Rebuscársela is one of my favorite words. All Argentinians are instinctively familiar with it but they rarely think about it. If a nationwide census asked which words represent us the best, not many people would mention rebuscársela. But everyone would agree it’s part of our identity. Football, asado and mate are the obvious words linked to Argentina. But they describe what we eat, drink or play, not who we are. Passion would be a gigantic word if we generated an Argentinian word cloud. We are passionate about everything, especially about rebuscársela.

Rebuscársela is a mindset. It belongs to me, my family, and the forty-six million Argentinians who improvise not only in the kitchen but in life. It’s our default response to anything. That’s how we solve problems and turn boredom into fun. Like cutting a large plastic Coca-Cola bottle in half with a serrated knife, melting the sharp edges with a lighter to make an improvised communal-chalice for drinking Fernet Branca among friends. We could use plastic cups, but what’s the fun in that?

Born in an unpredictable environment

My Dutch girlfriend, Simone, smiles while she watches me cooking. That smirk on her face is a combination of approval and pride. It shows up every time I act confidently, her way of saying to the world: “Yep, that’s my man”. Simone watches me rebuscármela half-entertained, definitely curious but also a bit horrified. She prefers not to be part of it.

Simone doesn’t see the fun in not following a plan. It’s more the other way around. Instructions allow her to relax, and that is what makes cooking fun. For the Dutch, precision and predictability are traits of the highest regard. Like improvising is some sort of tragedy the unprepared must suffer.

Simone loved how tonight’s pollo alla randomness turned out, but she surely doesn’t like my lack of answers to her questions. She asks for the recipe and gets frustrated upon the absence of quantitative details and exact measures. How long I simmered the sauce or how many cloves of garlic I used are mysteries that belong to the universe. I’m okay with not knowing. I can’t repeat tonight’s dinner tomorrow, just as no man steps into the same river twice.

Simone and I are very different in this department. She always keeps two of everything nonperishable in our pantry so we never have to improvise: two salts, two boxes of bouillon cubes, two jars of dried oregano. Her idea is that if we run out, we didn’t really run out. Always a spare, a reserve, a backup plan. That’s the opposite of me. I see no big deal if we run out of eggs for breakfast. I also like yogurt. No yogurt? A banana or a good old fast. The scenarios we avoid are rarely as bad as we think.

After living in The Netherlands for a couple of years, I’m convinced that the Dutch see improvising as a tragedy that can and must be avoided at all costs through diligent planning. As if it’s an evolutionary thing: the Dutch who took it easy and went with the flow most probably drowned during a flood2. And the ones who survived were the ones who never waited to start building dams and dikes. Thanks to that, they now live here. And because of that, I can also live here without having to rebuscármela too much.

Moving from Argentina to the Netherlands felt like lowering the difficulty level of the video game called life: from nightmare to walk in the park. Simone, like her fellow Dutchmen, doesn’t truly get what I mean when I say Argentina is chaotic. But I also can’t blame them for that. Why should they know?

Even if they decided to live in Argentina, they still wouldn’t grasp what it’s like for us to live there. They would get to meet rebuscársela in the flesh but it wouldn’t become a part of their identity. The reason behind that is that the moment they feel tired of Argentina’s safari-like adventure, safety and stability are still waiting for them where they left them, between Germany and Belgium. Therefore, rebuscársela is for them just another curiosity that doesn’t fit inside a Lonely Planet guide. But for us, it’s much more than that.

A regular day in the life of an Argentinian

Rebuscársela is a skill that isn’t taught in classrooms. It’s something we acquire through an infinity of micro (and not so micro) stressful situations only familiar to Argentinians. In Argentina, there’s always a side portion of stress with everything you do. Simple things like taking the train are never as simple as they seem. To understand what I mean, let me unpack the mind of an archetypical porteño3 as they go through a regular day in their life:

You wake up early and take the dog out for a walk. You constantly look over your shoulder because the streets of Buenos Aires aren’t that safe to walk outside without concerns. You rush but not because you’re in a hurry per se, but because every extra minute on the street feels like tempting fate. You fear a scooter could come out of nowhere and rob you. Or kill you. Even without you trying to resist.

Back home, you check the news to see how the country decided to wake up: which roads are closed due to protests, which bus lines are on strike, which trains aren’t running. This also keeps you updated about the latest corruption scandals, economic crisis and such.

