Sylvia and I left the airport before sunrise towards downtown Santiago knowing we had to be back at the airport at 11:00 am. Our flight to Bolivia was cancelled at the last minute, so we had to fly to Chile and catch a plane to La Paz. Four hours don't seem enough to get a sense of a city, but we were eager to get as much of it as possible. The airport bus left us at Estacion Central, were we took the subway towards downtown, getting off just by City Hall. "Do you think Michelle Bachelet is already there?" I asked completely forgetting that Sebastian Piñera has been in office for more than a year. "She is probably sleeping," Sylvia answered. We walked by the Cathedral and the main city buildings while early commuters were rushing to and from the subway stations and as local coffee shops were setting their tables at the Plaza. "What are a Mexican and a Colombian doing in Chile?" a police officer asked flirting; we just smiled. We had a hot cappuccino to fuel us and kept our freezing discovery walk through Bellas Artes, Brasil Avenue and Concha y Toro in the Republica neighborhood. "Look!" I exclaimed, almost speechless. The winter sunlight had discovered the Andes framing the buildings in the background. Sylvia and I shared our curiosity for graffiti, as in a way it helped us unearth or decode some of the spirit or the untold stories of the city. As we rode the subway and waited for the bus that would take us back to the airport I asked Sylvia if she considered this as a real visit. "We read the newspaper and talked to the locals, I guess that counts," she answered as two fat stray dogs approached us. Just in case, we bought a box of Chilean alfajores and a Condorito comic book at the airport before boarding the plane that would fly us through the Andes into Bolivia.

I'm melting in my living room, ready to pack for Bolivia, drinking coffee and eating half a bagel. The pre-summer sweat has started but we know the real humidity is yet to come; are we going to survive it? I turned 33 and celebrated for the first time in Mexico in 8 years. My Mom baked a chocolate cake and Victor organized me a party at his house by the lake. It's hard to come back to New York after being so pampered. In New York, as it has always been, things change by the season. Spring has brought me a new group of friends with whom I feel at home, and Oscar is moving out of the apartment to live with Troy, his boyfriend. Life as always is complex, hectic and beautiful. In the midst of the craziness of on-going travel and getting new roommates, we had the luxury to spend all day yesterday drinking mimosas and having brunch at the boathouse in Central Park. We talked about quantum physics, fetichism and dating - all with equal depth. "What a beautiful Sunday!", we all expressed at different moments with a sigh. "Where are we going for dinner?" Alex questioned as the sun started to sank behind the trees in Central Park. I love to be with friends that want to stay together from breakfast until dinner. "Anyone wants to ride the Vespa with me?" Pepe asked and I volunteered without hesitation or minding my high heels. I've seen New York from all sorts of angles, but riding down 5th Avenue and uptown on Park during a sweet Spring Sunday afternoon has been so far one of the most beautiful sights of the city.

I've been looking for rainbows since I moved to New York in 2002. Now, after 9 years, the first one appeared.

It felt like a beautiful statement.

Last Thursday Lily and I sat under - or immerse - into Ryoji Ikeda's monumental projection of binary codes decoded into a multimedia symphony at the Park Avenue Armory. It was indeed an absorbing experience, but after a few minutes we started feeling uneasy. "How do you think the security staff endure it all day?" Lily asked. "Do you think they are inserting information straight into our brains?" I replied. The night before I've been to a 3-hour meditation and chanting session. The teacher, a man from Cote d' Ivoire, led us through extreme (at least for me) breathing exercises that, as Ikeda's projections, completely transformed the state of mind of those in the room. After the Armory we left for Soho. A friend of Lily had curated a show with artists working in art restoration. It was a contrast to go from a one-man-at-the-Armory to a collective show of artists not fully recognized as such. Most artists were foreign-born, from Uzbekistan to Peru, and their printed bios seemed as important as their artwork shown. As the writers who edit other people's work, artists that work on restoring the art of others are required to have exceptional skills, but are demanded to limit their personal interpretation, and to certain extent, their self. Who decides how much art is worth? Who decides which art is to keep and restore? When with a group of friends we opened Local Project, a gallery in Long Island City, we decided that we would keep our doors open to all artists as long as they were involved in the production of the show. The space was/and is, very successful, although as an underground organization it runs the risk to be seen as unserious. What is interesting for me is how powerful it is to recognize someone's work; provide the opportunity to present to the world, and have the world come and see them - being at the center for a moment. As Lily and I were ready to leave for yet another cocktail party, I noticed that someone had left a price tag in the restroom. For me, it is not only about what you see on the walls or what is happening at the show, but the stories behind it that matter. For someone this show must have been really important to buy a $54.99 size 9 dress to wear, and even get changed at the restroom right before the opening.

