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After many years of trying, we were finally able to sell the home I was born and raised in.

It’s a positive thing. The house had been sitting idle in Caracas, like thousands of others all over Venezuela - decaying furniture, unseen paintings, dirty clothes on hangers. Now it gets to be lived in again, to hold new memories for another family. And, most importantly, my parents have a few years of rent paid off. We should be grateful.

And yet, the moment the deal was officially done, I cried. The only thing I could think of was: that was my last anchor, now there is nothing tangible connecting me to the place I was born and raised in.

My grandfather, an Italian immigrant, oversaw the construction of the building and was later able to buy the apartment where I would live from birth until I was twenty - longer than anywhere else. Its corners are etched in my mind. I can still see myself lying on the cool parquet floor for hours, chatting with friends over the landline; taking guitar lessons at the dining room table; the view of the mountain that envelops Caracas, El Ávila, framed perfectly through the balcony.

I can see my dad sitting at the desk by an oversized computer where I played that roller coaster game (IYKYK); my mom cooking in the small but mighty kitchen - the old, broken dishwasher never used for anything other than storage; a leg of Spanish ham that my dad once bought hanging over the washer; my crammed room with more furniture than it should have had; my cousin and I painting each other on the balcony; modeling my cute little costumes all over the house; and the colorful paintings on the walls - many of which I still have in storage in Utah, and which will likely have to be given away next year.

I recently read a review of Isabel Allende’s latest book, My Name is Emilia del Valle, which I haven’t yet read but certainly will soon - and a sentence from the review stayed with me for days. The one-star reviewer wrote:

“Nothing insightful to add… only the same overwhelming nostalgia that she seems unable to cope with sensibly, which drives her to write the same things over and over, always about the Chile she lost decades ago… just nostalgic reminiscences about a country she no longer knows well.”

The first thing I thought when I read it was: this person has no idea what it’s like to leave a place you didn’t want to leave.

Because for those of us who did that, it seems completely impossible to stop carrying a nostalgia and a deep longing for a place that made us, and that we know we no longer know. How could this not seep into who we are - into how we relate to others, into what we write, talk about, and care about? How could it not?

I haven’t read Isabel’s latest book, but I’ve read every other one of hers and loved them all. I hadn’t considered that what she writes might feel more powerful to those of us who’ve also felt displaced - far from our roots, always in search of home. So, for that, I thank that mean reviewer.

I am deeply grateful for the life I have now, and I know I wouldn’t have it if I hadn’t left my country. But that doesn’t erase the longing. It doesn’t fill the hole that only being in the place you were raised in - surrounded by people who speak like you, feel like you, act like you in so many small and meaningful ways - can fill. It’s a je ne sais quoi: a shared history that connects you in ways you can’t quite recreate elsewhere.

My partner and I recently watched Nadie nos va a extrañar (No One Will Miss Us) on Amazon Prime. It’s a melancholic, beautifully shot story about loss and change in Mexico City of the 90s. We watched it mostly because he wanted to be taken back to the place and decade he was born and raised in - and to show it to me. Every few minutes he would point something out:

“Those are the pyramid-shaped juice boxes I drank at school - Boing!, usually guava flavor.”

“OMG, I had those exact same bedsheets, and notebooks!”

“We used to play Looney Tunes Tazos in school too”

Even the music in the show - those pop and rock songs from the late 90s and early 2000s that filled the radio and every corner store - transported him instantly. It’s the kind of soundtrack that doesn’t just remind you of a place, but of who you were when you lived there.

We all have this kind of longing for the past, but if you’re still in a familiar place - for instance in the same country - or can visit often, then you see it evolve. It doesn’t weigh on you in the same way. It’s simply a fond memory of a time gone by. Or at least that’s how it is for my partner and Mexico City.

But it has always felt different for me and my Caracas. When I left the apartment that saw me grow up, I never imagined I would never go back - that we’d feel forced to sell it for little money, that I would be leaving it for good.

I feel somewhat silly writing this - it’s just an apartment, just a city, just a place I haven’t even been to in more than a decade. But the truth is, it isn’t just that. This kind of nostalgia will likely stay with me - and maybe with you - forever. And that’s okay. We can live full, happy lives while carrying it. I don’t need to overcome it; I’ve learned to live with it, and I feel no shame in that.

I might even write about it hundreds more times. Like Isabel.

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I’ve been calling my muse every day for months now. She’s not picking up. I think she is waiting for commitment, and she knows I’ve been flaky.

In my defense, settling into a new city, moving into a home, building a community, and starting not one but two jobs - all while trying to work out, eat well, and enjoy life - takes a lot of time and energy.

But I miss her. I crave seeing the world - outside and inside myself - through a writer’s eye again. Finding wonder in everyday life doesn’t always come naturally. Still, I know it’s a state I can nurture, especially when I shake things up and face lots of newness - one of the reasons I love traveling so much. But I need to learn how to call my muse even without all that novelty.

So, I’ll keep ringing her.

For now, below is a little something. Written in Spanish because it’s literally about being latina, though I attempted to translate it further below, which made me realize translation is freaking hard. Sorry.

I believe this piece works better out loud, so I added a short video version too.

Thanks for being here.

Cualquier ritmo mueve mi cadera.

Una salsa, un reggaeton, una cumbia, un corrido.

Llorar escuchando a Mon Laferte o a Natalia Lafourcade.

Cantar a todo pulmon Shakira o Soda Stereo en karaoke.

Perrear con Bad Bunny, soltarme con Rawayana, mover mi cuerpo al ritmo de Buena Vista Social Club.

Coño, que rico es bailar!

En 21 paises puedo hablar con la señora de la fruteria y el vecino que toma el fresco en la puerta de su casa.

Una de las pocas cosas que le agradezco a aquel Imperio Español.

Al menos nos deshicimos de la zeta…

Lo verde llena mis pupilas.

Cocoteros y loritos, el pan de cada dia.

Comer mango bajito sentada en la arena.

Subir cordilleras, admirar un salto eterno, jugar en el desierto, adentrarse en la selva.

Infinitas costas, el paraiso.

Saber los nombre de los hijos del mesonero del restaurante de los domingos.

Que te inviten un digestivo.

Los chistes entre tu papa y tu tio.

Celebrar una boda bailando hasta las siete de la mañana.

Familiones, comilonas, abuelitos sabios y cascarrabias.

Peleas a gritos, pero cuanto amor.

Que fortuna la latinidad.

Any rhythm moves my hips.

A salsa, a reggaeton, a cumbia, a corrido.

Crying listening to Mon Laferte or Natalia Lafourcade.

Singing Shakira or Soda Stereo at the top of my lungs in karaoke.

Twerking with Bad Bunny, letting loose with Rawayana, moving my body to the beat of Buena Vista Social Club.

Damn, dancing feels so good!

In 21 countries I can chat with the lady at the fruit stand and the neighbor cooling off by his front door.

One of the few things I thank that Spanish Empire for.

At least we got rid of the “Z”…

Green fills my eyes.

Coconut palms and little parrots, the usual sight.

Eating low-hanging mangoes while sitting on the sand.

Climbing mountain ranges, admiring endless waterfalls, playing in the desert, delving into the jungle.

Infinite coastlines, paradise itself.

Knowing the names of the kids of the waiter at the Sunday restaurant.

Being offered a digestif.

The jokes between your father and your uncle.

Celebrating a wedding dancing until seven in the morning.

Big families, huge meals, wise and grumpy grandparents.

Shouting matches, but so much love.

How lucky we are for our latinidad.

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My writing muse has been gone for a bit. I haven’t felt inspired to write - or create in other ways - for a couple months. I am told this happens, it’s normal, don’t fret. But I wondered, why does this so-call-muse leave? and what makes her come back?

I reflected on this until a few days ago, when I got dragged and pounded on by a large wave while on my third official surfing lesson. It scared the shit out of me. I don’t think I would have been able to hold my breath longer than a few more seconds. The moment I breached the surface and took enough breaths to be able to speak, I looked at my instructor - who had also been dragged by the wave and was a few meters away from me - and yelled to him I wasn’t going to do this, “I am out!”.

Back on the shore we had a long discussion about overcoming fears, calming oneself in stressful situations, and learning to trust. He was trying to encourage and push me, but throughout it, all I could feel was shame, all I could think of was: what a failure this was, what a failure I was.

And at that exact time, I felt my muse returning. Shame brought her out from her hiding place. For the first time in a while, I wanted to write, both to try to understand why I am always so quick to judge and be hard on myself, and also because I knew this feeling must not be unique. As a society we fear failure, we hide from it, we shove it under the rug. We see it as something that is meant to be forgotten. But because of this we tend to not learn and grow from it.

In the end, that was my last surfing lesson (for now). There were many reasons for this, most out of my control, but the core truth remained: I had not only failed at overcoming my fear that day and getting back into the water, but I had also failed at the more fundamental goal I had: learning how to surf.

How was this possible? A key part of my identity has always been my physical abilities. Put me to do anything that requires I run, catch, lift, throw, kick, etc, and I will do it well. I know I am strong, fast, and a quick learner. But none of that was evident when learning to surf. Absolutely none of it.

Talk about a reality check. It’s like the world was telling me: “You thought you were all of those things, but not always! Don’t get too comfy on that high horse.”

I told myself that maybe it was the lack of connection with my instructor, or the fact he didn’t seem comfortable teaching an “alpha woman” (his words, a story for another blog post), or the ocean conditions, or the board, or simply my state of mind. But also, maybe I am just trying to learn something that is freaking hard, something that needs time and patience and perseverance, and require that all the right pieces fit into place. Maybe it simply wasn’t the right time, the right place, the right anything.

When I told Alan I was going to write about this, he told me he didn’t see what happened as a failure, “it is just a learning opportunity”. And he is right, it is a learning opportunity, but it is also a failure, and that is okay. I think Alan’s response is a common one, we are so afraid of failure that we want to hide it behind semantics. But the definition of failure is simple: “a lack of success in doing or achieving something, especially in relation to a particular activity.” So, we probably fail at stuff much more often than we are willing to admit and acknowledge.

Failure is part of life, and we should be okay with it. I want to be okay with it. I really want to embrace this failure, own it, let it propel me further, make me wonder what I could have done differently, make me commit to what I will do differently next time I try to learn how to surf. Because I will, as I am committed to continue to do hard things.

I am not one for new years resolutions, which I share a bit about here, but having dinner with friends during NYE we asked each other what we wished to start or stop doing in the new year, and of everything I said I just remember one thing: “I want to be kinder to myself”. Writing this is me trying to do just that.

Where are we now?

Last time I wrote we were eating our way through Mexico City, which was really really lovely. We got to see lots of family and friends, and truly live in the city for several weeks, which we hadn’t done together before. I also got to experience my first earthquake - not once, or twice, but thrice! Yeah, THREE earthquakes. Thankfully they were all quite mild, but they still made me anxious. After Mexico City we flew to the Pacific coast of Mexico, landing in Puerto Vallarta and making our way north to the coast of the state of Nayarit, which is doted with cute little towns. We traveled with good friends for several weeks and spent New Years in a secluded home next to the ocean. Currently, we are in one of those cute towns, Sayulita, which will be our base for a few weeks. I can’t say I am in love with this place, but we are definitely enjoying our time in the area. I start my new gig tomorrow - aaaaaah! - and on Friday fly to Nigeria for an offsite - even more aaaaaah! Wish me luck :)

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I have been blogging for several years, sometimes about traveling sometimes about other things, sometimes consistently sometimes sporadically. But, this past year, while I discovered so much that was new to me, I felt like there was only one option: to write. These weekly journal posts were born out of an intense desire to share what I was learning during our sabbatical, what surprised me or moved me, what made me wonder, and what I thought might make you wonder too. I hope it did.

Now that we are back in a familiar place and routine, I have been thinking about how to evolve this space we share. The reality is that our lives are changing. We won’t stop traveling, but it will be different, so it feels that my writing should be too.

So, my dear reader, I ask for your help. Tell me, what do you want to see here? what are you interested in reading? I’d love to know. Please comment on this post or reach out directly in email with any and all ideas and requests. Do you want to keep seeing journal posts like what I have been sending lately, or also more recommendations, stories, and opinions? You can also reach out simply to say hi :).

For now, I am going on a little hiatus, probably for just a few weeks. I need some space to think, feel, and be. Some time to settle into this new-old life of ours, without thinking about what I should be writing next.

The truth is that it has been way too easy to come back, completely natural to get into the day to day routines, effortless to be busy with life and work. I am not sure why I thought coming back to “real-life” would feel shocking, the reality is that it’s been quite the opposite. So comfortable that the last 15 months sometimes feel like a dream. A truly lovely dream.

Where are we now?

We are home, in Tulum Mexico, where we will be until end of November. I am happy to be home, to be in a familiar place, to speak and be spoken to in Spanish, to be surrounded by lush jungle, to hear birds chirp every morning, to sweat every time I move (from the humidity), to swim in the Caribbean, to have my kitchen, to play beach racket and paddle tennis, to see friends, and in general to occupy a magical space I designed and love. But, I am also stressed, managing dozens of fixes to the house, making some difficult decisions, applying and interviewing for (remote) jobs, and planning for all our upcoming travels. But, Tulum beach is at its most beautiful and the town at its most chill, so I am not complaining :).

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I'm writing this from Treviso Italy while in the middle of packing for our first flight in a while. Our trusty car, the one we picked up in Bulgaria, has been on quite the adventure with us. We drove it for over 7,000 kilometers all around the beautiful Balkan Peninsula. Before leaving it behind for a while, we pulled the plug on its battery to keep it fresh, and put a flimsy cover on it to protect it from whatever the winter throws at it.

And speaking of changes, I've got a job interview lined up for tomorrow, and we're landing in Mexico this Friday. When you receive this post on Monday, Alan will be starting his new job. Phew!

Basically, a lot is happening, a whirlwind of stuff, and my brain's in overdrive trying to make sense of it all. Our epic 15+ month sabbatical is coming to an end, and we're gearing up for the next chapter in our lives. The one we're hoping will eventually lead us to the pinnacle of all sabbaticals: early retirement. But that is a story for another day.

Amidst all these changes, we have also been planning where to be after mid-November, when we basically have to leave our home in Mexico to rent it out for the high season. Ultimately, we decided to stick around Mexico and discover a portion of the Pacific Coast, which I have never been to (think Puerto Vallarta, Sayulita, San Pancho, etc). So, we have solid plans until end of February, when we will head back to the USA for a couple months.