At the train station, you wait on the platform but the train seems to be late. It should have arrived ten minutes ago, and you wonder how long this situation is going to last. After anxiously waiting for a miracle, you find out the train is cancelled. You must rush to get a spot on a bus. You are relieved to fit inside, even though squeezed like a sardine in a tin.

At work, you ask your boss for a raise to keep up with hyper-inflation. Their answer might be the only thing that doesn’t surprise you today. Your boss explains that the company is barely surviving, sales are slow and suppliers are delaying payments. That they’ll do what they can. You receive this understandable but disappointing answer every two or three months, like all other Argentinians.

On your way back home, you find your neighbors gathered on the street with arms crossed and serious faces. They tell you another power outage is going on. They’ve called the power company and the complaint was registered. They said they would send a technician as soon as they can. You have no idea how long it will last. Again, there’s nothing you can do but to wait.

Later in the evening, you can’t fall asleep because without electricity there is no AC or fan. Your body sticks to the bedsheets and opening the window is trading heat for the buzz and bites of mosquitoes. No power also means no fridge. You hope it comes back before food starts to go bad.

Welcome to a regular week in the life of many Argentinians. This might sound like a horror tale but all these things can actually happen on the same day if you are unfortunate enough.

The Two Sides of Rebuscársela

Most of the time, there is nothing you can do but to wait for an “official solution” to arrive. There is however a feeling that the power company, or any other company, doesn’t really care about the quality of their service, you or the havoc they wreak on your life. That if you want a solution, you need to find it yourself. But you aren’t qualified or responsible or authorized to solve the problem. So, what can you do besides: rebuscársela.

Rebuscársela comes in two forms: MacGyver-science and “Lo atamo’ con alambre”.

MacGyver-science solutions are the ones that make us feel proud of being Argentinian. For example: during the Malvinas War, Argentinian engineers repurposed pasta machines to make “chaff” by slicing thin strips of aluminum foil. “Chaff” is tiny reflective material ejected from aircrafts to confuse enemy missiles. Released into the air, the decoys create false radar targets, saving both plane and pilot. Producing chaff requires specialized equipment, which of course we didn’t have. But we’re Argentinians and we always find a way.

No fancy machinery, no resources, just our knack for rebuscársela. Our chest pumps when we find a solution where others can’t. So when Argentina, despite all the difficulties, designs, builds and launches a satellite, it’s a big deal for us.

But rebuscársela also has a not so pretty side. “Lo atamo’ con alambre” is a common Argentinian idiom you hear on a daily basis. It literally means to tie things together with baling wire. Like MacGyvering, it also involves finding a solution to a problem with limited resources. But it’s much more redneck engineering than science.

A “Lo atamo’ con alambre” solution won’t be pretty but it’ll do the job. Probably. Hopefully. At least for a while. But it’s definitely not going to look good, like a plastic bag duct-taped over a broken window. “Lo atamo’ con alambre” is something so Argentinian that our songwriter Ignacio Coppani wrote a song about it in 1988. The song hasn’t aged at all, because everything is still the same as it was before.

After forty years of tying everything together with baling wire, we stopped seeing these solutions as exceptions as they became the norm. We accepted them as an inexorable part of living in Argentina. And as a consequence, our quality bar and tolerance for how things should work have plummeted to a point that it became dangerous.

The Hazards of Rebuscársela

It turns out many things can “just work” at the expense of safety. Tying things with baling wire isn’t only visibly ugly but also invisibly unsafe. People rely on modifying and adapting whatever old parts they can get their hands on. Don’t forget that everyone around you, like the train mechanic, also lives in Argentina and is figuring things out. Or do you think mechanics work exclusively with brand-new imported parts from official suppliers that meet ISO standards?

But baling wire inevitably breaks and tragedies happen. A train crash, a plane that never takes off, and a sunken submarine are dark events of our history surrounded by negligence and the mystery of who is actually responsible. No one knows exactly what happened or who’s to blame. Investigations rarely bring justice. “Human error” and corruption always get the blame but everybody is responsible because we all partake in this phenomenon.

It’s a kind of miracle we don’t have more of these tragedies in Argentina. Deep down, we know they could happen at any minute but we feel there is nothing we can do about them. So, with resignation, we have accepted them.

