This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

As a child, the stories my mother told about her village wove a map of curiosity within me. I dreamed of the moment I would travel those roads by land, roll down the windows to feel the fresh air, and discover the places where my grandparents had lived. For me, that village was the point of origin—a path to my lineage and heritage.

At first, we traveled by bus and train. The slow pace made the journey special, and quiet contemplation became a fascinating force—a detailed observation that sharpened my thoughts. From those windows, the outside world transformed into an intimate experience; I observed the contours of a different place and a different way of life. I watched fields shift from blue to purple with blooming alfalfa, to the green of young corn, or the gold of ripening wheat; I saw herding and sowing. My sense of wonder grew with every nuance of life outside my daily routine—a life that was constantly changing.

Upon arrival, we would go to my mother’s childhood home. The people from her stories were there—now elderly, yet with voices of their own. We would ride out into the fields on the horses my grandfather claimed to be gifting us. They never truly became ours—we all knew we wouldn’t be taking them home—yet every time we returned, he would “gift” them to us again, and every time, we believed him. He would rig up swings for us in the trees by the river. With his weathered farmer’s hands, he would roast ears of corn and toast tender fava beans directly over the fire. We ate what he harvested and what his animals provided; best of all, the tortillas, the corn, and the new stories all tasted of my mother’s memories. That is how a few years went by.

Later, the passenger train route was discontinued, and the journey to our roots was transformed. We continued to travel by bus. That change was the first sign—with the loss of the train—that other absences would soon touch our circle. The nature of the journey shifted, though I remained by the window, watching the transformations unfold. Those chapters of life came to a close with the irreversible loss of my parents. The house remained in the hands of relatives with whom I no longer felt a close bond, yet I continued to visit the village until there was no one left waiting at the door. I discovered the ultimate meaning: the path back to my roots—which had once offered me warmth—now confronted me with the need for acceptance.

On those journeys, where the purpose of being there for others outweighed any desire for comfort, I have always sought out the windows. They have become my anchor. I look for them with the same eagerness I felt during my earliest trips, wanting to witness the persistence of life—how the fields grow and the crops endure—and I remain attentive to every detail. It is an unwavering hope that the land and its cycles will not wither, and that I might continue to gaze upon the blue alfalfa in its eternal bloom, a reminder of where I come from. Just as a deep-rooted plant flourishes after every cutting, life springs forth with equal beauty in the wake of transformation. In a life defined by duality, a sense of wonder coexists within the ordinary.

This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

Travel is a state of mind—one that is sometimes cluttered with excessive ornamentation, where everything orbiting it distracts the eye, the body, and consciousness itself. Perhaps one way to understand this is that we do not wish to lose control, especially in a foreign place we do not regard as home. It is unfortunate that this very mindset means that if you carry too much, you end up listening to your own belongings rather than to the world.

Amidst all that noise, the essential remains hidden behind the veil that shrouds everything not immediately apparent at first glance. The perfection of a complex form is found only when nothing remains to be stripped away—not when we have merely stopped adding things. To me, as surely to so many others, subtraction might seem to privilege absence; yet in this context, it represents precision.

If we were to commit to this idea, every object we carry would have to earn its place. Not to cushion the journey, but to enrich the experience—for that is precisely where the passage of time transforms into fluidity, leaving resistance behind.

The perfection of a simple movement holds such beauty that it seems to have always existed—the same today as it was for those who came before us, as ancient as the cosmos and the stars from which we were born. If we honor this concept, the entire universe fits into a single suitcase, and that suitcase defines who you are as you travel.

This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

I thought I understood the value of my passport—a tangible proof of belonging.

I was traveling to Merzouga when I saw the phrase inscribed on the mountain: *God, Country, King*. A motto presented as the nation’s fundamental truth, the order upon which everything else rests.

That was when I met an Amazigh man who showed me the crack in that order. His people—called Berbers by outsiders, but *Imazighen*—”free men”—by themselves—have a presence in Morocco that predates current borders, yet they have almost no share in the power that defines those borders.

