Café Catlove, Gijón, Spain

 #1
 
A young mother and father come into the café with their cute little baby. The woman starts breastfeeding. The man's friend enters the café after about fifteen minutes, and he and the father exchange a brief conversation. The two men get up and leave with the baby carriage. The woman then gets up and continues to breastfeed while following them out of the café.
Walking while breastfeeding is a skill I never had.
 
 
 #2
 
So far, I have failed to find a good cup of tea. After searching for two hours, I found one that at least offered tea. The menu was heavy with green and matcha. There were only two black tea choices: with milk (con leche) and Americano. Since I couldn't imagine what Americano would be, I opted for tea and milk.
 
This turns out to be warm milk with some tea dust floating around. No tea leaves or tea bag in sight. No use of boiling water in the process. Definitely an acquired taste.
 
 
#3
 
No one here seems to speak English. They smile shyly and speak Spanish slowly. Occasionally, they give one-word sentences a try: "card", "here" (when seating in a restaurant), or "sorry" and a shake of their head (when asked if they speak English). It doesn't matter if the person is young or old. All are universally living in a world where Spanish is a given.
 
Last night, while trying to order wine, the waiter did not know whether the wine was "dry." He did not suggest asking his colleague. Instead, "don't understand" in Spanish was his response.

Whether driving taxis, working in shops, or cafés, there are only people speaking Spanish. And truthfully, I have only heard a smattering of people speaking other languages. So, I dug out my Google translator and smatterings of words from my early years in Caracas, and did the best I could . What fun!

Beautiful sounds: Bay of Biscay

 The deep brumming through the walls of my cabin on the way to Gijón in Spain the last night of my journey.

Explore: my phone

I was listening to the interview above about slow productivity. The speaker, Dr. Cal Newport, talked a lot about deep work sessions and time boxing to do uninterrupted work. The Newport and Huberman talked about working or walking without having a telephone or email inbox nearby. 

Newport talks extensively about the futility of trying to do deep work and all the while checking your phone every few minutes. He believes, probably justifiably, that this is a type of wasteful behaviour most of us do engage in. He calls it, pseudo-productivity. No one can produce anything of note when they are constantly moving their attention away from what they are doing.

Over the last years, I've noticed that I am increasingly plugged into my phone. Since the 2016 US elections, I've stopped using Facebook and (now) X. So, it is not any social media sites that are distracting me, but WhatsApp and email.

Since leaving the company, the number of emails has decreased from over 100/day to a few notices from LinkedIn. WhatsApp is the same way. So, even though the volume has been drastically reduced, my unhealthy behavior toward my phone persists.

This is what I want to explore:

1. Start writing emails to friends again
2. Not checking my phone for the first hour of the day
3. At night, have the phone in another room
4. Occasionally, leave the house without the phone
5. During deep work sessions, put the phone somewhere else

I've noticed that many people I know do not answer their DMs immediately anymore. There may be a collective consensus that we are no longer available all the time for everyone, both at work and in private. So, whether this is true or not, I am on board!

When silence sounds like agreement

(This letter is written out of a recent experience. Though the names and details have been changed, the story reflects what many women in technical professions endure.)
 
To a much-needed advocate, Jason,
 
The other day I walked into the common room for a break. You and Max were deep in conversation. It took me a while to realise he was on a rant about how useless women are as technicians.
 
I have spent over forty years of my professional life quietly swallowing such vitriol. There are only so many discussions one person can rise to. No matter how often I have pushed back against men like Max, I always walk away with a bitter aftertaste. Nothing dents the armour of that kind of hatred.
 
Max’s rant went further. He named women who had worked under him, one by one, and gleefully listed what he called their inadequacies. He took pride in having blocked their careers. At first you were silent. Then you laughed. Perhaps it was out of discomfort, but even so, silence and laughter sound like agreement.
 
I considered asking the two of you to stop. What held me back was the knowledge, gained through experience, that Max is not only a misogynist but also a bully. He would have turned his scorn on me and kept at it for days. So, I stayed quiet. Again. That silence is its own kind of cowardice, and it plagues me.
 
Which brings me to the point of this letter. Jason, I have known you to treat your female colleagues with respect. If that is so, could you go one step further? Could you become an advocate? When you find yourself in conversations like this, could you simply say that you do not share the opinion? Could you point out that speaking this way damages reputations and demeans the profession?
 
