M-Th

Typed this week’s blogpost (via Notes) on my way to work; it seemed fitting.

She’s wearing a red raincoat with a polka dot inseam with the cutest navy blue capris to boot. Her mother with her flawless melanin skin and tall just like her husband with the salt and pepper hair. Who is always standing to the right of her, reading the New York Times, with the occasional kiss on her lips or the playful smile directed at the owner of the rain coat with the spiral braids. We’re always on the same subway car, same time, same second door. A kiss on the forehead is the daily routine when the wife and daughter get off on Dekalb Avenue. He continues to lean on the pole which is essentially meant to be shared but to his shoulder’s luck the Q is not a happening place this morning. There’s a storm brewing and people might have been lured to stay in, work from home, by the duvet and pillows. This is the kind of pillow talk I’ve been having lately—just me, the duvet, and a handful of “mmm, just five more minutes. I digress.

Little girl in the red raincoat climbs on the rail, that sits about eight feet from the train, as she and her mom wait for the R line. While her right hand holds on to whatever new children’s chapter book she’s reading this week, the other hand is almost always about to fall off its wrist as she waves goodbye to the man who just kissed her on the forehead. The three of them wave and throw kisses to each other as though the micro seconds just passed were in fact months. They do this every morning, Monday through Thursday.

He has long soft blonde hair (probably healthier than most women’s hair on this train), blue eyes, and today he’s rocking the dirty blue vans with doodles on the sole that I predict were illustrated by either him or his buddies as they sat on the rug during reading time. Just my imagination wandering to what I usually did if I had a pen and we were supposed to be listening to the teacher—doodling on someone’s hand or bottom of their shoe. This beautiful blue-eyed kid is eight years old, and I only know this because his nanny Kimberly who is always advocating loudly about Prison Break, just reminded him of his upcoming birthday. She talks about Prison Break at least twice a week and little blue-eyed boy always seems so intrigued. ::shoulder shrug:: “Okay, so at 5 pm I’ll meet you where?” “On the third bench from the side exit.” “That’s right, and your mom said Trevor could join us afterschool. She just text me.” “YUSS!!” I’m sure the blue-eyed boy is now going to countdown the hours for afterschool hangout sesh with Trevor. The train has arrived at the Dekalb Avenue stop, adorable blue-eyed kid interlocks his hand with the nanny’s and together they walk out of the subway car.

The stout man, (hmm, maybe 5’3 tall?) in the business suit with the sweat beads making their journey down the back of his neck, smiles and kisses his kin on the forehead as he too makes his way out the subway car. This child might be no older than 9? “Remember, Shelly will be waiting for you at 4 pm in front of the school. If practice runs late, text her. I love you.” Father kisses him on the forehead as the boy adjusts the saxophone case strap on his shoulder, “love you too, dad.”

My heart, in the weirdest, subtle, maternal way, breaks for them. I often see children walking by themselves in mid-town or around my neighborhood as they make their way to what I believe is their home, and can’t help but think, “where are your parents?!” I have not the slightest clue what being a parent is like, but if being a parent means kissing your child, “goodbye/have a good day at school,” as they walk out of subway car by themselves? Then Lord knows prayers will be going up! How do y’all do it?!

Lately I talk about how expensive it is to be alive, to take care of myself, make sure I’m mentally, physically, and emotionally on the right path; so, when I fall into an abyss of daydreams when I’m eavesdropping on these daily farewells between a child and a parent, I wonder if I could ever actually do that…be a parent. Trust the outside world while my child walks the streets on their own. Ugh.

The answer is I know that I won’t ever truly be ready but am certain I’ll do everything in my humane power to keep my child safe. I commend so many of my friends (dudes and dudettes) who have children. Y’all are truly strength and love personified—although we may not live close to each other and it may only be social media where I see most of your updates, I know you all are doing one hell of a job raising your love critters.

Since my move to NYC I got back into the groove of sending out snail mail, so this year’s Mother’s Day, I sent out hand written letters to my closest girlfriends who happen to all be mothers of some very beautiful little human beings. I wrote these letters with hope that it would merely bring a smile to their face as they were reminded by a friend that their hard work as fulltime mothers while holding down a fulltime career has not gone unnoticed. That’s all. But to my emotional surprise, they too were emotional—I received selfies of them holding up their cards with tears in their eyes. My heart was and still is full. If God grants me the gift of ever becoming a mama, I pray I’m half as amazing as y’all beautiful queens. ::insert kissy face emoji::

p.s. Monday through Thursday I get caught up with thinking HOW TERRIFIED might that parent be, kissing their child goodbye as they walk up the stairs to take on this concrete jungle by their little lonesome. Being a parent is strength personified, most def.

1.      Reading another job application rejection email—I apply to two new job postings.

2.     The re-dic reality that is a heating bill of $850, when I clearly had a sore throat because my room was always on its Arctic Circle steeze—I only had to pay ¼ of said bill and realized it’s in fact no longer single digits below zero weather and sundress season is a couple weeks away.