He was not looking to flee; that was the first thing he made clear. His longing was for recognition: a space of dignity within the territory that belongs to him. He faces a State that has prioritized Arabization and the centralization of power at the expense of his ancestral identity.

His strategy is striking: to obtain a nationality other than his own—not to stay away, but to return with that foreign passport and truly live in his country.

The passport that allows me to enter Morocco is the very thing he needs as a shield. His local citizenship has become an anchor. State protection—the fundamental promise of the contract between individual and nation—is nonexistent. In its place: harshness, surveillance, and the possibility of selective justice.

A passport from a foreign sovereignty thus becomes the sole guardian of his freedom. His act is a silent critique: he is importing a diplomatic shield to force his own nation to treat him with the respect it has denied him as a citizen.

Having to become a foreigner to be a free man in one’s own land.

If, in our own homeland, security, justice, or access to power are skewed toward privilege, how far are we from needing our own “escape nationality” in order to make our voices heard? I have thought about it.

The motto on the mountain is the rhetoric of a State demanding loyalty. This man’s struggle is the darkness that allows that motto to be seen in its true scale.

The passport that allows us to enter other countries is, for him, the key to entering himself without fear.

This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

When we hear the term “tunnel vision,” we think of that loss of peripheral vision caused by speed, which narrows our view to just a small fraction of what lies ahead. I have my own version of that phenomenon. It serves as an example, though its scale is entirely different.

At the start of a journey, our luggage often includes everything our daily lives expect us to carry: possible futures, the myriad tiny obligations that collectively consume so much of us, messages from others, and a host of elements creating a kind of static—where, just as we begin to make out images and grasp the dialogue, everything becomes distorted.

It doesn’t always happen, but some journeys possess a magic that strips away all of that. Naturally, this takes time. It is a small transformation—one that occurs quickly, yet not instantaneously. Our first day on a trip that silences the noise isn’t necessarily surrounded by quiet; some of that baggage has barely left our suitcases and may even feel more present now, simply because it stands in isolation.

It is not physical distance alone that leaves problems—and their intrusive thoughts—behind. It is something more. The inertia that governs us loses its momentum, the logic that usually dictates our hours gives way, and the body—now present at its destination—takes control so naturally that it is surprising we are surprised to remember it.

Thoughts that were previously fixed on points along the horizon—dictated by an imposed speed—gradually fade away; it is not our vision that expands, but our attention. Details become sharp again: the rustle of leaves, the sun resting on an arm, or eyes gauging the strength of the wind.

It seems simple, yet the questions we brought with us shrink in significance. We have changed our world simply by slowing down. And this new perspective allows that invisible baggage to shed its weight, restoring our sense of scale and proportion—and, above all, helping us understand that while a journey may not solve everything, it can reorganize it all. Perhaps that is where the mind has finally caught up with the body, and both meet at the same point on the map. Without any tunneling effect, and with the lingering question of whether we were seeking a specific place or simply an open space from which to observe once more.

This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

I feel that several versions of myself reside within me. They aren’t just different facets of my personality; sometimes I feel that each one even possesses a will of its own.

It’s not a multiple identity, but something more subtle. Depending on the occasion, the place, or the activity, these versions take turns, as if each one were waiting for the exact moment to seize control.

One of them, for example, appears whenever I decide to travel. It’s a version that doesn’t know procrastination, that becomes adventurous, tireless, capable of covering long distances without complaint. A version that isn’t me… and yet, at the same time, it is.

I think this happens to many of us. When we travel, qualities that remain dormant in daily life awaken; we become more curious, more attentive, more respectful. We are punctual, patient, even better citizens. It’s as if travel activates a part of us that, at home, rarely finds space to exist.

But upon returning from the trip, that version begins to fade away. Sometimes it clings on for a couple of days, resisting like someone who doesn’t want to return to the shadows. However, sooner or later it ends up tucked away in some drawer, waiting for the next trip to peek out again.

However, there are people who seem to live permanently from that more enlightened version. As if for them the world were always a new territory, a map to discover. They walk with an inexhaustible curiosity, relating to others with an openness that many of us only develop when we’re far from home. They seem to move with a different kind of lightness, as if they’ve managed to integrate that traveler’s energy into their daily lives.