It is already May 16th. It is already 2011. I'm almost 33. Las fechas siempre llegan, my Mom would say, regardless of your readiness. Do we all ask what have we done with our lives? Do we all ask if we had make the most out of time? A few days ago Lily and I went to the opening at MOMA of the Francis Alys exhibit. It has been the best exhibition I have been in a while, as it is - in his own words - an allegory to process, rather than a quest for synthesis. Do we need to have an objective for every single thing we do? I like how Alan Watts describes it. In music, one doesn't make make the end of the composition the point of the composition. If that was so, the best conductors will be those who play faster; and there will be composers who play only finales. We cannot miss the opportunity to listen and dance to each bit of music - but we sometimes forget to make meaningful the ordinary. An intense fog covered New York today, a white cloud filling the space between buildings, and in a strange way, pausing time.

A few weeks ago Jessica, Sylvia, Matthew and I met for an afterwork drink with the Ambassador of Seychelles; Ronny, as Jessica calls him. He is one of the few great storytellers I have ever met. After two hours of conversation about his life, we learned more about the islands than we probably know about the history of any other country. "I was born in Africa because many people from Seychelles migrated to Africa when the British were developing the east coast of the continent." A he spoke Sylvia and I quickly searched for the sites he mentioned on the iPhone, trying to picture the island formations, the coral reef and the beyond-luxury resorts that charge more than $5,000 per night. We also learn the challenges islands face. Their airport and runway will be submerged under water due to sea-level rise from climate change and placing windmills might prove more a problem than a solution. "Where are you going to put a windmill?"he says, "if you place it on top of the mountain, the hotels and tourists will complain about the sight of it; they are not pretty. So then, are you going to destroy your coral reef to place it offshore? Or, are you going to sacrifice the scarce flat land you have to put the damn thing?" he continued jokingly. "Have you ever heard the noise those things make?" As we walk to the subway station Matthew and I concurred that this is the reason why we love New York so much. The city's diversity makes you feel part of the greater world, even when in such diversity you can also feel isolated. It would be almost impossible to have a beer with someone from Seychelles, or even Africa, in Guadalajara. To be honest, most people in Mexico - or the US - have never heard about Seychelles. "My uncle migrated to Papua New Guinea, but he never came back to Seychelles. He must have been eaten; they use to eat people there." I could still hear the Ambassador's voice as I walk home under the rain.

During our last day in Nigeria, we sat under the shade of an old tree to wait for our flight to depart from Calabar to Lagos. Our flight has been cancelled or postponed for the last three days as a result of the elections; which ironically have been cancelled and postponed as well. Feeling stranded in a foreign country is not pretty; luckily Gills, our friend and colleague from Yankari, is still with us and really knows how to smoothly navigate the Nigerian system. Translation is not about understanding the language, but about understanding the context. By now, we have already befriended Eddie, the airline clerk who has been trying to help us get into a flight. He has joined us for a beer as we wait under the tree by the airport. “When we see a plane landing, then you can go to board,” he responded to our concern about the boarding time while pouring into his glass the last bit of Heineken. “I love Pancho Villa, he was selfless and cared for the good of his people,” he exclaimed to our surprise after a moment of silence, “that is what we are missing in Nigeria, a real leader.” The flight got delayed a couple of hours, so we kept the rounds of beer running until nightfall when Moki, our Cameroonian driver, decided we should just get into the gate to wait for our plane to arrive. I have mixed feelings. I’m not sure if I could cope with the lack of reliability in a system, but at the same time, the lack of control allows great moments like this to happen; this feeling is not at all foreign as a Mexican. “The history of Latin America and Africa have much in common in terms of colonialism, but with the great difference that Europeans came to Latin America to live, but they came to Africa to extract natural and human resources. They never got established here,” Eddie remarked before saying goodbye.

