I’ve arrived at one of my favorite places to sit and brainstorm. It’s a Starbucks near where I live. I think at some point this place should sponsor me. At the counter, I was greeted by a girl who’s probably been working there for a couple of years. She confirmed my predictable order: a double espresso. And she remembered my name.
Today I had a rush of memories. Of places where I’ve met someone, or where I went with someone, and I can still hear their voices so vividly—or imagine their warm, expressive faces. Here are some of those places and people, in no particular order.
Andrea and the bench in the main square
We studied together in school. And also in music school. I always thought she had more talent than me. So I always tried to be prepared for our classes.
That bench, on one of the corners in front of the cathedral, was where we’d meet to pass the time. Back when there were no cell phones. When all we could afford was a packet of pícaras cookies. And when we didn’t really think about sun damage.
Andrea—daring and sweet at the same time.
Mariana and Sato
It was summer, and I had to prepare for the big decision of choosing a career.
Since physics and math never clicked with me, I joined the prep school of a popular teacher named Sato. His methods made Mariana and me shine. He always said the careers we’d chosen were hobbies. He didn’t change our minds though.
Mariana has a firm way of telling me when I’m wrong—but always with compassion.
Elisabet and New Year’s Eve
I grew up in a religious environment. The whole family went to one church, but eventually, I started going to a different one. That came with challenges—and lessons.
One New Year’s Eve, my sister Elisabet came with me to a service. We prayed and cried together. I remember she had blue streaks in her hair. We held hands. It feels like yesterday.
Elisabet is brave. And carries a remarkable composure when it comes to hard conversations.
Alonso and San Marcos
When I changed churches, the drummer turned out to be a friend of one of my university classmates. At first, we looked at each other with skepticism. But we became friends—especially during a mission trip to the mountains of San Marcos.
We recently talked on the phone. «I’m with you in your pain,» he told me.
Alonso is quiet. Sometimes makes silly jokes. But talking to him brings me peace.
Isaac and the robbery
We met when one of my grandmothers passed away. He’s probably the only person I’ve never hesitated to speak to with sharp directness and honesty. We’ve swum together. And made music together.
One night after an event, we were walking home late. We got mugged—but they only took his things. These days we talk about work challenges. And diets.
Isaac is a visionary. He’s emotional. And fiercely loyal.
Sorina and the roses
We went for coffee not long ago. To a riverside terrace that means a lot to me.
We used to work together. And through group outings, we’ve stayed connected through life and work challenges. I told her I think we’ve bonded through similar life experiences.
Her most recent advice: “Let your mother give you advice. Listen to every word—it’s her way of connecting with you.”
She told me she doesn’t want to be remembered as a plant killer—but she’s learned that not all plants need daily water.
Sorina works hard. She’s calm. And funny.
Sometimes I think places hold sounds. The sounds of voices that once lived there. But they’re not heard with the ears—they’re heard with memory. And when I return to those places—even just in thought—I’m not alone. I’m accompanied by the voices that stayed. The ones that once told me something I needed to hear.
Those voices still speak to me.
Ave Migratoria 