It cannot be the burden of the few women in the room to fight for equality. The fact that Max could talk for half an hour about “useless” women by name shows just how few women he has worked with, and how many he has made miserable.
 
It is not enough for women alone to carry the burden of calling out misogyny. We are too few, and too often punished for speaking. It is men like you who can change the tone of the room.
 
Please help create a workplace where this kind of talk does not pass unchallenged.

Why I started blogging (and why I haven’t stopped yet)

I wrote my first entry for YumYumCafe at a time when blogging was still in its early bloom. I had contributed to a few other blogs, but eventually I decided to create one of my own. My idea was simple: a place where family and friends, scattered across the globe, could peek into my life.
 
Of course, there were other motivations too. First of all, it was an exciting time in the blogging world. Web 2.0 had arrived, and suddenly people who weren’t professional journalists could publish their own stories. I remember reading first-hand accounts from war zones, or artists peeling back the curtain on their creative process. It felt as though we were being invited to stand like a fly on the wall, watching people make sense of the world in real time.
 
For the first time in my life, I felt part of a wide community. And I didn’t just want to be a consumer or a commenter. I wanted to create.
 
This shift was thrilling. Up until then, the internet had been something you consumed, but blogging opened the door to being a maker. I also had a strong sense that my young children would grow up in a world shaped by this technology, in ways I couldn’t yet imagine. So, it seemed important, even in my small way, to join in.
 
The irony is that my family and friends weren’t the least bit interested in my blog. Not then, not later. But other blogger and strangers were. Over the first decade, I developed deep friendships with some bloggers. Charlotte, for example, became a dear friend, and Ronnie was a kind of mentor for several years. These connections felt more personal and honest than many of the relationships I had with neighbours or colleagues. Back then, people wrote straight from the heart. They weren’t branding themselves or curating their image. Ronnie, for example, wrote about growing old in America, and it struck me as a voice that needed to be heard.
 
Blogging was never without competition. First came MySpace, and then Facebook and the others, which blew the wind out of the sails of the blogging community. For me, the real death knell came when Google shut down its Reader. I had spent years building a library of newspapers, journalists, and bloggers to follow. And suddenly it was gone. I never found a satisfying replacement. Slowly, I stopped following other blogs, though I did keep writing my own for a while.
 
About five or six years ago, when work became overwhelming, my blog began sputtering. I told my family I was thinking of closing it down. To my surprise, both my daughter and my son urged me not to. They said it was part of my artistic legacy, even if they weren’t reading it themselves. (In the meantime, both Julien and Sara do read the blog.) That gave me a second wind. Since then, I’ve been writing more regularly again, and I’ve come to see the blog as part of who I am. Not necessarily what I produce, but the process itself: a daily act of expression. And that is precious.
 
I know Blogger is clunky and outdated, and I’ve often thought about exporting everything somewhere else. But I cling to it, partly out of loyalty, partly out of laziness. Thousands of entries later, it feels like an archive of enthusiasms, obsessions, and half-baked ideas. Sometimes I think I should tidy it up, delete obsolete posts or broken links. But Julien told me to leave them. It doesn’t need to be polished. It is what it is: an ongoing, growing archive of a life lived out loud, in public, with whoever cared to read along.
 
And, against all odds, I think I’ll continue.

How can this be true

 

If I were to paint a sunset, how could I possibly do this justice? Even this photo has not quite caught its magnificence. 

May I never forget this moment.

Beautiful sounds: sunrise

The cacophony of birdsong suddenly diminishing to occasional twirpping the moment the sun rises above the horizon.

Beautiful sounds: water

The gurgle and slap of waves along the bow as I lie on the heeling side of the hull, tacking through the sea while reading.

Funny idea

The Chief Officer took a photo of me, but without feet. When I asked him to take another with feet, he said without feet makes me look taller.

Beautiful sounds: pond

The soft shooshing of water as it enters the pond on one side and slips out on the other.

Curtains Against the Coastline

When the Turkish officer recounted the story years later, it was still with a sense of disbelief. His ship had anchored off the west coast of British Columbia, near a stretch of shoreline lined with beautiful, posh summer houses. The evening was quiet, the sky dimming into that deep blue hour between sunset and darkness. Inside the cabins, crew members went about their routines. Some lights glowed through the glass of the portholes.