3.     The really nice but awkward guy who hasn’t stopped texting me at least once or twice a week, for the last six months—I believe in all karma so I keep it simple, I’m nice, and always wish him a good day.

4.     The amount of men (and women) who stare at my legs, on the daily, sometimes even “secretly” take photographs. Making me feel like a freak of nature.—I remind myself about how beautiful I truly am (and how much he appreciates them).

5.     When I meet yet another New Yorker with a cavalier demeanor when it comes to the topic of plastic pollution and roll their eyes when I attempt to share my mission—I go online and try to sign up for yet another beach clean-up.

6.     The inexplicable way in which I pushed away a man who I care so much about—I pray about it and have left it up to God and time.

7.     My inability to properly meditate in the morning—I pray and keep trying (I’m trying, friend!).

8.     Deciding on what food items to buy at the grocery store when I recently lack an appetite and find cooking for one is so challenging—Angie comes to the rescue and sends all the videos and photographs of healthy and delectable dishes.

9.     Trying to understand the frequent dreams about having a baby and camping—I’ve been doing a lot of research on camping hot spots in upstate New York and hope to make it up there in the summer. I realized I’m 32, I’d love to be a mother but again leaving it up to God and until that day comes, I will continue to revel in all my uninterrupted naps and hours slept in.

10.  My subpar life (according to moi) in New York—I remind myself that I in fact moved across the country all by myself, four boxes, and two suitcases…I took a leap of faith because I had a little dream. I enjoy taking photographs of different corners that sit within this beautiful and musty city, to showcase via social media that behind all these qualms exists an environment where so many humans from around the globe come to dream.

p.s. (there’s always a p.s.) spring looks absolutely stunning on Central Park, sans the rats as big as a smart car. 

*NSYNC POR VIDA

This afternoon I called my ‘ama (also known as my momma, mi madre querida) to let her know that the five men who drove her only daughter to the brink of teenage insanity at one point in time, received their well-deserved and about damn time star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. That’s right, if you haven’t yet heard the cute news, this morning ‘NYSYNC unveiled their star on the infamous yet soon to be covered with dried up gum sidewalk on Hollywood Boulevard. As I tried to explain to my mother that all five members were present at the ceremony, she interrupted me to let me know she recently watched Infinity War and she somehow still found herself to be quite sad about the film’s ending. It be your own ‘ama, sometimes. This lady of mine, was my sole adult supporter through the ‘NSYNC fandom; as she was the one who drove me to and from Wherehouse Music and Sam Goody’s to either reserve my boys’ new CD, limited edition VHS set, and/or marionette themed calendar. I figured since she and I shared so many high-pitch screaming days of me standing in front of the television as I watched them perform “I Want You Back” dance routine for the hundredth time, she would be excited to hear the news. Once I let her tell me why Infinity War made her sad (gave me all the spoilers), she expressed she was happy for them and reminded me that she refused to give away all of my five marionettes, even after I had left them in the “sell or donate” box before moving to NYC, and were stashed away in the garage. “Your dad tried to sell them pero le dijo que no! Que esos eran de mi canela.” Needless to say, my mom is low key keeping them there because they really do mean more to her than they mean to me. My heart might have been smiling when I realized the undertones of her confession.

I’d like to further emphasize what these men meant to me and my teenage years (aaah!). I was all smiles today, as Natalie (one of my best friends, college roommate, and partner in crime in the streets of San Diego and sometimes Mexicali) and I exchanged updates from the ceremony’s live feed. For one, we couldn’t believe our eyes knowing JC clearly had a blowout and realizing Justin still won’t stop acting like a little b!tch and give in to a reunion tour. “You guys will never know how much you all mean to me,” Justin spoke into the mic, yet Natalie reminded me that he didn’t invite not one of them to his wedding. Whatever, I’m not here to express how bitter I am towards JT ‘cos after all he was my favorite marionette but JC took the best vocals—ask ANY choir teacher. I said it!

Back to emphasizing, what ‘NSYNC meant to me and my amigas:

·      For my 16th birthday, (the year when edible decals on cakes premiered) I asked for an ‘NSYNC cake with my favorite People Magazine cover on said cake. My parents paid a whopping $60 for this white cake with raspberry preserves filling, and what does sixteen-year-old Yesi do? I cut out the slice of JC Chasez face and saved it in my freezer for a year. IT WASN’T MY WEDDING CAKE! But I was so in love with this man and his sultry voice that I wanted nothing more than to make sure that every time I went into the freezer for a Hot & Spicy Rita’s Bean Microwaveable Burrito I was going to see JC’s face, yet again. My mother finally yelled at me after a year of keeping that slice of cake stashed next to the ice cream or frozen mole (because we sometimes do that to the mole paste—real ones know) to throw it out. If you ask me, I made sure my parents got their sixty dollars’ worth.