We do have safety rules in place, but they aren’t adapted to our current reality. They represent what we ought to do, but not what we can realistically do. We copy-paste rule books from Europe and U.S., but we are not them. Especially economically speaking.

Enforcing safety measures by the book would require the entire country to be shut down, but that isn’t possible. Trains need to keep running and people need to keep showing up for work. So, upon this impossible situation we decided to just ignore rules altogether. Which is another type of tragedy.

Humor is our solution for when there is no solution

But one can only experience so much tragedy. Sometimes you need joy even if that involves laughing at tragedy.

We say “reírse para no llorar”: to laugh to keep from crying. That’s the only thing we can do about the problems that can’t be solved: sickness, death, or —according to Argentina’s economic history— inflation.

Our out-of-the-box creativity is also channeled towards making humor. Rebuscársela is, after all, finding solutions even for situations that have none. Argentinians are the self-claimed world-champions of meme-making. The moment something happens, good or bad, everyone’s already waiting for “the memes” to arrive.

Maybe in a stable country, with clear rules, access to credit, and strong institutions, we would pour our energy and creativity into becoming entrepreneurs or inventors. But because we have none of those and laughter is free, we pour our passion into the meme-economy, so both the rich and the poor can share a laugh.

I remember my surprise in 2022, already living in The Netherlands, when the Dutch cabinet collapsed. My biggest memory was the lack of memes. I couldn’t believe it. How could that be? Where were the memes? The Dutch went on with their lives as if nothing had happened... because for them, nothing really had. As it probably should.

I wonder if that’s the reason why Europeans have that image of life in South America being happy and carefree. They always see us joking and laughing, even with all the problems that we have. As if we have the secret for a happy life they are missing. But I don’t think they see how much of that laugh is just coping. And there is no market for exporting memes in exchange for trains that run on time. Or just run. We would if we could. Who wouldn’t?

An Argentinian Identity Without Crisis

To this date, I’ve lived in The Netherlands for almost eight years. My relationship with Simone, her family, her language, her culture, they all shaped me. I’m eight years less Argentinian than if I had stayed there. Living on the other side of the Atlantic, I get to see Argentina from a distance. I appreciate the best parts without the anger and frustration that comes from the close contact with an environment where nothing just works.

I’m convinced we are, by large, a product of that environment. An Argentinian is not only someone born in Argentina but someone shaped by Argentina. Every generation, grandpas, parents and children, get the same test with slightly different names and numbers, but always the same answer: rebuscársela.

To tie things with baling wire. To hack, to patch, to make a parachute out of a plastic bag. This seemingly eternal Groundhog-Day situation convinced me that rebuscársela is a fundamental part of being Argentinian. That an Argentinian without this trait would somehow be incomplete.

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger,” Nietzsche said. In Argentina’s case, I’d say it makes us stronger together. Every trauma tightens the fabric of our society a little more, drawing the fibers closer until they form something like a bulletproof Kevlar vest. We as a society became harder than the meat they eat in Europe4.

At the same time, hard times also softened us towards each other.

A special sense of togetherness is created by relying on people when systems fail. Like we have developed an instinct to look after each other because no institution ever will. Your people are your safety net.

During blackouts, it isn’t rare that a lucky neighbor who still has power plugs an extension cord to his house and shares his luck and electricity with you. When public transport fails to show up, a stranger offers to share a cab with you and even covers your share of the ride. Someone invites you to spend Christmas with them if you have no family of your own or no one else around.

The bonds in Argentina mean something else. Not only with your family, but also with your friends and neighbors. These connections are a big reason why some people decide not to leave the country.

Times have been hard in Argentina for as long as I can remember. And my parents can remember. But what if they weren’t? In a hypothetical future where Argentina’s worst problems no longer exist, what would happen to our most beloved traits? The strength of our social bonds, the over the top jokes, and our knack for surprising even ourselves with clever solutions. We all want Argentina to be safer and less stressful. More normal would already be a lot. But maybe, deep down, we don’t want to lose the beautiful things these terrible situations create.