Then came the order from the Port Authorities: any porthole facing the shore must be covered. The only exceptions were the navigation lights required by international law at the bow and stern. The reason? Residents ashore did not want to be “disturbed” by the sight of light coming from the ship.

The officer asked his captain, “What sort of people are like that?” The captain’s answer was swift: “Rich people.” It was a demonstration of privilege born from wealth most likely, from being white. Not in the form of open hostility, but in the quiet rearranging of other people’s lives to preserve one’s own comfort.

From the shoreline, the request might have seemed trivial: what is the harm in asking for a few lights to be dimmed? But from the deck of that ship, it was a reminder that wealth has a reach. It can cross the water, override practical norms, and erase your presence entirely, without a second thought.

Photo by Roland Schumann on Unsplash

She wasn't born yesterday

She struggles down the stairs at Platform 14 of Hamburg's central station. Labouring somewhat under a backpack and two carry-on suitcases, she stops halfway down the steps to catch her breath.
 
A man, maybe in his thirties, shabbily dressed, picks up one of her bags and asks whether he can carry it the rest of the way. She’s grateful yet suppresses the instinct to say, "Don't bother; I can do it." Instead, she closes her mouth into a soft smile and gives a nod of thanks for his civility.
 
At the bottom of the stairs, she hasn't even finished saying her thank-yous when he launches into an elaborate story: he and six friends were travelling south, he missed his train, and something, something, and still more—she can't quite keep the facts in order.
 
After quite a ramble, she understands that he "just needs" 12 Euros (or was it 15 or 20?) to meet up with his friends. He'll travel with her to Hannover, carry her luggage, and then be able to pay her back when they reunite there.
 
He keeps talking while she thinks: Phaah. He's standing too close. His breath smells of alcohol. He has no teeth. He's obviously high. He can't really think this will work, can he? He must live in another world where an old woman still believes these kinds of lies.
 
When he finishes his pitch, she gazes into his eyes with a measure of kindness and says, "No, thank you." They both nod, and he disappears into the crowd.
 
She lingers for a moment, then glances at a man who has been observing the encounter the whole time. She blinks, gives him a half-smile, and wanders off in the opposite direction.

Beautiful sounds: lone bird

The sharp, trilling birdsong of a solitary singer, breaking the hush of a sun-drenched noon as all others sleep.

TR update: fermentation of ideas

Obviously, I’ve been really busy writing and making podcasts for the upcoming voyage. I’ve spent hours every day working on the project. It has been very satisfying.
 
Nevertheless, Christina approached me to work together with her on some creative project. So, Talkshow Rivals it is. I would like to publish it as an online novel series. Since the storyline is fleshed out, it shouldn’t take too much work to rewrite it as a serial. Or get Christina to do it together with ChatGPT or Claude.
 
My idea would be to create a persona for each of the main characters. We could use these personas to shape the tone and speech patterns of the dialogue. ChatGPT could then help Christina and me make sure the dialogue flows. One of the things I find difficult to imagine is how each character speaks in their own unique voice.
 
So, hopefully, Christina can read through the script in the next months while I am on the ship. When I return from the trip, we can start creating the personas.
 
Briz has also offered to help in any capacity.
 
Julien has suggested I make an interactive graphic novel of it. Graphically, it can be stick-figures. It would be an opportunity to learn some basic coding. Anna, Julien's colleague, and Amol have offered their help.
 
So, even though I haven’t “done” much, except rework the script by removing the gaming elements, the ideas are fermenting, bubbling to the surface.

Beautiful sounds: sky

The silent passage of one cloud slipping across the vastness of the sky.

The heartbreak of watching from the sidelines

 It is hard to watch someone you love diminish in health and mental sharpness. I saw it first with my grandparents, then again with my own parents as they neared the end of their lives. What I found hardest was not being able to help them make wise decisions about how to care for themselves. Especially when it came to where and how to live in a way that would make their final years safer, more supported, and less worrying for everyone involved.
 
Being excluded from any decision-making is painful.
 
In my experience, the successful move from a home to an assisted living complex or a senior citizen residence depends on a multitude of factors. Today, I want to focus on just one of these factors: time.
 
