Today is Christmas. We are driving through foggy-mountain highways crossing La Sierra Madre towards Xalapa.  We drive quietly listening to some country music. Enrique, my Mom’s partner, stops to buy a bag of pig-shaped sugar cookies that people sell on the side of the road in this part of the country.  “Do you remember the time we went to Veracruz for the holidays?” Pepe asks as I nod trying to remember a trip that happened more than 20 years ago.  It’s hard to imagine how we pictured ourselves as grown-ups back then. “What is it next for you?” I ask as we take pictures of the cookies against the foggy backdrop.  “I’m not sure.” He shrugs his shoulders. For the past two years he has been teaching at the School of Architecture in Mexico City, after living in Venice, Barcelona and New York.  He has a love for knowledge that is only proportional to his lack of interest for a relationship. “I’m still interested in urban planning,” he says, and I know he hasn’t found his place int he world yet.  Two days ago I was interrogated by some other members of our family, the usual questions intended to make you feel you’ve been driving in the wrong direction for the past 33 years.  “It is terrible that cities are built around cars and not human interaction,” Pepe asks interrupting my thoughts and making me feel relieved that I have a cousin that even when he doesn’t know where he is going, he knows what he stands for. At 35 he doesn’t know nor is interested in learning how to drive.

After doing the last Christmas shopping I sat at Sofia’s to unwind; bags were already packed and there was nothing else to do but relax before flying early the next morning. Leo, the bartender, gave me a glass of their best champagne and while chilling at the bar I simmered into a million thoughts.  These last few days have been one of the few moments in which I’ve spent time with myself; a very much-needed silence between trips and with just a handful of friends in New York.  It was when Leo refilled my glass that everything was clear to me: I’m a New Yorker; my life is here; not somewhere else. I’ve been living for so long with a longing for the other place, for the ones I left behind without acknowledging what I have built for me here.   For a moment I thought about the fruit flies that appeared in our office a couple of months ago. They stand on our coffee mugs and annoyingly circulate in front of our monitors. “It feels that we’re working in Ecuador or India”, Lindsey would say trying to kill one.  My theory is that we brought them from one of our trips and for a reason they are thriving in their new environment. What is needed to survive and grow? For the flies it seems that sugar and a cozy environment suffices. This is of course considering that the metric is to survive and reproduce extensively and not to be happy, fulfilled, loved, empowered, and so many other complex definitions of success.  New York is challenging, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as lonely anywhere else and the concept of anxiety took a new dimension. At the same time it has given the opportunity to try my strength, friends have become family and it has seldom being boring.  To challenge oneself might be a good way of thriving.  Although some of us feel in the paradox of wanting to anchor and keep sailing, there is not necessarily a dichotomy as we might find people to sail with. Probably, as with the fruit flies, the wind of inspiration or a tourist will take me to a new port.