I would love it if we could bond as strongly as we do now but without needing each other so much. I hope we could keep our character without the crisis. I hope the neighbor who saves you from blackouts with an extension cord will, in a calmer country, still help others in a different way. The jokes would get less fatalistic but no less funny, and our creativity would be free to move from dangerous hacks to more top-notch inventions.

A better Argentina will still shape us but a bit differently. The challenge is to improve a whole country while still carrying forward the values that make us who we are. That, too, is being Argentinian. That too is rebuscársela.

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I flinched.

My Dutch girlfriend made a lovely gesture, but calling mate “tea” hurt.

“It’s called mate1,” I said, flashing a sheepish, hopeful grin, hoping I didn’t sound pedantic.

She kept calling it tea for a while. Not on purpose, but to her, mate is just another tea: dried crushed leaves infused in hot water.

In her eyes, all the quirks like always drinking it from the same strange “cup”, pouring water constantly from a big thermos flask and sipping through a silver metal straw... are just... odd.

Writing about mate in English sucks. Every term feels wrong: cup, mug, vessel, gourd. Especially “gourd”.

Still, I choose English because I want to tell the world about an Argentinian tradition that is so obvious and mundane to us, that we assume everybody else already knows. In Uruguay and Paraguay, they love mate too, but I’ll speak for Argentina because that’s what it says in my passport.

Yes, “mate” is the name of the cup, but a cup can hold anything. A mate should only hold mate. Using it for anything else is like playing volleyball with a football: possible but painful.

The mate tradition resists being described with precision. It’s closer to music than accounting. How long you drink, how hot it should be, when it’s considered lavado2: those are things you just... know.

So Simone isn’t technically wrong. But looking at anything “technically” removes its soul.

Technically, Christmas is Jesus’ birthday party. You see? Everything can be stripped out of its magic if reduced to its physical components.

Mate isn’t tea, just as asado isn’t barbecue. Yes, there is meat on a grill, but to us it means so much more than that.

Which leaves us with the question:

If mate isn’t “tea”… what is it?

Mate is a ritual. A ceremony. A portable pause button. Like stepping out for a smoke, a chance to stare out of the window between sips.

It’s a tradition, but it's also a builder of traditions. The time of the day, the place where you sit, the thing you do while you drink it. It all becomes part of your routine, so it becomes a part of you, of your identity.

You decorate your termo3 with stickers of Argentina4, memes, and, of course, Messi and Maradona. You choose your brand of yerba5, maybe add orange peel or burrito6. You pick the shape and material7 that feels right in your hand and (usually) won’t spill on your laptop. You might even add sugar or sweetener. Or not, that’s the line that separates boys from men.

Every occasion for mate has a distinctive tempo.

Breakfast-mate is a soft wake-up call you share with your own grogginess and the kettle. Silent, slow, with frequent stares at the void.

Work-mate keeps the cursor moving like a drum on a rowing ship. Rhythmic, automatic. Short pours, quick slurps, eyes focused on the screen.

Social-mate stretches time and strengthens bonds. The cebador8 circles the mate around, making sure everybody gets a sip from the straw. It occupies the mouths of the talkaholics so the shy also get their turn at the mic. You with your friends, and your mate with its own: bizcochitos de grasa9, facturas10, or the almighty cremona11. Welcome to carbs-galore.

I even heard that some night-owls have after-dinner-mate. Can’t say much about that because it’s not really my cup of tea mate.

If you have a mate with you, you are never alone. Mate is company, but it also attracts company.

Abroad, mate works as a beacon for fellow Argentineans. Even if it’s for exchanging a few words like which part of Argentina we are from or what we are doing abroad. We feel at home for five minutes and then part ways, satisfied by the meaningless but meaningful interaction.

Simone is surprised that I spot mate drinkers everywhere. The same way your brain recognizes your own language even in the chaos of a busy market. I find people mateando12 everywhere: parks, beaches, and even on long-distance buses.

Every time, I feel obliged to point at them and say “Look, mate!”. She is now developing the same mate-radar, a small win in my plan to argentinise her.

I’ve met many Europeans who visit Argentina, fall in love with mate and bring one back home. Not as a souvenir, but as a new imported tradition that never sticks. Something is missing. Something they can’t touch, taste or smell.

That’s because mate is not something you do; it’s something you are.

Tourists drink mate because they are in Argentina. But a true Argentinian would drink mate even on the Moon, smuggling yerba in his ass.

