO BE CONTINUED.

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COPYRIGHT RESERVED TO THE AUTHOR. PERMISSION REQUIRED TO REPRODUCE.