This is going to be a long, bumpy essay. 😉

In Bolivia, between the mini-adventures I mention in my notes, there were long stretches of introspection and reflection. My mind kept going back to last year’s trip to Portugal, why we took it, and all the moments I wanted to pull my hair out.

The absurd conversations that played in my head felt like a sport I never asked to play. And yet it served as a way for me to finally clear out lingering residual energy from that experience.

As if I needed another reminder of the periods of darkness in my life, “The Sound of Silence” by Simon & Garfunkel would occasionally find its way into my head out of nowhere. If you are familiar with the lyrics, you understand why this song was kicking my ass: “Hello darkness my old friend” and “Silence like a cancer grows.”

My mother and I were estranged for five years before reconnecting in 2022. A secret I guarded closely. I carried the weight of guilt and shame for way too long. And yet distancing myself from my mother and extended family was necessary for my mental sanity at the time. Forgiving myself has never been a strength of mine.

If anyone asked me about her, I would answer, “She’s doing well.” My sister kept me informed. I suspect she secretly liked being the only daughter still on somewhat good terms with our mother at the time. But that is a story for another day.

I still remember the first time I saw her again. It’s amazing how our brains think time somehow stands still, and the next time we see someone, they will look exactly the same. As if no one ages.

I was stunned to see her with gray hair. My mother always had her hair beautifully done, but she had stopped dyeing it in the middle of the pandemic and decided to leave it natural. It looked good on her, but I had never seen her that way before.

As we reconnected, I noticed my mother’s behavior and lifestyle had changed. She would initiate outings and trips with friends, without her husband. I was oblivious to the state of their relationship. It became obvious something wasn’t right when she planned a family holiday trip in December of 2023, and he stayed in NY.

Later, I found out they didn’t even sleep in the same bedroom. I don’t know the details, but from where I stand, it has become a marriage of convenience. Two people who bicker about everything, which usually ends at an impasse.

So, when I mentioned that I was considering going to Portugal, she signed herself up for the trip. I didn’t want to say no to her for my own selfish reasons. We never know how much time we have with someone. And I thought it would also prepare her for what was coming. The possibility of a life outside the U.S. for me.

We boarded a plane for an eleven-day trip to Europe in April of 2025, with stops in Lisbon, Sevilla, and the Algarve. This was the first time she and I took a trip alone together. Part of me was excited, and the other part was thinking, “God, universe, or whatever is out there, please give me a shitload of patience.” Little did I know how much I was going to need it.

My mother can be very charming, generous, funny, the life of the party in her day, but she can also be extremely fucking cruel with her words. Words that often felt like pins running through my back with a lighter attached, leaving internal scars only visible to me. Hence, my hesitation traveling alone with her.

The trip was meant to be exploratory. See how locals live, check out the supermarkets, the quality of food, feel these areas out. But for a hot minute, I forgot I was traveling with the Energizer Bunny that needed every minute of the day to be filled with an activity. The woman is incapable of sitting alone with her own thoughts.

I booked a vintage tuk-tuk tour for the day we arrived, mostly to appease her. She loved the idea. The tour guide picked us up at the hotel and asked what kind of tour we wanted. Being the foodie that I am, I asked him to take us to places tourists wouldn’t normally go and include a couple of bakeries with the best desserts.

From day one, my mother turned into the puppeteer, trying to control what I ate and what time I ate. We walked into the first bakery and she says, “Don’t buy more than one so you have room for dinner later.” Because, apparently, in that moment I magically became twelve again, and my mother was treating me like a version of myself that hadn’t existed for decades.

So much for her letting me enjoy the moment. The poor tour guide had to deal with two women bickering over buying or not buying fucking pastries.

Ridiculous? Um, yes. And by the end of the day, I was too exhausted and jet-lagged to enjoy dinner.

This pattern continued on and off for the rest of the trip. And every day, I would get asked, “What are we doing tomorrow?” Fun.

During our day trip to Sintra, there was a moment when we were indecisive about where to sit to grab a drink or a quick bite to eat. I told her that I wasn’t that hungry, but I would keep her company. She turned around and said, “If you are not eating, then I’m not eating.”

I looked at her and said, “What is this?” But I knew. Here came the emotional blackmail. It was as if she had regressed into a petulant-child mode. By this point, I was pissed. It ended with me telling her to pick a place. We ordered sandwiches and ate quickly to not miss our tour bus. I left half of my sandwich on the plate.

By the time we arrived in Sevilla, Spain, I was emotionally and physically drained. We dropped our luggage at the hotel and then she said, “I need to go to El Corte Inglés because last time I was there, they had clothing I regret not buying.”