I share all of this because people often ask us how we are able to travel so much, and apart from the obvious answer - we have prioritized it above anything else and by now it’s simply our lifestyle - the reality is that it’s because we fully commit to things way in advance. What I mean is, we pick a general destination about 4-6 months before we want to go, keep an eye on flight prices, and snatch up tickets when they're a good deal. Then, we take our time finding places to stay – generally Airbnbs because we need work spaces and a kitchen – usually booking a couple of months ahead, sometimes even more. This way, our travel plans come together smoothly and stress-free. On the last 15 months of traveling to almost 30 countries we literally had zero issues with all our plans, I am still (very happily) surprised by this.

As an example, we know today - September 18th - that starting around mid-April we will spend 3 months in the south of Italy. We don’t have plane tickets yet nor anything else booked, but we are monitoring ticket prices and will likely start planning - deciding which specific towns to visit and how long to stay in each - in the next couple of months. By January we will likely have our entire 3-month itinerary booked. So, I might not have any idea what my job will be at that point, but I know where I will be taking zoom calls from! (note: a fully remote position is a a non-negotiable for me, so I’d only apply and be willing to take positions that are fully remote).

Of course there is more than one way to travel. We've got many friends with similar lifestyles who approach things quite differently; they're the spontaneous, last-minute type, and it all falls into place for them. But, that is just not us, we like to minimize potential stress, and I truly believe that committing to go places months in advanced has been a key reason why we have been able to see so much in the last decade. This is even when we had on-site jobs and could only squeeze in vacations here and there. Besides, you get to be excited for longer! starting from the initial spark of an idea to the moment your feet touch foreign soil.

If you, like us, work remotely, then committing in advanced should be even easier. You can travel slowly, stay in places longer, and don’t have to worry (much) about vacation time, etc. In the end, all you need is a reliable internet connection, and thanks to the growing number of remote workers like us, hotels, Airbnbs, and the like are becoming increasingly transparent about their internet speeds (plus reading reviews can tell you a lot).

Now, you might argue that going with the flow and planning last-minute offers more flexibility, and it can. However, it often comes at a cost – fewer flight options, limited lodging choices, potential budget overruns. Besides, planning in advanced doesn’t have to be inflexible, most places we book can be cancelled until just a few days before arrival so if we decide to follow a different route we can do it without loosing a penny, and there are also flexible options for plane tickets. Although the truth is that we almost always stick to plan :).

If you desire to travel more our advice is simply: COMMIT! Decide on a place, buy that plane ticket, and book a place to stay. Things will work out, or rather you will make them work out.

So, as we wrap up our car for its winter slumber, embark on new job opportunities, enjoy our stay in Tulum, and anticipate the magic of the Mexican Pacific Coast, one thing remains constant: our commitment to planning these adventures in advance!

For more travel tips check out: Where to Go, What to Do, Where to Eat

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Recently I have seen a lot of mentions of the word “expat”; in news articles, blogs, facebook groups, etc etc. The exclusivity of the word - who gets to claim the title versus who doesn’t - has always bothered me. This is why I consciously try to avoid using it, and writing about it is my attempt to appeal to you to stop using it too.

To start, let’s do a little exercise. Picture an expat in your mind. Who are they? How do they look?

.

.

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I am going to guess you pictured someone… white and wealthy! Maybe a young man working for a transnational corporation in Hong Kong? or an older couple having margaritas under palm trees in Puerto Vallarta? Or a woman working out of her laptop in Medellin?

But, who cares about the actual definition? Colloquially, the word has become associated with wealth and whiteness, regardless of the reason or length of the stay in the foreign country.

I know people who have built their entire careers outside of their birth country, people that have married, bought houses, and have been for decades somewhere else, people who have no intention to return to their country of origin, and they would still call themselves expats. Of course they are all white, wealthy, and living in a “poorer” country that their own. In reality, they are simply immigrants.

But, being an immigrant also has a meaning outside of its definition. Expat is sophisticated, classy, associated with wealth and status. Immigrant is stagnant, without a choice, in search of better opportunities. So it’s no wonder people want to be expats, not immigrants.

Even when people fit the “official” definition of an expat - someone who left their country temporarily for a job - they will be called differently depending on how they look (race and social class), how much they make (economic status), and which country they are coming from (poor versus rich).

And of course we know a job really has nothing to do with how the word is used today. The retired German couple in Chiang Mai are expats while the Nigerian man working in high-tech in Amsterdam is an immigrant.

The truth is that formal definitions are irrelevant. What matters is how the words are used today. And the word expat is loaded, hierarchical, and used to impose an outdated social order. Language is powerful, the words we use matter.

Perhaps a more accurate and less outdated definition of expat is simply “an immigrant who has privilege”. The privilege of a top notch education, the privilege of freedom of movement, the privilege of a specific skin color, the privilege of being born in a rich country, the privilege of choice.

In a world where words carry immense power, we need scrutinize the language we employ and the connotations it carries. The term "expat" may seem innocuous at first glance, but its implications are far from neutral. It's a label that has been burdened with privilege, linked to wealth, and often intertwined with notions of race and social class.

In the end, we are all immigrants, so perhaps it's time to acknowledge that the term “expat” may need retirement.

Together, let’s bid adieu to "expat", shall we?

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Where are we now?

We arrived to Treviso today! A town very close to Venice and where my mom’s family is from. It’s our last destination in our 15-month full-time travel trip, and I still can’t believe it. We will be hanging out with some of my family, dropping the car here (to be picked up next year for a roadtrip through the south of Italy!), and taking a flight to Cancun in a few days. Although we are sad the sabbatical is officially coming to an end, we are extremely excited to go home to Tulum Mexico (read: tacos, mezcal, tropical food, and the Caribbean, how could we not?) and we have some really cool (slower) travel plans for the next few months! Stay tuned!

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As we're nearing the end of our three-and-a-half-month road trip in the Balkans, I can't help but reflect on all that we've discovered about the region. One of the most intriguing aspects of our journey has been delving into the story of Yugoslavia, and understanding how in many ways the union and what it represented is still present in the hearts and minds of many to this day.

By now we have spent time in *all* ex-Yugoslav countries: Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro, Bosnia & Herzegovina, Kosovo, Serbia, and North Macedonia. The one thing that has been a constant throughout all of them? Yugo-nostalgia. Or rather, Tito-nostalgia, because the Yugoslavia they long for is the one under Tito, not what came after. But let’s keep it simple.

Before our travels through all these ex-Yugoslav countries we expected there would be some people who looked back at the days under the socialist republic with a sigh and mutter under their breath “those good old days”. But we didn’t expect a lot people to feel this way. We were wrong.

In some ex-Yugoslav countries this feeling is a lot more pronounced that in others - in Serbia versus Croatia, for instance - but without fail it has been present in all. The reality is that lots and lots of people miss Yugoslavia, particularly those who actually lived through the years under the union, but also many that didn’t.

A Gallup Poll conducted in 2016 found that more than 80% of Serbians see the breakup as hurting their country. Yugoslavia was, after-all, majority Serb, so the nostalgia there seems to be in overdrive. Even to this day, on Tito’s birthday, many visit his fancy mausoleum in Belgrade to pay tribute. Side note: Tito’s funeral is, to this day, one of the world’s largest ever state funerals, attended by delegations from most of the world. Many of our tour guides all over ex-Yugoslavia told us that when Tito died they cried, no because it was politically appropriate, but because they were fond of him.

But, even in Bosnia-Herzegovina, the country that endured the most horrific of the separation wars, almost 80% of the population still hold deep affection regarding Yugoslavia. Maybe it is exactly because of how bad things ended, how bad things continue to be, that they long to return to a more united country.

In Croatia and Slovenia people are more likely to perceive the collapse of Yugoslavia as beneficial, specially the younger generations. This is not surprising, as the two countries were historically the richest in Yugoslavia and today are the only ones that are part of the European Union. Basically, they are much better off economically and politically than the rest. Our (young) tour guides in those countries told us that people live much better today that they did before they joined the EU, but not necessarily better than when their countries were part of Yugoslavia. A big portion of the older generations still consider Yugoslavia the “good old days”.

Shockingly, we also found Yugo-nostalgia in Kosovo, though it’s important to note that feeling is specific to when Tito was in charge, because what came afterwards for Kosovo was a long, bloody, and recent fight for independence. So, unsurprisingly, that Gallup poll I mentioned before found that most Kosovans see the ultimate breakup in a positive light.

Still, all the Kosovans we spoke to told us that under Tito there was peace and unity, everyone had jobs, people lived well; now Kosovo is small and struggling, with high corruption and unemployment levels, in a limbo, unrecognized by a large part of the world. For more on Kosovo’s story check out this previous post.

My point is that Yugo-nostalgia is present everywhere, even in the countries you would expect it the least.

As a Venezuelan who fled a “communist” regime with many parallels with past regimes across the Balkan regions, it has been specially enlightening to travel through the region. We are all fed different narratives about the good and the evil in this world, so depending on where you are from and where you live, you hold certain believes about communism. Think for a minute about what you associate with it. Is it shortages and poverty, is it education and health care, is it control and populism, is it equality and prosperity, is it a cult to a personality or a benevolent leader?

The truth is that communism can be all of those things and many more. One thing about traveling is that, as long as you’ll let it, it will help you expand whatever narrative you have in your head about anything. Specially the narratives you hold tightly.

But let’s rewind.

Yugoslavia was first born as the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes, following the end of the First World War in 1918, when four major empires - Ottoman, Russian, Austro-Hungary, and German - disintegrated and opened up space for other unions. Not long after, it officially got a re-brand as the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, the land of the South Slavs, and during the inter-war period it was, as many other kingdoms, ruled by dynasties that eventually fled as the Axis powers invaded their countries prior to World War II.

The Second World War in Yugoslavia was messy and bloody. The country was split among Germany, Italy, Hungary, Bulgaria, as well as internal fascists regimes such as the Croatian Ustaše. An important and effective resistance movement also sprung, the Yugoslav Partisans, led by no other than Tito, who would become the leader of the new Socialist Republic of Yugoslavia right after the war.

Although from afar it’s easy to paint all countries in communist Eastern Europe - the “Eastern Block” - with the same brush, the truth is that Yugoslavia was far from the same.

Although initially aligned with the Soviet Union, Tito bravely broke up with Stalin early on. After all, his partisan army was the one who liberated Yugoslavia from the Nazis, not the Soviet army, so he owed them nothing. This decision proved decisive in the future of Yugoslavia. He was a skilled diplomat and founded the non-aligned movement, an alliance of countries that didn’t want to formally align with the East-West/Soviet-American divide. This put Yugoslavia in a very unique position as a sort of broker between the two major power blocks.

Side note: The non-aligned countries came to be referred to as the “third-world”, the Eastern Block as the “second-world” and the Western Block as the “first-world”. These terms were a political grouping, not an economic one, but because many of the countries in the “third-world” were economically poor and non-industrialized, it became linked to the colloquial term most known today.

The non aligned movement was very meaningful during the Cold War and made Tito an extremely popular politician. By then Stalin had died, the new Soviet Union leader Nikita Khrushchev stablished relationships with Tito once again, and the US, wanting to avoid Yugoslavia joining the Eastern Block, kept Tito happy at all costs. Let’s just say Tito was in a good position.

Even more importantly, at that point Yugoslavia was the fastest growing socialist economy in the post-WWII era and one of the fastest growing countries in Europe during the 1950s and 1960s. Tito heavily industrialized the country, built hundreds of factories, and created millions of jobs. There were no major social disparities, education and health services were available to everybody. Tito prioritized education and gender equality. There was impressive economic growth and vast improvements in the standards of living during his 30 years in power. The undeniable fact is that Yugoslavia was not communist Albania, or Romania, or Bulgaria, or even the Soviet Union. Yugoslavia was prosperous, equal, and open.

A Yugoslav passport was an excellent passport to have, as it was one of the few that allowed someone to travel freely through both the East and the West. In contrast, nowadays unless you are Croatian or Slovenian (and part of the EU), you need a visa to enter many countries around the world. This is a fact that many are quick to point out when talking about the subject.

Perhaps most crucially, Tito preached “unity and brotherhood”, a peace & love philosophy that was celebrated and embraced by Yugoslavs. “We were all Yugoslavs, and we used to live in peace” is a common phrase we heard throughout our travels. Given all the wars that came after the dissolution of the state, and all the hate present to this day, it’s not hard to understand this sentiment.

We have met many people that have parents and grandparents who were from different parts of Yugoslavia; ethnically different, yet Yugoslavian in the end. A grandmother from Slovenia, a mother from Montenegro, a grandfather from Bosnia-Herzegovina, a father from Croatia. “It was a different time, nowadays you will not find this unity anywhere”, they told us. And sadly, this is true, as most countries around the region are ethnically homogenous, and those that aren’t are extremely segregated.

But, although Yugoslavia was a prosperous society, free in many ways, equal in most, and open to the world, it was certainly not democratic. Tito was a dictator, and although not a truly malevolent one, he suffered from the maladies of all dictators. He suppressed freedom of speech, persecuted political dissidents, and perhaps most damaging, he instilled an intense cult to his personality. As a tour guide in Croatia told us, “there was no Yugoslavia without Tito”.

Tito died in 1980 when the union was already struggling, but his death accelerated the collapse. Yugoslavia had become very indebted, Western economies went into a recession which decreased demand from Yugoslav imports and this fed the already large debt problem. What followed was what set the stage to the breakup; hyperinflation, shortages, high unemployment, and the collapse of social programs. All of this in addition to Serb nationalist Slobodan Milošević coming to power and pushing a “Greater Serbia” agenda was a recipe for disaster. Skeletons started to come out of the closet; basically all the ethnic tensions that had been swept under the rug during the years under Tito came to light in full force, and the Yugoslav wars erupted.

What followed was a series of horrific conflicts plagued with war crimes including the Bosnian genocide, and which resulted in the death of 140,000 people and in a major refugee and humanitarian crisis of millions of displaced people. (For more on that check some of my previous posts, like this one about what happened in Bosnia-Herzegovina).

Ex-Yugoslav states suffered greatly from the breakdown, and not only due to the lost of lives and general trauma, but there was also huge economic decline, a staggering brain-drain as many people left to Western Europe, and high levels of corruption and nepotism that are still present in most of the region to this day. Even those countries that have successfully joined the EU bloc, although immensely better economically that the rest, also struggle with some of these conditions.

