The little Flâneuse journal

The world before the scrolling begins

May 12th, 2026

At 6:49 in the morning, very few people are out. The town is quiet, and I’m walking my dogs along the shore. It’s been a few days since I returned to this old routine. It’s the perfect time of day: no heat, no crowds. The moon is still visible for a little while longer. Everything feels just right.

The sea is unusually calm today. No big waves, no drama—just steady, quiet water that feels almost as if it’s breathing slowly. The sun is still rising from behind the hills, and a line of pelicans glides past in perfect formation, hunting for breakfast. I love the way they never seem to hurry.

There’s a greenish foam along the water’s edge today. I’ve never noticed it before. I don’t know what it means yet, but I want to find out. That’s one of the things I’ve come to love about these morning walks: each day brings something new to learn.

That vivid green foam on the shore is actually a sign of a thriving ocean. It forms when waves churn up organic matter from healthy phytoplankton and algae blooms, releasing pigments that give it its unusual colour. The turtle seen here is a golfina, also known as the olive ridley sea turtle, one of the smallest and most abundant sea turtles in the world. Golfinas are known for their olive-coloured shells and their remarkable mass-nesting events, called arribadas, when thousands of females come ashore at once to lay their eggs. Their presence is another reminder of the rich marine life supported by a healthy coastal ecosystem.

I’ve been dealing with a bacterial infection lately, and my body still feels it. There’s a dull ache that hasn’t completely left. But I’m out here anyway, and honestly, I’m walking farther than I was a few weeks ago. My feet hurt less. Something is slowly returning—some version of myself that moves through the world instead of simply lying still in it.

That’s what the open horizon does for me. When I stand here and look out at the sea, I feel my whole chest expand. It’s not that my problems disappear—it’s that I remember they exist inside something much larger. A small room, a difficult situation, people who sometimes make the world feel narrow… all of that becomes more bearable when I’ve begun my day out here, surrounded by all this space.

I’ve been learning the birds, too, using the Merlin app to record their songs and calls. I can recognise the chachalacas in my garden now. I know which ones return every morning. It’s fascinating to keep learning and to receive this kind of free environmental education. I’ve stopped being startled by what I don’t understand and started meeting it with curiosity instead. That’s the real gift of these walks. Not the exercise, not even the fresh air—it’s the way they open me to the unknown instead of leaving me in bed, scrolling through my phone and getting lost in my own thoughts. Out here, I see things as they are.

A turtle makes its slow way home while pelicans pass in a clean line above the shore. Green foam drifts across the calm sea, adding a strange softness to the still water. Beside me, my dogs trot happily, their easy movement bringing warmth to mine. Each detail feels connected, as if the world has briefly settled into a quiet rhythm where every creature knows exactly where it belongs.

That’s enough. That’s more than enough.
Whales season

February 4th, 2026
```
One with a telescope
to clock the horizon.

Two with four blue eyes
to mirror the sky.

One with a yard of rope
to lasso a tempest.

Two with four grey eyes
to mirror the sky.

One with a heavy heart
to sink for an anchor.

Two with four black eyes
to mirror the sky.

How many sailors to sail a ship?
by Carol Ann Duffy
```
We woke up very early today, which I love. The temperature isn’t too hot, and there’s still a cool breeze, creating a sensation that almost makes it feel like we’re not in the tropics. Yet, when I opened the door, the hot wind rushed in. I quickly put on a blue-striped sweater and white shorts. I wish we had got an earlier start. We met Roland, the owner of Marino San Pancho Restaurant, an experienced sailor. He agreed to take us to Marina La Cruz for fishing and whale-watching. Since it’s whale-watching season, I am excited to see one of the world’s longest migrations.

Every year, one of the most extraordinary natural migrations takes place in the Pacific Ocean. Humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) undertake a journey that spans thousands of kilometers. These marine giants, part of the North Pacific population, follow a highly seasonal migration pattern that connects the frigid, food-rich waters of the north with the warm, tropical breeding grounds of the south. (Schulz, 2025)

I am right on the coast, watching this unique phenomenon unfold at this very moment. Marina Riviera Nayarit at La Cruz de Huanacaxtle is one of the most beautiful marinas. It is also among the largest on the Mexican Pacific. The sky is clear, and the sea is calm. The scenic mountains along the coastline blend into the morning breeze in shades of blue and gray. Subtly impeccable. We boarded the boat, and Roland briefly explained the trip. We will start by watching whales and dolphins, then go fishing. I am as excited as a child going camping for the first time. We sail along the shore, staying quiet. At any moment now, he says, we will hear the whales singing. They are nurturing their babies, and some of them are sleeping.

