I once was a writer...

I n a sheltered corner of the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, where the sun's rays delicately caress the green leaves of coffee trees, a story that transcends the unmistakable aroma of Colombian coffee ends. Here, in this limited edition, the threads of welcomes and farewells intertwine, weaving a timeless narrative that reaches your hands in this coffee bag. In the loom of our farm's history, in 2016, we gave the green light to the planting of a new variety of coffee: the typica variety. This is one of the oldest varieties in the world and differs from the Café Isabelita you already know in its floral notes, jasmine, citronella, with silky body, along with sweet notes of pollen. This limited edition is not only the last harvest of this typica variety, it is a poem in each bean, an ode to the effort and passion that has impregnated our farms since the day we decided to challenge the frontiers of convention. Each bag, marked and numbered by hand, carries with it the weight of ex...

I woke up at 6 am today. This wasn't early enough.  I got ready for the day. Took my oldest to school, took my youngest to his yearly check-up, then to Kindergarten. Went to work, handled calls and emails and tasks and had only 2 cups of coffee.  All of this wasn't enough. I picked up my children and their friends, served as carpool for one and as "home for the day" for the other. I prepared a balanced, home-cooked meal from scratch, including potatoes that I had harvested with my children a few weeks earlier - which (I also feel is relevant to point out) we had planted a few months earlier. While the kids ate, I unloaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen and finished a load of laundry. And still, this wasn't enough. One kid was picked up for sport, another kid came to replace him. While the children played, I tended to the garden, I checked the mailbox, I picked up after them, I tidied up a bit. Then I took those 3 kids to their sport and picked up 4 new kids t...

As I enter my 40th year on this earth, I find myself with the need to create a Bucket List. Not because I have a sudden fear of death or because I feel my life has been empty until now. Neither of those are true. Rather, "new decade, new me". I want to travel the world. I want to discover what new cultures, new languages, new foods and new people have to share.  I want to go to the happiest place on Earth, and I want to discuss whether the flavors I am tasting are rather red or purple fruits, while the sun sets on the west coast and my purple dress floats with the cool breeze of the pacific fall.  I want to go back home and drink coffee while sitting on the veranda, knowing that this cup was harvested, milled, dried, ground and prepared with love for me, exclusively. I want to get lost trying to find out where the mountains of the Sierra Nevada blend into the Caribbean Sea, while the birds drown the silence and the fresh caribbean spring breeze wisks my curls across my face. ...

I always needed more time. I was always complaining about not having enough time. I could never do what I had to do, because I didn't have the time. Much less could I do what I wanted to do, because there was no time. Self-care? No time.  And for those things that I did need to find time for, it was always tightly scheduled. Garden work? Hurry, there is little time. Reading to my children? Only one book, there is no time. Dessert after a meal? Quicky, there is no time. Showering or bathing in the tub? Not so long, we don't have time.  Always this excuse, always this word, always this made-up concept. Made-up, yes, but absolutely necessary. My kids, for example, want to eat dinner and chat and also play a game and then eat seconds and then have dessert and then a hug and then cuddle and then please-don't-make-me-brush-my-teeth and then also read a book together and also read a book alone and listen to a song and listen to a story book and ... there are only so many hours in ...

Since mash-ups in the musical industry are the big hit at the moment, I fugured I'd jump on that bandwagon and attempt to mash-up some literature myself. Because, in the infamous words of my little sister, "why not?!" As I lay dying - and this is a very metaphoric death, because at my latest check-up my doctor told me I have the health of a 30-year-old - I find myself rather than pondering the future, just waiting for Godot. Interesting, because as a pscudo-catholic, the kind that just follows the socially-accepted holidays and refuses to pay taxes to the institution, I do find myself praying to God to show me the reason for my sadness, to guide me out of it. To save me. Now, I don't want to say God has not responded - rather, I'm aware that I may not be listening. It is hard to listen to that which one does not want to accept or admit.  Waiting for Godot I have noticed that I have been waiting for a long time now. Always with a good excuse, always with good reaso...