After traveling extensively through the region and talking to many locals, it’s easy to understand why many look back nostalgically at Yugoslavia and the decades under Tito. Obviously the union didn’t work, it collapsed dramatically and shamefully, but that doesn’t mean there is nothing worth salvaging from it, worth learning from.

No political system is perfect, and it would do societies good to free themselves from the rigid dichotomy of labeling one system as inherently superior to another. There is no one-size-fits-all system of governance that is universally "good" or "bad." By recognizing that no political or economic model is perfect, we can foster a more open and nuanced dialogue about the complex challenges we are facing today.

As we say goodbye to the Balkans and their multifaceted history, I will strive to always carry with me the lesson that the world is a nuanced place, that things are not always what they seem, and that I should always question my tightly held believes. I hope you do too.

Look back into the future! And see the paradise!

It is the moment of the construction of a collective idea of economic redistribution.

It is the moment of imagining the importance of one's own defense.

It is the moment of the idea of trust and non-trust.

It is a question of how to enter into dialogue with different economic ideological views.

How to have the potency to create the moment of resonance.

It is the story of a state that embraced socialism and established a nonaligned movement with countries in Africa, America, Asia and Europe.

A state that wanted to practice a form of free market economy under socialism.

And it's the state of my childhood.

We live in a not too big but perfect flat, with lots of light on both sides of the flat, with lots of green between and around the buildings, next to the boulevard and the river.

We studied Latin for a week, and Cyrillic for a week.

We eat a lot of vegetables that our mothers bought after their work at the main market in town.

In winter, we enjoy the tastiest mandarines and oranges coming from the south.

In winter we visited workers’ hotels in the mountains. And the summers were mainly reserved for the seaside.

You can meet children and adults from different Yugoslavian cities, but also from Germany, West and East, from Italy, Hungary, Portugal, Czechoslovakia, Spain, Poland, France etc. It is a time of meeting, relaxation and of course swimming.

Some guests stayed in local guesthouses, while others were residents of workers' hotels, or other types of hotels. Some owned summer houses.

Many of them were workers, all of them were workers. Some had more decisions to make, or rather, they were allowed to make decisions. They were mostly the ones with more education. And some were politically active.

- An excerpt from an exposition in Sarajevo titled “Fragmented Memories”

Where are we now?

A couple of days ago we arrived to the capital of Slovenia, Ljubljana! And wow, what a cute little city this is, I am in love with it! It’s colorful, it’s cultural, there is a river and a castle, lots of green, and fun people. Culturally, it feels quite distinct from the rest of the Balkans and also ex-Yugoslav countries, but the more we learn about its history the more this makes sense. Check out IG stories for more on this place!

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Arriving to Montenegro last week meant many wonderful and exciting things, like seeing the ocean for the first time in months, and most importantly swimming in it, floating in it, being one with it, right until my fingers were all wrinkled. I missed that so much, and the truth is that I still miss it, because a European sea is not a Caribbean sea. But I digress.

Arriving to Montenegro also meant that our full-time travels are coming to an end. Our time here marks one month until we are back in Mexico and “back to work”. To be clear, this is not a pity post. We are extremely fortunate that our “going back” will simply mean we will be working *while* we travel, rather than *just* traveling.

But still, it will be a big change in our day to day lives.

And you see, I love change, crave it, wish it, always find ways to materialize it. I love the anticipation of change. I love what change does to me, how my senses sharpen in a new environment, how a new challenge always brings out a bit of a new me. I love the evolution (of me) inherent to change.

And this year has been an onslaught of change. On a monthly, weekly, daily, and even hourly basis. New countries, new experiences, new people, new feelings, all the freaking time. Constant change. It has been like jumping in a freezing body of water over and over again. I am without breath and exhilarated at all times.

I have learned more this year than I have in the decade prior; about the world, about others, and about myself. It’s been enriching in ways I didn’t expect, and also exhausting, but in a good way. Like how you feel when you finish a solid workout, or spend hours cooking something for someone you love.

I guess what I am trying to say is that this year I have been in my element, and have appreciated every second of it, even the stressful ones - which have been many - and the sad ones - which have been few. And so I’d love for it not to end.

But I am also trying to say that it coming to an end means change, so that in itself is exciting to me. I am genuinely looking forward to what the future is going to bring.

It’s complicated, as life usually is.

So that made me think deeper about mourning, and what we get and not get to mourn and why. Because as with everything in this life, there are society expectations surrounding it. You are supposed to mourn the loss of a loved one (but not indefinitely, as if grief had a schedule), you are supposed to mourn a serious illness or an accident, a large financial lost, etc.

But in its basic form mourning is simply “to feel sadness about the loss of something”.

So why shouldn’t we mourn losses even in the face of positive changes? You can be excited about all the good things ahead and also mourn what you are leaving behind.

You can mourn not longer living alone even if the reason is that you will be moving in with your partner

You can mourn losing some independence even if the reason is that a baby is on the way

You can mourn no longer spending time with your coworkers even if the reason is that you are quitting a terrible boss

You can mourn moving out of a place you have called home for years even if the reason is that you just bought your first house

You can mourn leaving a city you love even if the reason is that you are moving for your dream job

You can mourn no longer being with your partner even if the reason is that you finally left an abusive relationship

You don’t need my permission for absolutely anything, but just in case I want to tell you that it’s okay to mourn the end of ANYTHING! You can hold multiple emotions at the same time, we are humans. Nothing is black and white.

Today, with a year of intense experiences (almost) behind us, big changes looming ahead, and lots of unknowns, I can say that I am both happy and sad, both confident and reticent, both unafraid and terrified. I am mourning and I am excited. I am human.

Besides, as Alan likes to say, I have never taken a month-long vacation, so there is still much to enjoy!”.

Where are now?

We arrived to the darling of the Balkans a couple days ago, Croatia! Certainly the most popular country in the region and this is obvious by the amount of people… and the prices. That said, we are excited to be here! It’s beautiful. We arrived to Dubrovnik and we are staying in a lovely apartment a bit outside of town with gorgeous views of the bay, and there is no denying the old town is impressive. After Dubrovnik we will visit a small town near Split and then spend a few beach days in Hvar Island, before heading to the famous Plitvice Lakes National Park and then to Zagreb, the capital.

In Montenegro we not only visited the coast but also went inland to hike in several of its national parks. We spent the last few days there in Durmitor National Park and wow! that place is incredible. Definitely add it to your list if you are into hiking!

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How to even begin to tell the heartbreaking story of the Bosnian War and its aftermath? A story that has been told a thousand times already, from all possible angles. A story that captured the attention of so many around the world, and at the same time invoked ineffective action from the international community until it was too late. A story that very likely happened when you, my reader, were alive and growing up in a suburb in the United States, going to college in the capital of a Latin American country, or just living a war-free life anywhere else in the world. A story that was quickly forgotten by the world, even though another kind of war is still unfolding here today.

I was four when the war started and eight when it finished. The entire time I was completely oblivious to what was happening across the pond. Even after I grew up I learnt little about the Balkan peninsula, about its rich history and recent conflicts, about its kind people and ethnic divides. Not until I walked the streets of Sarajevo did I realize that thirty years after the war, there is still no peace in this country.

But let’s rewind.

Before I traveled through the region, everything I had read about it called out ethnic divides between Serbs, Croats, and Bosniaks, but that was always somewhat confusing to me. Don’t people living there have a ton in common? Don’t they share their history, ancestry, and language? The reality is that they do. It has been scientifically proven that the genetic differences between these ethnicities is practically nonexistent, all being a mix between indigenous Balkan (mainly Illyrians and Thracians) and Slavic people. Their languages, besides using different alphabets (Latin and/or Cyrillic), are nearly identical in vocabulary and grammar, just like American and British are both English.

So, what do they mean by ethnicity? The more I travel through the region the more it’s clear that religion is the main divider. At some point the different groups converted into different religions, either because they were forced to or because they were promised better lives if they did, and then through time have become culturally and otherwise different too. Bosniaks are Muslim, Serbs are Orthodox, and Croats are Catholic.

These religion and cultural divisions sort of blurred when they were all part of Yugoslavia and atheism was encouraged. Religions were still allowed, but it was not socially acceptable to discriminate based on it. Mix-religion marriages were common and everyone lived in peace. Tito preached peaceful coexistence and the truth is that he achieved it, even if that simply meant grievances were hidden under the carpet for a few decades.

But then Tito died, Yugoslavia started struggling economically for a variety of reasons, the Berlin wall fell and communism regimes started falling apart. Yugoslavia followed, with several republics in the union voting to secede and become independent, including Bosnia & Herzegovina. This uncovered everything hidden under the carpet, particularly in areas with big Serb communities, mainly in Bosnia & Herzegovina and Croatia. You see, Yugoslavia was always a majority-Serb union, and the nationalist Yugoslav government of Milošević wanted to unite the Serbs spread across the union and make a “Greater Serbia”. When you look at where large Serbs communities lived in Yugoslavia, it’s clear that war was inevitable if that was his goal.

[Note: This is not a post about the war per se, but if you would like to understand the basics I have included some simplified facts at the end of the post.]

Today, if you look across the Balkan region most countries have become their own islands, with very homogenous populations. Croatia is 80% Croat Catholic, Serbia is 80% Serb Orthodox, Kosovo is 95% Albanian Muslim, and the list goes on.

One official exception: Bosnia and Herzegovina, which is roughly 50% Bosniak, 30% Serb, and 15% Croat. But, in reality, the country is split up and the populations are almost entirely segregated. Not only by neighborhood or towns, but by an actual border. The land is divided, the outcome of the war was to literally make sub-countries within the country.

You see, Bosnia-Herzegovina might officially be one country but in reality it’s two. There is Republika Srpsk, the autonomous Serb region of the country, and there is the Federation of Bosnia-Herzegovina, the other autonomous region which is shared between Bosniaks and Croats (each in its own area). There is also a small and very diverse area called the Brcko District which was created later out of land from the two main entities and kind of functions like the other two.

When we crossed the border from Serbia we went into Republika Srpsk, and during the many kilometers we drove inside the country on our way to Sarajevo we didn’t see a single Bosnian flag, it was a if we had never left Serbia, the distinctive red blue and white flag waved throughout our path (although officially the flag of Republika Srpsk is a bit different than the Serbia one, it’s very very similar).

This segregation wasn’t always the case though, at least not in the cities and certainly not in Sarajevo, which was nicknamed the “Jerusalem of Europe” for a reason. But, the war changed cities, and the country, for the worst. It transformed what before were diverse cities in which mix-ethnicity marriages and friendships could flourish into fully homogenous cities or strictly divided ones.

Our tour guide in Mostar, a city in the southern part of the country, told us we could easily meet Croat and Bosniak kids in town that had never crossed into “the other” side of town. This is even though prior to the war Mostar was one of the most ethnically diverse cities in Yugoslavia, with a large proportion of mixed marriages, and a much larger Serb population that today’s 4%. Nowadays, the town is clearly divided into two main communities, on one side Bosniaks and on the other side Croats. As we entered the town from the Croat side we saw dozens of Croatian flags waving in the light poles, the bells ringing on Catholic churches, and only Croatian beer in supermarkets.

This separation between Bosniaks, Croats, and Serbs is not merely about where people live, it’s embedded in their institutions. The government classifies people into one of four categories: Muslim Bosniak, Orthodox Serb, Catholic Croat, or Other. Government jobs for these specific buckets - not including the “Other” category - have quotas, so if you want a job you *have* to identify with one of the religious buckets. Most people identify with a category regardless of their jobs.

The only shared elements between these three communities is a constitution, a central bank, and an army (which was recently united). Each of the communities has their own police force and health system, and even their money notes are different! Most worrisome of all, they have three different education systems, each teaching their own versions of history, including shockingly misleading statements of what happened during the war, like this excerpt from a college-age Serb textbook regarding the siege of Sarajevo:

"Sarajevo was under a partial blockade by Serb forces, and many Serbs remained imprisoned in the city, as Muslim military forces did not allow them to leave. Fighting was constantly taking place around the city, and war crimes against Serbs were committed in the city itself, as confirmed in 2021 by an independent international commission."

Even more surprisingly, denial of the Srebenica genocide, the worst massacre of the war, is still a widely held believe in Republika Srpska. Even though by federal law it’s illegal to deny it, no-one there is prosecuted for it. In fact, even politicians are still quite vocal about this believe.

When we visited the country a recent incident had happened in which two young women from Republika Srpska posted the image of Ratko Mladic, a convicted war criminal, and called him their hero. Because they were studying in Sarajevo, which is a short drive away from the “border” with Republika Srpska, the University there expelled them since they broke the law, but soon after they were rewarded by the authorities in Republika Srpska and told they would get their education paid elsewhere. Serbia gladly took them under their wing in the University of Belgrade. Sadly, this is just an example, as the government rhetoric on what happened during the war is clearly one-sided and echoed by the population of the Republika. People there, and in the country at large, are not coming to terms with what happened because no one is helping them reconcile, and perhaps never will.

The division runs so deeply that the country has three presidents, literally: one Croat, one Serb, and one Bosniak, elected for a 4-year term and rotating leadership every 8 months. There is also a Prime Minister, and then each entity has its own president. The Federation (the shared land between Bosniaks and Croats) not only has one president but two vice presidents as well! In addition (!!!) there is a High Representative, which is basically a viceroy due to its vast powers, and was put in place to oversee the implementation of the agreement after the war, called the Dayton Agreement. The system in incredibly complex, and I am probably butchering it (sorry).

So, how the heck do they get anything done? Well, they mostly don’t. Bosnia is one of the most corrupt countries in Europe. A complex system is not good for the people, but politicians - everywhere - benefit from them. Each level of government preaches their own victimhood, brewing hate and division, which also benefits them. Even more depressing, every single person we asked about the current situation and how to solve this deep division answered with a version of “there is no solution”.

It’s important to note that there are exceptions to the hateful divisions and people that genuinely want reconciliation. One of our tour guide in Sarajevo told us he doesn’t want to be put into an ethnic box, “I am not Muslim, I am not Bosniak, I am just a Sarajevan, a citizen of Bosnian and Herzegovina”. In a country in which most of its citizens identify with an ethnic group rather that the state, saying this is a revolution it itself. We had dinner with a kind and open family that just wish for their kids to live in peace with their neighbors. Our tour guide in Republika Srpska, where we spent a few days in Trebinje, told us repeatedly that the key was education, but also acknowledge that the system is broken, adding that the best outcome is maybe a slightly better situation that what they have today, “we can be neighbors, you can come to my home for dinner, but then you can go back home. Maybe that is the best we can hope for”.