My sarcastic self checks out with a train of thought. We don’t need to do shit. You may want to, but we don’t have to.

I looked at her and asked, “Do you really need more clothes?”

For her, it was another important stop, so we went. But I mean come on. It’s not like we were some multi-millionaires on a shopping spree in Europe. Then again, my mother occasionally defaults to magical thinking. Nope. Not kidding.

She walks out with four clothing items, and I walk out with a tin of chocolate chip biscuits. They were damn good. Regret not buying two tins. And yes, I got a comment from her about not eating it all and getting full before dinner.

WTF! Here comes the cookie police.

Later that day, I tell her that I was going to stop at the hair salon next to the hotel and make an appointment to have my hair blown out. She tells me she wants to come with me in case I need help. So much for my alone time.

Now I’m angry again. “Help with what?” I responded. “It’s a real wonder how I’ve managed all these years.”

Listen, I try to control my sarcastic side, but around her it’s difficult. It was a shit show. She tells me that I need to change. I hadn’t heard that phrase in years. And for the first time, as opposed to staying quiet, I looked at her and asked, “Change what?”

“What is it that you think I need to change?” I was met with silence. No response. That was new. I said something she wasn’t expecting to hear and wasn’t prepared to answer.

Maybe her whole life, she’s been wanting her two daughters to be some mini version of her. As opposed to accepting and respecting us as we are. Suddenly, every moment growing up when I felt small, not good enough, or unworthy came rushing back. Every criticism, from the color of my hair, being too thin or not thin enough, and my personal favorite, her suggestion for me to remove my frown lines with Botox, was now swirling in my head. No, I’m not fucking putting poison in my face.

So I go into this long-ass speech about how disempowering it is for her to speak for me when someone asks me a question, how she infantilizes her two grown-ass daughters. Pretty much everything that I had been holding in for years came out. And then I felt bad about doing it. I can’t win with myself.

But at this stage in my life, I was not going to apologize for being who I am or put on a performance for anyone again. Those days were over.

Was it a wake-up call for my mother? Maybe. Then again, the woman suffers from selective memory.

We hop into one of those horse carriages, and neither of us utters a single word the entire ride.

By dinner time, we had, in our own way, moved on from the argument, and she was joking about the hot waiter. If only she were twenty years younger. Blah Blah. I chuckled. Yep. That’s my mother. The side of her that makes me laugh.

The next day, we were headed to the Algarve for the final leg of our trip. We hired a driver. It was easier, slightly cheaper than hopping back on another plane, and we got to enjoy the beautiful scenery between Spain and Portugal.

I can’t remember the name of the driver, but he was exceptional. We talked the entire ride, my mother more than me, as per usual. She asked if he was single, then about his life driving all over, and moved on to the tattoos on his arms. He handed us the phone so we could see photos of the ones on his back and other photos of different areas in Portugal.

And then she makes the conversation about me. Starts talking about how I need to get out more and date. That I’m not going to meet anyone if I lock myself away. This went on for what felt like a long-ass minute. I turned to her and said, “I can meet someone walking into a coffee shop, at the airport, on an airplane or wherever.” The driver smiled.

I think he could tell how frustrating this conversation was becoming. I could see him looking through the rearview mirror. He smiles and says, “I don’t think you need to worry about her. She’s going to be just fine. And she’s right, she can meet someone anywhere.”

A complete fucking stranger stepped in to defend me at the most awkward moment. And the harping about me finding a man finally came to an end.

We had a few more shit show moments during the trip, but that was to be expected. She’s messy, chatty, loud, and I’m reserved and a neat freak. So just imagine what else we bickered about towards the end.

Let’s just say I was ready for the trip to end and be back in my own space. On the flight back from Lisbon, my body was already fighting what I thought was a cold or some bug. One that lasted well over a week. My emotional body was drained.

We landed in JFK; my mother goes through Global Entry in like a minute, and I had to wait in the immigration line, regretting not having applied for Global Entry earlier that year, then had to catch my flight home.

What I expected from that trip and what I got were two completely different things. Yes, we argued, and I got sick, but I also felt liberated.

Reflecting back, I remembered a conversation I had with someone I confided in after the trip. She said that I was not here to live a small life to make others comfortable. That includes family members. And that this stage of my life was about reclaiming, not blaming. Those were some powerful words. Words nobody had ever told me.

Has the dynamic changed between us?

It has. It’s not perfect. Far from it. But I have noticed there is a lot less criticism coming out of her mouth.