And it’s not that one way of living is better than the other. It’s simply always been an enigma to me: why does that version of myself only awaken when I change scenery? Why does it need movement, distance, travel to exist?

Perhaps, after all, it’s not about choosing one version or forcing any to remain.

Perhaps the true journey lies in learning to recognize them, in inviting them to coexist without waiting for a change of scenery to awaken them. Perhaps the challenge is to bring home that curiosity, that presence, that clarity we believe is exclusive to distant paths.

Because, in the end, traveling doesn’t always mean moving across a map. Sometimes the longest journey is inward, daring to inhabit the best version of ourselves even in the most familiar places. And perhaps, if we achieve that, we’ll discover that we don’t need to wait for the next destination to feel alive, to feel we’re growing, to feel we’re still moving forward.

This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

Have you ever felt that unease of being in the wrong place, that yearning to escape? I have. For years I thought the problem was the location: work, the city, the pace of life. That if I changed my surroundings, something inside me would settle. But inner turmoil doesn’t understand geography. It will follow me, whether I’m in the heart of the city or in the most remote spot. Being lost isn’t a matter of location. It’s a matter of perspective.

That search led me to Chile, to meet up with a friend, without a plan, simply seeking tranquility. From Coquimbo, we decided to visit the Elqui Valley in the heart of the Southern Hemisphere winter. The seasonal nature of tourism limited what was available: few places remained open, with a much smaller influx of visitors, and even meals had to be arranged to ensure supplies were available in remote locations. The valleys of central and northern Chile benefit from clear, dry skies—among the sharpest and darkest on the planet—; The climate was mild compared to the cold of the south, though to me it felt freezing. The Elqui Valley carries a mystical reputation: it’s called “the closest place to heaven.” Not in the folkloric sense. Its magic lies elsewhere: in its ability to take things away. The noise. The artificial light. The illusion that being busy is the same as being alive.

I’ve searched for that peace in countless places. I’ve rarely found it. And when I did, I noticed something I hadn’t expected: the best places gave me nothing. They took from me. The value of a place doesn’t lie in what it offers, but in what it deprives you of. It’s absence that strips the senses bare. That makes the experience so intense. So hard to forget.

Lying on the ground, looking up, there’s a moment when the sky ceases to be decoration and becomes something that holds you. Thousands of stars. Millions of light-years traveling to reach your eyes right now, right here. We are vestiges of all that: tiny opals made of the same matter as the cosmos. And when that hits you—not as an idea, but as a physical sensation—something rearranges itself. Your to-do list, your fears, what someone told you on Tuesday: everything is reduced to its true value. Close to zero.

I expected silence and arrived at it unprepared. The silence of the Elqui isn’t calm. It’s a mirror. When the outside noise disappears, the inside volume rises in a way that almost hurts: the tasks I didn’t do, the resentment I didn’t process, the thoughts I promised to address and didn’t. The hustle and bustle of daily life—I know now—is my defense mechanism. A perpetual excuse not to look at myself. There was no excuse there. The silence forced me to bring to the surface everything I had been keeping bottled up. And I had to write it down. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t not.

And then there’s the darkness. A real darkness, without streetlights, without screens, without the orange glow of the city filtering through the blinds. In that darkness, you can see. When was the last time you were truly in the dark? We mistake constant light for clarity. We live saturated with notifications, stimuli, requests—all urgent, all simultaneous—and that doesn’t illuminate: it blinds. The cost is being unable to distinguish what matters from the blurry background of what merely insists. Clarity isn’t accumulation. It’s elimination. When I turned off everything I could, the few lights that remained were the only ones that deserved my attention.

My mind is a mineral dance, an opalescent universe that has captured inner light, just as the cosmos contains it. I no longer believe I’m in the wrong place. I was using a magnifying glass to try to understand something that can only be seen through a telescope. When I confront my noise, my disorder, my excess of artificial light, that silence appears, uniting the immensity of the universe with my own tinyness. And in that proportion, everything fits.