Visiting Bosnia and Herzegovina was a wild ride. It was humbling and inspiring in many ways, but it was also a sad reminder of what humans are capable to do to one another, even long after an active conflict.

I often think about how after WWII there wasn’t a big reckoning in Germany right away, there wasn’t reconciliation and atonement for the pain the country had inflicted on so many. It actually took decade for this to happen, for a new generation to say enough is enough. So maybe more time is needed here too? I don’t know, it’s hard to see a solution to what seems like an intractable problem. Echoing the words of many in the country, “I am an optimist, but I am also a realist”.

I wanted to come to the country to learn about its past, and was blissfully ignorant of how that past is still very present in the day to day lives of Bosnians. This was a loud reminder of why I travel, because no matter how much I read about a place, I never really “get it” until I walk its streets and talk to its people. We left the country a couple of days ago and now I am more certain than ever that I know very little about it still, but my heart knows more than my head, and it’s loudly claiming to love it.

A bit about the war

• The war started because there was a split in support for independence, favored by the majority of Bosniaks and Croats, and remaining in Yugoslavia, favored by the majority of Serbs. There was a referendum for independence in which 63% of people participated in and more than 90% voted in favor of independence (the majority of Serbs, which made up of 34% of the population, boycotted it)

• Following the results the country declared its independence and received international recognization. Almost immediately the war started, in April 1992

• There were three main groups fighting, the Yugoslav Army which later transformed into the Army of Republika Srpska (majority Serb), the Army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina (majority Bosniak), and the Croatian Defence Council (majority Croat).

• The Army of Republika Srpska was heavily supported by Yugoslavia (and then Serbia), and as such had a big military advantage.

  • Side note: in Serbia not a single person mentioned the War in Bosnia to us unless we brought it up first (even in history tours) and after visiting both countries and talking to many people I believe it’s because they don’t see it as their war. They didn’t officially go fight there, it was Bosnian Serbs who were doing most of the fighting, and only paramilitary groups from Serbia were on the ground. The fact that the Serbian government directly supported them with basically everything they needed to fight is apparently not enough to take some responsibility

• Also, the Croatian Defence Council was supported by the Croatian government. Both Serbia and Croatia tried to hide their involvement in a variety of ways so it wouldn’t be seen as an international conflict, but rather just as a civil war, and other nations wouldn’t intervene. Their objective was to basically create a “Greater Croatia” and a “Greater Serbia”. Note that the Croatian War for Independence (first directly against  Yugoslavia and then against Croatian Serbs) was happening at the same time

  

• Although initially the Bosnian army and the croats were fighting together, this changed early on and they started to fight against each other in some parts of the country in what is known as the Croat-Bosniak war.

• Many cities were sieged, including Sarajevo, which spent almost 4 years - the longest siege of a capital city in the history of modern warfare - completely surrounded by Bosnian Serb forces in a terrifying situation in which people were killed every day by bombs and snipers. More than 11,000 people were killed in the city, and 50,000 were injured. Approximately 329 mortar shells were fired on Sarajevo every day, with more than 500,000 bombs dropped in total. The videos and images that exist of what was happening then will stay with me forever.

• The war lasted for almost 4 years during which a lot of war crimes were committed. The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia convicted 62 Serbs, 18 Croats, and 5 Bosniaks of war crimes. Including genocide against the Bosniak population. Estimates suggest at least 100,000 people were killed during the war, 40% of those were civilians and 80% of those civilians were Bosniak. Over 2.2 million people were displaced. An estimated 12,000–50,000 women were raped, mainly carried out by Bosnian Serb forces, with most of the victims being Bosniak women.

• The most shocking and depressing aspect of the war is how much the international community failed to protect civilians, specifically the UN peacekeeping force. In the largest and most devastating mass crime of the war -  the genocide in Srebenica - people had literally gone there because it was designated a UN "safe zone", and then families were separated and 8,000 men and boys were slaughtered, including 600 children. They were all dumped in mass graves and then many were dug up afterwards and drop in other graves to try to hide what had happened. Still today not all missing people have been identified. 400 UN Dutch soldiers were stationed there when it happened.

• The war ended when NATO, finally, got directly involved with airstrikes targeting the positions of the Army of the Republika Srpska. And then the Dayton agreement was signed in 1995, which is what divided the country. The agreement has been criticized for creating ineffective political systems and entrenching the ethnic divisions.

  • Side note: the Kosovo war was fought some years later, in 1999, by the same Yugoslav government, led by Milošević, that was in power during the Bosnian War, but this time against Kosovo Albanians. In this case NATO intervened rather quickly, even without full approval. I think what happened in Bosnia, or rather what the international community let happen there, was certainly on people’s mind then. On one of Clinton’s speech about the decision to intervene he said, “NATO stopped deliberate, systematic efforts at ethnic cleansing and genocide." Later on Milošević faced 66 counts of crimes against humanity, genocide, and war crimes committed during the Bosnian and Kosovo war.

One of the war museums in Sarajevo was playing a movie that stayed with me, it was set in 1994 when the war was in full swing and Sarajevo under siege. The film shows a tourist walking the streets of Rome talking pictures, he stumbled into a little store that is able to reveal his film in 10mins, so he drops it and goes wait outside. Then the movie cuts to the streets of Sarajevo and a kid going to fetch water from one of the water stations near his home, he finds his friends and plays ball for a minute, then a whistle and a loud explosion, he ducks and runs back home, where he finds his family has been killed by the bomb. Back in Rome, the tourist is getting his pictures back, one of them shows a happy family shot in the coliseum. Same world, same time, different realities. It’s an important reminder, specially right now.

Where are we now?

We are in Montenegro!!! Specifically in the Bay of Kotor, a beautiful aquamarine bay surrounded by big tall limestone mountains and dotted with cute medieval towns. Yesterday was the first time in months that we saw the ocean, and the first time in six months (!!) that we swam in it. It was magical! Arriving to Montenegro also means our full-time travel year+ is coming to an end, only one month left before we head to Mexico. *covers ears and sings loudly to try to ignore reality*. More on this next week!

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Last week we spent some time visiting Saxon villages in Romania, a collection of very quaint towns founded by Saxons who settled the area in the 12th century invited by the Hungarian king. Transylvania - today about 1/3 of Romania but its own region until 1918 - was then under the Hungary Empire. These Transylvania Saxons, as they were later deemed, were mostly of Germanic origins and came from the northwestern territories of the Roman Empire, such as Flanders, Lorraine, and Luxembourg.

This Romanian area where Saxons settled, and its mountains, served as a natural border for hundreds of years; the border between West and East, between Christianity and Islam. The Saxons protected that border by building charming towns surrounded by high walls and defensive towers, with massive fortified churches overlooking it all. These towns still stand today, but most of the Transylvania Saxons who built them are long gone, having left after WWII and then in subsequent migrant waves.

Still, their picturesque architecture and impressive fortified churches remain, drawing locals and tourists alike, making the area unique and interesting, and in many ways defining this part of Romania.

This reminded me of the many towns we have visited across the Balkans in which big and impressive mosques and synagogues still stand, but today no one prays in them and instead are used as concert halls or museums. In some cases the mosques are so many and so imposing that they define the skyline of the Christian Orthodox towns, such as in Bitola North Macedonia.

All of this made me reflect on how much of our present is shaped by the past, even when we don’t fully realize it, and even when we are not very fond of that past.

As an outsider it’s easy to see this when you travel, and in the Balkans it’s specially obvious as there are so many similarities across the region. As much as each country considers themselves extremely different from its neighbors, there are undeniable common threads tying them all together. After-all, their long histories are extremely intertwined, from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, to the Ottomans 500-year reign over the region, to the wave of communism that swept over them for half a century, to their ethnic nationalism and newfound democracies, they have a lot in common.

Today many people in the Balkans won’t have much good to say about the Ottoman Empire - who they saw as invaders - or the communists - who they saw as repressive - but so much of what the region is today is because of those eras.

Food is a clear example of this influence. Peppers were brought to the area by the Ottoman Empire and are now central to the Balkans cuisine, such as in Ajvar, a delicious spread made with roasted peppers and eaten basically everywhere in the region. Bureks, a crispy phyllo pie filled with cheese, meats, or veggies, are sold absolutely everywhere for breakfast and there is little doubt this was brought over by the Ottomans. Juicy kebabs, stuffed cabbage leaves, crispy baklava, the list goes on and on. Even the region’s love for pork has roots in the Ottoman Empire, since due to Islamic prohibition on pork the rulers couldn’t tax or take pigs from farmers, so its trade among locals flourish.

There is no way to erase 500 years of being part of something, anything! But of course you don’t even need that long of a time to be influenced. Balkans cuisine is also Austrian, Greek, Persian, Hungarian, German, etc etc - think goulash, breaded meats, pickled veggies, yogurt in meat dishes, moussaka, feta, and all those yummy things.

Even the communism regimes left their mark on the food, with for example the famous Shopska salad, which was invented by the Bulgarian national tourism company as part of a “local menu” to promote tourism (mostly targeted to Czechoslovakia tourists). The ingredients - tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and cheese - were chosen because they resemble the Bulgarian flag. Today, the Shopska salad is Bulgaria’s national dish and found in restaurants all across the Balkans.

Balkans cuisine is even, if you can believe it, a bit Latin American! When we were in Albania and asked for a local dessert they brought us “trilece”, which was suspiciously similar to “tres leches” both in name and taste, a rich and moist sponge cake soaked in three milks (evaporated, condensed, and whole) that is eaten throughout Latin America. Turns out Mexican soap operas were extremely popular in Albania back in the 90s and an Albanian chef curious about the dessert shown on the TV reverse-engineered the recipe and made it a thing in Albania and beyond! *mind-blown*

In another unexpected twist, we also learned that American involvement in Nicaragua is what gave birth to our dear tres leches, which is today Nicaragua’s national dessert and widely eaten throughout Latin America. Colonial periods everywhere have transformed societies and what they eat, and this wasn’t different in Nicaragua, where Nestlé imported canned milks became a staple and eventually, through experimentation, came together as tres leches.

Language is also an obvious mark of history. Balkan languages were all influenced by similar forces, mainly Roman and Slavic, but each developed somewhat naturally on their own given the context surrounding it. Alphabets were being developed all over the place around the 10th century, including Cyrillic, which was born in Bulgaria and is today used in Russia, Serbia, North Macedonia, and many other countries. The Ottoman Empire didn’t force a language, but their influence left thousands of words still used today.

In the 19th century nationalism hit hard across the region and ethnic groups started modifying alphabets to suit their way of speaking. Then, Yugoslavia was formed and a big chunk of the area became a single country, but still many different languages were spoken. Confused much? me too. Today each country in the Balkans officially has its own language; many are entirely different, others share features, and some speak essentially the same language but with regional differences or using different alphabets.

It's been very interesting to travel across the region and hear and read the different languages, all connected in some way. The most shocking of all was arriving to Romania, as for the first time in a while we could read and somewhat understand what was being written; Romanian is a Romance language, just like Spanish, and it shares many similarities with Italian!

And then we arrive at the forbidden topic: religion! Much of what countries fervently believe in today was forced on them - or promoted with promises of better lives - back in the day, but no one like to tell that story. Latin America is a great example of this, which is mostly Roman Catholic simply because the Spaniards colonized that land and forced their religion onto the native population. Today that religion is an integral part of our culture, as religion is in so much of the world.

The Balkans region has a unique intersection of Orthodox Christianity, Islam, and Roman Catholic communities. A mix and match that in combination with the many ethnicities present in the region has led to countless violent conflicts. This religion mosaic came to develop based on who was ruling which piece of land back in the day, which benefits were granted to which believers, which Empire had more influence in which areas, and which ruler tried harder to squash any other believes but their own, among many many other factors.

The region is even more unique because they also had half a century of communist rule, which preached atheism; sometimes forced - as in Albania - and sometimes a strong suggestion - as in Bulgaria. But, either way, atheism influenced society profoundly and this is obvious in two, somewhat contradictory, ways: a big chunk of people are either atheists or very “light” believers (they would say they believe in God but never pray, for instance), and the other are fervent believers, as if to get back all those those decades they could’t be. This split is interestingly not a young versus old divide, such as in much of the world, mostly because the older generation lived through communism and many were, and still are, atheists.

During the Ottomans rule many people converted to Islam and today there are muslim communities spread throughout the region, and also majority-muslim countries such as Albania, Kosovo, and Bosnia and Herzegovina. We are yet to visit Bosnia and Herzegovina but we spent time in the other two, and as someone who has visited many other majority muslim countries and has come to expect some restrictions, I was very surprised by how liberally they practice the religion. Think women not wearing hijabs and alcohol and pork being sold almost everywhere, as an example. It has been refreshing to travel throughout the region and go from Orthodox Christian countries to Muslim ones, with the only clear difference being how many churches versus mosques there are, nothing else highlighting a change in the majority religion.

As I reflect on our journey through the Balkans, I am struck by the undeniable influence of history on the present. The past has left an indelible mark on these lands; on what they eat, what they speak, what they believe in, and much much more. Amongst all the complexities and conflicts that shape the region, there is so much that unites them. The past may shape us, but it is our choices in the present that determine the path ahead.

Where are we now?

We have spent about a week in Serbia and what a ride it has been. We started in Novi Sad, a beautiful town known for being one of the most liberal places in Serbia, and it delivered. Then we made our way to the capital, Belgrade, where we are at right now. A big graffiti welcomed us to the city, “Kosovo is Serbia”, and the truth is that those words have set the tone for our time here. We have made it a point - in a more direct way than usual - to interact with locals and have, sometimes pretty tense, conversations about Serbia’s past, how it’s perceived by outsiders like us, and how they view it. So far it has been both enlightening and depressing. In a couple of days we are headed to Bosnia and Herzegovina so more on all of this next week.

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“Tapar el sol con un dedo” or “to cover the sun with a finger”, is a commonly used phrase in Spanish, and it means to attempt to hide something that is too conspicuous, to pretend that something obvious is not actually there.