Wish me luck. I will be spending her birthday week with her in Barranquilla, Colombia first week in November. My mother thinks her birthday is a national holiday. I can appease her and celebrate it for eight days.

She wanted us to share a hotel room. I said no fucking way. Two rooms work just fine, thanks.

And now I have met my writing quota with this long ass essay.

See you next year. 😉

Well, some of you are beautiful humans and some of you might be assholes. To be determined. I’m back after a long hiatus from writing. But I have been posting notes a few times a week, so not completely slacking. Listen, I’m a Cancerian. We crabs go into our holes and sometimes take a long time to come out.

For context, I jumped into Substack without knowing much about the platform. Not exaggerating here. Apparently doing Substack my way, not the right way. I didn’t start posting notes until a month in, started interacting with other writers around that time as well, and decided to change the name of my Substack following a repetitive thought to do so that would not leave me alone.

Oh, and I finally decided to download the Substack app on my phone four days ago.

Let’s just say I jumped into the deep end of the ocean without checking the temperature of the water or knowing how deep it really was. Seems about right considering what I’m doing with my life at the moment. Just learning as I go.

For the last two months, I’ve been in the in-between space deciding how much of my life I want to share so I don’t feel like I’m writing about superficial shit.

Today I’ve decided to share my experience traveling to Portugal and Spain in April of last year with my then 71-year-old mother. Fun!

The woman has more energy than the Energizer Bunny. There were days when I just wanted to say “Woman, can you not see I’m tired?”

But first, a short rant on some posts I’ve had the misfortune to read lately that royally pissed me off. For a split second, I considered getting off Substack if it was going to feel like a prison.

I’m good if you click the heart or decide to leave a comment. Both work. I’ve never considered myself a “writer,” and frankly I’m not asking for your left kidney. Happy if something I write clicks for you or even helps you liberate yourself from whatever chains are holding you back in life.

That said, some writers on this platform seem to be sitting pretty on very tall pedestals about twelve feet high. They have decided to nominate themselves the comment police by talking down to readers advising them on how they should comment on a post.

So, I will say this, “Get off your fucking high horse” and shove your suggestions where the sun does not shine. A respectful comment should be enough.

As humans, our most valuable asset is our time. Time you can never get back no matter how much money, power or fame you have.

So, to the writers who think that because they have over 1k subs they can be condescending to readers on this platform, try some humble pie. Not a slice, but the whole fucking pie. It tastes really good.

Someone just spent time reading what you wrote, clicked the heart or wrote a short comment, and you think that’s not enough. Sure, it would be nice if people wrote a dissertation on your post. Good luck with that.

History has taught us one thing: empires have risen and fallen. Something to do with arrogance and lack of self-awareness. Yes, you will have those who agree with you and not push back. I will not be one of them.

I do have many writers in mind whose essays I would absolutely love to comment on soon. But I’ve been moving around a lot and I’m tired all the time. I can't tell you how many times I have fallen asleep with my laptop open, woken up in the middle of the night to place it on the desk so it doesn't accidentally land on the floor.

My time and energy are incredibly valuable. I have the attention span of a cat. If I clicked on the heart, it is because I enjoyed what I read, felt something or remembered a personal experience. That’s it. Do you want blood too?

Comments should be left up to the reader, not the writer. Gratitude will cost you nothing. Rant over.

And now I’ve noticed this was a long-ass rant. Saving the Portugal/Spain story for the next post. It involves the dense topic of infantilizing and disempowering adult children. It's very personal and also the first time I pushed back on my mother’s need to control so much. Long story and too much info for this post.

This was my brain dump for today. Feel free to comment or not. And thank you for reading the shit that lives in my head.

Note: I didn’t have a proper photo to go with this rant but thought these 30+ ft prickly cacti were a good fit.

Lara

I made it to La Paz in one piece and a day older. The altitude hit me fast, pressure in my ears, lightheaded, unbalanced, short of breath after two steep blocks. Word to the wise, drink the coca tea. It helps, and it tastes better than green tea.

This could have been just a travel post, but this week pulled me into family stuff instead. Two stories for the price of one here, so try not to get confused. I was going to write about Bolivia, but then I had to go ahead and type out this long ass train of thought on my laptop.

Around my birthday month, my grandmother pops into my head. Who am I kidding? She pops into my head often when I think about my family dynamics. Yesterday while brushing my teeth, I asked myself the same question that’s been circling on and off for the last week. “Why would she want one of her granddaughters to have the name of the main character in a movie involving a tragic love story?”

