When I was 9 years old we moved from Dallas to Mexico City. My new school was tough — I didn’t speak the language, I didn’t understand how the girls interacted, I had short hair and was quite the tomboy. I got lunch from home every day so I never had lunch money for the cafeteria, but I always wanted chocolate. Some days I would “casually” hang out at the cafeteria hoping my cousin would show up because every time he did he would buy me a bar of chocolate and I don’t know what was sweeter — the chocolate or the feeling of being pampered.
We were super lucky to be in Cartagena at the same time as my cousin — different cousin, that guy’s younger brother — and his wife who were there on vacation. After two weeks of traveling like drifters, being with family I love and don’t get to see (we live in different continents) was amazing. And being the amazing people that they are, they spoiled us rotten. We went to a gorgeous island in the Rosario Islands and spent a chill day of great beach, great food and great conversation.
We talked about home, and how all four of us have a different meaning for it. But for me, home was there, in that moment, surrounded by them and feeling pampered to the bone.