Drinking mate is in our DNA. Argentina is mate, and mate is Argentina. Each sip sends me back home, to the jokes only we get and gazes that say more than words.

Simone isn’t there yet. She is a social drinker: she’ll sip if someone hands her a mate. Drinking alone, a silent milestone in our culture, hasn’t arrived... yet.

Part of me wants to make her more Argentinean. Or maybe I don’t want to argentinise her, maybe I just want to Pablo‑ise her.

She is the same, always smiling when I eat a broodje kaas13 for lunch, like a proper Dutchman.

We’re heading to Buenos Aires in November for a month. There, I hope she can taste the warmth of the tradition and not just the bitterness of the yerba. And understand, that drinking mate and sharing unos matienzos14 are technically the same, but actually worlds apart.

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My hands were shaking. I picked the song I knew best from my practice playlist, took a deep breath, and pressed play.

I almost didn’t get here. Fear nearly stole this memory.

A fear that never says “Hi, it’s me,” or blatantly confronts you. That’s how it wins. You don’t choke. You just… forget to show up.

At least that’s how I experience it.

Ten years ago, I took stand-up comedy classes. At the end of the course, we were supposed to perform a short monologue for our friends and family.

But I didn’t do it.

I didn’t freak out at the last minute. I just “lost interest.” Or was it my ego protecting me? I told myself, “This is boring,” not “I’m scared,” not “What if I suck?”

That’s how I fail, by not trying.

It’s clean. Elegant. The perfect alibi.

The things we care about most are often the ones we sabotage. The more it matters, the more reasons we invent to walk away.

We say we’re tired. Busy. Not in the mood.

But underneath the apathy, the excuses, there is... fear.

We’re not only afraid of failing. We fear fear itself.

And that extra layer of fear is the trap.

Fear loses its power when we call it by its name. So... it hides. It grows in the dark, like a leech.

Every time I did something I was afraid of, my life improved. Not immediately, but eventually. Moved to Europe. Changed jobs. Broke up relationships.

I thought I’d learned that lesson.

But lessons expire. Like vaccines, the protection fades with time.

That’s the cruel part. When we stumble again, we don’t just feel the pain. We feel shame, disappointment. “Seriously? Again?” Yes, again. As if lessons were permanent. But most wisdom is leased, not owned.

This time, I must have done something right because things changed.

It wasn’t that I got brave. But my homies wouldn’t let me off the hook.

When they arrived at the party and didn’t see me playing, they asked with a smile, “Are you going to play for us or what?” Not demanding. Just… excited. Like they already believed I’d do great.

So I said “maybe,” and quietly started setting up the speakers.

I cleared the table, moved the leftover butter chicken and plugged in the controller.

And then came that moment: DON’T LOOK AT ME.

I don’t even remember if the first mix was good or not. I just kept playing. Ten minutes became twenty. An hour flew by.

I relaxed. I grooved with my friends and talked about life. I wasn’t thinking about mixing, I was just doing it.

It's rare to realize, mid‑moment, that you're living a dream.

We grow up thinking dreams come with trophies. Millions of followers and standing ovations.

But sometimes, a dream is quiet. A private win. A moment no one notices but you.

It lasts only a moment. Then, another goal comes. A bigger milestone to achieve.

But that feeling, doing the thing despite the shaking, is worth everything.

And I almost missed this one.

If my friends hadn’t pushed me, I would not have played.

And when it felt the hardest, they were there with me, giving me nods of encouragement. They ran beside me like a dad steadying a kid’s bike.

“This sounds amazing,” they said. Maybe they were exaggerating. Who cares? I needed that and they knew it.

We talk about chasing dreams like it’s a solo race.

But sometimes, you need people close by while your hands shake.

The rest? That’s just pressing play.

The guy wasn’t showing off. He was just chill. He switched back to Spanish to talk to me, not trying to make me feel small. Which, of course, made me feel even smaller. He was just… proud. Proud to speak a language most expats avoid.

The Dutch respect you if you speak their language. Especially because you don’t need to.

Everyone speaks English. So when you speak Dutch, they’re genuinely impressed. They’re used to people bashing their language, their food, their weather. Especially the weather. So it’s no surprise they come across as cold to foreigners.