My name is Larissa. These days I prefer to be called Lara. That’s what my grandmother always called me and so does my mother. So here is the story behind my name.

My grandmother left Colombia to move to New York when she was 45 years old. The woman had balls of steel and then some. In those days, things were different. What she did was unheard of. She had left her grown children behind, five of them, to get away from my grandfather.

To this day, I still don’t know the full details of her backstory because she was always so private. My family has speculated from their perspective over the years as to why she left. She didn’t just move out of the family home; she moved to a different continent. I don’t think anyone really knew why. That one decision had an impact on all of our lives. It was the reason my sister and I were raised in the U.S.

When my grandmother arrived in New York, she submerged herself in the language. Including watching movies with no subtitles to learn English. One of those movies was Dr. Zhivago. A movie she watched multiple times over the years.

Enamored with that love story, she had mentioned to her daughters that she wished one of her granddaughters be named after the main character of her favorite movie. Her eldest daughter ignored the idea and named her first two daughters after her mother-in-law and herself.

My mother being the middle child and the one who always needed to stand out, decided she would be the one to fulfill that wish. And a year later the third granddaughter was born, me. I inherited the now infamous name. The one that came with a tragic love story behind it.

I’ve only seen Dr. Zhivago twice. It’s very, very long. First time I watched it, I was bored. Then I watched it again as an adult and it clicked. What a fucked-up and tragic story it was. Between you and me, I think my grandmother had a crush on Omar Sharif. And that’s why I really ended up with the name. WTF!

Spoiler alert, the man longs for Lara the rest of his life, thinks he sees her on a tram and has a heart attack chasing her. No happy ending for any of the characters. Listen, the story involved a war, harsh winter weather, two women and a choice made that affected all of them. Enough said.

My personal story has not been one big romantic tale, and if I have any level of control, it will not end with a tragic romance.

Universe cooperate please!

I had a marriage that appeared to be great on the outside and it was dead on the inside. We had the most ridiculous arguments about making the bed or something trivial like that. Which of course were never really about sheets or whatever other nonsense we argued about. Neither of us was without fault. And I’ll leave it at that.

I made a conscious choice to get out. I left behind what seemed like a very comfortable life. One in which I would have never had to worry about money if I stayed. What does that tell you?

My family did not handle it in a mature manner at first. One family member told my sister that she thought I was crazy. Why would I ever leave? There had to be something wrong with me. And those were the bullshit comments I had to deal with behind my back. Well, I did it anyway. My life, my choices. Fuck whoever didn’t agree with them.

I had checked out of that marriage in every way that mattered long before divorce papers were signed. It was suffocating me, and nobody knew it because the façade had to be kept up at all times.

Nobody was going to dive in and pull me out of the deep end of the ocean I was barely surviving in. If I had stayed, I would have died a very unhappy and unfulfilled human. That would have been my tragic story. And what purpose would that have served?

We were two twenty-something year olds that knew nothing about life or the intricate dance of a marriage. That emotional intimacy that we crave more than physical intimacy was lacking. Looking back, it was never really there.

You know what I’m talking about here. It’s the kind of connection you feel deep within. Like when two people place their foreheads together to express affection.

I experienced this once with a lover a long time ago. We enjoyed talking over extended lunches. Sharing meals with him was its own type of foreplay. Yes, there was physical intimacy but there was also something deeper I couldn’t understand at the time. It’s become a faded memory in my mind now. Resolved and dissolved within me. That story, I may never share.

After that part of me closed off. Not permanently. I am human and I do feel things very deeply. I’m just a little more discerning now. You can’t pass go and collect the 200 bucks if you have not earned the trust and respect. Yes, I know. I use Monopoly as a reference while discussing relationships. Sue me.

Respect and mutual appreciation play a bigger role than most are willing to admit out loud. Sure, you can find and have the emotional intimacy we all seek as humans, but without respect there is nothing but a big fat lie hovering over any relationship. Most importantly, having the self-respect to know when it’s time to walk away.

Are you still with me? I’m about to share some juicy details.

What did I get out of that marriage? One brilliant, independent, beautiful human. My son Bryan.

What did I get out of that divorce? The freedom to be who I am without someone controlling any part of me. And the opportunity to meet a man that will know how to make the damn bed. Kidding! Obviously!

This time around, I can choose to walk this life with someone that sees me and has my back until our last breath.

This was the theme in my head this weekend here in La Paz, Bolivia. It should have been about the Uyuni Salt Flat, but I haven’t been there yet. That’s next.

I hope you enjoyed all the F bombs and the Charlotte’s Web version of my life.