·      I won a pair of tickets to their No Strings Attached Tour at the Oakland Coliseum via the radio. How? I was caller 107, I cried on the air, and cried when my mom told me she couldn’t take me to the concert because she had to work that weekend. I ended up inviting my homegirl Sara, and we vanpooled with Natalie and her sister who bought tickets (a lot closer than what the Beach 101.7 gave away to little ol’ me). I remember being super triste because we were seriously so close to the moon and Jesus Himself. Alas, Sara and I had a blast! And the three of us drooled over Natalie’s pictures during lunch break for week’s after that evening—you could see JC’s highlights in one of her photos! I’m telling you, man, she was close.

·      The ‘NSYNC and McDonald’s collab—where they offered you a CD with unreleased tracks and a VHS with never before seen music videos. Of course, my mother drove me the McDonald’s on North Main for my copies and I watched the living tape out of that VHS until the evening when my brothers and I were sharing the television in the living room…the VHS got caught in the player. I cried. My older brother tried to salvage the shiny tape from this beloved $9.99 limited edition ‘NSYNC VHS as his sister cried dramatically on the sofa for a good ten minutes. Gah, I guess I’ve always been quite animated or dramatic. Rest easy, VHS tape.

1,545 posters (yes, I counted them all when I eventually came to my senses and removed them from my bedroom walls) five marionettes standing on my dresser, one Giga Pet theme ‘NSYNC “Bye, Bye, Bye” watch, dozens of t-shirts/blankets/hats later, an era of happy tears and unforgettable dance parties in our backyard came to an end. As I try so hard to remember exactly what or who it was that made me change direction of love and admiration, I can’t, and girl, maybe that’s just because my love and appreciation for them never really died. Today was seriously a good day not only because they were commemorated for their successful music careers but also, I was reminded of the wholesome days that were filled with sheer joy where my biggest stress was making sure I’d make it to Safeway on time to get a copy of the latest Tiger Beat Magazine. I didn’t want to miss JC’s confessions of whether he wore boxers or briefs! Life was so good with ‘NSYNC and if you’re reading this and nodding, hell to the yes! Then let me know, girl, I owe you a drink next time we hang out. If you’re reading this, still enjoying the crazy anecdotes of sixteen-year-old Yesi but saying, “nah, girl BSB was better,” girl, bye!

p.s. Shoutout to my homegirl Angie for representing for our group of ‘NSYNC stans, as she actually got to witness today’s ceremony. xo

Because so many of you have asked where it was I traveled to last Friday (and when I say so many of you, I really mean like four peeps), I want to quickly give you an insight to my solo trip to Beacon, NY. About 50 miles north of Brooklyn, a little country nook sitting aside the Hudson River is a town called Beacon and little ol’ me (Canela a.k.a. Yesi, a.k.a. Someone Who Needed a Quick Escape from The City Life at a Very Affordable Price) basked in all its eerie and artistic gems. A roundtrip ticket from Grand Central Station to Beacon, NY AND admission to the cutest art museum sitting in a Gilmore Girls-esque town (Dia: Beacon) goes for $39. What a deal, right? I could be over hyping it or I just really needed to breathe in fresh air for a few hours, but I thought it was quite the steal.

The route upstate from Grand Central Station was nothing but a dream accompanied with a homemade turkey sandwich, I ate thirty minutes into my journey. I didn’t eat breakfast that morning and well, that’s one of the many perks we bestow as an adult—you call the shots of your own life. Trying not to go into a deep trance of vertigo as I tried to concentrate on all the massive countryside mansions we passed by, I always wonder, “how long does it take for an ambulance to arrive at these homes during an emergency?” The greenery along the Hudson River was in full effect, and I can only imagine how breathtaking it might be during the fall—a fall eye-gasm.

This town carried similarities to that of Carmel and Pacific Grove, CA, they were both quiet with vintage themes in every avenue and road; however, as I hiked up via its spiral main road to the downtown area, the heebie jeebies ran up and down my spine. I watch far too many horror movies to not recognize a perfect opportunity to go missing and as my body is now chopped up somewhere in the Hudson River with a gothic type cathedral church only ten feet away from my remains. Too dark? I’m sorry, but this town screams a perfect setting for just that. It didn’t take away from my enjoyment of my three hours at the art museum, my hunt for tacos at Tito Santana’s Taqueria, or the mini cherry blossom orchard. How did I hear about this place? Research. I Googled, “one day trips in New York” and this was top rated and blogged about the most. A day trip to Beacon is perfect for a date, for a group outing, or merely a take yourself on a date-day. Walking in and out of the galleries trying to understand the art pieces is always a fun brain teaser, like, what compels individuals to place old car bumpers like that, or place broken glass on the floor, or park old Chevy trucks like that and call it art. Sometimes it makes sense and sometimes it makes me smile all while making me cry. You have put yourself in a vulnerable state to really get your tear glands to play a part, but I love being vulnerable (or so I feel like I’ve been getting better at it).

