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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.