Also, unrelated fun fact. Larissa is a city in Greece. One day I will have to go there for shits and giggles.

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I’ve been in Chile two weeks now. No, I haven’t posted anything since May 27. Well, notes, yes. Every day, multiple times a day. Does anyone see them? If I’m lucky, maybe 2 or 3 people. Conclusion, either nobody sees them or they are boring as hell. Will leave it at that for now.

What else have I been doing with my time?

Finally, been learning how the Substack platform works. Realized that I should add notes for my past short-story posts. Beat myself to a pulp for not doing that sooner. Still purple in some areas. I’m learning, folks. Go easy.

But kudos for me, I’ve been catching up on reading other people’s work. There are some amazing writers here. I have laughed, agreed out loud talking to my laptop and more. Grateful to finally find so many people I resonate with even if they don’t know it yet.

Oh, and I finally figured out how to set up the landing page or website. Listen, it was like navigating the cockpit of an airplane with a ton of shiny buttons. Which one do I press first? So, it’s not like I’m slacking over here.

Let me catch you up on Chile. Short, I promise.

Almost missed my connecting flight to Santiago, which would have been a total shit show. I was too tired to be angry. Here is what happened.

I like Copa Airlines. Good service on long flights and almost always leaves on time. So, I flew Copa. But my early flight from Medellin left a little late. Landed in Panama for my connecting flight to Santiago with five minutes for me to run to the next gate. Which BTW, was all the way on the other end. Isn’t that how it always happens? I can’t even make this shit up.

I passed by the Voted Best Chocolate Chip Cookie kiosk in the airport, contemplated buying one for like a second. But I couldn’t even spare that one second. Having to choose between buying a chocolate chip cookie voted the best and catching a connecting flight? I was pissed. Please! Wouldn’t you be?

By the time I got to the gate, they had already started boarding. Got on the plane and about 15 minutes later we were in the air. Phew!!! Super smooth flight. Six hours and 15 minutes later we landed in Santiago.

Rental unit nice and clean. Only complaint. It’s damn cold. One small heater that I can roll to the bedroom or the living room. Yep. My biscuits are half-frozen and sometimes I’ve been wearing my NY winter coat over my PJs in the living room. Super sexy. No selfies needed.

FYI, check my notes for the non-professional pics of my strolls around Santiago.

What I’ve learned about Chile in two weeks

It’s the world’s largest exporter of copper. Did you know this? If so, you are smarter than me.

They have the tallest building in South America, the Gran Torre Santiago. It’s 984 feet tall and has an observation deck for you to gaze in awe at the Andes mountains. It’s engineered to withstand major seismic activity. How? No clue, but Chile has 2 architects that have won the Pritzker Architecture Prize, Alejandro Aravena won in 2016 and Smiljan Radić Clarke in 2026. The prize is the equivalent of a Nobel Prize.

Surprised? I was. It’s like I’m becoming a walking encyclopedia now.

Chileans do not need a visa to travel to the U.S. That’s right folks. As of January 2026, it is the only country in South America under the Visa Waiver Program. I’m about 95% sure Chile’s strong and stable economy has something to do with that.

People here are extremely easy-going and very nice. They seem content with life. One tour guide described Chileans as the boring South Americans. No loud honking on streets. Okay, occasionally there is honking, but hardly ever.

Customer service is a thousand times better than anywhere else in the world I’ve been to. What does that tell you?

Prices are displayed on almost everything due to a consumer rights protection law. It’s fudging fantastic. I don’t have to wonder if someone is trying to rip me off with Gringo prices here.

Food in restaurants is expensive. New York price expensive. But supermarkets have decent prices. If you come to Chile, you will either need to make some of your own meals or be prepared to shell out some dollars. Like all of them.

You can buy a brand-new car here for around $10 to $11k, car models that Americans can’t even find in the States. A comparable car in the U.S. would likely cost around $19k to $21k. And just because cars are cheaper in Chile it doesn’t mean they are basic bare bones economy cars. Want proof? Check out the prices for the Hyundai Grand i10 Sedan model sold here. But what do I know, I don’t even drive. I’m a New Yorker. Lived in subways.

Crossing the streets of Chile feels like you are in a movie where everything suddenly just stops. If you put your big toe on the street, buses and cars will make a full stop. Nope, not kidding! This was a whole discussion on the tour I did last week. In Medellin, you better run or get run over by the million and one motorcycles in the streets.

Okay, I’m done. Not because I don’t have more fun information about Chile, but because I’m on the third page and you probably fell asleep around the food comment.