We spent about two weeks in Bulgaria and the country was memorable in many ways - the food has been our favorite in the Balkans, we stumbled into many enriching cultural events, the people are super kind and welcoming, and it’s naturally gifted. But, unfortunately, one of those memorable ways was the amount of swastikas graffitied on the walls of every city we visited in the country.

Why, we kept wondering, don’t they scrub them off? This is what happens in many cities around the world. A swastika will appear in the streets of a city and just as quickly be cleaned off. In many cases there will even be an investigation, as it’s considered a hate crime.

In Bulgaria? Well, the policy seems to be to ignore.

When we asked a tour guide he simply shrugged, “sure, graffitis are illegal, but no one cares too much about them”

“But… these are not just any graffitis, these are swastikas”, I answered dumbfounded

“It’s just some rebellious kids, a few hooligans, they don’t mean much by it”

Speechless, I thought but didn’t say: do you honestly think this is a meaningless symbol? are you telling me these “kids” are so dumb they don’t know what it means? what about the other symbols surrounding the swastika: the Celtic cross, the number 88 and the year 1914? These are all well-known neo-Nazi symbols.

No, it’s not meaningless, the message is clear for anyone who cares to pay attention

We found this blaze attitude towards their swastikas-covered cities in most conversation we had with locals. This really caught our attention and made us want to dig more, so throughout our time in the country we were very deliberate in asking and probing (and scanning every wall) to try to understand this perspective.

Just as soon as we noticed the swastikas we also noticed locals tip toeing around Bulgaria’s role during WWII. Some would talk at length about Bulgaria’s old history -which goes back 6,000 years! - but then simply skip over the war period. Nothing to see here, it felt they were saying. So of course we wanted to see.

When the topic of WWII came up, either because we directly asked about it or it was necessary context for something that was being said, it was framed as if Bulgaria was a victim, “we were forced to join the Axis powers”, “we didn’t want anything to do with the war!”, “we actually saved our Jewish population”, etc.

All of it felt a little forced, a little too convenient to be totally true.

So off we went into the internets 😉 and the story is, as expected, a lot more complicated.

A few basics to start. Bulgaria was for a very brief period neutral during the war, but soon after they joined the Axis powers, thirsty for territorial gains. Many countries joined the war for this reason: Germany promised them land. Bulgaria had actually lost a lot of it at the end of WWI, so they were eager to retake it. The Bulgarian military didn’t actively participate in some of the Nazi’s nearby invasions, but they eagerly occupied (or liberated depending on who you ask) those territories once the governments surrendered, such as in Northern Greece and Eastern Yugoslavia.

One of the reasons I love seeing a region, such as the Balkans, rather than a single country is because we get to hear many overlapping histories told in widely different ways. We arrived to Bulgaria from what is today North Macedonia, and was then part of Yugoslavia. North Macedonia was occupied by the Bulgarian military during the war, and although most of the population living there actually welcomed the Bulgarians for various reasons, it’s also a fact that the Bulgarian military deported more than 11,000 Jews - almost the entire Jewish population of the regions they occupied - to their deaths in the Treblinka concentration camp. Bulgaria even financed the deportation, an agreement that happen nowhere else.

I’d bet you will not hear this fact while traveling in Bulgaria, certainly not without a caveat regarding how they were forced to deport them. But, the one thing you will be told is that Bulgaria “saved the Jews from the Holocaust”. And it’s absolutely true that that the Jewish population living in Bulgaria at that time - not the ones living in occupied territories - were not deported. This is a source of immense national pride, as it should be. But, when you understand the full history, it kinda feels like a get-out-of-jail-free card.

So, surprise! it’s complicated. Bulgaria seems to be so many things at once, and aren’t we all?

(side note: there is a lot of contention between North Macedonia and Bulgaria regarding the events surrounding WWII and how each country portrays them today, but that is story for another day.)

Back to the present and the swastikas on walls that no one seems to pay much attention to. Although I don’t know for certain what leads to this indifference, my guess would be that it has something to do with confronting uncomfortable pieces of their past.

In one of the tours we took, our guide told us indignantly and in reference to the communism regime that took power after the war,“the communists even called our leader a fascist!”. Again, I thought but didn’t say, because he probably was, as many other European leaders during that time.

In most places around the Balkans region (Albania has been an exception), we have found the commentary towards WWII pretty muted. The topic is either entirely avoided by tour guides or simply discounted with comments that suggest there wasn’t wide support for fascism, such as “there was *a single* general that led us to war!”. This is a naive viewpoint.

It’s also obvious that the motivation for this deliberate blindspot is their communal hate for communism, and the fact that fascism and the war had a lot to do with communism raising to power. And about their hate for communism they will talk endlessly, and honestly I can’t blame them for this. I can only hope we Venezuelans can speak about our current horrific “communist” regime in the past tense someday, and I also hope we will acknowledge the valid reasons why it came to power. But, I was still shocked when one Romanian tour guide referred to their country’s late switch in WWII to join the Allies, and Russia, as “a bad decision”. Because I’d take Russia over the Nazis any day, and I know that is a lot to say today, but still.

During that tour in Bulgaria in which the swastikas were dismissed as being done by “just a few hooligans”, Alan asked if there was a far-right party and who was voting for them; “yeah, those same hooligans vote for them, and they won some seats in the last election”, the tour guide replied nonchalantly. Turns out the ultranationalist Vazrazhdane party got 14% of the vote in Bulgaria’’s most recent parliamentary election, which made it the third largest party in the parliament. These are certainly not just some powerless hooligans.

So, it feels that Bulgaria - but not only Bulgaria - is happy to block the sun with a finger and pretend that there was no fascist support then, and that there is no far-right support now.

As it often is, the lesson in this case is a sobering one. Europe’s far right is winning more and more seats and elections, from Italy to France to Sweden, and some are still naive about what this might mean.

Why don’t we just face the sun? Let it shine on your face, let it remind you there is darkness too.

Where are we now?

We just spent a few days in Brașov, a town located north of Bucharest in the historic region of Transylvania in Romania. I am completely smitten by it! The architecture, the nature surrounding it, the pastel colors, the weather (so much cooler!!), everything about it is just *chef’s kiss*. We are leaving today to what I am sure will be another very cute town, called Sighișoara, but before we head there we are driving a portion of the famous Transfăgărășan mountain road! More on that later (check IG for real time pics!). Alan’s mom left this morning to visit Alan’s brother and his family in England, so it’s back to us two for a while.

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I recently had a birthday (36!!!). The following day I opened Facebook for my annual visit to check the birthday messages from the dwindling amount of people who are still using it - thank you, btw, for all the beautiful wishes I got that day! Facebook showed me one of those “check the silly things you posted and how you looked a long time ago” pic (above).

I stared at the collage from a long ago birthday; Alan’s and my face smooched in the center, surrounded by pics of the food we ate to celebrate - I guess some things haven’t changed. In the caption I wrote a sentence about the celebration and ended it with: “I am so blessed!”.

That sentence struck me because the night before, after a celebratory dinner, I had written something very similar: “Entirely and absolutely blessed”.

The similar messages made me reflect on the last two decades of my life and made me realize that the underlining feeling for most of that time has been a deep feeling of gratitude.

The more I thought about the past couple decades the more it was clear that even when I had felt depressed or lost, I had also felt fortunate. Gratitude can be layered - I guess all feelings can - and even in my darkest hours gratitude has always accompanied me. Sometimes it’s the background soundtrack, playing softly and easy to forget, but clear as day if you pay the tiniest bit of attention. Sometimes it’s so loud I can barely hear anything else. But it’s present, always.

When I first arrived in Texas more than 15 years ago as a 20-year old Venezuelan immigrant, I felt a deep sense of loss. Loss of friends and family, loss of love, loss of community and language, loss of day to day routines and comfort, loss of a warm culture, loss for all the “what ifs”. This feeling of sorrow stayed with me for a long time. I know now that I was depressed, but back then I attributed my mental state and physical sickness to simply having to get used to the new life I never asked for or wanted. But, surprising to me even to this day, right next to the feeling of hopelessness there was gratitude. And the truth is that there were many reasons to feel fortunate; we had been able to emigrate from a struggling country, my father had a job, I would be able to transfer credits and finish College, we were doing okay.

There have been other times too, when life was complicated and stressful, tiring and confusing. Still, I can clearly see gratitude around, floating like a cloud around me, present but unobtrusive.

I think feeling grateful - to me - has been the secret to a fulfilling and happy life.

The fact that gratitude is good for you is not particularly insightful - there is a ton of research about it - but realizing how much of a part it has played in my life has been a revelation. Now that it’s as clear as day, I want to hold on to it, cultivate it, water it, sing to it, make it an altar.

Because gratefulness grounds me and lifts me up at the same time, and what more could I ask for?

A couple nights ago we stumbled into a Latin concert. Mind you, we were in the small town of Veliko Tarnovo in the north of Bulgaria. The moment I stepped into the low-ceiling cavernous little room the concert was at, the band was playing “Soledad y el Mar” by Natalia Lafourcade. The shock of listening to this moving song by a Mexican artist I love deeply in a small room of a Bulgarian bar was like jumping into freezing water, at first confusing and then absolutely exhilarating. The band of two Argentinians, a Peruvian, and a Polish played Latin songs the entire night, and we sang and danced to Salsa and Cumbia, even when the electricity went out for a few minutes.

It was a beautiful night, and also very sentimental. It had been a very long time since I felt as nostalgic. It’s hard to explain the longing I feel for the country I was born and raised in and how the knot in me often comes untangled when listening and dancing to Latin music. But that is a post for another day. My point is that I was both joyous and sorrowful, but above all, I was so very grateful. Grateful for the magical coincidence of stumbling into the concert, for the pleasure of singing out loud in my native language while in a far away country, for the release of moving my hips to the rhythm, for being a proud Latina.

I feel very blessed today, but I have the sense that whatever happens in my life, I will always find a way to feel that way. And for that, I am forever grateful.

Where are we now?

We arrived to Bucharest Romania yesterday, as did Alan’s mom who is visiting us for about a week (from Mexico City)! We are excited to start exploring this new-to-us country, starting with its capital! Bucharest is actually the first place in the Balkans we are staying for five nights, so I am excited about taking it easy, although we have been good about this lately :). It’s oppressively hot over here, so that will certainly dictate some of what we end up doing. The plan is a couple of walking tours, many museums, and of course, good food! Let me know if you have any recommendations for the city!

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I used to think no country could love America more than America loves America.

Turns out I was wrong.

Kosovo *looooooves* America, without any reservations.

Kosovo is without a doubt the most pro-American country I have ever been to. In the many many years of traveling I have never seen a place with so many USA references.

I mean it when I say: America is everywhere in Kosovo.

Even if you knew nothing of the history between the two countries it would be completely impossible to visit Kosovo and not wonder what the heck is going on with the USA obsession. And even if you knew about the history between the two countries I bet you would still be surprised at the amount of America in your face. I definetely was on our first night in Pristina, the capital, when we were welcomed by a giant US flag poster when we randomly stumbled into a concert!

There is the huge statue of Bill Clinton, the street named after George W. Bush, the pantsuit store named Hillary, and the “American” library with the Golden Gate pic on the walls. There is the mini statue of liberty, the taxis named “Dallas”, and the American flag waving in every corner. There is a song - and I am not making this up - called THANK YOU USA. Please do yourself a favor and check out the video. The chorus goes as you would expect:

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In Pristina, the capital of Kosovo, they used to celebrate the 4th of July - the USA independence day! - with a huge concert until the American government told them they had a credible threat from ISIS and that they better stop doing that.

In summary: Kosovo loves the United States. But, I’d bet most Americans couldn’t even point Kosovo in a map. Many would probably not even be aware of the USA involvement in several wars in the region. The truth is that the United States is so self-obsessed that there isn’t a ton of common knowledge around the many - and I mean many - meddlings it has done around the world. Sadly, most are not a positive story, and their stated goals of “freedom” or “democracy” are not often their true goals. The majority of the countries that received these interventions didn’t welcome them, and many actively don’t appreciate the Unites States because of it, or are simply indifferent about it.

And then, there is Kosovo; the American lover.

The truth is that their obsession makes sense. Let me try to explain why.

It’s hard to succinctly describe the history in this region because of the complex religion and ethnic clashes throughout time. But, to understand any piece of it it’s key to get a high level view of its population mosaic.

More than a dozen ethnicities are present in the region, including Albanians, Bosniaks, Macedonians, Montenegrins, Serbs, Romanians, Bulgarians, and Slovenes, to name a few. And there is a mix match of religions too, mainly Eastern Orthodox, Islam, and Roman Catholic. None of it is clearly delineated by country borders, which has led to many conflicts between majority and minority groups throughout history.

Here is a pretty simplistic map showing the main ethnicity per area, just so you get an idea of the complexity (just keep in mind that the map is not entirely accurate, as for instance it notes Montegrins as Serbs instead of their own ethnicity, but you get the idea).

Kosovo is that small land-lock country in between many different colors. The country is majority Albanian, which has been the root of its conflicts with Serbia and its mostly Serb population since the entire region was part of the Ottoman Empire. During that time, in 1877, many Albanians were expelled from (what is today) Serbia and into (what is today) Kosovo, and this was followed by attacks on Serbs who lived in Kosovo. Since then there have been constant conflicts between the two regions.

When Yugoslavia was formed Kosovo became part of that Serb-dominated territory, first as an autonomous province of Serbia and eventually as its own province with additional rights. Regardless of its status, Kosovo was always linked to Serbia and never an actual republic of Yugoslavia, which made it impossible for them to leave Yugoslavia legally. During those years nationalism of any kind was strictly forbidden and persecuted, but still these movements persisted and for that and many other reasons in 1991 the Yugoslav Wars erupted. These were a series of separate but related ethnic conflicts originating from the different republics of Yugoslavia wanting their independence. The wars lasted a decade, killed at least 140,000 people, and were marked by horrific war crimes including genocide and mass rape.

The Kosovo War was the last of these independence conflicts. By that point three previous wars had been fought by the Yugoslav Army, and a lot of blood had been shed, including in the Bosnian genocide. Ultimately, the clash between the Kosovo Liberation Army and the Yugoslav Army lasted only a year before NATO, with U.S. at the helm, intervened to end it. They bombed Yugoslavia for over two months until an agreement was reached and the Yugoslav forces left Kosovo.