“He had to learn it to get the Dutch passport,” my girlfriend said. True. But I know people who passed the test, and still can’t speak Dutch. Or worse, they don’t see the point in using it. They switch back to English as soon as they can. Because it’s always easier. You don’t risk sounding like a toddler.

He and I, we both arrived in The Netherlands in 2017.

So why can’t I speak Dutch? It’s not that I didn’t try.

First, I joined a free course. I showed up every week, made enough progress to order coffee and smile at my neighbors. But my life was always in English. My job. My friends. My ex. All expats.

Dutch never felt urgent.

Two years later, the itch came back. I paid for private lessons. If it costs you something, you take it more seriously. It worked, until it didn’t.

My tutor, Elmer, knew a lot.

His classes were efficient but cold. I did my homework like I do my taxes. I started dreading them. I was so bored. It’s hard to invest if you’re not having fun.

Learning a language is hard. Without an emotional reason, it’s easy to give up.

I didn’t have enough shame to act. Just enough to feel it. If I didn’t speak Dutch, nothing really happened. My life would continue as it was. It wasn’t keeping me out of anything interesting for me at that time.

Eventually, I gave up on Dutch and pivoted to learning Italian. There was no practical reason, just pure joy.

Italian brought me back to life. I got addicted. Devoured YouTube videos one after the other. Sang L'Italiano under the shower with passion. Booked flights to Milan just to order cappuccinos and hear the words coming out of my mouth.

But Dutch isn’t Italian or French. It doesn’t seduce you. It doesn’t flirt with you. It stares at you with its arms crossed. It’s sober, it’s practical. A reflection of their speakers.

You don’t learn Dutch for its sexiness. You learn it because you want to stay. Because you want to belong. Dutch isn’t a one-night stand. It’s not gelato in Positano. It’s a long-term relationship, with all the hard work and responsibilities that entails.

You commit to Dutch when life makes it unavoidable.

When you have kids here and want to understand their world. Talk with their classmates and teachers.

When you want to stop being the outsider at the dinner table with your in-laws.

And sometimes, though rarely, it comes from choosing to embrace this country as your own.

That’s the hardest part: stop seeing it as something temporary and start growing roots. There is a grieving period after leaving home. You mourn your language, your old self. This is what prevents, or delays, people from committing to a new culture, a new home.

When I bought my house here, I thought I was settling down. But you can always see it as an investment. Growing roots comes from the heart, not from your wallet.

For me, it’s my girlfriend.

I’m dating a Dutch now. Which means I’m part of a Dutch family. I want to understand her mom when she tells me something with a wink. I want to laugh at her dad’s dry jokes. I want to make this rainy, cold, perfect country mine.

It’ll never be “home home.” But I’m done floating endlessly in denial. I’ve visited many countries and there is something about the Netherlands that just works. Not the weather, no. That part is shit. But the rest? Life is easy here. You can trust the institutions. Focus on your job. Build something. Love someone.

I want this to be my base. And when winter shows up, we’ll leave, so we can come back. My girlfriend dreads dark cold winters as much as I do.

I need to speak enough Dutch.

If I don’t speak it, no Dutch will ever care enough to get to know me. To them, I’ll always be someone just passing through.

Why bother building a deeper relationship with me if you don’t know whether I’ll be here tomorrow?

I’m not here temporarily because of the job, the money, or the experience of living abroad. I’m here because there is something fundamental in the way they see life that resonates with my values. The mourning is over. My heart is ready to embrace this country as much as an immigrant ever can.

I heard once that some cultures are peaches and others are coconuts. Peaches are soft on the outside, hard at the core. Like Americans. Friendly, smiling, open. Until you hit the pit.

The Dutch are coconuts. A hard layer on the outside makes them look and sound like assholes. They tend to make direct comments with a deadpan face. Always to the point in a way that comes across as rude.

Crack them open and there’s sweetness inside. But... you have to earn it.

My girlfriend says Dutch is beautiful in its own way. A kind of beauty reserved for the ones willing to invest. Tourists, as always, get to see the worst.

I never tried hard enough to be honest. I coasted on English. I lived on the surface, never cracked the shell.

But seeing my girlfriend speak Dutch with that guy at the party, simply flipped a switch.

Without language, I can’t joke. I don’t play. I just... survive.

