I once was a writer...

I'm flying home next weekend. Home . What does that mean, anyway? If home is where you work, then my home is intangible because I work online. If home is where you study, then my home is Kiel, Germany. If home is where your friends are, then my home is the world, because my friends are spread all over the place. If home is where your heart is, currently my home is Sopó, because Honey is there. If home is where your family is, then my home is Barranquilla. I am flying to that home. I am flying to Barranquilla. And I have mixed feelings about that. I am delighted to go home, but I don't want to stay. I am excited to go home, but I don't want to go. I am afraid to go back home, but I can't stay here alone. Home . Such a complicated concept... Going back this time will be weird. It will be a first-time-ever kind of experience because, for the first time ever I will stay in a hotel and not in my parents' home. Not in my bed. Not in my room, which is now the guest roo...

I am somewhat of a world citizen. I have lived in four continents, I have learned new languages and new cultures; I have seen and done things that most people would only dream of doing. I have ridden exotic animals, I have prayed in thousand-year-old churches and temples, I have had water (or, let's be honest, Coca-Cola) in 80 cities, I have gotten wet with rain in 15 countries, I have gone swimming in three different seas... You might say that I have seen and done so much, that I am difficult to amaze. But you'd be wrong. I am amazed by snow . You need to understand why, though: as much as I have traveled, and as old as I am (I have been informed that my new hair cut makes me look my real age...), I still grew up and spent more than half of my life in Barranquilla , on the Caribbean coast of Colombia, where the average temperature is 35ºC and the daily weather report shows a bright, shiny, beautiful sun. We have rain, of course; but somehow the sun manages to shine throu...

Since I turned 23 for the fifth time, I have come to think a lot about what it will be like. What it will all be like. In the future, tomorrow even. What will it be like when I finally turn my real age (which, fyi, I have decided will be next year in Barranquilla. Stay tuned to learn what that "real age" is!), what will it be like when I turn 30 or 40 or 50... if I ever turn 30 or 40 or 50. So far, I've come up with this: I will be a tea-person. Not an Earl Grey sort of person, not a Darjeeling sort of person, never ever a Cinnamon spice type of person. But a tea-person nonetheless: peppermint, apple, cherry, wild fruits, but maybe not a mango-tea sort of person. I will be a tea-person, having one for every occasion, before I sleep, when I awake, when I face writer's-block (which is more often than I am willing to publicly admit), when I am stressed (which, thanks to my new life, is, like, never ), and when I need to lose weight - which, if a woman is truly honest...

It's not every day that you turn 23 for the fifth time. It is, in fact, a very special moment. It's been a long run, a nice one, but 5 times is enough. I have no idea how old I'll be next year, so I really have to make this last one special. But how? How do you make a birthday special? Is it special because you get to eat things you usually wouldn't eat? Is it special because you have "permission" to drink more than usual? Is it special because you get gifts? Well, yes. I love gifts. But is that really what makes it special? It's only a little special because it's my first birthday in Germany. It seems as though I'm collecting birthday locations: Barranquilla, Bogotá, Miami, Augusta, Atlanta, Lampang, Rome, Madrid, Kiel... was noch? I have a million plans, a million resolutions of sorts - but then again, I kinda suck at resolutions. The whole "I'll go to the gym more often" and "I'll eat healthier"... yeah, that'...

Honey was born in Bogotá, the capital of Colombia. Bogotá is 2600 m above sea level, on the Centran Andean Mountain Range. It's always cold in Bogotá; during the "winter season", it's like the stereotypical London picture: grey, muggy, rainy, cold, ugly. But during the "summer season", it's like perpetual spring: warm during the day (20°C/68 F) and cold at night (may go down to 10°C/50 F). There is no water, except for some lame water parks two hours away, and some cheap streams. I, on the other hand, was born on the beautiful Caribbean coast of Colombia, in Barranquilla, Golden Gate to my country. Between the Caribbean Sea and the Magdalena River, and the countless country clubs, I can't actually remember a holiday not spent on the water. It's always wonderfully hot in Barranquilla: we have no idea what this "winter" word (or concept, for that matter) means. We have dry summer and wet summer. But summer in any case. When it's col...

I've been a little unfair to Germany and the Germans lately, and for that I publicly apologise. I tend to write only when I am trapped at home due to the inclement weather (well, ok, as Cata said , Wahrnehmung  is important, and gray, foggy and under 0°C is inclement to little Caribbean me). I tend to write only during these days and of course I tend to write with the mood that this type of days gets me into (OMG, please don't have Canuck read this post and accuse me forever of being the only English major in the world who finishes a sentence with a prepostion... which I technically didn't do because the sentence ends now, without a preposition). (Although, ending a sentence with "preposition" is just as bad as ending a sentence with a preposition, right?) The sun does shine--once in a while. And when it does, I go out. I make excuses to go walking, or shopping (without Honey's knowledge or consent, because we're supposed to be saving for my birthday......

So, I've been having this recurring nightmare for about 10 months already. It doesn't come as often as it used to, but it comes often enough to be recurring. At first, it used to be night after night. Now it's more like once a week, or every two weeks. It's not always exactly the same, but the same situation happens and the same people are involved. Settings may vary, but the same thing ends up happening. The situation, although unlikely (I hope) is quite possible. What I mean to say is, my nightmare does not include demonic clowns coming from under my bed to kill me (actually, I've always thought there are crocodiles under my bed...), nor is it anything supernatural or including aliens happening. All of us involved are human, with human feelings and human actions. The first thing I do after I have these dreams is try to calm down (I wake up crying sometimes) and realize it is nothing more than a dream; everything within that dream (though likely) is impossible. I...

It's been 6 months here. Six months of winter. That's all the Germans have--winter. Don't let them fool you: they will speak of myths and legends, fairy tales if you ask me, of some weird thing called spring , and then comes the completely unfathomable tall-tale of summer , which makes unicorns seem like normal, everyday boring stuff. But there are other things they Germans say. Things so cute, or so weird, or so plain interesting, that make me pleased to have enjoyed their winter, with sunrise at 9 a.m. and sunset at 4 p.m., and during this "daylight" time, no sun. How can you have a sun rise when no sun rises? Anyway. That is totally not the point. Not today. Not now. When I met with my German friends, Isa and Chrissy, in Barranquilla in May of last year, I think what they were most surprised with was our waking-up attitude. I used to sing them the song my mom used to sing to me (we sing it to each other every once in a while, still), which loosely translat...