To move somewhere of your own choosing, before it becomes absolutely necessary, can give you a new lease on life. My grandmother reluctantly moved out of the home that she and her husband had lived in for over 45 years. She held onto the past: her church ladies, her neighbours, and all the memories that filled every corner of the house. But it became clear she could no longer take care of the housecleaning and daily chores, either physically or mentally. So, with great hesitation, she moved into a small one-bedroom apartment in an assisted living complex.
 
Her life changed almost immediately. She befriended her neighbour down the hall, Barbra. She was given a small garden plot, where she could grow her favourite flowers. She could take a bus to the local shopping centre every week and enjoy people-watching and window shopping. She was able to go to Sunday mass regularly.
 
These were activities she had not done in the years before she moved. The ease of taking care of herself, compared to managing a large house, gave her years of unexpected joy. The fact that she moved while she could still do a bit of gardening and had curiosity about new friendships made all the difference. It gave her the strength to build a new life.
 
Choosing to move, or allowing yourself to be gently encouraged, does not mean life is over. It does not have to signal decline.
 
Over the past forty years, I have seen again and again how the decision to move “while we have the energy” can create a surprising sense of renewal. I have also seen the opposite: aging parents who absolutely refuse to consider a different facility, no matter how burdensome their current situation has become. In many of these cases, the emotional, physical, and financial toll affects everyone around them.
 
Knowing when to move feels like it should be a shared decision.
 
That said, I realise it is ultimately up to each individual to decide when and where to move. But how much better it would be to involve family and trusted friends in the process. To have the conversation early on, even years before the decision has to be made. To listen to each other. To leave enough space for new ideas to settle and grow.
 
There is a particular kind of sadness in being asked for advice when it is already too late. The decision has been made, the lease is signed, and there is nothing left to say. A shared decision gives everyone a voice. It allows time for doubt, for resistance, and for slowly leaning towards what is wise rather than what is convenient.
 
My mother-in-law is steadily moving towards a decision that we fear may not serve her well. She wants to transfer from one assisted living complex to another because she believes the new one will be better than the one where she currently lives. But it is not close to any shops. There is only one bus per hour. It will be difficult for any of us to visit regularly.
 
She wants a solution that suits her needs today. We are hoping for a solution that supports her well into the future. One that allows her to receive more care if she needs it and makes it easier for family to stop by without planning far in advance. We are thinking of what is to come. She is thinking of what is immediate.
 
Because she is someone who has always had to make hard decisions on her own (mother of nine, non-contributing and often violent husband, worked until she was 70 on a production line) , we can only watch from the sidelines. That is what we had to do with my parents as well. In this situation, we have not been invited to the table. We have not been asked to dance.
 
Perhaps that is the quiet heartbreak of it all: standing on the platform, watching someone you love board a train you would not have chosen, knowing it may not take them where they truly need to go. But loving someone, especially as they grow older, means letting go of control while remaining close. Even if we cannot steer the decision, we can stay nearby. Ready to visit. Ready to listen. And, if the door opens, ready to walk alongside them.

At a traffic light

Old lady in car
Singing a song so loudly
Does not have a care.

Going on Adventure 101

In a few weeks’ time, I leave on a journey I've been dreaming about my whole life. The bags are almost packed, my stomach is doing that familiar dance between terror and exhilaration, and I keep catching myself staring at maps. I want to share what I've learned over my lifetime about preparing for an adventure.

(The 7Ps Framework was designed by James Macanufo.)

To keep things simple, I use an agile-inspired tool called the 7Ps. I have used this visualisation countless times in my time as a Scrum Master. Its beauty is in its simplicity. It gives me a loose framework and something to hold onto without being too rigid.

Purpose
The purpose of an adventure is for me to explore how to head into something unknown and let it change me. I want to handle the rough parts and the joyful ones. I want to stay open to both.

This is how I learn what the adventure really has to offer. Not just in what happens, but in how I respond. How I surprise myself.

People
The network of people I need is always wider and more multilayered than I initially think. They are the glue that quietly holds the journey all together every step of the way.

This includes those who pass along crucial information, the ones in the know.

Family is its own category. They know after all this time, they should try not show their concern outright, even when my plans sound borderline mad. They are my cheerleaders, the people who lift my spirits, faithfully read every email or blog post I send from the road and keep reminding me that I can do this. They also usually help in practical ways, like sending money if I run out. And they’re always there at the end, waiting with hand-drawn signs and hugs.

