Subscribe now

The floor is covered in weeds, there are holes for windows, and a blue sky for a ceiling. The remnants of a chimney shooting into the sky make a clear statement: people used to live here.

Wildflowers grow in the cracks of the cobblestone streets, the smell of the not-visible but not-far-away ocean permeates the air. The silence is only broken by the occasional bird call. You can almost hear the children playing on the streets, the families gathered around the chimney after dinner, the churches packed with devotees on Sunday mornings. All completely deserted now, a ghost town. 

We visited many places throughout our three weeks in Turkey, but nothing is more imprinted in my mind than the abandoned town of Kayaköy. I think about the place often, with a mix of sorrow and longing, as if I myself had lived there. 

Nested up in a mountain the town is visible from afar. The only standing remains are the old walls of around 500 houses and two churches. Even from miles aways it’s spooky. Wandering through its eerie alleys you can feel what it used to be: a thriving town of 10,000 people. Both Anatolian Muslims and Greek Orthodox Christians lived here peacefully, side by side, for hundreds of years. 

That is, until 1923 when its Greek Christian population was forced to leave due to the population exchange between Greece and Turkey. The exchange was part of the agreement signed between the two nations following the end of the Greco-Turkish War, which aimed to ensure the homogeneity of the two countries' populations. This forced migration of ethnic Greeks from Turkey and ethnic Turks from Greece displaced more than 1.5 million people. 

These neighboring countries have had a long complicated history. Wars have been fought, atrocities have been committed, hate has been sewed. Depending on who you ask you will get widely different versions of who committed which crimes, who is right and who is wrong, who is an invader and who is deserving. To be clear, none of this is unique to Turkey and Greece. We have found this “us versus them” rhetoric almost everywhere we have been, and this has been one of the most sobering lessons of our travels.

Many see the population exchange, and deserted Kayaköy, as a triumph to diplomacy and negotiations between countries. After all - at least at the very end - many people left voluntarily. After all - at least in theory - the goal was to end ethnic conflict. But to me, this community torn apart in the name of sameness, is no success. 

In 1906, nearly 20 percent of the population of present-day Turkey was non-Muslim, but by 1927 - after this exchange had occurred - only 2.6 percent was. We can confidently say the exchange achieved its goal of ethnic-national homogeneity. But at what cost? Separation leads to dehumanization, reducing 'the other' to a blurry face without humanity or emotions. Unknown people are just that much easier to hate. 

Population exchanges are now considered a violation of international law, but the mentality persists. The thought that the world would be a better place if we all just “stick to our own” is prevalent. The idea that if we live with, work with, marry people that are like us, that think like us, that believe like us, then life will be better. We can keep hating on the other from afar.

In Texas, where I lived for many years, people often change their minds about undocumented immigrants once they know someone who is one. They just happen to have lunch with a coworker, or their daughter introduces them to their new boyfriend, or they befriend the waiter at their favorite restaurant. They like these people, and then they learn they are undocumented and go from intolerance to understanding real fast.

Maybe what we should all seek is less homogeneity, not only in the scale of countries, which is complex and I don’t want to oversimplify. But in simpler day to day interactions and relations - I challenge you to seek what is different, what expands you, what challenges you, what gives you new perspectives.  

Overlooking this abandoned town in the East of Turkey, there is not much more to see besides abandoned ruins. Indeed, a place without color or soul. To me, a stark reminder of a divided world.

Subscribe now

Sitting on a big rock rising precipitously from the ground, we watch the sky turn soft orange. We are surrounded by slender stone pinnacles, some 2,000 feet high. Monasteries crown several of these rock towers. They seem an impossibility, as if a giant was trying to carefully balance a little toy house on a slender structure. We can see one of the monasteries in the distance; massive and imposing, enveloping the entire top of the boulder it sits on - claiming it, owning it, making it less, but also more. 

The formations are light gray with dark brown lines going up and down the rock, as if that same giant had drawn them from top to bottom with a thin brush. They are really fantastical formations, filled with big caverns, and deep indented cuts going from top to bottom. These cracks are covered with an impossibly green and lush forest; trees climb up the rock, occupying every single crevice.

Nature paints the deep spaces between rocks bright green; prevailing, as always. Huge rocks balance on even bigger rocks, as if on one foot, seemingly about to come tumbling down. A road zig zags through the middle of the rock valley, and birds fly above the canopy and into the rocks, disappearing into the dark fissures. A true spectacle. 

Humans have lived in the area for more than 50,000 years. This impressive collection of rock columns is in the middle of a flat valley, so you can see it from far away. To get there now you drive on a straight highway for many miles, and then they are there. Intimidating and inviting, mysterious and bright. The natural caves in the rocks form the perfect shelter, so it’s not hard to imagine hunter-gatherers choosing them as refuge. All they had to do was figure out a way to get to them. 