I chose to put my phone down, realising I could only capture this moment through words—no photos or videos were possible. It’s obvious we’re anxious and obsessed with capturing the moment. We seek the instant gratification of a perfect photograph. Isn’t life a collection of likes and status? The ideal selfie with a whale jumping in the background while you sip a glass of champagne… I’m unsure when we began valuing our success this way, but here, none of that counts.

We simply want to see them and feel their presence as colossal and divine creatures that will rise from the water and gift us a moment of their journey. In a sense, they amplify my existence at this very moment. They affirm my presence on this earth by mirroring my own voyage. Migration is not exclusive to humans; it is part of the life cycle for all species. Isn’t it ironic now that we, as humans, are punished because we migrate? It seems that evolution has come to a halt; instead of exploring opportunities to improve and derive pleasure from our lives, we have now entered a phase of intellectual regression.

A few minutes later, we noticed a large whale resting with her calf nearby, along with another whale in the vicinity. They were all asleep, and gradually, we found ourselves encircled by them. The sea was calm, and the sunlight sparkled like delicate crystal embroidery on the surface. Nearby, a pod of dolphins was leaping and frolicking with other boats’ crews. We also saw several children diving into the water, wearing their lifeguard jackets, to swim alongside the dolphins.

We were all left in awe and speechless. Afterwards, we went fishing, but I didn’t realise that bringing bananas was considered bad luck. According to 18th-century maritime superstitions, bananas on a boat were thought to bring misfortune, sink ships, and attract dangerous spiders. Scientifically, bananas emit ethylene gas that can spoil nearby foods, and their rapid decay meant sailors had to sail quickly, making fishing more challenging. It’s an interesting mixture of history and science explaining why many avoid bananas on boats today. These superstitions suggested that bananas caused ships to sink, ruined fishing luck, and harbored dangerous spiders. And guess what? I was the one who brought the bananas and ate them unknowingly… that day we didn’t catch any fish, though.

We ended our day with a swim at a small beach, where we also jumped beside a large docked catamaran. The seawater was cold but refreshing. I felt alive, energized, and rejuvenated. Since then, I always bring my binoculars on beach walks. I now watch for spouts on the horizon and can spot them. It’s the first time I actively look for others in the sea. It’s no longer just about me, and it’s so soothing to know they are out there.

References
Schulz, N. (2025, October 28). The migration of the North Pacific humpback whale. Ocean.org. https://ocean.org/blog/the-migration-of-the-north-pacific-humpback-whale
2026- The year of the horse

January 9th, 2026

I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Time to die.
— Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), Blade Runner (1982), directed by Ridley Scott

I tend to avoid end-of-year celebrations. Aging has its perks: the older you get, the less you care about social norms, etiquette, or pleasing others. After fifteen years of living in China, I no longer celebrate Christmas. The first year (2007) was indeed the most shocking. I spent Christmas Eve alone in my dorm, eating a tin of salmon and trying to connect with my family using a phone card I had bought just for that day.

My mother was still upset about me leaving home, so her response to my desperate call was not what I expected. She gave me the cold shoulder and a passive-aggressive “Merry Christmas.” I then tried calling one of my grandmothers, who needed a few moments to recognise that it was me calling from China.

“From where? Who is this?” she asked.

After that first year, though, things improved significantly, and I no longer felt that it was important.

I had to learn about other celebrations, such as Chinese New Year. In the years that followed, most of my colleagues would ask, “Where are you escaping to for CNY? Are you staying here? It’s absolutely dreadful with all the fireworks and the crowds.” Few foreigners wanted to spend the cold winter in China; instead, most boasted about escaping to exotic islands or taking long trips across Europe. I, of course, felt anxious.

I didn’t have the money to travel that far. I also needed to send money to support my parents, so I wasn’t part of that select group of expats who could travel anywhere in the world. But hey, I come from what some people call a third-world country, so in the end, yes, I adopted that lifestyle—to experience its supposed “coolness” and to avoid being left behind. I was trying to be a global citizen and, most importantly, to convince myself that I had made it.

Living far from home, I slipped into survival mode. Not being fond of celebrations made it easier to distance myself from others and avoid forming close bonds. I adopted a philosophy that helped me stay focused on work and simply getting by. It wasn’t that the environment was hostile. Chinese people are often perceived as cold or narrow-minded, but that perception tends to fade once you learn the language and really start to communicate. The environment was demanding and challenging, constantly forcing me to think, prioritize, and be resourceful. Only a few years before I left did I begin to enjoy Chinese New Year celebrations with my friends, who were all Chinese. Those celebrations became the highlight of my time there.

I have been back in Mexico for three years now, and it has been a rocky return, mostly because I feel I don’t belong. Making friends isn’t easy, and the people I knew before I left 15 years ago no longer have much in common with me. I’ve met many kind people in town, but most are only visiting. I’m used to this, so I never truly expected it to be different.