Alright, maybe one last thing, this is lapis lazuli land. It’s their national gemstone.

Monday, I took my son to see Museo El Castillo in El Poblado. I did the tour of the inside of the castle back in March, so my son was gracious enough to do the guided tour on his own. I sat by the gardens enjoying the gloomy weather. Yes, that’s right, I was enjoying the overcast because it made it less hot than every other day here. Don’t get me wrong, I would take the weather in Medellin over the Buffalo winter any day any time.

Two hours of gorgeous scenery, a tour, and done. We hopped in an Uber to El Tesoro mall.

Now, I know what you are thinking. A mall, seriously, why? Well, I had told my son that people here in Medellin like to parade their dogs inside the mall. So, for shits and giggles he wanted to see that. Hey no judgement. I did say it was for giggles. Part of me also wanted him to see what they have built here. Massive fancy ass malls you don’t see in NY these days. I mean they have an area that looks like a pool full of bubbles which are matte plastic balls kids can throw themselves in and a mini amusement park with rides. That’s right folks, made in Colombia.

So, we strolled into El Tesoro and no joke for the first hour we didn’t see a damn dog. Not a one. Listen the kid is here on vacation. I was going to get a chuckle out of him no matter what.

We walked to an area called Sunset El Tesoro. Best described as a compact dining zone with several independent kiosks and common seating areas. The view of the city from here is spectacular. And when in Rome you get tempted. I said, “Fuck it, let’s grab some quick appetizers”. FYI my son never says no to food.

We sat by Bodega Wine Bar & Tapas. Overindulged and ordered more tapas than we intended. Plus 2 sodas saborizadas, juice flavored seltzer on ice.

But if I had seen the reviews for this place, I probably wouldn’t have bothered. A couple of good tapas and some meh ones.

We finished eating and asked the waiter that had been serving us for the bill. A bit pricey compared to other places in Medellin but it’s a mall. Get the bill and noticed it had the tip included at the bottom. Waiter didn’t bother to ask if he should include it. Now hold on. I’m not being petty. It’s a law here that they have to ask. Yes, a ridiculous law but a law. More on that in a future post.

I had quickly glanced at the bill without my glasses; I know, huge mistake. I paid it and based on the total price I assumed everything we ordered was included. Nope!

We get up and walk to the bathroom which was literally to the left of the food area. You could see it from where we sat. My son of course is out of the bathroom before I am and was waiting outside for me. A waitress had walked over to him and in Spanish told him we had not paid for the sodas. My son shared later on.

Now my son’s Spanish is not great. He understood but didn’t know how to respond other than “mi mama esta en el baño”, my mother is in the bathroom. I walk out and was about to tell him I had a piece of spinach stuck on the side of my tooth but stopped myself as I noticed a woman next to him.

She proceeded to tell me we hadn’t paid for the sodas. I replied with “I paid the bill the male waiter gave me”. At that moment I realized another stupid mistake. I was so distracted that I hadn’t noticed the waiter did not return the receipt when he brought my change.

So, I tell her let’s head over and ask the waiter. He tells me in broken English “you paid the bill for this place but the sodas were from that restaurant over there”.

Seriously! Deer in headlights here. It took me a second to respond in Spanish and asked why he hadn’t told me that when I asked for the bill. I mean do I look psychic to people? Am I supposed to know they intermingle in that area and bills are separate regardless of whom you order from.

You sit near one restaurant kiosk and apparently can order from all of them. I had no fucking clue. After I go off, the waiter finally says “I should have told you that” and then used the stupidest analogy in English, “It’s like walking into Louis Vuitton and paying them for a Gucci bag”. Let me tell you, if the expression on my face didn’t speak for itself, I don’t know what would. I was a royally pissed off Latin woman.

Is it me or did that make sense to anyone reading this?

WTF! That was the stupidest analogy I had ever heard.

First of all, I am not the type of person to walk away without paying. This situation had me seeing red, nothing else.

Why not just fucking tell me bills were separate and stop being fucking lazy scrolling on your phone while you were working and walk yourself to the other waitress for the bill after I asked for it?

I can’t tell you how many times this guy was on his phone while we were eating. It was hard to miss in such a small area and he was very tall.

I paid for that bill and we headed to the first floor to leave the mall. And then we see them. The parade of dogs my son wanted to see were on the first floor. Sat on a black leather couch and after 15 dogs had passed by the novelty wore off. My son turns to me and says “okay ready to leave now”.

And that was out 2 1/2-hour trip to El Tesoro mall in Medellin.