Much later, in the 11th century, a group of hermit monks moved to the ancient caverns, living in complete solitude. Rudimentary monasteries were built, but it wasn’t until the 14th century, when political upheaval ravaged through the country and religion felt threatened, that many monks fled to the area and proper monasteries were built. By the end of the 14th century twenty four monasteries stood high above the ground, sticking out like sore thumbs and stating: “Here we are, and we are here to stay”. Only six remain today. You can still see the remnants of the old monasteries - stairways carved into the rock, leading to heaven. 

The monasteries were built to hide, so it’s no wonder it’s hard to reach them. Initially, the only way to get to them was with long latched-together ladders - which were removable in case of an attack - or sitting on a large net that was hoisted up, right next to a vertical rock wall, thousands of feet above the ground. 

Nowadays you don’t have to be a daredevil monk to reach the still standing monasteries. You can just climb the stairs that were built much later. The big baskets still remain, as they continue to be a more effective way to carry goods from the main road, although I doubt monks sit on them to be transported, but who knows, it sounds like a fun pastime.  

This mystical place is called Meteora, which comes from the Greek word “meteoro”, which means suspended in air. That is exactly how I feel sitting on this rock watching the sun set behind far away mountains, surrounded by these imposing pinnacles and their priced monasteries; as if suspended in air.  

Subscribe now

Rocks and dust is all I see while I press the accelerator as far as it goes.

"You hit me with a rock!", my husband yells. I am trying to get our toy car out of this little dirt mound it got stuck on. We were trying to get it up a steep hill its motor wasn't made for. “There is no signal here!” he keeps yelling at the wind while pacing outside the car. The sun is unrelenting, nothing but dryness and desolation around us. Google Maps sent us through this “shortcut”, but I sort of encouraged it - “come on, it’s going to be ok, just go” - so this is kind of, possibly, a little bit my fault? I am still undecided. What the heck are we going to do, I think but don't say.

My husband gets behind the car and pushes it while I keep accelerating. The smell of... burnt car? is pretty intense. The excellent Cretan wine from a few bottles we just tasted swirls in my mind. Finally I am free and driving like a madwoman up the hill, my husband left in the dust, literally. I am afraid the impulse won't be enough to get the tiny red Toyota up the almost vertical mountain. But after a couple minutes I see the main paved road; cars zoom by oblivious to the desperation two strangers on a dirt road just experienced.

I wait there for a few minutes. Finally he appears - a halo of dust around him - gets in the car without a word, and we are off. We arrive at the cooking class late, but one smile from Sevi, our Greek host, and I can breathe, I am calm. She leads us into her backyard to a vine-shaded table. We sit and compose ourselves, drink some water, and chat about the food we are about to cook. Then Sevi gives us baskets and leads us towards a dirt path.

"This is a pomegranate tree!", "Here is a walnut one!", "Smell this rosemary!", "Look at these nectarines, grab one!", she exclaims as we walk

I take a nectarine and bite into it, overwhelmed by the incomparable sweetness of eating fruit just picked from a tree.

We keep walking until we arrive to a corral with about six goats. Kri-kri, as they are called, are all over the island. I have seen them standing perilously on craggy rocks overlooking the ocean, always serene, as if they own the place. They are endemic to Crete, so they sort of do. A white small one has a big milk-full udder. Sevi's father, Babi, takes it out of the corral. Babi has golden skin, a white mustache, and a camo shirt. He bents from his waste, grabs the breasts expertly and starts milking them. He gets into a rhythm and a forceful stream of milk goes into a big bucket. He gestures for us to come near.

Everything Babi says to me is in Greek, but he puts his hand a certain way, repeats a word a couple of times while making a push and a pull gesture. I do as I see, and milk flows, filling the bucket to the rim. "Bravo! Bravo!" he excitedly yells. Sevi holds and caresses the goat soothingly throughout, and laughs out loud looking at two other goats playing. Then she picks up and hands me the only baby goat of the herd; it has soft hair and a calm demeanor, as if being rocked by a human - me! - was the most natural thing. Getting stuck on that toy car was worth it, I think.

On the way back to the house we stop by their little garden. Sevi gestures towards a tall grass on the ground, “pull it”, she says and I do, and big beautiful onions emerge. Tomatoes, cucumbers, eggplants, all of it is sun-kissed gorgeous. I feel the urge to take a bite from the tomato as I would an apple. All vegetables taste better here; sweeter, juicier, more intense. I wonder why, the sun? the land? the love?

Back at our grape-leaves shaded table we start to cut the onions and grate the tomatoes. We meet Sevi's mom, Katerina, a Greek grandma. She is small and wide, with short thin black hair, small golden loops in her ears, a bit of mustache and beard, and thick eyebrows. She smiles at us, looks at Sevi and says something in Greek. Sevi replies back, and Katerina then turns to us,

“Where are you from?”, she asks

"From Latin America! I am Venezuelan and he is Mexican", I answer her and she nods, smiles, seems surprised in a good way

“I am proud of you mama”, Sevi immediately says, love in her tone, and then to us, “She doesn’t know any English, but she is trying”

We start with the Lamb Giovetsi. We throw onions in excellent local olive oil, then sear the meat and pour grated tomatoes over it.