Would I visit again? Sure, but maybe for Friendsgiving reasons or because I need to buy some natural type serum that only downtown Beacon offers. Totally recommend but I’m just trying to venture to other upstate NY areas (stay tuned!).

p.s. I listened to the Miles Davis Pandora channel throughout my entire trip. Saxophone solos make me weak in the knees. I miss my vinyl collection more than ever (as they sit collecting dust in a storage room in Salinas, CA), and I lost myself in a time where I was so head over heels for a man of the San Francisco underground jazz scene. We all deserve beautiful days dedicated to self-care; so, take care of yourself, baby.

Once upon a time, I met up with a tall, dark, and handsome (like, always) dude who I’ll name for the sake of privacy, Joe (easier to type as we go along). Joe and I had been talking for about two weeks before meeting up, yes, we met on Tinder. I thought something was wrong with me when I found myself downloading and deleting the app more often than I replace my Glade Plug-Ins, but come to find out EVERYONE in NYC does the same thing. Whatever. Joe was a lot more breathtaking in person (they always are, girls). He was easy on the eyes and made you feel at home when he said your name.

Side bar: there is always something so exhilarating when a guy I’m into says my name. I take note of that, it seems silly, but if and when he doesn’t ever say my name when we talk on the phone or in person the situationship seems less personal. I like intimacy, especially when dealing with conversation.

Joe and I took happy hours into Friday Night Lights hours, as we now found ourselves sitting in a musty and loud bar in Williamsburg (I enjoy the dive scene because everything goes—crazies and bad service, but the prices are always better too). We sat at the bar, facing each other, his knees were touching mine and on occasion (when appropriate) I’d grazed my hand upon his thigh to let him know, “duh, I dig you.” If the conversation didn’t keep me alert I would have never accepted his invite to go back to his place to smoke hookah. A guy who’ll ask questions about your childhood, what brought you here, and what your goals are will trigger that good-good. I don’t care much for cars, but he had one and always made sure to open my door when I hopped in. (We were not drunk.)

His apartment was something out of a Z-Gallery magazine with teal hues splashed all throughout his brownstone aesthetic. Joe seems like a Danny Tanner-type—“a clean home is a happy home” type man and I’m a big fan of Full House so there’s that. “Yeah, let’s listen to the 90’s R&B playlist.” “You sure?” he asked. “Yessss,” as I looked over his shoulders and pressed the play button on his phone. Not sure if it was the few vodka tonics I already had but I was trying to figure out why smoking hookah was putting me on the brink of passing out. I know for a fact I wasn’t drunk but at this point I mentioned, I needed to kick back and just watch him do his thing. He laughed and playfully made fun of me. As we sat on his sofa with intermittent intense eye contact locking, I tried to picture myself hanging out with him on the regular. He made hanging out with him seem like the good ol’ days; there was something so genuine and warm about being in his presence.

Fast forward to later-laterz.

As I made my way down the roaring old wooden staircase, to wait for my Uber, I noticed a stack of mail sitting on top of a vintage harp shaped table at the end of the building’s hallway. I whispered the name noted on the top envelope, “_____ ______ (DUDE, I GHOSTED ON LAST SUMMER).” I don’t think I ever whispered a gasp in my entire life, until that very moment. As I tried to register the name in my memory bank and convince myself it could be someone else with that name; the heavy footsteps to my right were about to prove otherwise. He walked right pass me, glared at me, and didn’t even take his mail. Brooklyn is not that small, y’all. Once again, it ain’t that small. Hanging out with Joe in the future didn’t seem so warm anymore.

Nobody lived happily ever after. ::shoulder shrug::

p.s. ghosting on someone is not nice. Plain and simple. The universe will haunt you later. I’m living proof of that. 

Currently sitting on my roof taking full advantage of our first heatwave since 1945, (a scorching mid 70 degrees y’all) and thanking the heavens my mind is finally at peace. I literally looked up at the sun, closed my eyes and took a deep breath; I try to be the protagonist in my own drama sometimes. This week was by far one of the most challenging as I found myself battling with guilt, repressed emotions, and lack of human contact.  

Guilt: I cried myself to sleep every night this week as I felt guilty for not being able to be in California for my tia Toña’s services. I lied to several people when they called me and asked if I was sick, “you sound so nasally…” “Oh, yes. I have really bad allergies today.” Mentiras—I was just in the middle of a really ugly cry. I never knew I’d curse 3,000 miles as much as I did these past seven days. “Why does your dream setting have to be so far?” “I should be there hugging all of them, hugging my momma, hugging someone.”