Then come my friends. Friends ask the hard questions about the sanity of my venture. One of my closest friend's first question about the upcoming adventure, wasn't "When do you leave?" but "What's your backup plan?" They also are an endless source of connections to people in every corner of the world who I can crash on their couch. They’re reliable, stalwart supporters, who are nevertheless critical thinkers.

Sponsors whether individuals or organisations, support me in more concrete ways. They help me keep my feet on the ground. They care about the dream, but also about the budget.

And then there are the people I meet along the way. No matter what my adventure is, those who help, listen, and cheer me on become the heartbeat of my story, the raison d'être for journeying on further.

Some stay in my memory. Others blur into the background. But they all shape the journey in some way.

Product
Most of my adventures don’t end with a formal outcome. There’s no trophy, no record. Instead, what’s left are artifacts. Ticket stubs. Clothing so worn-out it really ought to be tossed. The faded boarding pass from that terrifying flight to Singapore that I still keep in my passport holder. Slews of photos that don’t quite capture what I saw or felt.

There’s no real way to bottle the essence of an adventure. The experience is far too rich for that. Still, I try to share the stories. I find ways to bring others in, especially those cheering me on from their own homes. Even if just in bits and pieces.

Process
Dwight D. Eisenhower once said, “In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.” I find that to be true every time I set out.

Everyone approaches preparation differently. You can go as deep into that rabbit hole as feels right. I prepare, but in such a way that I know for certain some of those plans will fall apart. I will forget some things. Other things I drag along, I will never use. That’s part of the process. These are the reasons I am a constant Plan B generator throughout any journey.

What my process of an adventure really looks like is a mess of movement and stillness, of readiness and recovery. I try to dive head on into the venture, not just practically, but mentally, physically, and spiritually.

The above is a visualisation about how much effort and impact a journey takes on me at various levels of my being.

My style of preparation is simple. I don’t pack much. I don’t overthink.

I bring important documents (e.g. passports, visas, vaccination pass, and credit cards). I keep a checklist for technology I want to bring along. Enough clothing to layer and wash. My essentials—five pairs of underwear, two pairs of shoes, one bathing suit, and a warm jacket.
I also make a short itinerary. Not just for me, but for family. I include contacts, locations, even passwords if needed.

At this stage of life, I focus on three things. Health. Finances. Technology.

Health: I get a thorough medical check-up. I pack the medications I need and a few extras. I am a believer in bringing preventative medicine for travel-related illnesses, such as heatstroke, food poisoning, back pain, minor injuries, burns, flu symptoms, and digestion problems. I learned this the hard way after being violently seasick in the middle of the Atlantic with nothing but seasickness tablets that had expired three years earlier.

Finances: With money, I try to pay in advance, but only if it’s refundable. I carry a mix of cash and cards. Credit cards aren’t accepted everywhere, and I have been caught off guard with daily spending limits. I often give someone I trust a good sum of money, so they can help if I run into trouble.

Technology: This might not be an important consideration to everyone, but I’m a geek through and through. So, I bring along a large selection of devices, cables, chargers, and battery packs.

Everything else? That’s just extra.

Some pitfalls are predictable. Others show up out of nowhere. I try to think through what might go wrong. Not obsessively. Just enough to feel ready.

The hardest moments are often the ones I didn't expect. When something I imagined would be meaningful feels flat. Or when I realize I'm no longer in the right place, physically or emotionally. A few years back, I had to cut short an important trip that I'd planned for months. There was so much still left to be done, but my health was deteriorating, and I found myself clinging to a version where all would be well, and it just wasn’t about to happen.

It is hard for me not to force it. I’ve learnt painfully not to cling to a version of the story that no longer fits. Sometimes, the right choice is to pause. Or go home. Or change direction. That’s not failure. That’s part of the journey.

The bravest thing I do is say yes in the first place. The wisest thing is knowing when to say, “This is enough. For now.”

Preparation
Practical concerns
Pitfalls

Beautiful sounds: parent's angst

The soft click of the key turning in the front door, just before sunrise, as a teenager slips home from the night’s last dance.

Empty playground of summers past

Summer heat whiffs off the scorched grass sprouting around a carpet of hardened mud which causes bruises to limbs carelessly falling before ankles and knees can catch gravity; instead, an ooof splutters out of parted lips, mixed with embarrassed laughter, and still the game begins again.