I’m done waiting to just stumble into a new place that magically fits like home. Home, like love, isn’t something you find. It’s something you build.

I need to see every opportunity as a chance to practice. To learn a new word, a new expression. Making it fun.

Because after nearly a decade here, not speaking the language ain’t funny anymore.

Public‑Service Announcement: Don’t buy me a gift.

Seriously, don't do it.

I’ve tried to stop people for years but it hasn’t worked.

I get it, I also do it. Showing up to a party empty-handed feels awkward.

So, what do we always do? We bring something. A bottle of wine. A book we haven’t read.

Not because it’s right, but because we don’t know how to show up as we are. If someone gives you their time, their space, their invitation, you feel the need to pay them back.

You want to bring something... but what?

Doubt kicks in: How much should I spend? What does he like? Has he already read this? Am I a bad friend if I just show up with vibes?

I’m hard to gift. Not because I’m fancy. But because I'm weird, specific and opinionated.

And if I don't help you, I'll end up with something I don’t like.

You feel bad. I feel bad. We’ll all pretend it’s fine. Let’s please not do that.

Enough complaining. Today I’m here to help.

I decided to write the ultimate gifting guide. One that spares you money. That saves you time. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll help you understand me a little better.

Steal this idea if you want. Make your own. Use my jokes. Or not. Make it yours.

You’re allowed to be complicated. The people who love you want to get it right.

Let's jump right into it.

🚫 What Doesn't Work

I hate gifts that create an obligation to use, wear, read, or eat.

My dad used to give me T-shirts because that’s what he likes. I didn't like them, and hated telling my dad I’d never wear them.

I had a closet full of those T-shirts. I never wore them but I didn't give them away either. My dad never sees me wearing them.

One day I was painting my house in one of those gifted T-shirts with the risk of ruining it. Dad saw me and looked kinda sad.

A horrible lose‑lose situation.  Let’s avoid this at all costs.

👕 Clothes

When you are my size (165 cm / 5 ft 4 in and 59 kg / 130 lb), buying clothes in the Netherlands, a country where babies are taller than me by age five, is a logistical nightmare.

I shop in the kids’ section.

Good news: it’s cheaper 🤑

Bad news: most of my sweaters have a teddy bear riding a skateboard 🧸

If it’s hard for me, it’s impossible for you. Don't even try.

📚Books

I love reading and that’s exactly why you shouldn’t buy me books. Confused? Yes, this one is tricky.

Books are the sneakiest offenders: they look thoughtful, but they’re terrible gifts for me.

I’m picky about reading, and life’s too short for books I don’t choose.

I’ll never read all the books I want before I die. That’s sad enough without adding your book to the guilt pile.

If you give me a book, it will end up gathering dust on my shelf. Many of the books I buy for myself have the same fate, so don't feel bad.

🍸 Gourmet Foods

I don’t get excited about things like truffle-infused olive oils or gochujang relish. Give me chicken, rice, and broccoli forever and I’ll die happy. Save it for someone who appreciates it.

Skip alcohol, I don't drink.

❗Exception: dark chocolate. Always chocolate. If the Mayans thought it was sacred, who am I to disagree?

🖼️ Stuff for the house

I try to live as a minimalist. And my girlfriend will kill me if I bring any knick-knacks into her perfectly organized house. Less is more.

❗Exception: plants. Plants are alive. Plants are always welcome.

✅ What Does Work (and why)

Before I traveled to Asia for three months, my friends gave me the perfect backpack. It opened like a suitcase, full of pockets, and beat my old pack in every way.

I would’ve never bought it for myself and that's the point.

A great gift feels like something I didn't know I needed. But once I got it, it felt perfectly mine.

Gift cards are better than a bad gift but don’t feel personal enough. They are an outsourcing of our friendship.

Wish lists kill the surprise factor. I don’t want to hand you a shopping list. I want a surprise that feels like I picked it myself. Like you saw me for real.

I’m basically asking you to read my mind. Or worse, to read both my subconscious and feel my needs and desires before me.

Maybe the only gift I need is more therapy sessions.

💸 What to Do If You’re Broke (or a Communist)

Let's start with the inexpensive alternatives first.

✉️ Write me an email

More like a digital letter. This way I can keep a copy that I can re-read at any time.