Repressed emotions: during my morning commutes, I would force myself to think of happy moments so my tear glands wouldn’t be triggered. No one wants to be standing right next to the crying girl on the subway at 7 in the morning. NYC folks avoid convo with strangers on the train like the Black Plague. During work, I did the same thing. I laughed at all the jokes my boss shared with me as she walked into the office every morning. I laughed at all the memes best friends sent me via social media. I smiled at all the children who smiled at me on the subway. I tried to pretend so badly as though nothing was going on back home. No one told me that if you do this for six days straight, you will burst when you least expect it. Like, when your boss asks you, “you seem distracted, Yesenia. Is everything okay?” I cried in front of my boss for a solid twenty minutes as she cried with me. No one told me mourning by yourself was going to be mentally exhausting.

Lack of Human Contact: it wasn’t until my boss hugged me, as I tried so desperately to salvage my eye make-up with a facial tissue, that I had not hugged anyone since the news of my tia Toña. No one told me moving to NYC would be this lonely during the first year. I find consolation discovering forums and other blogs that I’m in fact not alone in this living in NYC: first year chronicles—apparently feeling the loneliest you’ve ever felt in your entire adult life is inevitable. God, it’s exhausting, especially for a gal who happens to feel so deeply.

I realized no one will ever really tell you beforehand, “by the way, did you know mourning by yourself is utter torture?” Unless you’ve experienced it. Thank you, thank you, thank you to those who reached out and emailed/messaged me to share their similar experiences with me and to remind me that “you are so loved.” You are all so loved, don’t ever forget it. I know it’s challenging to muster up the courage or energy to reach out to someone when you’re stuck in a funk, especially when it feels like you’re hanging about quick sand and you can’t get out. But please, consider the phone at the very least and reach out to someone.  I promise you someone will shed glimmer of hope and happiness to your dark spirit. I love to love you, guys. xo

For the past month, my sighs are finished off with a smile and a pocket of air in the pit of my stomach that can sometimes be interpreted as butterflies. Call it whatever you’d like, but more daylight in my life is giving me all the energy I felt I needed in the winter. Late night conversations about our fears and vulnerability are the catalysts of some unforgettable dreams my slumber sessions have ever hosted. Several love crumbs back home, have booked flights to the east coast, so looking forward to something has never been so real. I was recently ghosted by a job opportunity I could see myself retiring. How does a job opportunity ghost you? Well, they email you to let you know you’re the ideal candidate they’ve been searching for, schedule a phone call interview and never call you. Yesenia in the summer would have lost countless hours over this ordeal but Yesenia almost a year into her move in NYC prayed on it and laughed at the fact that she described the situation as being ghosted (what men and women do when they don’t want to be romantically involved with you anymore—they disappear without notice). So let me say this (again), I’m finding all the solace in the spring, I never knew I needed.

What better way to kick off a new season than with a visit from my beautiful German queen, Angelina. By way of Los Angeles, she will be here for a week and basking in everything this massive apple has to offer for the first time. For those of you who plan to visit NYC at some point in time, please take note in the following mentions, as these are a few but plenty NYC gems we will be gracing our presence with:

Night Life Steeze

· Bembe—the smallest yet most sultry nook Williamsburg has to offer. If you’re into an array of salsa, cumbia, reggaeton, and dancehall synths that are at times accompanied with a live band, this is the place for your feet. Cash only joint, so be ready to make it rain at the bar.

· Piano’s—a fine and quite popular establishment where you’ll find yourself living out Childish Gambino’s “LES” track. Men will make you feel like you’re the only girl in the world (I guess that was more of a Rihanna reference, too). Make sure to arrive early, and carry cash as this location offers three separate rooms for dancing (upstairs is where it’s at ::wink::)

· The Late Late—oh, this bar. I’m always more aesthetically pleased when it comes to paying this night treasure a visit. The music is more on the Coachella front of my memory bank, as I find myself flashing back to those late summer nights dancing to Duke Dumont, Disclosure, and Co. A man once tried to bite my ear at this place. As much as I want to say my ears are sexy, I’m convinced he was on something more than just alcohol. You’re sure to have quite the night at this bar (especially downstairs), just beware of the man who bites ears when trying to ask for your number.

· La Linea, Hair of the Dog, One on One—all located in the Lower Eastside of Manhattan, good music, fair amount of waiting time in line (or no wait at all), great taco de ojos (eye candy), and decent drink prices.

· Friends and Lovers, Chez Oskar, and Lovers Rock—you will find these gems in Brooklyn. I’ve yet to visit Friends and Lovers, but my roommate and many others rave about how this place will give you one of the best dance parties of your life (all hype? I’ll report back). Chez Oskar is a cute place I went on a date once, featuring the cutest jazz theme aesthetics, and live music to boot. Lovers Rock is a dancehall and reggae lovah’s night time dream.

· 1 Rooftop—this is my favorite rooftop bar to date. You can find this near the Brooklyn Bridge, inside the 1 Hotel Brooklyn Bridge. If the weather permits, please put this on your must do list. The view of the Manhattan skyline from one of Brooklyn’s cutest neighborhoods, Dumbo, will make you fall head over heels for NYC. Trust.

So What Time Do We Eat?

