Je me souviens.

What does it take to feel homesick?

At seventeen I left my country for the first time on a one-year adventure. It was too exciting to feel sad. Whatever my international friends felt during that time was too strange to me. Why are you so sad? Your parents are coming to visit you? What do you mean you want to go back?

Two years after my exchange, I left again for good. Starting a new life has always been more appealing than continuing with my routine in a place I know too well.

Some people hate it. The experience of the immigrant is not the same for everybody. I was definitely lucky. Still am.

Another opportunity to start over came to my life, after eight years in Montreal. I was eager to feel that adrenaline again. The rush of looking for apartments, the stress of thinking about the logistics of the move, and the need to wrap up of everything you have.

This time it took an 18-hour car ride, instead of the usual 5-8 hour plane hauls. The landscapes, the weather, the people. It was all new and different. I spent two weeks at my new place, unboxing, attending some meetings, attempting my luck at a new job. Then I came back to finish some projects before leaving for good.

And then it hit me.

The airport was packed with tourists coming to visit for the hottest month in the city. July tends to be the busiest time for us, two or three festivals happening at the same time, parks crowded with free activities, people soaking in the sun at every corner.

Montreal was alive and everything felt so natural.

I contacted a couple of friends, scheduled some dinners and drinks here and there. I was back to using public transportation, the system I knew so well. My mom's house felt warm and my brother telling me in his monotone voice his day at college was somehow exciting. At my office, though chaotic, work was smooth that I even went for one last shoot.

And then we had to hire two people to replace me.
And then my boss was asking me to make a list of duties for the people who would come after me.
And then I had to change my address to another province.
And then my friend cried talking about me leaving.
And then my husband asked me to see him on a weekend and I didn't want to.

I didn't want to spend one second away from this place when I had so little time left to enjoy it.

Someone I only speak with sporadically called me to tell me he wanted to see me before I leave, even if for a brief second.
My university professor wanted to grab a quick drink.
My boss was still in denial.
Time became this precious thing. I had to enjoy every part of it, with everybody.

What is separation anxiety? For a PLACE? HOW? WHY? Is this what it feels like?

Whatever it is I am feeling right now, I have never felt before. I want to cry, scream, lay down for hours and not do anything but also do everything at the same time.

In the meantime, my face is straight. I have never been the one to get emotional, in any way (love, stress, angst). The eternal "resting bitch face".

“Home is not where you are born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease” ― Naguib Mahfouz

April 2011. First week in Montreal. Still my favourite place in the city.

The café plays: Some beautiful Italian oldies. Aperol Spritz in mano.
AnaPé says: "El lugar donde has sido feliz no debieras tratar de volver." - actually Joaquin Sabina said that.

"Y habré llevado esta nube hacia otro cielo de nubes pasajeras"

Lo curioso quizá no sea que está esperando un hijo/a.
Si no lo que me hace sentir.
Que al mismo tiempo yo lo estoy buscando. Irónicamente tomándome un vino
Y abstente de relaciones
No por querer si no por poder.
No tengo poder. Al menos no sobre lo que siento. Al menos no siempre.

Me quede mucho tiempo viéndolo, perdí la cuenta de las repeticiones
Así como perdi la cuenta de las veces en las que me busco a media noche
Queriendo y no queriendo
Masoquismo eterno que se refleja incluso diez anyos después.
(Irónico que google drive no me acepte la enye espanyola
y deba escribirlo como lo hacía en aquel tiempo, con fonética húngara)

Estoy muy feliz, pero es extranyo.
Porque no lo esperas y mucho menos ahora
Y cae en casualidades de realidades separadas, nunca paralelas.
Que en algún momento parecieron no separarse aun cuando parecía.
Igual estoy feliz.
Espero pronto estarlo aún más por mi.

Escucho, en mi cabeza: Dame Una Noche de Asilo - Jorge Drexler con una tal Mon Laferte (cuando deje de saber quienes eran los artistas contemporáneos?)
Hago: Terminando un horario en un hotel remoto en la Gaspesie
Pienso: Todos vuelven de alguna manera. Siempre.

Apt. #10

Listuguj Diaries.

I don't travel for work often, but when I do, I go to Indigenous reservations.

Since the past Wednesday I've been immersed in the corners of Point-à-la-Croix, also known as Listuguj, in the mouth of the Atlantic ocean in the east of Quebec. Home of the Mi'gmaq people of Canada.

Sometimes I'm not a hundred percent sure of what I am exactly doing here. Technically I'm part of a film crew for our next show. But really I'm doing research or production assistance work, denying my real title of coordinator. Or more than denying, just not really experienced (or brave) enough to take the matter on my hands.

Still, the experience has been a very particular one, reminding me a little bit to that time I spent over a week filming in Kuna Yala in Panama. Except the weather is not tropical, nor there is a pig sacrifice as offering to the gods.

So far this week: I've hiked (?) on the snow to a fully frozen river, drank more alcohol than water for three days straight, got frustrated for the future of my career, ate the most disgusting carrots in my life, ignored people's substance consumption, practiced honesty, saw my grandmother in every elder's face.

I have the sneaky feeling that when I'll come back to Montreal it'll be like a dream-like souvenir. In the sense it seems almost impossible, in the sense there's little I can do to change things to my convenience or I have little control of what is going on. I kind of want and not want to wake up. I just want to keep having and learn to control these dreams. As much as possible.

Ice fishing at the Restigouche River.

Escucho: Paseo para Marie - Roberto Camargo (weird but beautiful mix of french and vallenato music)
Hago: El reporte del rodaje, way behind on this.
Quiero: Abrazar a Andrés.

28 Primaveras invernales

I started my 28th birthday crying to my favourite artist (Alejandro Sanz) in the car I bought a bit under a year ago, before my second wedding with the same man. I had just left the gym after going for my fifth consecutive day since I had been back from my holidays vacation, #newyearresolutions or should I say Rezolution? Pun intended to mention the company I’ve been working at for the past three years and I still can’t believe it.

It’d be nice to say I’m grateful to be where I am right now, but grateful became such a millennial word that my almost-innate-pseudo-hipster personality wants to ignore it from its vocabulary. Along with blessed (#?).

I guess some things don’t change with time. Like feeling all peeps are posers, or believing Alejandro Sanz is the best hispanic artist alive. Maybe I just keep that mentality out of nostalgia… sorry, saudade (becoming proficient in Portuguese #2019resolution)

Truth is, that from the day I became legal in paper (#10yearchallenge) to now, I have accomplished everything I’ve wanted or at least most of it. I moved from my hometown (twice) obtained a degree and I am actually making a living from it, found the love of my life, my family is healthy. My life is good, and yes, I am grateful for that.

And it’s only getting better.

Either way, it’s fun to be 28 and feel you have your life figured out, or at least pretend to have it figured out for the world, and for yourself.

This has been true since 2015, doesn't seem to change either.