I decided to head to Envigado. Never been and it was on my list. Ended up by Calle Jardín to celebrate life and the blessing to have this opportunity to be in Medellín at this stage in my life. I walked into Terrenal Bar & Carbon to live music of oldies but goodies in Spanish of course. The music my Abuelita used to listen to.

Guess what? I was surprisingly okay solo on Mother’s Day. No guilt trips from anyone, not even the critical voice that lives in my head from time to time. I don’t give it too much room these days.

But there was one moment when I noticed the mom and son sitting next to me at the restaurant. She was reading a letter he wrote to her and I thought “

She did good”. I mean the young man took the time to write that long letter. That means something. Doesn’t it? She thanked him, they hugged and I looked away. Split second feeling of “Wish that were me” and then the food came.

I had ordered the Chicharrón Toleado and a glass of Santa Carolina Reservado Rose. Food was so good, that while eating I had forgotten I was sitting there by myself. Total cost for this delicious experience was $54,200 Colombian Pesos ($14.33 USD). I remember thinking, “Where in the world would I get a good glass of rose in NYC for $4.24?”. For a minute I felt like I had been missing out. What a steal. That was my first glass of wine since I landed in Medellín back in March. Not really drinking these days. Don’t feel the need to but for that one day so worth it.

For the rest of the afternoon, I had a nice stroll around that area of Envigado. Love me some dessert and no meal feels complete without it. I know, sugar is not good for you blah blah. Guilty of ignoring that. So, I stopped at a bakery for coffee and dessert. Ordered a Tres leches and coffee, total cost around $7.83 USD. Tres leches not memorable. Coffee was fantastic. For that reason alone, I would stop there again. And that was my Solo 2026 Mother’s Day in Envigado. No complaints here.

Is Mother’s Day another overrated commercial holiday or a meaningful day? I’ll let you decide. Personally, I’d rather show up when I’m needed and not because someone or something told me I had to.

Have you spent a holiday away from loved ones and surprised yourself?

I hate to disappoint or maybe not, but no, I didn’t celebrate Cinco de Mayo. Yesterday was laundry day at Laundry Café in Laureles. I separated my lights and darks into two small washers as fast as possible, asked for a Tide pod for color protection (trust me, you need one of these here) and then jetted.

My plan was to walk to Sazón D’ Panas, a great Venezuelan restaurant a block away, but instead I stopped at a closer spot a few doors down. Thought it would be quicker and I could use their bathroom. I popped in, ordered the menu of the day, got the chicharron, instead of the breaded pork which was the day’s main protein listed, huge mistake.

Finally, I head to the bathroom, which BTW was very clean. Lock the door, take care of business, and then I grab the knob to get out. Turn it left then right, nothing. These are the moments when I think “Oh man, for extra shits and giggles, the universe has a funky sense of humor today”.

The door was stuck. Yeap, it would not open. I turn that knob every way possible and then I start knocking, but with the loud music playing, they couldn’t hear it. Holy shit, now I’m talking to myself out loud, again. Grumbling a curse or two. I force the door so hard a small piece of plaster, I think, falls off and nothing. Now I’m afraid to even touch it. Finally, a fudging light bulb goes off. I take out my phone and start searching for the restaurant’s number to tell them that I was stuck in the bathroom. It felt like I was in an episode of Seinfeld or Mr. Bean. Latin people, think Cantinflas.

As I’m about to dial the number, I hear the waiter. He asks “Are you stuck?” (in Spanish). I reply, “Aha”. Then he tells me to hold on while he tells the young lady behind the bar. A few seconds later she shows up and starts moving the knob, and as the door opened, I noticed she had used what looked like a credit card or hotel card key to unjam the door. Hysterical! At this point I realize this had occurred before. Why hadn’t they fixed it?

The waiter apologizes as I walk out of the bathroom. He told me he was wondering why I hadn’t come out and that the food was getting cold on the table. Ugh!!

Finally, I sat down and noticed the sad chicharron, glanced at the guy sitting next to me and wished I had gotten the breaded pork. Salad didn’t look appetizing, papa chips were stale, one sweet plantain, white rice and beans were okay. I left most of it, finished my guarapo (local juice), and paid. Total price $22,000 Colombian Pesos ($5.95), so I thought okay, no big loss here other than time and getting stuck inside a public bathroom.

Headed back to the laundromat, placed my clothes in one big dryer and decided to walk to Josefina’s, the bakery around the corner to get sandwich bread. Walked in and they told me that it had not been made in a few days. I thanked them and walked out feeling deflated at this point. I knew I would be hungry later, so I thought to myself “fudge it, just stop by Sazón D’ Panas and get food to go”. Menu of the day was $21,000 pesos ($5.70), worth it. Their food is really good.

