I picked up a stack of postcards to send to friends and family in CDMX last week. A few of them include an illustration of a tamale recipe. The others are of a stack of old car fronts by Aaron Changpo. There were gifts too, many for the kids, one for my sister. I found new shoes during one of my walking days. I stumbled inside with a phone on 10%, trying to fix the map to the hotel into my memory. I asked to use the bathroom, they obliged. I asked for a charger—that, they did not have. I stayed. I shopped. I watched as the screen on my phone faded to black and the sky began to turn. Eventually, I made my way out of the store (new shoes in hand), and found my way to the hotel. What I noted then with my bag of new shoes, my thoughts of friends, my journal full of scribbled notes jotted under the full moon the night before, my body in full-momentum from the day of walking, is how unabashedly comfortable I felt. A sense of freedom I suppose, reserved for traveling with friends, and being comforted in their presence when lost. Instead, I felt the ease of being with myself. The strength of autonomy. The beauty in being present and unafraid. The clarity of seeing things without a screen and relying on my mind and feet to guide me to some temporary home where only my suitcase and books were waiting for me.
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