A lot has been said about the decision to intervene and whether it was the right thing to do or not. It’s, as everything, quite complicated. This was the first time NATO forces were used offensively, and to attack a sovereign nation to end a civil war. Whether there was legitimacy under international law to do this is questioned. NATO also failed to gain authorization from the United Nation Security Council. At the same time, the bombing brought an end to the ethnic cleansing against Kosovo’s Albanian population and also led to the downfall of Yugoslavia’s government, which is widely seen as responsible for horrific war crimes.

Ultimately, this intervention paved the way for Kosovo’s independence a decade later. But, to this day Serbia considers Kosovo part of its territory, and plenty of countries don’t recognize Kosovo’s sovereignty. Many of them due to their own domestic independence movements, such as Spain with Catalonia and Argentina with the Falkland Islands. Basically, they don’t want to leave a precedence and give those domestic movements any more power. There are other reasons too, mainly that Kosovo declared independence unilaterally (without an agreement with Serbia).

So, ultimately, Kosovo is still in limbo. Its half-way status prevents its citizens to travel to many places as their passport are not considered valid, and they can’t even think about joining the EU or NATO. But, day to day life continues, as it does in so many places struggling with one thing or the other. While walking the streets of Pristina on a Monday I was struck by the amount of people out and about and assumed it was a holiday of some kind, but when asked I was told simply that no, it wasn’t a holiday, it was just all the Kosovans who had left the country because of the war or better opportunities, and were coming back to spend the summer with their families. Today remittances account for 18% of Kosovo’s GDP.

The truth is that without the United States it’s hard to know what would be of Kosovo today.

So there you go, their loves makes sense.

Their biggest crush is with Bill Clinton and George W. Bush, the former because he was the one in charge when the NATO bombings happened and the later because he was the one who recognized their independence. There is one notable exception with their American love though: Trump. They didn’t like the guy, and who can blame them? I was happily surprised to learn that their love has some boundaries :)

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While hiking in the mountains between Albania and Montenegro you admire wildflowers one minute and then bump into bunkers on the next. Small concrete domes give them away, an entrance on one side leading to an opening just large enough for a few people. Now all abandoned and let to crumble, but they are bunkers, so they still stand. Remnants of a troubled past.

This “bunkerization” of Albania happened from 1975 to 1983 under the mandate of Enver Hoxha, the communist leader of the country during four horrific decades. Imagine the focus, perseverance, and sheer man and woman power it must have taken a country of a million people to build 170,000 bunkers in eight years. Just picture the paranoia that drove to that.

The history of communism in Albania is a unique one. Albanians tend to refer to that era simply as “the communist years”, in low tones and a frown in their faces. But to us outsiders the uniqueness of those years is appreciated in the many stages it traversed: there is the Yugoslavia satellite stage, the Soviet Union one, followed by a Chinese sphere stage, and then total and complete isolation. From one alliance to the next there was only one thing in common: Enver Hoxha’s extremism and desire for power. No country or leader was “communist enough” for Hoxha.

Hoxha came to power in 1944 and remained as Albania’s authoritarian leader until his death in 1985. Interestingly, in 1940, just a few years before his rise to power, Albania was the only European country without a communist party. But then they were invaded by Fascists, and then the Nazis, and not surprisingly communism won (you find a bit more about this history in this previous post).

Hoxha made and broke alliances with the entire world’s communism sphere, and became increasingly paranoid a nuclear war would be waged against his country. Today Albanians resent Hoxha and see the full four decades of his reign as the most terrible years for the country and its people. But, if pressed, they will tell you that the “worst of the worst” years were the last ones, when the country was fully and completely isolated from the world. Without Chinese or Soviet aid the country began to experience shortages, and living standards began to collapse. Albania became the “North Korea of Europe”.

But, the worst thing of all, was the violence and repression.

Our tour guide in Tirana was born in 1972 so he lived through two of the worst decades of the communism regime. He was 12 when he saw a hanged man, executed for treason. He was still a boy when he heard about two other boys being shot while trying to escape. He was a young man when he saw his father hiding under covers while listening to a radio station of a neighboring country, an American Albanian talking on the other end. He was 15 years old when he got into a car for the first time.

The Albanian border was secured with an electrical barrier, called KLONI, which if crossed would alert the nearest border post. Anyone trying to flee could be executed on the spot and accused of treason against the homeland, their families would suffer the consequences of their actions for decades afterwards. The dogs used on the borders were German Shepards, so in Albania that breed is simply called Border dogs.

“We were brainwashed”, our tour guide shared, “I wouldn’t have even thought about saying anything bad about Hoxha or even thinking about him in a bad light, it just wasn’t part of the narrative and believes of people”

Albanians lived in a constant state of fear and paranoia as any neighbor could rat you out as an “enemy of the party” and then you could just end up in prison, or even be executed and your family labeled as traitors forever. Hoxha published more than 60 books, and everyone in Albania had these books in their homes as well as a picture of Hoxha. Not having them was a sign of dissent.

“Even as kids we were trained to monitor each other”, he continued, “We felt special if we were chosen to be the ones watching out for signs of dissent”

During these decades Albanians were part of massive trainings simulating large-scale attacks. A (harmless) gas would be released into the air, everyone would have gas masks on, and run into bunkers.

I could go on and on about the the prison camps, religious repression, torture methods, and public executions carried out by Hoxha’s government, but because things are never black or white, it’s also important to mention that there were some positive impacts to its regime. The population literacy went from 10% to 90%, and the participation of women in all aspects of politics and life increased dramatically. Population grew exponentially and life expectancy went from 38 years to 72 years.

None of this negates everything else that happened or makes it “okay”, but it’s important to understand the full picture. Nothing is ever white or black. The same can be said of dozens of authoritarian leaders around the globe, there is almost always something they did “right”, and even to this day people use those things to justify even the most disgusting dictators. I’d never justify them, no matter how much they “improved the economy” or how many “highways they built”, but negating the positive impacts their rule had (if any) makes it easier for people to justify it and continue the rhetoric of the “good old days”. I don’t think this is something that anyone here believes of Hoxha, but I have heard it of Chile’s Pinochet, Spain’s Franco, Cuba’s Fidel, and many others. But, anyways, I digressed…

While walking through the narrow and eerie alleys of a giant bunker now turned museum on the outskirts of Tirana, I kept thinking that it must have been scary to live during that time, and then I remembered that I was born before communism fell in Albania. During some of the worst years there I was having a pretty idyllic childhood in a prosperous Venezuela, open to the world, wild and beautiful, oil rich as it ever was. And then a populist-drunk-on-power disguised as a “communist” came for us as well.

Where are we now?

Going forward I will start adding a small summary of where we are with each post! We have been in Kosovo for almost a week now, probably the most pro-American country I have ever been to, and I am looking forward to writing about this interesting place! Before arriving to Kosovo we hiked in the Accursed Mountains of Albania, Kosovo, and Montenegro for 9 days, and hands down it has been one of my favorite backpacking experiences. If you are into hiking, I highly highly recommend the trek. I am still thinking about whether to write about it or not, let me know if you are interested!

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Less than one hour after crossing the border into Albania we found ourselves by the side of a lightly traveled road with smoke coming out of the front right wheel of our “new” car. We got out and stood under the scorching sun eying suspiciously at the vehicle, as if we would know what the heck was going on with it. Us! complete car illiterates. We did this for a bit, waiting for the smoke to dissipate and half expecting flames to come out of the hood at any minute.

I stood there while I thought about how everyone we told we were going to Albania had something to say about their “craziness”. Even next door in North Macedonia, tourists would crumble their faces and exclaim “Ooooh, you gotta be careful there!” when we shared this piece of news. But, consistently, when we asked if they had been to Albania they would shake their head while sheepishly noting they had simply “heard stories”. Besides the fact that they “drove crazy”, no other story was ever shared. An hour in and we didn’t think they drove particularly bad or fast, but this - that people drive crazy - is something we have heard often about many destinations, and never found to be fully accurate. Maybe it’s because we are from Latin American countries and learned to drive in a sort of lawless and very aggressive driving culture, but most everywhere in the world we simply adjust to the driving style without much issue.

Anyways, a minute later a women in her 60s came out of a house nearby and in this awkward Google Translate dance we finally understood we had stopped a mere 2min from a car shop. We thank her, got into the possibly exploding-at-any-minute car, and drove to it. We were received by about eight men eating pizza on the floor. Google Translate was again doing a pretty crappy job until we realized the main mechanic spoke Italian, so we made do with our Italish; you know, Spanish with an Italian accent and a lot of hand gestures. I think it worked.

The Albanian who spoke Italian got busy with our car, and after about 15min and some tests he declared “sono confuso!” / “I am confused!”. He then took our car for a spin with everything we owned in it, including my purse and Alan’s backpack with all our important documents in it. After the car had left the parking lot Alan turned to me and asked if we should have grabbed the backpack, but honestly the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. The vibe in the shop was one of trust; easy and calm. Turns out there was nothing wrong with the car (idk, we will see!). When we tried to ask the mechanic how much we owed him for his time he just waved us away, ‘Niente!’ he exclaimed with a wide smile.

This first interaction in Albania, even under less than ideal circumstances, left us feeling at ease and set the tone for the rest of our time in the country. We have found Albanian people to be extremely kind, open, and curious. Even prior to arriving in the country we had met three Albanians in North Macedonia, the only people in our entire week there that sparked up a conversation with us out of nowhere, asking us where we were from and sharing their love for Mexican telenovelas. I am always scanning for people’s alternative motives, but these three friendly Albanians just wanted to chat, intrigued about our far away countries.

I also had certain expectations of Albania due to it being a majority-muslim country (official numbers cite it as 70% Muslim). I have been to many and I have become used to expecting certain things: restriction of alcohol, women wearing hijabs or completely covered, no tattoos, loud calls to prayer. Albania defies all these rules. Alcohol is absolutely everywhere, most women are not covered and many wear clothes that would be considered inappropriate in many majority muslim countries, lots of people have tattoos (men and women), calls to prayer occur but much less frequently and also less noticeably. Albania simply won’t be defined by religion.

The truth is that since we arrived to Albania we felt the country to be different than any other we had been to in the Balkans. We couldn’t quite pinpoint why, but the more we learned about the country the more we realized the feeling was accurate; Albania is the rebel of the Balkans.

Maybe this is why people think of them as “crazy”?

Maybe it’s because the recent history of the country is in fact quite unique and in a way yes, kinda crazy.

Maybe it’s because in 1997 Albanians looted 600,000 weapons from military barracks after being scammed of billions through pyramid schemes, and then anarchy reigned for a year.

Maybe it’s because they were totally isolated from the world for decades.

I don’t know. All I know is that I am in love with the place.

Albania is on the western side of the Balkan peninsula, it has a long coast facing the Adriatic sea less than 150km from Italy’s heel. As with most of the rest of the Balkans they were part of the Ottoman empire for almost five centuries. Until they declared their independence in 1912 things were looking pretty standard for the region. But, that is when Albania began to differ from its neighbors.

The country has always had a deeply entrenched history with Italy, including being an Italian protectorate around WWI, dependent on financial loans from Italy in the 20s, heavily influenced in many other ways, and being buddy buddy with Mussolini. That is, until Italy decided to ignore their alliance and invade Albania right before WWII broke out. Once again, Albania became an Italian protectorate.

Although the fascist had some Albanian support - as they did everywhere - most locals opposed the occupation and an unorganized but persistent resistance began early on. Still, even after Mussolini fell and Italy capitulated to the Allies and switched sides Albania continued to be occupied, Germany simply took Italy’s place. Germany didn’t have long term interest in the country and hence took a different approach, supporting nationalistic desires for a “Greater Albania”, which actually gained them real support from many Albanian politicians and intellectuals. But, there was always opposition too, and well, an actual World War being fought in the country, which left it in shambles.

Ultimately, the war ended and the communist party rose to power. The election that legitimize the government of Enver Hoxha - the man that would stay in power until his death four decades later - only included him as a candidate, so whether the party won due to people’s devotion to communism or their hate towards nazism is debatable. What is for certain is that the country desired something different, and Hoxha was indeed that.

Over the next four decades the country was ruled with a heavy hand. Hoxha was a paranoid extremist who refused to be part of Yugoslavia, and broke relationships with the Soviet Union and then with China until becoming completely isolated from the world and transforming Albania into a North Korea-style brutally repressive place. No country was extreme enough for Hoxha, and all wanted to attack him, so much so that he spent billions building 170,000 bunkers all around the country.

The story of these decades is very interesting and intense, so it must go into a Part II :). Besides, we are about to embark in what I am sure will be the toughest multi day hike we have ever done, the Peaks of the Balkans! Around 100miles and a ton of elevation gain in 9 days, circling where Albania, Montenegro, and Kosovo meet! We won’t return to “civilization” until next Tuesday so I will likely need to skip next Monday’s post; I am certainly not carrying my laptop for 100miles! Wish us luck and more to come in a couple weeks!

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I am writing this from a newly renovated apartment overlooking the town of Bitola in North Macedonia. The place is sleek and comfy; it has wooden floors, a fully equipped kitchen, and a big balcony. The apartment is also on the top floor of a truly dilapidated building. The reviews forewarned of this - “beautiful apartment in very old building” - so we shouldn’t have been surprised. And yet, we were.

The elevator is tiny and doesn’t have a door; we got dizzy seeing each floor as we passed them. Multiple floors are not accesible with the elevator so you only see a concrete wall going by, terrifying for a slightly claustrophobic person like me. The apartment below us burned completely about a year ago. The walls of the hallway leading to the apartment are completely black and there still a lingering smell of burnt plastic.

But, in this cozy modern apartment, it’s easy to forget about it all.

The view from the large windows show a town nested between green tall mountains and traversed by a narrow river lined by trees. The town is mostly made of short houses with orange tiled roofs, except for a few tall buildings on the edges - including the one we are staying in - and at least three very visible minarets. There is also a clock tower and a church tower, but both are easy to overlook next to the very tall minarets. The landscape of the town is defined by the mosques.

But, in the two days we have been here we haven’t heard a call to prayer, have seen pork and alcohol being sold everywhere, and have only seen a couple of women wearing a hijab. That is because today Bitola is 90% Eastern Orthodox Christian and most of the mosques are either completely shut down or used as art galleries.