"I don't eat lamb, or goat", Sevi says nonchalantly while she stirs the pot

“Oh…”, I get out, taken by surprise

Sevi looks at her mom and continues, “Growing up, they were my pets, I loved them. One time my mom cooked goat and told me she had bought it in the supermarket. But when I went to the corral my favorite goat was gone. She tricked me…. I just can’t do it”

Katerina and Sevi look at each other knowingly; no Greek is needed for this exchange, these words have already been spoken, hearts and tears have already been shared. 

While the lamb cooks we make a simple Cretan Salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, artichokes, Cretan rusks (like croutons), olives, hard eggs, oregano, and feta. Olive oil and sea salt flow freely. Katerina starts mixing grated tomatoes with herbs and flour to make Tomato Balls. A bit of salt, a handful of mint, some flour - mix mix - a spoonful of oregano, finely chopped onions, a lot of feta, always and forever. With boiling oil in the pan, Katerina grabs a spoonful of the mix and throws it in. It sizzles approvingly. Thirty seconds later she turns the tomato balls - which are really more like pancakes in shape - around. Golden and crispy, I already know this will be my favorite dish.

Babi brings the fresh goat milk, which we boil to clean and then make Rice Pudding with. We put mastiha in it, which is a resin obtained from the mastic tree. It smells like pine, tastes like deep forest - I am transported to the Pacific Northwest, hiking in a thick fog next to giants. 

We finish cooking and eat the plentiful and delicious food overlooking the mountains of Crete. As predicted, the tomato balls - crispy, juicy, salty - are my favorite. We cheer with Cretan wine and homemade Raki.

As we drive away Sevi and Katerina stand at the top of the stairs, holding each other and waving goodbye at us with wide smiles. We wave back, and get on the big road with our small car, filled to the rim with gratitude.

Tomato Balls Recipe 

Ingredients

3-4 ripe and firm tomatoes, grated or finely chop

1 small onion (finely chopped) 

½ bunch of fresh mint (chopped)

1 tbsp. fresh oregano (chopped)

1 tbsp. fresh thyme (chopped)

½ cup feta cheese in crumbs

4-5 tbsp. flour

Olive oil for frying

Salt and pepper

Preparation

1. Put tomatoes in a bowl.

2. Add the onions and mix with a spoon 

3. Add the mint, oregano, thyme, and feta, and season with salt and pepper

4. Stirring little by little, add the flour until you have a thin porridge. 

5. Heat the olive oil and fry spoon by spoon until golden brown, about 2-3min

6. Leave them on absorbent paper to drain

Subscribe now

This piece was originally published in Wanderlust Magazine on October 22nd.

Home is a heavy word for me, weighted by the stories of war-immigrant grandparents and politically-persecuted parents. Heavy with my own immigration story; leaving half of my college career, the love of my life, and everything else you build in 20 years of life behind, in a rush, as if I had committed a crime.

Arriving in a country I never wanted to be in, trying to fit in but never quite achieving it. The first couple years a constant struggle, so intensely emotional that it made me sick. Mad at the world, it was the first and only time life stopped making sense.

Finally finding a tribe and a path, life was full of possibilities again. Gratefulness found me, and never left.

For a decade I settled in Seattle. Home became hiking in the Pacific Northwest forest, falling for and marrying the new love of my life, discovering my passion for cooking, making and breaking a career.

Eventually, I got on the road again. Once you are an immigrant, leaving becomes easy, it’s no longer a Herculean mind-task, no longer a soul-sucking endeavor. You understand you never really leave a place you love, you just take it with you. The more you leave - the more you love - the more you carry with you. And I am, first and foremost, a lover.

And we return to the enigma of home. As I sip my coffee in a small airbnb on the island of Crete in Greece, I think to myself, this is home.

Maybe it’s sun tanning by the Aegean Sea, like I used to do by my dear Caribbean. Sweat drips from my belly, the wind makes the blazing sun bearable but the water still calls to me. Cool and refreshing, just the perfect temperature to want to stay in it for hours, soft playful waves move me in and out. Is this home? My skin says yes.

Maybe it’s cooking with a Greek grandma in her Cretan farm, like I used to do with my Italian grandma in her home in the forest outside Caracas. We grate a tomato, milk a goat, fry something while mumbling instructions in Greek - or Italian - toast to the feast. Is this home? My belly says yes. 

Maybe it’s playing beach petanque with friends in Malaga, like I used to play volleyball in the Venezuelan coast. Reggaeton plays in the background, a cold beer in hand, we throw the balls and then run to get them on the burning sand, exclaiming “ah ah ah ah” all the way. Is this home? My feet say yes.

