March 23, 2018

A season in Scotland - Autumn

The place we're going, I've been before.

As the train leaves King's Cross Station I retrace the road in my head – the fast line up the misty coast, to Edinburgh ; the scenic, slow train through the islands, to Oban, and then there will be a boat, a bus, and another boat.

We stop in Edinburgh for a couple of nights. Being there again is like meeting an old friend, one you haven't spent much time with but with whom you can reconnect in an instant. I find my way through the streets to my favourite café, my favourite bookshop, shamelessly relishing the nostalgia that wraps around my mind like honey. Of course, this time, I bring my daughter along with me. She stills fall asleep in minutes everytime we put her in our carrier, and I feel so eager for a day where she'll be grown and we will start introducing her to our favourite places in this world. For now, I stroke her head and describe everything – the charming stairwells, the red stones, the bagpipe playing on the Royal Mile and the taste of my cup of matcha.

Edinburgh is cold and wet, but still magical. One evening we go out to see a Samhain celebration (which we'll end up missing entirely by standing on the wrong side of the stage). We get fish and chips and eat it whilst walking. It feels like a date, but again, now we're parents and our little girl is with us, sound asleep, like a secret nuzzled against her papa's chest. On our way back we talk about how much we love this city and how we dream of living there someday.

The next day the train takes us to Oban through mountains and valleys and forests – Scotland showing off outside the window. Saoirse spends the trip looking at the trees. Every minute reality is being superimposed on my memories, like a sketch being slowly coloured in. In Oban, we jump on the last boat, slowly crossing the sound of Mull. We cross the island of Mull on a bus – the jurassic mountains dusted with snow, the heather a vibrant brown. Then we catch the last ferry to Iona.

I was there a year ago, on my own – just after my 26th birthday. I spent just a day here, a grey, drizzly day spent exploring the island from north to south. I knew this place was special the moment I saw it from the ferry window, the only street of white and grey houses growing closer – Baile Mor, they call it – the big town. You have to love their sense of humor. I never thought this would be our home one day.

We are picked up from the pier by a gentle giant called John MacLean and his lovely wife Rachel. He is immense and wears wellies and a weathered trenchcoat – she has lovely golden curls and a colorful dress, and her eyes sparkles when she speaks. I stayed in their hostel on my first visit, and now it's where we're going to live, for the winter at least. At the very northern end of a tiny island, off another island, somewhere on the west coast of Scotland. As soon as we've arrived and our bags are emptied, we look at each other and again feel this wonderful chill – are we really here ? What have we gone and done this time ?

But there is tiny baby asleep on the bed, who doesn't even notice we've traveled half the length of country in a few days and that we are now standing at the edge of the world. If she's not worried, why should we be ?

February 24, 2018

England - october

We have just come back from France, and we're tired. I hadn't realised, but since we left our ecuadorian home it has been almost a month of moving to a different place every week or less, and I'm tired. Finally we are back in London and finally there is stillness. We are here for three weeks and soon we'll be moving to our next home in Scotland. We find our rhythm. Saoirse sleeps well and we all wake up tangled in our bed around 8, then come down to the kitchen where L (Saoirse's grandma) prepares breakfast and offers tea. The forest opens just outside the house, and in the late afternoon light the leaves turn yellow and gold. At night we take long baths in our giant bathtub – Saoirse loves the water so much, moves around and then settles on my belly to nurse.

One evening, we walk through the forest and stop at a nearby pub, before going back home in the dark, the twigs crunching under our feet. The lights from cars pierce through the trees and the fog, a blue halo floating around us.

One morning we take Saoirse to get her first shots – I was never afraid of needles, but I just can't watch the one that goes through her leg. She cries and looks afraid, and I hold her close against my chest, cradling her head, and tell her it will all be okay. In the evening, she has a fever and I lie down next to her holding her hand. I watch her sleep wrapped in her blanket, and she looks so fragile and tiny. I realise what they mean by having a heart outside your body – her sickness is mine, and I wish I could take it away and protect her forever.

C turns 26. I made him a photo album filled with pictures of him and Saoirse in Ecuador, and wrote him a letter.

“Sometimes I want to promise you that the girl you fell for is still somewhere in there, hidden away – but maybe that's not true. I know there will be days where the mother eclipses the lover and days where I'm so tired I forget my name and everything that is me – but I want you to know that whoever I am at any given time, I'm always someone who loves you – someone who still can't believe how lucky she got. And on days when I'm not strong enough to love you, I will still honour and respect everything that you are – the lover, the father, the friend.”

Sometimes, I miss Ecuador. I miss the warm glow of the streets at nights and the fresh morning air in our garden. I miss the sound of the river and our lovely coffee spot. I miss having a place to ourselves. Everything is so different here, like I have to relearn the rituals and customs of living in Europe – always thinking about having money on your travel time, getting to the train station on time, having a phone that works. I meet with my friend in the center of London and I walk through the crowd on Oxford Street, feeling like I could disappear. But against my chest, there is a tiny girl sleeping soundly, and she is my anchor.

February 11, 2018

France, part II - Paris

Early morning
My evergrowing niece
Along the Canal
A floating bookshop
My loves, in a busy café with voices drowned by live jazz
The best secret japanese restaurant in Paris
My dreamy girl