This is just a little window into the Balkan region and its many contrasts. It’s old and new, modern and traditional, Muslim and Christian, and two dozen ethnicities living together in an small area of the world in which borders have been drawn and redrawn many times over history in plain disregard for ethnicities and religion. Some of those borders are still disputed today.

Even the definition of what constitutes the Balkans is fraught, as there is no universal agreement on the region’s component. Is it seven or thirteen countries? No one can say. Regardless, the area is *very* small, about the size of Spain, which makes its history of conflicts - past and present - even more intriguing.

For the sake of simplicity, let’s agree on the broadest definition of the Balkans for now. This includes the geographic peninsula plus a few more countries as noted in the map below:

By mid-September we would have gone to all the countries highlighted in that map except Moldova. Last year we visited Greece (for two months) and Turkey (for almost one month), so we won’t be going back to them in the next few months, but the experiences and learnings are fresh. We will see every other country on a big roadtrip that started about ten days ago in Plovdiv Bulgaria.

We just spent a week in North Macedonia, which I think is a good starting point to get a feel for the complexity of the region. Although peaceful in a day to day context, there is no lack of tension between North Macedonia and basically all its neighbors, and this is a statement you could make for all countries in the Balkans. But to understand why this is the case it’s important to get a glimpse into the history of the region as a whole and three key components of that history: 1) invading empires, 2) external influences, and 3) ethnic and religious conflicts. So, here we go.

The first human settlement in Europe was here, in modern Serbia and Romania. Obviously lots has happened since then, but what it’s important to understand is that beginning in the 1st century BC nearly all the region was part of the Roman Empire, followed by the Byzantine Empire, and then the Ottoman Empire (for 400 years!), among many other smaller kingdoms, all of which brought their religion, customs, and ethnicities into the mix. This also included large migrating groups from other parts of the region, such as the Slavs (from Central and Eastern Europe) and Bulgars (from Central Asia).

Many of the Balkan countries saw a rise in nationalism and revolutions in the 1800s, when the region was still under Ottoman rule. This rise, coupled with Ottoman decline, led to the Congress of Berlin, a meeting between Europe’s Great Powers and the Ottoman Empire in which the Balkans were “reorganized” to achieve “peace and stabilization”. Meaning, let’s move shit around with almost completely disregard for the people that live there!

By this point the Balkans was a region of many religions - Roman Catholic, Christian Orthodox, Muslim - as well as many ethnicities - Serbs, Slavs, Greeks, Croats, Bosniaks, Turks, and many more. No one was happy with the new land arrangements, which made tensions rise and led to the Balkans Wars of 1912 and 1913, in which the Ottoman Empire lost almost all its holdings in Europe. Then, World War I was ignited in the Balkans when a Bosnian Serb assassinated the heir to the Austrian throne, Franz Ferdinand. WWI had immense repercussions to the region, including that borders were again redrawn and the new Kingdom of Serbs, Croats, and Slovenes, which became Yugoslavia, was created. Both the Ottoman and the Austro-Hungarian Empire fell.

This didn’t qualm conflicts though, and during the years between World Wars many forced migration were carried out between Balkan countries, such as Greeks from Turkey and viceversa, something I wrote about here. WWII was another shit-show, with some Balkan countries supporting Germany (Bulgaria and Romania) and some being invaded by them (Greece and Yugoslavia).

Communism and the Soviet Union came and went, and all of the Balkans were part of that wave except Greece. A book could be written only about these couple of decades - and in fact many have been - but as an incomplete summary you should know that communism didn’t end nationalism, so the fighting over land and the discrimination of ethnic minorities all over the region only intensified with time.

We have finally arrived to recent history! With the fall of communism in Eastern Europe and the death of Yugoslavia’s autocrat leader Josip Broz Tito, the two wealthiest republics of the state, Croatia and Slovenia, seceded and the union formally fell in 1992. Side note: After the officially split of Yugoslavia, Montenegro and Serbia formed a reduced state, called the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia or later simply ‘Serbia and Montenegro’, which didn’t dissolved until 2006 when both countries became independent.

A series of ethnic conflicts followed in the early 90s, better known as the Yugoslav Wars, which officially lasted until 2001. These wars are usually referred to as Europe’s deadliest armed conflict since WWII, and are likely what you associate with the region. The decade-long period was plagued by war crimes including the Bosnian genocide, and resulted in the death of 140,000 people and in a major refugee and humanitarian crisis of millions of displaced people. One of the most horrific details of these wars was that rape was used as an instrument of systematic ethnic cleansing.

International peace efforts to stop the war failed miserably, but finally the conflicts came to an end through a series of land agreements. Bosnia and Herzegovina, which endured the largest losses during the war, was essentially split by ethnic lines and today is still made up of two autonomous entities. The central government is made up of three presidents, each representing one of the major ethnic groups in the country. This is all still quite confusing to me, so I will share more about Bosnian history in a subsequent post, once we are there!

Most major conflicts ended in the mid 90s and borders between countries were set and accepted, except in Kosovo, which saw its deadliest conflict in 1998-1999. Numerous massacres were committed during the Kosovo War and a million refugees fled the region. The war didn’t end until NATO, without formal international approval, bombed the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia for almost three months until they agreed to withdraw armed forces from Kosovo (NATO peacekeepers are still stationed in Kosovo until this day). The United States officially recognized Kosovo as a country immediately and today about another 100 countries recognize as well, but many still don’t, including China, Russia, Argentina, Mexico, Spain, Brazil, Romania, Greece, and India. Serbia continues to claim Kosovo as part of Serbia and just last month a flare up of violence occurred in the northern border. We will visit Kosovo later this month, so more on this then.

Today, the region as a whole is very safe and for the most part peaceful. Many countries in the region are part of the European Union (Greece, Bulgaria, Romania, Croatia, and Slovenia), and most others are in negotiations to be. But tensions exist mostly everywhere, and it’s all quite complicated and convoluted. As a tourist, you could easily look past all this complex history and the current tensions if you are not paying attention or care to dig below the surface. But, that is not how we travel, and we specifically came to this region because we wanted to learn about it. It’s still too early to share much in terms of opinions, but hopefully this post gives you a bit of an intro into the region. As always, take the info with a grain of salt, it’s all quite complex and each country has its own very unique history.

More next week, thanks for reading!

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No matter what the problem is, my solutions man (aka my partner Alan) will always find a way to solve it. He sees problems as opportunities. Our life is a puzzle to be solved, with infinite pieces that can fit this way or that. Working out this puzzle excites him, gets him on his toes, is a game he can never stop playing. I can see it in his eyes when he gets in “the zone”, his mind churning while analyzing every possible move.

Just living a regular life will present you with lots of challenges and decisions, and our lives are nothing but regular. The past year specially, with us traveling full time, has been a constant onslaught of decision making and problem solving. But even before that our lives were complicated - by choice of course! But for Alan, nothing is too complicated and almost everything can be figured out. And after almost ten years of marriage, I can attest that in fact yes, almost everything can be figured out.

Yup, we bought an American-made car in France and shipped it to Bulgaria and now we own an 11-year old chevy in Europe. To be honest, I am not sure how this happened. One day I was planning our three+ month route in the Balkans and casually mentioned it would be a lot easier if we owned a car, and the next day Alan already had a plan to ship our car from Mexico to Greece (this was just one of the options, which we didn’t end up doing).

Side note: owning a car in Europe is *not* like owning one in the United States. Europe is extremely bureaucratic and non-residents cannot buy cars. I will spare you the details but my point is that it was extremely complicated to buy it, even-though we have Italian passports!

When we run into these “opportunities”, Alan gets laser focused on ways to get around the challenge, tame the problem, make it work to our advantage, turn it into an adventure. I have dozens of examples of this in action, from figuring out how to rent our cars back home to becoming Italian. He is always a step ahead, and has Plan A, B, and C in his pocket. I can’t think of a time he didn’t achieve what he was aiming for, and that includes marrying me, but that is a story for another time.

The truth is that I wish us all a bit of Alan; a dash of his encouraging anxiety, much of his focus and perseverance, a sprinkle of his strong mindedness, a lot of his self confidence.

Alan took this personality test a while back; about “the voices in your head that generate negative emotions in the way you handle life’s everyday challenges”. I ended up doing it myself and it was surprisingly accurate and illuminating for both of us. You can have many different voices, saboteurs as they call them, like avoider, controller, hyper-achiever, pleaser, etc. Alan’s top saboteurs were Hyper-Vigilant and Hyper-Rational while mine were Restless and Controller. Basically, I am constantly in search of greater excitement and want to be in control, while Alan is always analyzing everything and worried about what could go wrong (hence making Plan A,B,C). Even though these saboteurs can be negative, you can also manage them in a positive way, and I think we have found a perfect match in our natural tendencies. We sort of balance each other out.

Regardless of the reason, we now own a car in this part of the world and are at the very beginning of our three and a half month roadtrip through the Balkans, specifically Bulgaria, North Macedonia, Albania, Kosovo, Romania, Serbia, Bosnia, Montenegro, Croatia, and Slovenia! I already have so much to share about the region and its extremely complicated history, but more on that next week!

Please leave a comment about anything you are curious about the Balkans and would like for me to deep dive on in the next few months!

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Traveling the world has taught us countless positive lessons; the world is a much safer place than we are led to believe, people are kind and generous everywhere, we are all interconnected and much more alike than we think… I could go on and on. But the truth is that some of the lessons have been sobering ones; there is a lot of hate between regions and countries, there is discrimination and racism everywhere, the world is ultra nationalist. All of this leads to history being told one way or another depending on where you are and who you talk to. In essence, there are multiple narratives and many shades of history.

I think about this often because by now we are very used to hearing many versions of the same history, or hearing a single version and discovering another “hidden” one by ourselves. If we have learned anything from traveling to 73 countries, going to countless tours, visiting plenty of museums, and talking to many locals is that you have to be skeptical of everything you hear and read if your intent is to try to understand the history of a place. You have to be inquisitive, ask lots of questions, doubt any info you are given, and then do your own research. And even then, you will likely never get the full story because histories of countries are extremely complicated. Confusion is a good sign though, as almost nothing in this world is black and white. If someone is trying to convince you something is, doubt it immediately.

We have been in Morocco for two wonderful weeks doing many different tours with knowledgeable guides who have taught us a lot about their country. As part of these tours we were also consistently told that the very large Jewish Moroccan population simply left, migrated to Israel once that country was created in 1948 in search of better economic opportunities. While it’s true that they left, the reasons are much more complicated than that.

But before I tell you more about this complicated history, here is a disclaimer: this post is not meant to explain the full history of Moroccan Jews, because again, it’s complicated! and impossible to capture in something this short. Also, it’s important to keep in mind that Jews in Morocco actually lived better and more peacefully than Jews in Europe, for centuries! Morocco is seen today as very welcoming and acceptant of Jews, is home to the largest Jewish population in the Arab world (~3,000), and it has the only Jewish museum in the Arab world. During WWII the Moroccan king Mohammed V famously told Hitler “there are no Jewish citizens, there are no Muslims citizens, they are all Moroccans”, and true to his word Morocco’s quarter of a million Jews weren’t deported to concentration camps, in contrast to Jews in France, even though Morocco was under French (and fascist) colonial rule at that time. Just something to keep in mind.

Okay, here we go.

Jewish people began migrating to the region that is now Morocco almost two thousands years ago. But the largest migration wave didn’t happen until the end of the 15th century, when Jews were expelled from Spain and later Portugal following the Alhambra Decree (a decree signed by the Catholic Monarchs ordering the expulsion of practicing Jews). This was after many decades of intense religious persecution and killings through horrific pogroms. In the end, two thirds of the Jewish population converted to Catholicism to remain in Spain and the rest were expelled.

Side note: this is the reason both Spain and Portugal started giving citizenship to Sephardi Jews, to "compensate for shameful events in the country's past.” Basically anyone who could prove that they are the descendants of those Jews expelled from Spain because of the Alhambra Decree could receive citizenship.

Many of these refugees came to Morocco for obvious geographical reasons, it’s so close! There is even a name for them: the Megorashim, “Jews from the Iberian Peninsula who arrived in North Africa as a result of the anti-Jewish persecutions of 1391 and the expulsion of Jews from Spain in 1492”. These communities settled and thrived in Morocco for hundreds of years; and they influenced the country and its culture, art, music, and architecture, which is felt even to this day.

But, Moroccan Jews were also always taxed more heavily than Arabs and generally considered second class citizens. Their situation was volatile and depended greatly on which city they lived in and who was in charge at the time. There are documented persecutions, forced exiles, and general ill treatment throughout many centuries, but many Moroccan Jews also lived in relative peace and even held positions of power and influence. It was a mix bag, as so much of history is.

It wasn’t until the 20th century, when Morocco became a colony of France - or how France called it, “a French protectorate” - that things started to get progressively dangerous for the Jewish population. Colonialism is terrible for countless reasons, but an important one is that it always disturbs the social fabric, instigating and deepening divisions. In this case, French occupation upset the equilibrium between Muslims and Jews and created significant resentment from the Muslim majority towards the Jewish community. At some point, anti-French protests became anti-Jewish protests.

Things started to get even worse during WWII, when the (fascist and Nazi collaborator) French Vichy government enacted anti-Jewish laws. These laws prohibited Jews from holding public office, getting any form of credit, and basically officially designated them as a lower class. Thousands tried to flee at that time but were detained and unable to do so. The situation intensified in 1948 after the declaration of the State of Israel, when anti-Jewish riots and massacres broke out in several Moroccan cities, and anti-Jewish sentiment increased throughout the country. This event and others that followed (like pogroms in 1954) in addition to fear that Morocco's eventual independence from France would lead to more persecution and discrimination, unleashed a large-scale emigration wave.

Once Morocco became independent in 1956 Jews were granted Moroccan citizenship but with far fewer freedoms than the Muslim population, including restrictions on traveling abroad and eventually a complete prohibition of emigration if the destination was Israel (due to fear that they would strengthen the Israel fight). However, this didn’t stop Moroccan Jews from emigrating, they just continued to do so illegally. With every military conflict between Israel and the coalition of Arab states came another wave of migration.

By 1967 almost the entirety of the Moroccan Jewish population had left the country. Their departure was not solely driven by a desire to leave the land they had considered home for centuries. Rather, it was fueled by a profound sense of insecurity, social ostracism, threats, and limited prospects that they faced.