I'm well aware of all my identities, past and present. I wear them like masks - some, I have even worn like capes. Proudly displaying them for the world to see and admire. I used to believe that I could "put on" one identity and be authentic, and then "put on" another one and still the authentic. And at least in my heart I was authentic. Natalya, the 16-year-old poet was an authentic identity for me; Natalya, the Journalist was a thrilling identity (that came with an official badge and access to many venues and people I would have otherwise not been able to get close to); Natalya, the Foreigner was (and continues to be!) my favorite identity, the one with which I feel most at ease. Perhaps because it is the simplest one, the one that requires the least amount of work from my side: I just happen to not have been born where I live. I have been living with this identity for 22 years. Most recently, Rolfs-Mutter and Christophs-Mama have joined the ranks of my favori...

During this peculiar time*, we are all faced with challenges. *I think that I need to clear this up for posterity. Today, we all know that this "peculiar time" refers ro the Coronavirus - COVID-19 Pandemic that is terrorizing the world. Although Germany does not have strict quarantine rules (rather a regulation that prevents gatherings of two or more people not belonging to the same household, both privately and publicly), my husband and I decided that, for the well-being of the family, and since (thanks to my job) I can, I would quarantine with the children at home. Kindergarten (all schools, actually) are closed, so they have to stay home; I have the privilege of being able to work from home, so it all kind of works out. As I write this, I am in my seventh week of quarantine - 45 days.  Before the pandemic and the quarantine, I used to measure my successes (and failures) in years, months perhaps. I say, filled with sadness, that 2019 was the worst year of my life. And a...

For a long time, I described myself as a writer. That was my identity. It seemed that everything and anything around me could change, but that was the one true thing about me that remained the same. My country of residence changed, and I was still a writer. People were born and died, and I was still a writer. I was a student, a teacher, an employee, a SAHM, unemployed - whatever - and I was still a writer. Friends came and went, boys came and went, and I was still a writer. I always had something to say. (Whether it was worth reading or not, that was always up to YOU.) I always had something to say because I was always doing something, adding some sort of value to society, actively seeking adventures, experiencing new things, worlds, cultures, languages, peoples... ...and then one day, I had nothing to say. I tried to find my voice, and you can see that in the sporadic dates in which I posted in the past, after 2 years of regular weekly posts. I lost my voice because I lost m...

Today was the day I finally had a drink. And I do mean an adult, alcoholic beverage. I had almost a full bottle of some not-so-cheap German white wine and I enjoyed every single drop. When I mentioned to my husband how good the wine was, he said, "Is it really good or are you just happy to be drinking again?" We both laughed. I figure both. I think the wine *is* good, and also I *do* miss drinking. The way I see it, it's a win-win for me. I hadn't had a drink in two years. Two years. TWO. YEARS. I don't consider myself an alcoholic, but OH MY GOD did I miss drinking. I don't even know if it has actually been two years, like 24 months. I was pregnant for 8 months and I breastfed exclusively for 7 months + 1 month nights. But it feels like an eternity. It feels like I hadn't had a drink since we were *planning* our first son 5 years ago. But that's completely irrelevant. I mean, how long I had actually gone without a drink is irrelevant right now. Becaus...

Yes, I spoil my child. I'm perfectly conscious of what I'm doing, and I'm not sure I want to stop. You see, I was pregnant. We were going to be a family of four. We had so many plans. Our son was beginning to understand that he was going to be a big brother. We started looking for a big house where a family of four could grow up and grow old. We started looking for ugly yet absolutely useful minivans, where we'd all fit. We started unpacking my son's old baby clothes and my pregnancy clothes. We started telling our loved ones that our family was growing. We had so many plans. And then one day, I wasn't pregnant anymore. As quickly as it came, it went away. And all our plans? Well. They changed. Our daily lives changed too. Especially those first few days. You see, I was to have the "extraction" operation on Friday - the day I turned 34. So the plans we had with my son (to make a cake from scratch together, to open presents in the park, to g...

I woke up not feeling well, from a night of very little sleep. The baby is sick, and my husband caught whatever the baby has, which means I am a full time nurse and nanny - and that also means that I don't have time to get sick. So, today, I'm going to be a bad mother. My baby and I will lie - vegetate, really - in bed for a long while. At some point I will carry him (amidst hugs and slimy kisses, no walking today) to the kitchen, where I will prepare an extra big bottle for him. We'll go back to bed and he will drink his bottle there, reclined against daddy's pillows and enjoying the darkness provided by the blackout. Then we will lie in bed some more. Who knows... we might even nod off for a bit. Then I will be a bad mother because when we eventually move to the living room, there will be no didactic playing or developmental activities or sensory spiel. No, not today. Today I'm going to be a bad mother and just watch Netflix with him all day - by which I mea...