These first days of the year feel like the beginning of a science fiction movie: an earthquake shakes Mexico, Venezuela is invaded, and a poet is shot—events unfolding live on screen. I have no certainty about how any of this makes me feel.

Social media and the internet are flooding our minds with information, images, podcasts, opinions, and trolling in real time. We now live in a post-truth era where emotions outweigh facts, trust erodes, misinformation spreads, alternative realities emerge, and political manipulation thrives. The message is clear: “If you’re not on our side, then you’re against us.” This false dilemma traps us, yet we’re still coerced into playing along. We’re told we must choose a side; there is no neutral ground. And under the lingering shadow of colonialism, fascism, and authoritarianism, the assumption remains that we cannot think for ourselves and must be treated like children, instructed about what and whom to believe.

We stand at a crossroads: on one side lies the advance of a dystopian future; on the other, the possibility of a more democratic and humane transformation. Can we continue living as we have, pretending that, in the end, everything will be fine? Can parents take their children to school and feel certain they will see them again? And can we, in good conscience, ignore the suffering of others?

I don’t think it’s possible.

Critical thinking is urgently needed today, yet it has been steadily undermined in universities and schools—institutions that should teach us to think for ourselves and to question everything we hear, everything we see, and even ourselves.

Despite the genuinely beautiful moments I am experiencing at the beginning of 2026, I feel sick to my stomach. I can’t imagine a world that continues to exist under such tension and injustice. For a time, I believed that writing about personal anecdotes would satisfy my need for expression, but now that feels trivial.

My mind has been decolonised, or at least it is well on its way. Years of traveling did more than give me the illusion of equality with others; they revealed a deeper truth. I know for a fact that we are not equal in culture, race, or resources, but we should be equal in rights. No race, language, skin tone, or currency is inherently superior. We are shaped by our societies, yet we have the power to reshape ourselves through love, compassion, and awareness.

It is not yet lost, but we must begin taking a stand against evil and lies: speak out about what we refuse to accept, stay critical, and remember that our silence and indifference are also choices—the future will be shaped by what we tolerate today.

“The revolution will not be televised, will not be televised…” (Scott-Heron)
Oaxaca

October 2nd, 2025

“Be a fool. For love. For yourself. What you think MIGHT possibly make you happy—even for a little while—whatever the cost or good sense might dictate.”
― Anthony Bourdain

After three long years of hardships, work, and ordeals, I have at last made it to Oaxaca. These last few weeks have left me completely exhausted, so much so that I couldn’t truly enjoy the adventures I had hoped for. Activities like bird-watching or volunteering at the turtle nursery failed to bring joy because I was simply too tired. I thought I could stretch out my summer with many new experiences, but instead, I wore myself out by trying to do too much.

Southern Mexico is one of the most promising places I’ve visited in years. Oaxaca, renowned for its rich culture and exceptional cuisine, has truly captivated and inspired me. Often called Mexico’s cultural capital by tourists, I now understand why—it’s exceeded all my expectations. During this trip, I’ve immersed myself in gastronomy, history, art, textiles, and fashion, all within a single destination. It genuinely feels like I’m discovering an entirely new country.

Staying at a hotel just behind the main square in town centre, I’m enjoying the cool, mild autumn weather—perfect for a cosy cardigan or linen jacket. I’ve started to relax, perhaps because airports bring back fond travel memories, or maybe just because being away from home is what I needed. As I walked through the spacious atrium of Santo Domingo, I felt a sense of lightness. Breathing fresh air and blending in with strangers reminded me how much I’ve missed the feeling of being a traveler. For years, my only concern was choosing my next destination. Even when I was unsure if I could afford the trip, the decision had already been made. Everything else fell into place—I just needed to arrange a dog sitter and to pack a few clothes.

This time was no different—I imagined myself wandering the beautiful streets, embracing my flâneuse spirit, drifting without a destination and chatting with anyone I met along the way. That’s simply who I am. Even as a child, my mum would say I talked to strangers—especially those who spoke English. I was eager to practise the few phrases I’d learnt at school. I was so young and curious, determined to let these foreign tourists know I understood them. At that tender age, I felt so progressive.

My first stop in Oaxaca was an “Atolería”—a café of sorts. Instead of coffee, we drank atole, a traditional Mexican beverage made from corn blended with fruits, seeds, and various flavours. It’s mainly prepared by grandmothers for breakfast or dinner. I hadn’t tasted it in years, and it brought a rush of childhood memories. The people here are warm and kind, meeting your gaze instantly and wasting no time in striking up a conversation. I absolutely love that. Having been in survival mode for so long, I realise I sometimes struggle to recognise genuine acts of appreciation.