· Woodland (Brooklyn)

· Sweet Chick (Brooklyn and Manhattan)

· Red Rooster (Harlem)

· Anthony & Son Panini Shoppe (Brooklyn)

· Tacos No. 1 (Chelsea Market and Times Square)

· Angelina’s Pizza (Dumbo)

· Di Fara Pizza (Brooklyn)

· Artichoke Basille’s Pizza (Williamsburg, SOHO, y mas)

Make sure to always bring good shoes, fiber, and always make time for a nap. Visit me soon! xo

She was halfway through mopping both the dining room and kitchen, and here I crept like the stealthiest eight-year-old ninja towards the JVC boom box with that six-CD-changer, to lower the volume. I could not seem to concentrate on my Nintendo Game Boy challenges with a cacophony of horns, tubas, clarinets, and flutes coming from my abuelita’s big ol’ JVC stereo. “¡Quien le bajo al volume!” Just as fast as my dirty fingers with half-bitten fingernails hit the volume down arrow to get to “Vol 6,” you best believe, “Vol 12” was now being displayed before me. No one, and I mean no one was to get in the way of my abuelita Celia’s tamborazo classics, especially while she was haciendo quehaceres (doing house chores). My mom and tias would be yelling at each other, at the very top of their lungs, just to get across the most recent chisme about fulana (so-and-so) because no one dared to ever lower the volume of the Tamborazo Los Orijinales de Jerez, Zacatecas CD (as it probably played for the fourth time that morning). These memories I then found to be cacophonous would later turn into my most endeared childhood memories. It was in the way she would set the mop to the side, grab your small little hands and show you how to zapatear, as she still wore one of her many long night gowns with the prettiest pastel rose patterns. My grandpa would then grab one of my tias and try to give my abuelita and I a run for our money; it was only necessary that the impromptu dance contest continue as we stomped over the linoleum floor and laughing as sweat beads were now racing down my abuelito’s neck. I remember I would eventually let go of my abuelita’s hands because I wanted to now see her and my grandpa dance. My mom and dad would then join and the living room had somehow now transformed into the streets of Jerez, Zacatecas. It took me almost two years, after my grandma passed away for me to be able to listen to anything with a tamborazo synth. I found this to be quite a challenge living in Salinas, California, where it wasn’t uncommon to be partying the night away in a ranch, alongside a live tamborazo band.

As we sat the closest to her casket, holding on to my momma’s hands as tears made their way past my collar bone, the ten piece tamborazo ensemble played “A La Orilla De Un Palmar.” It was my abuelita’s dying wish to have the music stylings, which originate from her home town, bid her a farewell. I can giggle now, and admit that there is no doubt in my mind she was not able to hear that band play, as we all wept for her passing. Just as loud as she made sure her six-CD-changer boom box was hosting these harmonious sounds, a live band at the cemetery was now doing the same. This was the sole reason why I couldn’t dare listen to any of those classics for a couple years after her passing. I would instantaneously fall into flashbacks of her yelling at me or my brothers for lowering the volume and/or inviting us to dance with her in the middle of the kitchen.

It’ll be seven years (next month) since my abuelita querida left us, at the age of sixty-seven (cancer). I purposely now listen to the best of La Banda Jerez La Autentica, not so that I can feel like I’m back in Salinas but more so because I want to keep those weekend visits to my abuelita’s in the San Fernando Valley, as vivid as possible in my memory. Living in NYC I sometimes find myself a little far removed from the (my) Mexican culture, especially when it comes to a really good taco joint or a car driving by my place blasting your top 40 corridos. So, I take it upon myself to live the best life I know how–at least twice a month I whip up a really good home cooked meal that either my mom or my abuelita have taught me, and create playlists that include nothing but cumbias, corridos, mariachi and tamborazo cuts, so that I don’t feel so far away from home (her).

He tapped me on my forearm, as I sat there quite cozy in my parka and zoned out on the train, “excused me, is that tamborazo you’re listening to?” The other day, an old man sitting next to me on the subway was able to make out the sounds I found too loud and annoying at the age of eight, coming through my earbuds. “Yes, it is. Are you familiar with this music?” “Mija, I used to play in a band when I was younger, for almost ten years. My family is from Zacatecas.” If my life was a cartoon, my heart would have lit up bright pink with a hint of red as it beamed right out of my chest. I shared with this little old man that my great-grandpa played the saxophone and clarinet in a tamborazo band for more than thirty years and did not stop until the year he died, at the age of eighty-six. And how my appreciation for this music not only derives from my talented great-grandfather but tambien from my abuelita who forced me to listen to it growing up.

I often wonder what the universe is doing when I hop on the train since I moved here. I often wonder, as I walk these streets and meet the people that I meet who sweep me off my feet, “how did I get here?” I asked myself that, when the little old man got off at his stop and left me there with the biggest smile my crow’s feet have seen this year, “how did I get here, Dios mio?”