Maybe it’s standing on the highest peak in Thailand with my parents, like we used to hike to the highest waterfall in the world in the Amazon jungle. We walk in a misty forest, marvel at the tall trees, feel insignificant next to the grandness of nature. Is this home? My heart says yes.

Maybe home is just a collection of all those small and big moments that connect me to others, to my past, and to myself. Home will always be a heavy word for me, heavy with the love for life. 

Subscribe now

We are lost. Well, more accurately, we are Google Maps lost. You know, when Google takes you through questionable pathways and you follow it anyway, trusting blindly on this technology we have become extremely dependent on, even when all signs point to a glitch. 

I wonder how people even got to places before it existed, and then remember I actually grew up in that world, and if my terrible memory serves me, I think we got lost a lot less. But who knows, sixteen feels like two decades ago… because it was. 

Our intended destination is the Castle ruins - "the best views of the island", our hotel host said - up in a hill from the picture-perfect touristy town of Gialos next to the water. There is a clearly marked path leading there from town, but Google took us the “short way” from our hotel, and we are following it, goddammit! We are bascally hiking, although totally unprepared and under the blazing sun. 

We go up and up - it must be up, right?! - until we get…somewhere. Is it our destination? unclear, but we are somewhere very high up and the view is worth the way. We are the only ones here, being rocked by the wind while marveling at the giant sailboats down below and trying to locate our hotel. The perspective from up here changes my limited understanding of the island; water extends infinitely and in places you wouldn’t have guessed, like behind the town - “look, there is a bay!” - and beyond the hill we just climbed - “wow, a pretty beach!”. 

After a while, we start walking again, still feeling lost but sort of liking it now. We see houses immaculately painted in that Symi-yellow - a light fresh color, optimistic and cheerful - next to completely abandoned homes, truly just ruins. The arm of a giant fig tree waves at us from inside a house, the ocean doing peek-a-boo in between its leaves. Large cactuses and bright buganvilias make the yellow houses pop. Still, there is an eerie feeling throughout, even the remodeled perfectly-manicured houses are empty, waiting to be revived, but by who and how I cannot tell. It's still only us up here, even-though we are in the middle of the highest season in Greece. It's so spooky that I expect a barking dog at every corner. This pristine ghost town used to be a bustling town of more than 22,000 inhabitants who built ships and dived for sponges. Yes, like for bathing, natural sponges! The oldest known form of underwater diving. 

At some point we make it to the main intersection from town - you know, the regular path we didn’t take. We see people again! We sit down in a cafe and drink the coldest beer I have had in Greece, downing half of it in a gulp. We are a few tables from a sailor; at least he seems like one with a white small hat, a big cross on his chest, black slacks, white shirt, and a faded hard-to-decipher tattoo on his arm. On his table there is a glass of water, a cup of coffee, and a shot of ouzo. In his hand there is a worry bead, or is it a big rosary? The sailor keeps turning the beads over and over, the noise of big marbles hitting each other is all I can hear. After a quick Google search - see how dependent we are?! - I confirm they are indeed worry beads, not religious in any way and used to pass the time, just like we are doing now. 

After a couple more beers and lots of people watching (read: mostly the sailor) we decide it’s time to eat. We had found an intimate restaurant up here with live music, so we decide to give that a try. 

We walk there and go inside. The place is basically a hallway that feels like a narrow garden, welcoming and packed with plants. We sit against the wall and devour fried feta with fig jam - probably my favorite Greek starter - and a plate of “Symi shrimp” - little pan-fried shrimps eaten whole.

We are starting to wonder about the live music when two musicians sit down at the end of the hallway. She has long curly hair and is in a bright red dress, he has a guitar in hand, a round face, and a white beard. She sings in a deep voice, “I never believed I would fall in love with you”, and I sing along, thinking about this island. We had arrived at the shiny Symi bay at 11am that day, admiring from the ferry the many small yellow houses layered up the tall craggy mountain we are in now. 

In the town below - the touristy area - it’s impossible to stop taking pictures. Everywhere you look there is a colorful little boat dancing with the soft waves, an endearing cafe, a pretty sponge store, rows of taxi boats ready to sweep you away into one of the many remote beaches only accessible by boats. It’s hard to not love this place. And the truth is that I loved Symi from the moment I saw it, but I fell in love with it in this abandoned town, getting lost in its backstreets, singing along in a hidden garden, “Symi, I never believed I would fall in love with you”.

Subscribe now

The sun is still high but the light is soft now, no longer burns. You can walk on the sand without running - oh oh oh oh oh - until your feet finally touch the cool water. The sun caresses the skin, there is no urge to get sunscreen on it anymore. The masses of people occupying every inch of sand have now retreated, leaving sun beds in disarray. The hay of the locally made parasols is no longer moving almost horizontally due to intense winds, but now flowing lazily, as if finally able to take a break from a hard day's work providing respite to beach-goers. The sun’s reflection is no longer everywhere in the ocean, but instead localized, a thick line that becomes thiner and thiner the closer to the shore.