I feel liberated. I don’t know how long this will last, nor do I want to cling to it. It’s all about the present moment—embracing the lightness and the person I am becoming. I am less judgmental, less angry, and less sad, while a more creative version of myself emerges. As the days passed, I noticed subtle changes. That’s one of the main reasons some of us travel. It is not about posting pictures and mapping the countries you have visited. It is about who you become when you travel.

An important aspect of my job is to discover new clothing designers, enabling me to choose the best options for the upcoming season. During my time in Oaxaca, I’ve explored small galleries featuring sophisticated designs that blend traditional textiles with Mexican iconography. Roaming the streets in search of fresh talent is fascinating—sometimes, you unexpectedly find a small workshop showcasing incredible clothing. This trip has brought me in contact with young, boundary-pushing designers whose collections are both comfortable and modern.

Food has truly been the highlight of this trip. From grasshoppers to black mole, every meal offers a feast for the senses, rich with distinctive aromas and bold flavours. Mezcal appears in countless forms, and ancestral recipes with a hint of spice both quicken my pulse and stir up old memories. Yet, what would become of us without these recollections? A line from the film ‘The Baby of Macon’ from Peter Greenaway comes to mind: “Imagine a time when walking on earth was a pleasure—remind yourselves of the ecstasy of living.” Strangely, that phrase has echoed in my mind since my student years and came up now. Either I keep a dark sense of humor or a staged sense of reality.
Letters to Mr. Kakehi

August 31st, 2025

“What happens when people open their hearts?”
“They get better.”
― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

In 2017, I traveled to Japan to spend Christmas with my friend Ami. I had met Ami a few years earlier in Ningbo while writing for a local magazine. Although she lived in Shanghai at the time, she often socialised with the magazine crew. Over time, we became friends—one crazy friend. After relocating back to Japan, I used that same connection to visit her.

My first stop was Nagoya, and it was freezing the night I arrived. Unfortunately, the taxi driver took me to the wrong hotel, leaving me to drag my luggage through the snow. When I finally reached the hotel, the receptionist informed me that they had no record of my booking. Frustration set in, especially since it was midnight and I was exhausted from walking. Just then, the concierge approached, glanced at my phone, and quietly mentioned that my actual hotel was nearby. He kindly offered to take me there personally, carrying my luggage as we walked, though we didn’t speak much during the short expedition.

A couple of blocks later, we finally arrived at the right hotel. He was so kind and helpful, assisting me with my luggage as we made our way through the entrance. While we waited at the front desk, he took a moment to speak with the other receptionist, explaining in detail why I had arrived so late, ensuring they understood my situation clearly. After swiftly completing the check-in process, he turned to me with a warm smile, saying, “Enjoy your stay in Nagoya.” His genuine kindness made me feel safe and warm during what could have been a stressful arrival.

I haven’t forgotten this feeling, and as a result, I have countless anecdotes from my trips to Japan. The Japanese people consistently go above and beyond my expectations—whether it’s sharing a friendly conversation, offering directions with a smile, or making sure every detail of my visit is taken care of—making me feel not just satisfied but genuinely welcomed.

Now back in Mexico, I crave Japanese food and sake. My longing for Asia is growing stronger. I’ve started painting again, driven by a desire to create. I discovered Kuretake Gansai Tambi watercolours, renowned for their rich pigmentation and quality. After ordering a set of 24 online, painting with watercolours has been soothing for me. However, it has also intensified my yearning for Japan, with its stunning landscapes and imagery.

I quickly ran out of my first set of paints because I thoroughly enjoyed painting leaves and flowers. For my next order, I decided to purchase a larger set of 48 colours from Amazon. To my surprise, I received a text message from the vendor, Mr. Kakehi, who informed me that he was personally tracking my package and that it would arrive in a few days. His message transported me back to Japan, as if I could travel through time.

I replied immediately, expressing my gratitude but also a sense of urgency in hoping for a connection. I genuinely believed the package would arrive as it always did. Unfortunately, this particular package seemed to vanish between post offices and was ultimately deemed lost. I felt it was necessary to update him on the situation, and he responded with heartfelt apologies, acknowledging the inconvenience on behalf of the Mexican Post Office (yes I know…). He took the time to give me additional information, enabling me to reach out the post office for follow-up. This sparked a beautiful exchange between us, and we began to write to each other almost daily, forming a bond over the lost package.

In my letters, I shared memories of my travels to Japan. The beautiful watercolours brought back thoughts of a road trip through Fukuoka. I talked about the joy of running the Tokyo Marathon and my solo visit to the calm temples of Kyoto. Each adventure returned to me, creating a comforting mix of memories. I cherish that time; it was when I felt both graceful and truly alive. I sent him videos of my new home and the cozy space where I paint. He said it was a perfect spot for capturing nature’s beauty, and in that moment, he understood why getting my watercolours on time was so important to me. He wrote me in Spanish and I wrote back in Japanese.