The narration inside my head then utters, “don’t ask why, just know you belong here.” I guess you’re never too far removed from what you wholeheartedly cherish. I believe the universe and God conspires that energy, whether it’s spoken or just thought out—it somehow miraculously comes into fruition even if it’s through a little old man who didn’t know you, and who assures you that your great-grandpa and abuelita would be proud to know their great granddaughter/nieta is still listening to the music that moved their world.

If you feel so inclined to listen to some of these Spanish polkas gems: https://youtu.be/mrCbzlZomAU 

Preface: Trying to explain to anyone the relationship my family and I have with our neighbors back home, in California, is sometimes a struggle because one typically does not consider neighbors familia and others find it hard to comprehend the idea of being so close to your neighbor. Toña and her family who live to the right of my parents are my family. Her daughters, Celeste, Aurora, Isabel, Sofia, and their son Antonio are the sisters and third brother I never asked for but so grateful life just happened that way.

Monday through Saturday, my mom and my neighbor’s momma Antonia (Toña for short) get together to have coffee or tea accompanied with pan dulce or galletas. These two very important ladies in my life, have been enjoying a cup of coffee together six days a week for 20 years. They always exchange a wide range of stories that can go from sweet and funny new things their grandkids say to them, family issues, the weather, or just some good ol’ chisme. For as long as I can remember, coming home anywhere between 7 PM and 8:30 PM meant walking into the kitchen and seeing Toña sipping on coffee from her favorite small tea cup with the tiny pink roses wrapped around the rim. Greeting both of them with a hug and kiss on the cheek, picking at their pan dulce (typically my mom’s piece), giving both of them a quick update about my day and walking away so they could resume their charla—this was a routine I did. A routine that I didn’t see as a routine at some point in time because a real routine is considered doing something on a regular basis without any special reason. These daily coffee dates my mom and Toña have become something so special to me as I’ve come to realize the genuine friendship bond these two ladies have for one another.  I can only hope to one day be living close to my best friend (again) so we too can get together on the daily to drink coffee and shoot the sh!t.

For the past month, these coffee dates have not been taking place. For the past month, my mom’s kitchen has not hosted a cafecito y pan date because our dearest tia Toña is currently fighting with all her might, a relentless six letter word (cancer). With tears in my eyes and faith in my heart I truly believe Toña will win. I want to believe that within weeks I’ll be calling my mom via FaceTime and seeing Toña right next to her telling as we remind one another how much we miss each other and dismissing myself because I’ve kindly interrupted their coffee date. To my beloved readers, I have a small ask: prayers and thoughts, if it’s not too much to ask por favor send some light her way. For the past month, a prayer at 7 PM (or within the hour) has been my daily doing. I have faith that 7 PM cafecito with pan dulce dates with my mom and Toña will soon resume. I have faith.

I like the way the powder foundation sits lightly on my freckles, because I’ve taken my time this time. Always on the first date.

I like the way I can use the same outfit I used for the last first date and he wouldn’t have a clue.

I like the way the frenzy of butterflies come back for their dance routine, the second I receive the, “I’m outside,” “I’m here too, where are you?” text.

I like the way their sly smiles are different, just like the wrinkles that convene at the end of their almond shaped eyes when they laugh at something I said.

I like the way others look at us when we’re talking/laughing about whether or not we’re a lefty or a righty. They must be on a first date type look.

I like the way my close girlfriends wish me luck, yet again, and wholeheartedly mean it, right before I step foot out the door.  

I like the non-verbal communication of elbows touching when standing next to each other as you wait for your table.

I love the post dinner walks around the neighborhood and pretend like you have yet to see that side of Brooklyn. White lies are okay, especially if he’s trying to impress you. 

I love when he interrupts a five-second-deep-stare-off with, “what are you thinking about?” I low-key melt.

I like the short-lived scent they leave at the tip of my nose when I hug them goodbye at the subway platform.

I don’t like that I’ve favored more details about first dates than second and third dates.

First Date Shorty is the name (’cos the second or third date rarely happens)…one day, I hope to wear it out.

I find myself at the highest level of ease when these songs come through my ear buds. Considering most tracks can only be found on the ‘cloud, I’ve provided the URL link for your listening pleasure. If Tumblr does not make it easy for y’all by activating the hyperlinks for easier access, I trust that you will copy and paste ;). An array of oldies but goodies, pop synths, soothing melodies, and soulful falsettos that will strike a nerve or tug a heartstring. Disfruten, corazones.