This information about the history of Moroccan Jews is not hidden; it’s not even hard to find. We didn’t come to Morocco knowing this, but tour after tour hearing the same happy story that didn’t quite seem possible, Jewish neighborhood after Jewish neighborhood now transformed into Arab communities, and synagogue after synagogue now turned into museums, made us wonder.

The story we had been told of conflict-free cohabitation and peaceful emigration was a lot more complicated than that. But it’s nicer to say - and believe - that Moroccan Jews simply left. The world, and Morocco, seems kinder if we just push a part of the reality away.

This story of Moroccan Jews is just a single example, because tales like this abound.

In Turkey and Armenia, the history of Armenians living in Turkey during the Ottoman Empire and the persecution of that community is told entirely differently depending on which country you are in.

In Spain, many people believe that colonization was a good thing for Latin America.

In Armenia and Georgia, they speak completely differently about their history as part of the Soviet Union.

In Argentina, it wasn’t until recently that as a country they started acknowledging the horrific acts of the military dictatorship.

In Armenia and Azerbaijan, the history of the land each country occupies - and who “owns” it - is told with a completely different lens.

In Chile, there are still plenty of people that consider dictator Pinochet as the best leader the country has had.

In Venezuela, Simon Bolivar is venerated as a saint for gaining independence when in fact he was also an entitled slave-owner.

In UK, many still believe the country owns all the stuff they stole from the British colonies.

In USA, people talk about how spreading democracy around the world is important but then actually do the opposite.

I am sure that the Balkans, where we are going to be spending three and a half months next, will be full of contradictions too.

I could go on and on with examples from all parts of the world.

This was a long way to say: histories are very complicated, and there are plenty of deliberate and non-deliberate blind spots people have, and sometimes that entire countries and communities have, including ours. It is important to scrutinize the narratives ingrained in us from history books, educators, parents, and society, for they often represent mere fragments of the larger picture. Question the stories you are told, including your own.

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You might have noticed I skipped the usual journal post last week. It’s the first week that I don’t publish since I started doing so weekly five and a half months ago. Honestly, I beat myself up for thinking about skipping it, then for actually skipping it, and then for beating myself about it in the first place. A vicious cycle, those I so often fall for. The truth is that life happens, and I haven’t had much time except to live it and be present. So it might be a week late, but my heart is on the page, as usual.

My dad, Alan, and I just finished walking El Camino de Santiago (The Way of St James), a very long walk in the fields, forests, and towns of Galicia in northwestern Spain. There are many Caminos - pilgrim ways dating back to the Middle Ages - all leading to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, where the shrine of the apostle Saint James the Great is located (this is debated though, but that is a story for another day). Although religious in origin, with time and fame the Camino has transformed, and now hundreds of thousands walk the Camino every year for all sort of reasons.

Ours was not a religious reason. It was about fulfilling a dream. You see, my dad lived many years of his childhood in Galicia, where my grandma was from. Those years defined him, made him who he is today, like places sometimes do. Like Caracas, where I was born and raised, College Station, where life took me for a wild ride, and Seattle, where I got to know and love myself, were completely defining to me.

My dad had wanted to walk the camino for years; as a statement to the place that gave him so much, as a challenge to himself both physically and mentally, as a way to spend time with me, his only daughter. Maybe there are other reasons too. All I know is that my reasons were his.

So together we embarked in the 116km six day journey from Sarria to Santiago de Compostela, and what a lovely long walk it was. The first day was a taste of what we would encounter throughout: colorful fields, tall trees, good food, and happy animals.

Here is what stood out from each day:

Day 1

We took our time, as there was no reason to rush. We had many miles ahead of us, but nothing else in the agenda except to walk. This is one of the reasons why I love multi-day hiking so much: the simplicity of it. You know what you have to do today: walk; you know what you have to do tomorrow: walk. It’s so beautifully simple.

As it’s customary, we said “buen camino”/ “good way” to the people we passed or passed us along the way; to the Spanish, Ecuadorian, Dutch, American, and all other pilgrims, to the old and the young, to the energetic and the easygoing, to those with a destination in mind and those with the way as the destination. The vibe was jovial, happy, peaceful. The weather was that perfect hiking temperature, not too hot not too cold. We walked through many small towns now living off agriculture, cattle, and pilgrims. We stopped in one to have serrano ham, local cheese, and wine under the sun. This was a different kind of hiking no doubt, and I could get used to it.

That night we slept in Portomarin, my favorite town in the entire Camino. It’s up the flanks of the Miño river, now wide and deep though not even 70 years ago it was narrower and next to a medieval town that was submerged under water after a dam was constructed nearby. Our hotel host shared the story of her grandfather who lived in Portomarin then; “My grandpa's house didn’t end up underwater, but all his good land did”. The government paid those whose houses and land were submerged, either with an apartment in the new town up the mountain, or in cash. With little good land left many took money the government paid them and went elsewhere, but her father stayed, and used the money to lent it to others while charging some interest. He made a life there, and now his family lives off the tourism the Camino brings. We learned of many stories like this, of multi generational families that continue to live in these small towns mostly because of the Camino. This trotted path is old, it has been walked by millions for at least a thousand years, and you can feel this as you arrive in these towns that have welcomed, feed, and sheltered foreign people since as long as they have existed. It’s a special thing to be part of.

Day 2

The day started in a misty forest straight out of a fairy tale; spooky and mysterious. Long tree branches pierced thought the thick myst, leaves danced in the soft wind, birds chirped all around us. The mist lifted once the sun started warming up, and then it was bright green fields painted in white, purple, and yellow flowers. We passed a dozen cows and as many calfs lazily grazing and scratching themselves with loggs.

My dad struggle with the long 25km that day, but we all made it to Palas de Rei, and looking for a change from the typical Spanish meals we stumble into a tiny place we thought was Italian. As we entered it, a peculiar accent greeted us; it only takes a word for a Venezuelan to recognize another Venezuelan. We ended up chatting with the owners, Dani and Alex, for a long time while eating arepas (not in the menu!) and drinking Venezuelan rum. So much of the beauty of el Camino was how full of surprises it was.

Day 3

The sun hid under dark clouds and created a moody ambience. The green tunnels persisted, one of my favorite features of the Camino, as did the fields of flowers and the rose bushes climbing the walls of houses. Even walking in the light rain was pleasant, the sound of it falling on leaves meditative. The hike itself was not physically challenging, but it was without a doubt stimulating; there was always something to see, to feel, to think through, to discuss.

This is another reason why I love hiking so much: when I hike I allow my mind to wander, which is not something I do often. I allow myself to think of everything and nothing, and it’s as clarifying as it’s confusing (in the most wonderful way). I have had the most insightful self-discoveries while hiking, and Alan and I have had the deepest of conversations and have made many life changing decisions under tree canopies while climbing mountains. What a joy it’s to wander, physically and mentally.

We had plenty of time to wander around Melide that evening, our destination for the night. We found a bowling alley in town and didn’t hesitate to play a round. Afterwards we kept wandering and ran into a man playing his gaita (bagpipe). He was next to a small church on the highest hill of town, playing in a corner sort of facing the wall, I suppose for the sound to reverberate. He was alone in a non touristy area, just practicing. The three of us sat in a little wooden bench admiring the view over green fields and pretty little houses while storks flew by to their giant nests and their storks chicks, and puffy white clouds adorned the blue sky. With the gaita sounds all around us I felt time stood still.

That evening we dined in one of the famous pulperías of Melide, and had one of the best meals of the trip served by a Cuban and prepared by a Colombian. We latin folks are everywhere and I freaking love it. The octopus was perfectly cooked, drizzled with olive oil and spicy paprika, and we dipped crusty warm bread in that mix until there wasn’t a single drop left.

Truthfully, the Camino was as much about food as it was about walking. We ate - and drank - so well and so fresh every single day. My dad said that if he walked the Camino for a month (which many people do) he would end up gaining weight, and I don’t think that is far from the truth. Each little town has its specialty; octopus in Melide, cheese in Arzua, good and cheap wine everywhere. Even water costs more than wine sometimes, so the decision is always easy. Albariño all day every day for me, thank you very much.

Day 4

The fourth day was pretty suave; the route was gentle, going up and and down in soothing waves. Just enough to get your heart pumping but not to make you sweat intensely. The most eventful part of the day was stopping for lunch 3km before getting to our destination in a pretty place run by an old bitter lady who fought every customer for one thing or the other. A special character. The moment I went into the restaurant she was bickering about women going into the men’s restroom, “Estas se quieren meter en el de los hombres!” / “These women want to go into the men’s restrooms!”. This - going into the men’s restroom - is something I often do if there is a line in the women’s one, which is common and still a mystery to me (what are you all doing in there?). And, anyways, we shouldn’t even have gendered bathrooms, this is 2023! The old woman continued to get progressively angrier for various small and insignificant situations, such as someone asking for a a second fork - “ya te di uno! y esa comida no se comparte!” / “I already gave you a fork! and that food is not for sharing”. We stayed out of her way , but watched her every move as if in a theater.

The truth is that along the Camino most people were kind and understanding, but the bitter woman wasn’t the only impatient one. The Gallegos - people from Galicia - can be pretty stern and proud people. I suppose the amount of pilgrims going through their towns can make anyone a little insensitive.

I feel a lot of connection to Galicia, though it’s still far removed. Many of these towns along the Camino speak primarily Gallego, a language forbidden to be spoken for many decades when Franco was ruling Spain with an iron fist (the same was true of Catalan, the language they speak in Catalonia). Even though my dad lived in Galicia for 7 years when he was a kid, he doesn’t speak Gallego. Now, all kids in Galicia are taught the language in school and in many small towns it’s actually the most spoken language, even over Spanish which everyone speaks as well. I don’t speak Gallego nor Italian, even though I am both “by blood” (and Italian by passport). A child of immigrant families, an immigrant myself, we are from everywhere and nowhere, wouldn’t you say?

Day 5

By day five we got the hang of walking dozens of kilometers a day and arrived to the outskirts of O Pedrouzo super early. The rural house we were staying in had a nice pool so we sat under the sun while drinking vermouth with a splash of gin - my favorite Aperitive - and reading. At some point we decided to walk the two kilometers to town to find some dinner, which was again delicious. As we walked back to our place with full bellies and happy hearts I saw my dad eyeing a field of flowers and tall grass; “se ve comodo” / “looks comfy” he tells me and immediately kneels down to lay on it. I watched him while giggling and taking a video of him; he looked so content, so young and full of life. In that moment I saw myself clearly in him and laid down in the field, and looking at the wide blue sky next to my dad, I felt deep gratitude.

Day 6

The last day arrived, and the sun was shy but present. The early morning light hitting the tall ferns and purple flowers was magical. It rained, but only a bit, not enough to warrant the rain jacket except for just a few minutes. It was a pretty walk, like every other day; though forests, vibrant green tunnels, fields of flowers, under blue sky and grey sky and all the shades in between. We made sure to get our two “passport” stamps early in the walk. Many places along the way will have one out for you to stamp your own passport, the little book you buy at the beginning of the trek. Two stamps a day is what you need to prove you have in fact completed the trek to Santiago and receive your Compostela, the official accreditation of it.

When we arrived to Santiago we made our way through the narrow streets to the grand cathedral, the official end of the hike. We reached that monument erected hundreds of years ago following a path walked by millions in search of solitude, peace, forgiveness, faith. You don’t have to be religious for this moment to be special, and it was.

We celebrated with octopus, wine, and churros with chocolate, then made our way to our hotel to rest. Immediately I had a pit in my stomach, I was sad and confused. It was a bit of a surprise, but then again it wasn’t. Life for the previous six days had been reduced to essentials pieces; walk for miles, admire nature, eat nutritious meals, sleep like a log, and then do it all over again. As simple of a life as it can be, and I had deeply enjoyed it. It was also almost time to say goodbye to my parents, not knowing when I would see them again. And finally, we had fulfilled a dream; no one talks about how achieving something you have longed for can leave you feeling empty, as if the dream that you had inside is now no longer there and you need a new one to replace it.

But in the end, I knew this is not so hard to do. I just had to keep dreaming and start doing, and I have always been good at both. Besides, we had a celebratory dinner to go to, so off we when.

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Three of my grandparents migrated to America seeking a better life away from their war-torned countries. For one reason or the other they all landed in Venezuela, and they thrived there while building successful careers and large families. I had a very fortunate upbringing, surrounded by a large loving family in a warm and friendly country.

I often think about this cycle of migration and how both fortunate and unfortunate we are to be a part of it; fortunate to have somewhere we somewhat belong to “go back to”, and unfortunate to live in a world in which we must. A world caught in a cycle of wars and unrest, forcing people to flee to places far away from their homes every single day. Generation after generation of immigrants. Repeat repeat repeat.

Millions of Venezuelans have left the country in the last decade. Hundreds of thousands of them are descendants of immigrants and have returned to were their parents or grandparents where from before they got into a boat headed to the American continent. In Europe, Spain is by far the largest recipient, with around 400,000 of them settling into the country since 2000, and half of that amount arriving after 2016. In fact, Venezuelan migration has been the most intense influx of immigrants Spain has experienced in recent history.

Most of these migrants settled in the big cities, where there are more jobs, but many others returned to the actual towns were their lineage was from. Particularly interesting are places that had lots of migration towards America back in the day, and have now seen a large wave of their Venezuelan descendants return.

We spent a month and a half in the Canary Islands last year, a set of Spanish islands off the coast of West Africa, and were surprised by the amount of Venezuelans there. Arepas were sold in every corner and people would refer to passion fruit as parchita - how it’s called in Venezuela and Venezuela only - everywhere we went. The islands have historically served as a hub between Spain and Latin America, and since the 15th century many Canarians left the islands lured by the promise of the New World. Now, they are back in full force.

It’s a similar story in Galicia, which has long been one of Spains poorest regions and since the mid-19th century has seen large percentages of its population emigrate.

One of those people was my paternal grandmother, who along with her family left Vigo escaping the Spanish Civil War towards the welcoming Venezuela.

The same is true for both of my maternal grandparents, who fled from war-torned Italy to the opportunity-filled Venezuela after WWII.

Now, more than 80 years later, my family is spread all over the world, many of them living in the very same cities and countries than my grandparents fled from.

Sometimes the world just seems like a revolving door.

This was a short post as we are on our second day of walking the Camino Frances (the French Way) in Galicia Spain, a 116km/72mi multi day hike! I will share a lot more about the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage in the next journal post!