I agreed to have a new set of paintings sent to me for free, so I ordered another one. A few days later, the post office located the lost package, and I quickly let him know. I received the package at home the same day. When I opened it, I saw it was nicely wrapped with a letter introducing the paintings, and there was a small origami piece inside. It was wonderful and reminded me of how beautifully everything is presented in Japan. Even at subway stations, there are little coffee shops with Bento boxes, and their cute display can impress even the most jaded tourist.

In my tropical apartment, I feel a strong longing for Japan, recalling the cold winters that surrounded me. I can almost feel the chilly wind at the entrances of mountain temples and the quiet beauty of Iki Island. As I run around the Imperial Palace in Tokyo, the cold air hits my face, and I deeply miss it all. My conversations with Mr. Kakehi bring back strong memories, lifting my spirit. The last set has arrived, featuring a beautiful origami piece—a golden frog that means so much more than just paper.
Hibiscus and a day

August 24th, 2025

“Even death is not to be feared by one who has lived wisely.”
— Buddha

Why is it so challenging for us humans to confront the inevitable reality of death? Take a moment to observe—countless species experience their existence within a fleeting moment. Consider flowers such as the hibiscus or ‘Chinese rose,’ which flourish at dawn only to fade away by dusk. During my time in San Pancho, I was struck by the varied forms and colors of hibiscus, thriving vigorously with minimal maintenance. They are omnipresent, cascading over streets and cluttering the balconies of nearly every residence. The oppressive heat mirrors the blistering summers I dreaded in China, enveloping me like an unyielding steam bun. Sweat cascades down my cheeks. There is no reprieve from the stifling humidity, pressing down with the weight of a malfunctioning sauna. Here, paved roads are a rarity; instead, one traverses earthy trails. Dense jungle vegetation encircles you, and with each step, wildflowers bloom defiantly in obscurity.

I’ve been resisting the urge to chop them up and drag them home, but why? Every morning brings a new hibiscus flaunting its beauty. The dread of losing something so gorgeous has wrapped me in a wave of nostalgia. I can’t bear the thought of parting with a sunset or a butterfly. Each farewell leaves me with a splitting headache and a chest that feels like it might explode. You never know when it’s the final goodbye. You never know when you’ll get the chance to patch things up after an explosive argument. You never know when you’ll have that chat you just can’t avoid.

I have carried a deep-seated fear of losing those I love throughout my life, and then that moment inevitably arrived. The days that followed were marked by a heaviness in my chest and a strange numbness in my fingertips. I found myself neglecting small routines, like brushing my teeth, and pulling at my own hair in frustration. The vibrant colors of flowers and the beauty of the sky faded from my awareness, and I felt an ache of sorrow for the happiness of others.

Nature serves as a profound source of healing. In the absence of the comforting support provided by religion, individuals often find themselves confronting the harsh realities of grief. Motivational speeches tend to be merely hollow phrases intended to provide solace. Likewise, holistic treatments frequently fall short of their promised comprehensiveness. Well-wishes can be perceived as superficial expressions from acquaintances who lack a true understanding of one’s pain. However, nature, with its profound wisdom, does not engage in trivialities; it honors one’s journey, offering no pressure, no judgment, and no sense of failure. Life is undeniably brief; it must not only be about accepting the unavoidable, but also about confronting the fundamental realities of existence.

What in the beginning seemed unthinkable became increasingly real. I went back to painting after 30 years, a decision that felt both exhilarating and daunting. I started drawing with the finesse of a kindergarten kid, my hands trembling with uncertainty as I picked up the brush once again. It was highly frustrating to see how my skills had eroded over time, each stroke reminding me of the artistry I once possessed. However, given I had so much time on my hands, I thought, what the hell? I gave it a try, allowing myself to make mistakes and embrace the imperfections. I can say with all sarcasm that art won’t be a career path for me, as my creations often resemble abstract interpretations more than anything coherent. Yet, it is, though, a chance to reconnect with myself, providing a meditative space where I can explore my thoughts and emotions.

This is my inner child, a free spirit who reveled in the stunning colors and rich textures of life. She was unafraid to lose herself in exploration and creativity. The audacious student who graced Design School, head shaved in defiance, lost herself in the raw sounds of The Pixies. She boldly exchanged her mum’s meticulously tailored suits for a pair of iconic Dr. Martens, embracing her vibrant personality as she challenged the status quo and stood fiercely against injustice, prioritizing the fight over her privilege. I owe it all to her and my sister. It’s not about chasing the elusive concept of ‘happiness’—that mirage simply doesn’t exists. It’s about living with what I have.