"What is the name of the movie you are producing?" the immigration officer asked me as he pulled me aside into the small interrogation room. I'm not quite sure if answering that we are producing a soap opera to promote Cross River gorilla conservation will do any better, so I remain quiet. I was once deported from Peru as a result of an overnight change to an immigration law, leaving me stranded one full night at Lima's airport eating causa peruana with the guards. I'm not sure spending a night at the Abuja airport would be as pleasant. "We are not producing any movie," I finally answered. A cool thing about my job is that I get to learn from a wide variety of people and themes. Last week I was in Mexico working with the State government on Chiapas in the planning of a telenovela that will promote women and indigenous people's rights along with sustainable development; this week I'm working with a group of Nigerian and Cameroonian experts on a radio drama that aims to inspire the pride and preservation of the remaining 250 Cross River gorillas. I read somewhere that the former president of Colombia, Alvaro Uribe, is a great pretender. He is able to appear an expert on any topic after five minutes of debriefing. I'm not claiming to seem as an expert of any kind, but I can certainly tell by now a few stories about gorillas, Ghanian fish mongers, Bolivian youth and Chamula communities. "It is not about the story, but about how you tell the story," Meesha will say quoting her mother.

We are listening to Kraftwerk as Sol stops to take a picture of me writing and drinking wine to then go back to her LP collection and select the next album to play. It's been a while since the last time we met. She selects Do you really want to hurt me? from Culture Club; we already listened to Daniel Magal and other Argentinian jewels from the 1970's. Her studio is located at the now vacant Crane Studios Building, the "graffiti building" in Queens, decorated with old collectible objects and an electric pot to prepare her usual mate. "Sol, may I use your computer to write in my blog? I want to write about this." She agreed without hesitation. "Che, Brenda, I read in your blog that Pico died in November," she said to me earlier, before plugging in her headphones and playing DJ. I have always felt some sort of admiration and creative connection with Sol. Her latest body of work titled Please Don't Leave Me explores the concept of absence and reminds me of an old project I worked on right after Javier left titled After You Left. She now plays Talking Heads. "Do you know that this album cover was designed by Chuck Close?" she asks; "the first I came to New York I went to CBGB to track their origins. I was a fan." I ask if she ever watched them play live, but by now she is dancing by the turntables and barely listens to me. Breakfast in America is now playing out loud. We might be the only ones having a blast in this now deserted and forgotten building.

Mi Abuela (My Grandmother)

Mi Abuela died today although in a way she had departed years ago. Her longtime disease not only affected her memory, but her ability to talk, walk or lead any sort of human existence. I saw her for the last time during the summer of 2010. I sat by her and caressed her head while telling her stories from her youth; she glanced at me for an instant before getting back into her permanent state of oblivion. As I was growing up, Mi Abuela represented many things to me, she was the closest connection I had to my father, an example of generosity, femininity and elegance, a strong advocate for my education and the reason I was so spoiled. She was the only person I know to wear red lipstick and spray Chanel #5 before going to bed; she was beautiful. She also was the only person I know to get so much pleasure from giving herself and anything she had for the well-being of others. "You should get rid of the old if you want new and better things to come", she used to tell me as she de-cluttered the house. She was obsessed with cleanliness. My fondest memories from childhood are those times at her house; large family gatherings, debate conversations at the kitchen, exploring her closet, playing with my cousins and staying over to have the opportunity to sleep hugging her (and her Doberman). "Promise me two things, that you won't marry young; you need to study and enjoy your life before committing to a man," she asked me repeatedly. "The second thing is that you should never pluck your eyebrows; they are beautiful just the way they are." I have kept my word for the first one, but have diligently dismissed her second request. I have to confess that I feel some kind of guilt every time I visit the Indian beauty parlor by my house.