My partner and I have a tendency to fall in love with places we travel to and immediately start talking about moving there. We are starting to feel a bit like this about Chania and surroundings - on the west side of Crete - which is odd because I didn't expect it, but then again places that surprise me are always my favorite.

"What do you think that condo cost?" my husband asks while pointing at the nicest condo on the beach - brand new, big terrace overlooking the ocean.

I glare at him, “maybe that one over there is more realistic?”, I say while pointing to a less fancy condo building.

We look at each other conspiratorially, and then at the beach, contemplating a potential future unlikely to materialize, but also not an impossibility given our track record. I didn't feel particularly drawn to Chania - and Crete for that matter - the first night we were here, when we walked its crowded pedestrian streets to dinner by the water, or even when we strolled its Venetian harbor under the blazing sun. It happened later, when we decided the only sensible thing to do was to exchange the hot concrete for the hot sand of the nearest pretty beach.

After spending 10 days in Crete and almost two months in Greece, I still find myself thinking of Crete often. It was the first place we visited in Greece before our grand tour through a dozen Aegean islands plus some of the mainland, so maybe it was the sweet shock of arriving to a new country. That destabilizing travel spell that shakes you into life, it screams: "You are alive! Feel it all, absorb it all, enjoy it all!". The world is full of wonder, it's always around us - no matter where we are - but familiarity breeds indifference. It's all too easy to stop seeing wonder in day-to-day life.

Traveling makes wonder obvious, everything is new and exciting! There is the sudden realization that your life could be totally different in this new place, that day to day life is different all around the world - what people have for breakfast, how they get to work, what they do in their free time, how they celebrate important milestones - and also utterly the same, after all, we all have hopes and dreams.

This travel spell draws me to far away lands, and makes me imagine myself in places where I don’t speak the language or fully understand the culture. When I wonder why, I always come back to what I was made to feel in that place - both by people and by nature. Like a warm interaction with a 55 year old Greek grandpa, or the insignificant feeling of being up in a mountain overlooking a gorgeous coast, or loud crickets reminding me it’s time to get out of the house.

-----

The Greek grandpa was standing on the parking lot of a remote beach in northwest Crete, and waved at us as we were pulling out while saying, "ride?". We motioned for him to get on, and after a bit of trouble - he was tall and big, and our car basically a toy - he was seated in the back, breathing heavy. Cigaret smell permeated the car. The sun was brutal out there, and his skin showed it. During a 15min car ride, and in between his broken English and my broken Greek (read: zero), we chatted about his life. He proudly told us about his olive farm - "after summer season ends I go to farm, hard work!" - and with mischiefing eyes shared about his daughter - "she has three kids! why in a hurry? I told my son in law to slow down, watch more TV! you understand?". We locked eyes and I bursted out laughing. Before jumping out of the car he excitedly yelled, "Schumaher!", and clapped my husband's shoulder, who was driving a bit too fast down the dirt road. Of course we immediately got what he meant, as we would have used the same expression in Venezuela or Mexico, and probably most of the world. Just a small thing we have in common, a reminder that many things connect us, no matter how different we are from each other.

Earlier that day, we walked down a rocky path towards a remote beach. Mountain goats looked with contempt at the procession of people. It was dusty and hot and unpleasant, until our target appeared in the distance and made all of that fade away. Far below us: a beach, its waters separated into two compartments by a strip of sand ending in a small mountain. To the right the water was a deep turquoise, becoming more and more blue towards the horizon, little boats played with the waves. To the left it was much shallower, the water light gray with pockets of deep blue. I stopped and looked, then wondered who saw this view for the first time. Maybe someone just wondering, or an explorer with a destination but still wistfully ignorant of the beauty ahead. All of sudden he sees it, but no one is around to answer his “oooh ahhh” with a “I know!”. Still he exclaims, “wow!”, because it's worthy of that honor.

Of course, it was August in Greece so there were also the crickets, which to be fair were equals part annoying - so loud they wake you up! - and charming - the soundtrack of the summer. Early morning with one eye closed and another open I imagined them screaming at me, "you are on an island! the ocean is near, isn't this beautiful?! get up and enjoy!". They were such an integral piece of our stay that we talked about them regularly. "Why do you think they are so loud, are they mating or warning predators? Do they even have predators here? Maybe they are super territorial?", we asked ourselves over breakfast in the morning or a glass of prosecco at night. Throwing guesses before the trusting Google told us they are indeed trying to woo females. 

Ultimately, no matter the language, the weather, or even the noisy animals, I think it’s easy to find wonder, even in your backyard, even in the mundane, just as long as you are paying attention. 