Nature, the jungle, flowers, and wilderness are not mere terms of a glossary; they embody life and infuse magic into a world on the brink of decay—my world. I have everything to gain by embracing my wild and disruptive spirit, unapologetically like a hibiscus.
Swell

June 1st, 2025

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), it’s always our self we find in the sea.” E.E. Cummings

For some reason, the sea is always linked to loss and grief. Humans have always been drawn to water. The touch of it can heal, relax, soothe our souls in particular moments. We feel that magnetic connection. It makes us dream of falling in love and walking along the shore. We picture ourselves writing memories in the sand, laughing, and gazing at the horizon. We wait for sunsets, dance around fires, and make promises we will never keep.

The sea is everything and nothing. We have crafted metaphors about the tides and waves for thousands of years. We’ve described their sounds and the sirens that sing to us. We’ve narrated tales of monsters and mythical creatures. We’ve recounted epic adventures like the Odyssey. It’s my favourite sea story.

I’ve always felt a connection to this tale. Odysseus was punished, navigating the sea in circles after leaving Ithaca. Poseidon did not forgive him for ten years. In the meantime, Calypso and Circe seduced him, while Penelope, the Queen of Ithaca, waited for him. She knitted, refusing to choose a new suitor until her husband returned. His journey has been translated into books, films, and songs. This story resonated with me since childhood. It shaped my ideals of womanhood and faithfulness. It influenced my belief in the ideal man who would eventually return to the love of his life. I imagined being Penelope, as I carried that name, and she became my alter ego.

I didn’t read much in my youth. Yet, every book left a mark on me. They shaped my thoughts, my narrative. I remember reading that tale over and over; it was beautiful. Eventually, I realized that no king would come to save me. I became a modern Penelope, a flâneuse, embarking on my own journey to discover the world. And yes, I unlearned many romantic beliefs along the way.

Recently, I’ve started walking on the beach again. My doctor advised me to lose some weight. Initially reluctant, I decided to wake early in the morning, just as the sun rises. There’s a cool breeze. The dogs are energetic enough to walk with me, and I see surfers preparing to ride the waves.

The swell at this time of year is fantastic! The waves reach around three meters. They’re perfect. They flow in a poetic rhythm, crashing in slow motion. They leave traces of white foam where little crabs play and hide.

I stumble because I can’t keep my balance anymore. I’ve become a slow walker. I try to feel everything: the sunlight, the breeze, the sand, and the energy of the sea. I am desperate to connect with something, to lift the numbness of another day from my shoulders.

My whole body feels swollen; my feet and legs ache. This is not a poetic swelling but a painful manifestation of trauma after three years of raw suffering. The sea has been the only witness to my pain. I don’t need to explain myself; nature knows. I have been capable of experiencing glimpses of something new. These glimpses have significantly made my life more interesting.

Magic has brought hope and fantasy into my life. I wonder if this is a glimpse of another level of consciousness. Maybe it is a response to cruelty. Or perhaps it’s my mind’s connection to mythological tales. Regardless, it feels like sparkles and fairy dust enveloping and protecting me.
The Language of Friendship: Lessons from My Grandmother

May 23rd, 2025

“The language of friendship is not words but meanings.” – Henry David Thoreau

It has been quite a while since I last saw her. Yet, every time feels like the first and the last. The fear of losing her always lingers. I look at her nervously, pretending that everything is fine. I am that little girl waiting for her at the train station. Slowly, she walks towards me, and I feel her hug like a warm blanket protecting me. I am stunned, holding every minute around her. She looks the same as always, happy and serene. I am in a rush of emotions; should I tell her? I must say to her what happened. She has always been there for me like my mother, confidant, and first friend.

My parents spent much of their youth travelling. My dad had a bright future ahead as an engineer, and my mum was young and beautiful. Together, they conquered life. Meanwhile, I spent a lot of time in my grandma’s home. Her memories, as did her images and scents from her home, filled my brain.

Every summer, she would pick me up from Mexico City, and we would take the train to Aguascalientes. The trip was an adventure for me, munching on tacos as we gazed at the mountains. I held her hand tight and felt invincible side by side. Life was simple, and I only needed her to feel whole.

Lupita was born during the Guerra Cristera in México. It was a civil conflict between 1926 and 1929. The dispute stemmed from tensions between the Catholic Church and the government. These tensions were particularly over the government’s policies that limited the Church’s power and religious freedom. Catholic citizens, known as cristeros, took up arms against the government in defense of their faith. The war ended with a negotiated peace, though the underlying tensions between the Church and State continued for many years. My grandmother lived in the middle of the conflicted area, in a small village in the mountains of Zacatecas.

On those train travels, she shared tales about her childhood. Her mother and other neighbors buried the girls in the backyard to hide them from the soldiers. The armies took thousands of women, never to return. She was beautiful and sharp. Not long after that, she met my grandfather, who was a tailor. They married and moved to Mexico City, where they lived in the suburbs in a very modest way.