Mac Ayres “Somebody New” https://soundcloud.com/macayres/somebody-new-live-from-my

Caius “Things Gonna Be Okay” https://soundcloud.com/caius_official/things-gonna-be-okay

Rose Gold “I Could Fall In Love” https://soundcloud.com/terrace-martin-music/rose-gold-i-could-fall-in-love

Rose Gold “Runnin” Ft. James Fauntleroy https://soundcloud.com/muvagoldblood/runnin

Tiffany Gouche “Dive” https://soundcloud.com/tiffanygouche/dive

Rachel Foxx “Happen To me”

Imad Royal “Bad 4 U” https://soundcloud.com/imadroyal/bad-4-u-feat-blaise-railey

Sylo Nozra “Silent Need” https://soundcloud.com/sylonozra/silent-need

Jafunk “Why Would You” https://soundcloud.com/jafunkofficial/jafunk-why-would-you

Elli Ingram “All Caught Up” 

Campsite Dream “Crush” https://soundcloud.com/campsitedream/crush

SoMo x Kirko Bangz “Don’t” (Bryson Tiller Remix) https://soundcloud.com/officialsomo/somo-x-kirko-bangz-dont-bryson-tiller-remix

ESTA. “Hotline Bling” https://soundcloud.com/beatsbyesta/hotline-bling

Sye Elaine Spence “Is This Love” https://soundcloud.com/syeelainespence/is-this-love

D’Angelo “I Found My Smile Again”

It was only 8:05 in the morning and someone standing near me was giving off an aroma of fried food. Dazed and somewhat awake, staring out into the subway tracks on the look out for sewer rats (my usual routine), I stood waiting for the second train of my morning commute. From my peripherals, I could see the man next to me was the culprit for this fried food aroma, as he held on to a small bag from Chick-Fil-A. That same hand holding his unhealthy but I’m quite sure delicious breakfast featured a loose button, holding on by a thread (literally), from the sleeve of his tan pea coat. “Excuse me, do you know if the M train stops at Lexington and 53rd?” Slightly surprised and on the cusp of major blushing, I told the handsome man that it sure did. My energy (I would later learn) was so transparent when I spoke to him that he decided to keep the conversation going. 

I never talk to anyone during my morning commutes. No one really talks to you when you’re on the subway. No one. I assumed he wasn’t from NYC considering he was asking for directions—most New Yorkers I’ve met know the routes for all subway lines. He told me he was born and raised in NYC but had never taken the M before. We talked about our favorite hobbies in less than three minutes, hopped on the train where I thought the conversation would continue as he strategically made sure he was standing next to me, but it didn’t. “You were right, it does stop at Lexington,” he whispers to me as he double checked the marquee on the subway car wall. I had just finished sharing the abridge version of my NYC dream and as we both smiled and laughed uncontrollably at each other and yet we couldn’t find the courage to keep the conversation going. Again, my peripherals were witnessing a lot of fidgeting as he tried to grab something from his pocket as we were coming up at my stop (his stop was after mine). I never felt so inclined to give someone my phone number, like, never. I could hear the voice in my head telling me, “girl, you don’t even have a pen in your bag!!! How are you going to give him your number and more so, people around are going to be hella staring and you’re going to then turn lobster red. I guess I’ll just wish him a good day and say goodbye. Okay, here’s your stop girl, this is your last chance.” I turned to him and he nervously hands me his card, while the loose button was still holding on to dear life and says, “I’d love to see you again, here’s my number. I hope you have a good day, take care.” 

I walked out of the train like I was living in a John Hughes movie, as some basic 80′s instrumental song played in the background. Each end of my mouth had hiked up so high as I tried to really understand what just happened. A handsome man approached me on a subway train like, something so movie-esque and handed me his card and actually emphasized that he wanted to see me again. 

We saw each other a few times. We learned that we both stand for climate change efforts and have worked in some way, shape or form to help the cause. He’s funny and witty. Received his masters in Philly. Only child. Always asked how I was doing and genuinely meant it.

 
“Well, I’m gonna get going now. Let me make sure I didn’t forget anything.” ::scans my bedroom for his backpack and other things, as he puts on that tan peacoat:: “ugh, your loose button on your sleeve has been bugging me since I met you.” He kissed me on the forehead, “hahaha really?? You’re funny. Well do you have a sewing kit? Can you help me out?” I had never been more excited to tell someone I owned a sewing kit. He sat next to me on my sofa as he watched TV and I tightened the darn brown button on the sleeve of his peacoat. Five minutes later, I cut off the end of the string from the needle with my teeth and smiled at him as I proudly showed off his newly sewed button. “Wow, you’re awesome.” ::kisses me on the lips:: I walk him to the front door. 

“Text me later to let me know what you end up doing tonight,” he says to me. ::kisses me again:: I watched him walk out of my house and turn to the right as he made his way to the subway station. I never saw him again (not by my choice).

For a split second, the universe gave me the experience I had always daydreamed about. A handsome, charming man approached me on a subway, struck up a conversation that segued into us exchanging information, so it could have potentially lead to something more. The universe gave me that. 

I may come off as cynical and jaded when it comes to relationships but if and when something that seems bonafide comes about, all of the romantic and vulnerable in me appreciates every part of it. I’m not sure what kind of life lesson this was but it sure as hell makes for a good short story. 

Maybe he just wanted someone to sew his loose button?