Subscribe now

This concert I am about to attend in a Parisian chapel is the same to me as a concert anywhere else, or so I think to myself as I see the grand Gothic structure a bit ahead of me. A tall spire shoots into the air, stating: here I am, I still stand! It's the fifth spire that has been constructed since the 13th century, all others destroyed in fires or wars. A magnificent piece of architecture no doubt, but that's it, nothing divine about it.

We arrive at a short line of concert-goers and quickly enter through a labyrinthine path that leads us up and down stairs and to a final narrow tunnel. I peek around the corner and there it’s, all deep blues and purples from the light filtering through the stained glass that seems to cover the entire chapel. It’s much narrower and longer than I imagined, which makes my eyes go straight up, to big golden arches intertwined, as if in love, in between a sea of ocean-blue paint. 

There are chairs arranged everywhere except on a hallway in the middle of two sets of seats. It can fit about 200 of us, shoulder to shoulder. At the end of the hallway is a piano, and above it a chasse with more tall stained glass windows behind it. We find seats, but I stand again dazzled by the grandness of the place and finally turn around to see a big rose window. I wonder, out loud, when was this structure built.

"Construction started in 1242 and finished in 1248", my husband reads from his phone

"What?", I reply, thinking he made a mistake

"Yeah, it was built 800 years ago", he says while looking up, as amazed as me

I try to imagine what it must have been like to live then. An extremely unequal time, the Middle Ages were tough for the regular person, focused on working the land to produce enough food to live one more year. And then there were the kings, nobles, and priests, who made the peasants build grand mystical structures they would never be able to set foot in. And now here we are, about to hear the Four Seasons of Vivaldi under the same Christ a man painted on glass 800 years ago.

The musicians take their places; there are four violinists, a pianist, and a cello player. They all look impeccably beautiful in sophisticated black attire, holding their instruments as if they were made of glass, serious as if playing them was a matter of life or death. Maybe in some way, it is.

They begin, and the mood shifts. Even though we are in the middle of Summer, you can feel Spring in the air. Hopeful, playful, possibilities abound. You can almost hear birds chirping, wind rocking the just-in-bloom flowers. The angels above the musicians seem to be encouraging them on, the Apostles statues admire them approvingly, the hundreds of figures in the glass panels dance with them.

The main violinist has short brown hair, he is bold in the back but you can’t see that if he doesn’t turn around, clean shaven but somehow looks messy from where we sit. He moves passionately with the music - a little step to the front, a little one to the back - his fingers fast, his forehead shiny.

Then summer is here. Intense and fast, my heart races. One of the violinists is sitting down and her blonde hair seems to draw all the soft light in the massive chapel, her short curls bouncing with the rhythm. I notice a girl two rows in front of me - red hair tied in a bright green hair tie matching her shirt - her wide blue eyes often look up, her mouth slightly open as if saying “what is this place?”, in her childlike wonder. 

Sweet autumn arrives and I am being rocked. Soft and playful. How many houses of God I have been into, I wonder while moving my head side to side, it must be hundreds. There are always several to mark off a list at any given destination in this God-loving world. In most I go in and out, they are just a reminder of how religion still rules. But there are some that really pull at me for one reason or another; the church turned mosque turned museum turned mosque in Istanbul, the small cave in Gran Canaria, the jungle temple in the Vietnam coast. In those, I stay a little longer, maybe sit down on a bench or the floor or a rock depending on the God it’s made for. Then find peace within myself, like now.

The violinist's eyes shoot up and in my head he is saying, “this is really for you, not these mere mortals”. His mouth twitches into a slight smile. I close my eyes for a second and when I open them he is walking down the aisle, all passion and movement. He smiles at the redhead girl. The sound of his violin intensifies and then diminishes as he walks past me. I realize the instrument alone is what is creating this.

Winter. It builds up and up and up until it’s in me, in everyone, in the chapel itself. Ominous and deeply emotional. I look around; a man is at the edge of his seat, a woman has her eyes closed, the redhead is looking straight ahead. My eyes had watered at several points during the concert but it is during winter that a tear comes down my cheek. How powerful it’s to be in a room full of strangers being moved by the same string of notes, I consider and then immediately wonder, How did we build this place 800 years ago?

Then the music stops and I stand up with the crowd, clapping for the music, for the chapel, for the divine combination of the two. I leave the place in a daze. Once outside, the looming Gothic structure looks down at me, knowingly. 

Subscribe now

Note: this story won silver on the Travel & Food category of the Seventeenth Annual Solas Awards (2023)

“Bonjour”, says the towering man in front of me. I try to reply in my broken French and he follows that with a fast and furious sentence. I can't make out a single word in it and utter, "I am sorry, I don't speak French". The man shrugs, an I-don't-know smirk on his face. Silence. He has a trimmed goatee, shaved head, and small hoop earrings in both his ears. Maybe he doesn't speak English?, I wonder. More silence, we both make faces. I am about to ask if he speaks English when he finally says, "what can I help you with?". Phew.