Happiness soon became a burden. My grandfather drank heavily and was jobless. My grandmother had to work and take care of the kids. Not so different from the lives of many families in Mexico. My grandfather, who I never met, died young, leaving my grandma a widow with seven children to raise. Her life has been tough. I have all these images from her coming back from work. Regardless of how many admirers she had as a young widow, She remained single. In her own words, a woman should live alone.

When I was born, my parents struggled as well. My father was ambitious, driven and hardworking to give us a good life, the high life. They travelled a lot, enjoying the lifestyle his work provided. They would leave me and my sister, Paola, with my grandma for weeks. She said I cried too much, and my grandma was the only one to calm me down. Even now, I find it hard to feel safe.

She spent all her free time with me, playing games, watching TV, and eating. She truly was my first friend in that wonderful life I had. My sister and I would stay whole seasons, and time was never enough with her.
She taught me how to love and be compassionate, primarily what being a friend means. Her influence has shaped who I am today. My other grandma was just as wonderful. Maria was born in the Sierra, in the mountains of Michoacán. As I mentioned earlier, she taught me to swim in the ocean. She let me float freely on the depth. Both women told me to be strong, my person, and never depend on anyone. Such bold and fierce women. They did not speak much; it wasn’t necessary. Actions speak louder than any lecture or any inspiring discourse.

But life has shaken me deeply, unveiling real pain. Before my sister Paola passed away, life felt relatively easy. I thought I had dealt with my share of pain. Yet, you never truly understand what real heartache is until you lose someone you love. After that, a transformation occurs. You can either drown in sadness or learn to love again. No matter what path you choose, you need friends along the way.

Paola is my soulmate. We were always together, inseparable. We faced the world as a united force. We lived life on our terms, and it frightened those around us. They saw us as two unstoppable girls, exploring every facet of the world and squeezing joy from every experience. I have so much to tell you about her. That is partly why I am opening the door to share her story. She won’t die in my mind; she is always there beside me, guiding my steps.

We created a universe rich with knowledge, music, and taste. It was magical until a devil spirit took her from me. I saw her walk towards a portal of light, her golden hair shimmering, her smile fading. She was gone, and my life came to a halt. How do I bring her back? How can I hold her again?

It has taken some time to write her name. I have refused to make her a victim of destiny. Instead, I imagine her as an adventurous traveller jumping from era to era. Her story is different from any other and deserves to be told. It is the only way for me to keep going. She is alive and breathing through these words.
Sunday Melancholy

July 14th, 2024

“I can barely conceive a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.”
― Charles Baudelaire

“I won’t try to explain it; we all know how it feels. It can fill a room in every corner of the world. It doesn’t matter where you are, it always comes, especially on Sundays… I guess that’s why some people hate Sundays.”

I had a great start to my Sunday. A cup of coffee and a surprise visit from Elvis, the magnificent pitbull with a beautiful brown & white spotted coat, made my day. He’s grown so much since I last saw him, but he still acts like a puppy. I’ve always felt a special connection with him, considering him one of my soulmates. After I lost track of him when I travelled to Italy, his unexpected visit made me incredibly happy. I was even willing to go for lunch or a walk to the beach. After all the dogs left for their Sunday walk, I went to my room and felt a touch of melancholy, not in a bad way, but just making its presence known.

As a child, I always tried to avoid dealing with my complex feelings. It’s not just sadness, but something deeper that lingers for hours. It’s a constant reminder that nothing is permanent, including my existence. Sundays at my grandmother’s house always felt too short, and I never wanted to leave. I had to go back home to get ready for school the next day. Many years later, I spent time in one country before moving on, making friends and then saying goodbye. I’ve had to start over multiple times. I feel like I’ve lived many different lives within a single lifetime, and I fear the end of things and life itself, even though I know it’s inevitable. This feeling of melancholy is like being stuck in philosophical quicksand, where the more I struggle to move forward, the more I seem to sink.

During my early years, I was in a relationship with an artist who was considered trendy. We used to travel to visit museums and exhibitions. On one of those trips, he told me, “You need to learn that attachment is not good. Being clingy looks bad in a woman.” I couldn’t fully grasp the essence of his words and what he was trying to convey. Can we detach from our feelings, from people, from situations? How is that even possible? He was intelligent and always seemed to find a way to avoid taking responsibility. Years later, in China, I learned to master detachment, yet melancholy never completely disappeared; so it wasn’t just about attachments. It was still a deeper feeling that had even shaped my personality. I would experience intense emotions, overthink, have vivid dreams, anxiety, doubts, and struggle with impostor syndrome.