And if you are wondering how much two washers, one Tide pod for color protection and one large dryer cost, it was $63,500 Colombian Pesos ($17.23 USD), more than the two lunches combined.

Got any crazy stories? Share so I feel a tiny bit better about getting stuck in a bathroom.

So here I am exploring. Finally figured out how to walk from my hotel all the way to the second Laureles park area. Listen, it’s the little things that make me happy at this stage in my life. I figured out how to get from point A to point B and I’m patting myself on the back while absolutely loving the big beautiful trees that made the walk tolerable. No Uber, got some exercise, pat on the back.

Then I find myself thinking, “Why do they still call it the City of Eternal Spring?” This doesn’t make sense to me. It was freaking 79 degrees. I’m sorry but to me Spring weather lands between mid-50s and 70 degrees. That’s the sweet spot for me.

What do I do when I get back to the hotel? I go searching for information online on the history of why Medellin was labeled as the city of eternal spring.

Here is what I found. Medellin’s high elevation and surrounding mountains used to keep cool spring-like temperatures all year round. But it has changed so much that the city decided to plant trees all around to decrease the heat. The project is called “Corredores Verdes” (Green corridors) and it began back in 2016 to help counter urbanization and the million and one motorcycles polluting the city. I won’t bore you with the rest but worth looking into for more interesting and useless knowledge, I guess.

People still throw that term around like it actually means something in 2026. Gimme a break. That can’t be a selling point anymore. Maybe in places like El Retiro you still have spring-like weather but spoiler alert, not in the city of Medellin. It may not be as hot as Barranquilla but there is no denying climate change has impacted the city.

BTW I promise I do have positive things to write about Medellin. Just needed to get that off my chest.

Have you traveled somewhere and wondered if you are the only one asking the nagging questions in your head?

You know the ones nobody else is calling bullshit on.

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It takes unwavering grit to start over at any age.

After 3 miserable years in Buffalo, NY and being physically sick, I sold almost everything I owned and bought a one-way ticket to Medellín. The story that kept playing in my head like an annoying broken record was: “By the time I reach 90, I want to look back and say WOW, that was a life well lived. No regrets.” Is it possible? I don’t know. Ask me when I’m 90.

I was born in Barranquilla, Colombia, my family moved to New York City three months before I turned nine. Now at 50, I’m back in Colombia temporarily living in Medellín for the first time.

Recently decided it’s a pit stop through parts of South America, more on why later. My goal destination is Valencia, Spain, where I’m pursuing residency through Article 22 of the Spanish Civil Code. A pathway I found through research while looking for a faster route to Spanish nationality if I apply as a Colombian. As an American citizen, it would have taken me at least five years to be eligible to apply.

The Voyager Insider newsletter was an idea birthed just a couple of weeks ago. It’s not entirely original to write about my journey, but fuck it. I gave myself permission to do it anyway.

It’s my way to document all my future lived experiences that years ago felt like a “maybe one day” or when I have more financial stability. Well, one day is now. And if you are still sitting on your own “one day,” this is also for you.

Fair warning, this publication will sometimes include my slightly sarcastic view of the world and incorporate the NPA technique, non-personal awareness, I’ve been using with a facilitator.

Over the last year, it has helped ease my inner critic and given me more space to let things roll off my shoulders. Something unheard of 3 short years ago. Now, I don’t get as down or angry so quickly, so the non-personal part is kicking in a little.

I seem to go into more introspective moments than I probably should. Definitely call myself out on my own shit, notice patterns of behavior most people want to hide, including my own. Which leads to, you guessed it, an NPA session with my facilitator.

You may be wondering what separates me from everyone else doing this. A few tiny details.

Some life experience after five decades on this planet, a ton of regret, and an incessantly curious mind, borderline nutty. I overthink and overanalyze everything and try to hide it to play it cool.

I have more questions than answers and will leave it at that for now. Oh, I’m fluent in Spanish, but you might have guessed that part already. I have a Master’s degree in Human Resource Management, boring. Well, this part is not so different. Plenty of bilinguals with degrees are already doing this.

Here, I will go into the nitty gritty of daily life nuances in every place I land, the food I eat, health treatments, real costs, and everything I wish I had known before embarking on this unpredictable venture.

BTW I am not an entirely fearless soul, but guess what? I do NPA for that too. Bottom line is that at this point in my life I want to live a life that is not plagued by all the things that simply do not matter nor will I care about at 90.