I look around the narrow little store, all mirrors and lights, displaying shiny chocolates so perfect I wonder if they are even real. I explain I want to buy some chocolates to bring to a gathering. "Ah!", he exclaims loudly, "just come on over" and he leads me to the end of the store, where little squares with bright colored tops are displayed. There is a smooth green one - is it matcha? Or mint?. There is a bubbly light brown one - crunchy and sweet, perhaps?. There is a dark one with a small seed on the corner -bitter and peppery? Or is it coriander?. No matter, I want it.

"What chocolate do you like to eat?", he asks while leaning against the back wall, relaxed

"Well", I begin, feeling like this is a test and hoping I can pass it, "I like dark chocolate, like an 85% --"

"No, no, no, no, no!", he explodes, animated. I have failed the test, no doubt, but at least he is kind, his eyes playful.

"Those percentages are meaningless, it’s all marketing", he continues. "What matters is where the chocolate bean is from, and the proportions of sugar and milk in it", he exclaims authoritatively while breaking out pieces of chocolate bars and putting them in a little wooden plate in front of me. Then he gestures for me to eat them, all wide eyes and big arms.

As I put each piece in my mouth, he explains the texture, acidity, intensity, rhythm of the flavors. "The beginning is smoky, the middle is of cranberry, the end is smooth", he says while he draws a curve in the air. I dance with him, while listening to his metaphor about how chocolate is like dynamite, something about the sugar being the fuse? I am lost, head and soul in the curve of cocoa.

He pulls out a few more chocolates and I grab the first one, a little square with a slightly textured top. "This will take you to India!", he exclaims, his eyes shining. I bite into it - wow! an eruption of curry. I try to listen to what he is saying but I am disoriented, is that cumin, or chili, or turmeric? is it all of them? is it also crunchy?!

I am jolted by two new tourists who appear behind me. But now the chocolatier is the one lost in speech, his passion in the air bursting like fireworks with each of his sentences. How French! But really, how human, I feel in my heart.

“Don’t chew it!", he exclaims, before I put the last piece in my mouth. I nod, do as I am told, and get lost again in praline and raspberry.This is what travel is all about, I think. The yearning to learn, to absorb the culture and way of life somewhere foreign, the longing for connections with people that speak differently, look differently, think differently. How unexpectedly beautiful traveling can be, if only you let it.

At some point in the conversation he asks me where I come from, and we chat for a bit about Venezuela, comment on the political situation, and continue with my chocolate-education, this time in regards to the quality and price of the Venezuelan cacao bean. Then he excitedly shares, "The last time a Venezuelan came into the store was 3 years ago!". My heart warms and I am transported to my dear country, hiking in the Venezuelan jungle through cacao trees. "I am glad to represent", I reply, and truly hope I am worthy of that honor.

While I pay for the box of chocolates he impulsively throws a bar from Papua New Guinea in my bag, “because you liked this one”, he says. I did?, I wonder. With a heartfelt goodbye I head into the bright Parisian air, where sweetness and bitterness and gratefulness are everywhere. 

Subscribe now

We arrived to a “dry” Bogota. No alcohol was being sold due to presidential elections being held the next day. It is called “ley seca” (dry law) and it is practiced, as far as I know, in most Latin American countries on the day prior and on the day of elections. In some places it is even practiced every Sunday! All I wanted after a long trip and the start of a long weekend was a beer. But I digress.

As expected in any country, the election was all anyone could talk about while we were there. Especially because this election was historic in some respects. Different than past elections in Colombia but similar to other elections across Latin America in the recent past. It presented extremes: a hard-left candidate, Petro, and a far-right candidate, Duque. Petro promises, like most left leaning candidates, a more equitable society, one which is very needed in Colombia, one of the most unequal country in Latin America. But person after person we spoke to would tell us the same thing: “But what if he is like Chavez? What if we become a Venezuela?”

Let’s digest that. First, my country has become nothing more than the country noone wants to be like, how incredibly sad. I still remember a time when Venezuela was receiving immigrants, not seeing a big portion of its population flee. I grew up with Colombia, our neighbor, being extremely dangerous due to the war on drugs, with immigration from there to Venezuela at an all time high. We wouldn’t even think of visiting. Now we see the opposite.

Second, and most importantly, my country has become an excuse to dismiss left-leaning candidates in Latin America, to paint them all with the same brush. It has become a weapon, a fear-tactic, the right telling the country: “Be careful who you vote for or we might become Venezuela”. Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying Petro or Lopez Obrador (the left leaning candidate in Mexico) will actually be good presidents, meet all their promises, make their countries better and more equal, or even that they won’t be like Chavez. I don’t know enough to tell. But what I am saying is that we shouldn’t be using Venezuela as proof that left leaning politics don’t work. What Venezuela is proof of is much more complex than that, and as an incomplete summary we can say that corrupt politicians and police, plus misguided economic controls, plus a leader that breeds dependency and hate, all happening in an oil dependent country, is a recipe for disaster.