It was in the Elqui Valley, among silent mountains and under that pristine sky, where all of this fell into place. Not because the place gave me anything. But because it took enough from me so that I could see myself. It’s a corner of the Earth that, by depriving me of the triviality of light and sound, gave me the true scale by which to measure the spirit. The greatest revelation doesn’t come from the outside. It comes when you manage to silence and order your inner microcosm until it reflects, even if only for an instant, the perfection of the cosmos.

This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

Memory has its own quirks. Sometimes it forgets what we did a little while ago, but it vividly remembers things that happened decades ago. There are memories that remain, intact, as if waiting for someone to touch them again to bring them back to life.

One of those memories is my first trip, or at least the first one that truly felt like a trip. Before, there were short journeys: going to my grandparents’ house, to school, to the supermarket with my parents. But that trip was different. It wasn’t just moving from one place to another. There was something more: a new emotion, a sense of adventure I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

We were traveling from Mexico City to Guerrero, specifically to Acapulco. It was a family trip. I remember we left before dawn, when the sun was still just a promise and the streets were empty. My parents were quietly going over the trip’s plans, as if trying not to fully awaken the city. From the back seat, I watched the lights go by and felt that mixture of sleepiness and anticipation that you only feel when something good is about to begin.

The journey seemed endless. Four or five hours can feel like a lifetime when you’re seven or eight years old. But there were little things that made it more bearable: the stops along the road to stretch my legs, the sweets handed out as prizes, my Game Boy trying to beat boredom, and that mini can of condensed milk that, over time, became a travel tradition. I can still taste the sweetness on my tongue when I think about it.

And then, after so much traveling, it happened. The first time I saw the sea. It wasn’t just any sight; it was a revelation. The horizon opened up before me, immense and shimmering, and I felt something I didn’t understand at the time, but that I still recognize when I remember it: the pure thrill of being in a new place, completely different from anything I’d ever known.

That trip was the first of many, but it remains special. Perhaps because it wasn’t just a journey; it was a door that opened to the idea that the world was vast, amazing, and out there, waiting for the moment I decided to explore it.

And every time my memory decides to bring it back, the smell of hot highway and newly discovered sea returns with me, as if it all happened yesterday.

This post was originally written by us in another language [here]. This English version was translated with Google Translate and lightly reviewed.

It wasn’t the photos. Nor was it sharing the journey with others. For most, it never involved “personal social capital.” The narrative owed itself to the experience. And as the connecting thread, we found that deep impulse to explore. To discover the world that is different from your own.

The data, the images, the stories, and, in general, the idea of a place were limited. Sometimes very limited. That’s the kind of combination that nourishes the spirit. I like to think that everyone who enjoys travel possesses that ancient desire to come face to face with the new. To imagine themselves on a road or path where they’ve never been before and surrender to the idea that if they had to pinpoint their location on a map, they couldn’t.

Almost all of the above no longer exists.

The sequences of photos and videos that document the entire planet seem limitless, and any of us have been in a position to feel lost in that sea that now lives in data centers. And sometimes I imagine how all that color and light, that power, has been reduced to the glow of a screen in the darkness of a room, with its observer slumped in bed.

I try not to think about it too much, but the world seems to be enveloped in a material that diminishes its intensity. Often it dulls and reduces it in an endless repetition of the same scene. And like a memory, little by little it transforms into what it was the last time we remembered it and ceases to be what it once was.

Perhaps we are witnessing the final moments of travel as an adventure. At least a real one. Far removed from the experience of consumption, of course, but also born of a profound lack of knowledge about what we will find in that place we want to go. A place, moreover, that represents a different view of the world. Where variety comes alive and difference is a powerful voice that silences what you knew and transforms your understanding of the whole.

I don’t know if all this is the end or just a dip in the road, but if it’s the former, I want to cling to the few cracks we still find here and there. Those places where the harshness of the climate hasn’t yielded its form to a commodity, or where the power of its way of life hasn’t been replaced by an echo chamber, and also, above all, those corners the world has forgotten. They could be the last bastion of the experience of traveling for yourself.

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Toma asiento y te invitamos a disfrutar de lo que estás a punto de ver

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