In my early twenties, I worked as a reporter for a cultural news channel. I was sent to interview Eduardo Millán, a poet who had just won a prestigious award. Although I was unfamiliar with his work, my boss instructed me to bring him to the radio station. During the journey, he asked me about my favourite author, and I randomly mentioned Pessoa, although I had never read any of his books. This encounter left me feeling ashamed of my behaviour, prompting me to start reading poetry. I discovered that I could relate to the emotions expressed in the verses of poets like Pessoa, Neruda, and Plath, and began to appreciate melancholy from a more creative perspective.

There is a bit of melancholy in every person. Some people wish to explore it, while others avoid it by watching football on a Sunday afternoon. Why should we feel more? Aren’t the problems we face at work or in our families enough? After all, we live in a world full of emotions expressed on social media and we are always waiting for our reactions.

Melancholy goes deeper than just a temporary emotion – it is an inherent force that drives us to be creative and to work on understanding ourselves better. It is the force that has kept me alive. Yes, Sundays are like sunsets – we surrender to their beauty and don’t want them to end. Art is perhaps the most subtle way to deal with melancholy. I always go back to poetry to seize the day. Soon, it will be dark, and I can stop for now…

I can write the saddest verses tonight.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this I held her in my arms.

I kissed her so many times beneath the infinite sky.

She loved me, at times I loved her too.

How not to have loved her great still eyes.

I can write the saddest verses tonight.

To think that I don’t have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.

And the verse falls onto my soul like dew onto grass.

What difference does it make if my love could not keep her.

The night is full of stars, and she is not with me…

From 20 love poems, Pablo Neruda,
The last place on earth

May 24th, 2024

“There’s something about the water – that solitary kind of peaceful feeling. You’re on Earth but not quite.” – John C. Reilly

The last few days I have been enjoying my stay. It has been in crescendo, and I wish I spent more time outside than in my little house but I also reckon I needed time. I wasn’t much conscious of how trauma has filtered my life. In the eyes of others would be very easy to judge: why you are not enjoying this place? it is a paradise! Just like the beach I was previously, I see how tourists are so anxious to change clothes and dive into the whole vacation experience.

However, after travelling for quite a while, we start searching more. It has nothing to do with this elitist feeling that I have seen in many Facebook posts: “Oh, I’m not a tourist, I am a traveller”. We all wish to feel special, write our autobiographies, set trends, and discover those places other people haven’t been in. That secret paradise that can be later shared, and then exploited, draining all the magic out of it. I have a list of places I wouldn’t share with anyone, that I found mostly strolling around, going always in alternative pathways to avoid people. Here also, I had to find my place.

I got the name “the Little Flâneuse” as an attempt to give a name to a column I started to write for a Mexican magazine. At that time, I was very eager to become a writer. I thought one day I would write my memoirs, again a common place for all. As life unfolded I realised writing was difficult, that I didn’t have much to say. And then after many years, you just get it. You are not special; you are searching for most of the things other people search for. You are “normal”; your fashion style has been recycled many times, and the music you hear was created for moments and situations you don’t share any context with.

There is a lot of peace of mind with it. A lot of the pressure that comes with trying to “be special” disappears. Lots of my efforts to be an educated, “out of the norm” woman were left behind after understanding no one gives a flying fuck about me, and that is not only fine but also liberating. Now I can relax and just be. It allows me to stroll places understanding the anonymous condition of every human and the great advantages of keeping a low profile. Sitting in a corner of a coffee shop just minding your own business gives you an observing power, it’s not voyeurism, it is not surveillance, it’s a form of contemplation.

Another great enjoyment develops then when you visit a new place. No one is looking; you are not the centre of attention, another person in a museum, in a park, in an art gallery. Everybody else is paying attention to their own, so you might as well do the same. A stroller like me walks around, looking for a public toilet, cheap places to eat, a nice bench to sit on, a free wifi spot, and a cosy cafe to rest the feet after a whole day of walking.

My list of favourite places inevitably has a connection with nature. I enjoy cities, of course. Shanghai was my favourite city for many years and I used to go every weekend, strolling many neighbourhoods, then other cities like London, but after a while, I started to feel more comfortable in solitary hidden places, where silence and water are present. I have realised while I am not a very spiritual person I do need a connection with nature. When I visited the Great Wall of China in 2008, I stood at the top and started crying. I felt the wind blowing my tears and it was freezing. I saw the Wall disappearing into the mountains and P asked me why are you crying? I replied because I could feel the weight of history here. I felt something so strong that I will carry it with me to every new place I visit.

In Tuscany, I’ve discovered a hidden paradise. It’s a place where clear water flows, trees offer protection, and I feel free. Every morning, the scent of roses fills my soul. This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. Nature has lifted my spirit, and I’ve found my voice again. The outside world won’t change, and my problems won’t disappear, but at least I know I’m not done travelling, strolling, or living yet.