As a Venezuelan I can tell you no country should want to be like my country at this moment in time, but what Chavez stood for initially, what he preached and said he wanted for the country, it was a worthwhile pursuit. Chavez failed miserably at what he meant to achieve, but some of the ideals are worth fighting for, just not his way.

My hope is that other countries and leaders learn from Venezuela and avoid the mistakes we made, rather than just continue to use our sad story as a reason to lean right.

(Note that the final round of the elections in Colombia are happening today, June 17, and it seems likely that the far-right candidate, Duque, will win. On the other hand, Lopez Obrador is likely to win in Mexico)

Subscribe now

“What is in a name?” – Shakespeare

Apparently a lot if you are from Uganda and many other African countries. Way more than just inheriting your grandfather’s name, or getting a combination of your parents names, or simply just because. Names can instead say “I am a twin” or “I was born at home”, or plenty of other interesting, and very personal, anecdotes. The naming process in Uganda is complex and depends most of all on your tribe and clan. I won’t dare to try and explain it. But, here is a bit of what I learned from coworkers while I was in Gulu, northern Uganda.

In the Acholi culture your name can shout to the world that your mom had a difficult delivery, that your dad’s family did not love your mom, that you were born in poverty, that you were born legs first, that you have a birth defect, or that you were born *on the way* to the hospital.

If you are Acholi you have two names, an Acholi name based on some circumstance surrounding your birth, like the above, and then a second name chosen much like first names in a lot of countries around the world, because your parents or grandparents liked it. Unlike in much of the world the Acholi people don’t inherit a specific last name from anyone, so many people have zero names in common with their siblings and parents.

If you are born *after* a set of twins you will be called Akello, if you are a woman, or Okello, if you are a man. I have met several Akellos in my life and never knew this fact. This reason, to be born after twins, stood out to me among many of the other names as it is not directly about that person. Is not like they are the twin, or they have a birth defect, or they are the third child. It is about an event that had nothing to do with them: his/her siblings being twins. It is external to them, and signifies the importance of having twins and also the frequency of twins in that part of the world.

Having twins is still loaded with myths and rituals, and it is indeed common in Uganda. In fact, the highest rate of twins in the world is in Africa, specially in Nigeria and Central-African countries. A combination of factors leads to a high rate of twins, the most important being maternal age (the older the more likely, up until 38), but also the amount of pregnancies the mother has had, the mother’s height, and of course, genes.

Here are some of other interesting Acholi names (male/female):

• Apio/Opio. First Twin

• Acen/Ocen. Last Twin

• Acan/Ocan. Born in poverty

• Odoch/Adoch. Born legs first

• Ajok/Ojok. Has a birth defect

• Ojara/Lajara. Has an extra finger and/or toe

• Oyella. The family of the father didn’t like the mother

• Lakaraber. The family of the father received the wife gladly

• Oyo/Ayo. Born on the way to the hospital

• Atim/Otim. Born as the dad was away hunting or born on a big town outside the hometown

My naming story is not nearly as interesting, my father’s  name is Carlos and my mother’s name is Consuelo. Hence, Carla Consuelo :)

Tell me, what is in YOUR name?

Subscribe now

You can learn a lot about a place by just reading about it, but book learning has its limits. There is something about physically being in a place, about walking its streets, breathing its air, talking to locals and eating their food. Visiting a place exposes you to it entirely, mind and body, there is nowhere to hide, no book to close… it is unlike any other type of learning.

Palestine was the epitome of this for me. I had heard so much about the conflict there, had been overloaded with information and opinions about what is happening, about who is right and who is wrong, about the constant violence and instability. I had an image of Palestine in my head. It wasn’t a very concrete image, not one that I can describe to you, but definitely something and that something wasn’t right. All that book learning didn’t prepare me for what I would feel when I got there, for the “real” Palestine. My book learning didn’t truly show me what Palestine is, it mostly exposed me to what it supposedly is not. Not safe, not stable, not pretty…

Instead we found beautiful churches, mesquites, and squares, drank good coffee and ate good food, admired art, walked on old stone streets… We also found water tanks in every single building for when the water is cut off, huge signs alerting Israelis that going there poses a risk to their lives and is also illegal, heavily guarded settlements on the outskirts, and of course a monstrous wall filled with beautiful art. Separating the haves from the haves not, for far too many years.

But more than anything we found welcoming Palestinians living somewhat regular lives, longing for freedom of movement, wishing for a dependable source of water, hoping for a brighter future for their children… Just like anyone else.

I don’t have a solution to what it seems to be an intractable conflict, but my mental image of Palestine has now drastically changed. I can now close my eyes and see streets, and shops, and families laughing, and at the same time see and respect their agony and frustration. Traveling creates empathy but it also de-victimizes, it transforms victims in the news into real people with complex emotions. There is no better way to fight fear, ignorance, bigotry, and hatred than by traveling.

You must get out and go… and encourage others to do the same.