"You have your mother's eyes." That's a phrase Harry Potter heard way too many times in his life. #littleBabyHergett is only 7 months old and he has already heard it at least as many times as Harry by book 5. He has my eyes. He does. I love it. I really do. Until I remember what happened to Harry and to Lilly - Harry, who had his mother's eyes. You see, the moment I became a mom, every single little thing that I see or read about becomes a probable outcome for my child. Commercials about starving little children make me thing about the possibility of my own child starving, and to what extents I would personally go to try to avoid him from ever feeling even the slightest bit of hunger. I'm typing with one finger, because my right hand is holding a bottle to his mouth right now. Movies with kids not getting birthday or christmas presents, and their sad little faces and their tiny teary eyes, make me cry while crafting the most intricate list of possible gi...

The first day of the fall semester has come. The State University of Middlemarch opens its doors to the hundreds of new freshmen, among them Dorothea Brooke. Dressed prudently for her age, she finds the room where her first class will take place, Introduction to Literary Studies  -- unlike her fellow students, her face is not buried in her smartphone, because her old, trustworthy Nokia has no internet connection. She has no need for ostentatious gadgets: her phone must make and receive calls, and it does. Her younger sister is with her today (high school does not begin until next week, and as a Senior in Middlemarch High she wants to see what expects her next year); but Dodo and Celia share only their last name. Celia, though less pretty, shows more skin and is more interested in worldly possessions. While Dodo hopes to eventually graduate with an MBA, Celia aspires to get an MRS. Meeting them at the entrance of the department of languages and literature is James Chettam, Junior ...

I like German words because they sound powerful. There is one word that I have come to respect greatly. It sounds awesome (it kinda rolls on your tongue) and it is regal, majestic, and final: Verboten . It means "forbidden", but forbidden still sounds like something you can do when no one is watching. When something is verboten  you better seriously NOT do it. Since we signed the documents which make us legally married in Germany, my husband has a " Verboten " one-item-list to abide by. Upon reading said one-item-list, and the subsequent Sub-clauses, you might think that I am much too influenced by the media. If so, I say to you, Perhaps. Yes. But still, my husband is mine, and is verboten from doing the following things. (1) Die. My husband may not die. Ever. - Sub-clause A: My husband shall not run, handle, manage, work in, above or at a crystal meth laboratory, stationary or otherwise. He may not consume, sell, distribute or handle crystal meth in any w...

There is a Colombian tradition, law almost, which states that in order to welcome the new year properly, one must wear yellow underwear. Preferably new. Preferably blinding-sun-yellow (as opposed to pale yellows, or ochre tones). The more absurd and ridiculous, the better (granny panties, for instance), but that is more a matter of personal preference than it is part of the law (g-strings and thongs are allowed). I can't remember the last time I didn't wear yellow panties - that is, the last time before this NYE 2013. For the first time in a million years I failed to wear yellow drawers. I could blame it on the lack of supply of yellow knickers in Germany, but I honestly did not even look. I could say that both my yellow underpants were in the dirty laundry pile, but I'm afraid my nose would grow too big. I will thus only come out with the truth and say that I forgot. And for that, I am terribly sorry and ashamed. May this year be amazing, in spite of my not having welcomed...

I very much appreciate the English language for providing a difference between a wedding and a marriage. I was never afraid of the marriage, because I knew I was marrying the one . I was, however, terrified of the wedding, because planing a wedding from a different continent is no easy feat. But my mom and sister were amazing, and thanks to them, and my aunt the Wedding Planner, we had a perfect wedding. I don't quite believe in omens, but if I did, I would have to believe that a great wedding is a good omen for an awesome marriage. Take a look at how much fun we had. Isa, bridesmaid, and Santiago, groomsman. She flew over from Australia, and he flew over from Spain. My sister Nini, the Maid of Honor, and Tomás, the Best Man. Nini reading, and Honey and I checking out the ship in the background... Our first dance, Enya's Flora's Secret. Honey and his mom. My dad and I. Sarita, Honey's niece, and Alejandro, my cousin. ...