I mark these emails with a specific label so I can reach out to them when I feel sad to remember that there are people in this world who love me.

Writing is tough, I know. Remember, I'm here to help you not to make your life harder.

So... I got you some prompts. You don’t have to answer all of them. Think of them as a menu, pick what feels good.

1. Tell me something you’ve never told me

   A secret. A memory. A thought you were afraid to say out loud.

   ---

2. Tell me what you like about our friendship
   Yes, it’s awkward and cheesy, but I’ll reread it on bad days.

   ---

3. Tell me how you see me

   What’s it like to be my friend / sibling / dance partner / meme-pal / occasional unpaid therapist? What do you think I don’t see about myself?

   ---

4. Remind me of a moment we shared

   Something you remember vividly. Maybe I forgot it. Maybe I remember it too. Either way, bonus points if you attach a blurry photo of us looking like idiots.

   ---

5. Ask me a question

   Throw me a curveball. Something deep. Something you’d like to know but never asked.

🎶 Make Me a Playlist

As you might or might not know, I'm getting into DJ-ing. So, sharing music is my new love language.

Make me a playlist with tracks you swear I’ll put on repeat.

Bonus points if you build it on YouTube instead of Spotify, it's my gift after all.

⏳Time Together

Everything is better shared.

When I’m alone and spot a perfect sunset, a funny graffiti, or a thick juicy steak, I snap a photo and WhatsApp it to the people I love.

But a moment shared online is only half-alive. True awe echoes louder when we’re side by side.

📅 Plan an Experience Together

Take me somewhere. Let’s go on an adventure we’ll remember.

• Cooking class

• Live music event

• Escape room

• Bowling

🎟️ Give Me a Personal Promise

Write me a voucher. A promise for something we can do together, where I still have a say in what, when, and how.

• Movie night but I pick the film (at home or at the theater).

• Join me for an activity I want (movie, concert, party, whatever).

• Dinner outside at my favorite place (bonus points if you cover up to 20 euros of my meal).

🌎 Give Me a Peek Into Your World

Tell me everything about one of your hobbies. Help me to understand why you love the things you love.

But take the time to do it right. I want a full-on presentation. Bonus points if you use PowerPoint. Double bonus points if you apologize for how many slides you made.

I believe that when something sounds boring, it’s usually because we don’t know enough yet.

Like the time an Indian colleague gave a lunchtime lecture about cricket right before the World Cup.

Did you know they use one single ball during the entire game? And that, as the ball wears down, teams change their tactics to exploit its new behavior.

I still don’t like cricket.

But now I understand why people might like it.

I don’t have to love what you love. But if you love it hard enough and can share that passion effectively, maybe I’ll see it the way you do.

📓 Small, Silly, Perfect Things

The kinds of gifts that usually feel good to receive:

1. Blank Notebooks
   Minimalist, high-quality paper, hard-cover. No lines, no quotes, no weird designs. I love them and can never get enough.

   ---

2. A nice pen or mechanical pencil
   A good pen is always an amazing gift. Please don't spend much on it because I’ll inevitably lose it and cry.

   ---

3. Enamel Pins and Stickers
   Cheap, tiny, silly and playful. Bonus points if it means something to us. If you get me a tiny kebab pin because we once cried in a parking lot after eating spicy-level-volcanic kebabs, that’s love.

☎️ Emergency Helpline

If you want to surprise me but you're unsure, ping my friend Gastón for insider intel (DM him for details).

He knows me well, and he’ll help you avoid gift disasters without ruining the surprise.

I don't know how he does it. Probably witchcraft. But trust him.

🙏 Before You Panic: Thank You!

If you’re here, it means you care. You already gave me the best gift.

Thank you for wanting to know me better and I hope you had a good laugh reading this.

I thought those things were the path to happiness and fulfillment. But I see now that the moment you decide what you want, you are signing a contract with yourself where unhappiness is the only thing guaranteed.

If getting something makes you happy, not getting it will make you unhappy. You restrict your future to one option of happiness: getting what you said you wanted.

This is a cautionary tale about self-sabotage. About fear, the master of disguise. About identity and good intentions. A story about surrendering and rebirth.

When my sabbatical started 6 months ago, I went traveling looking for an adventure. I believed that if you wanted to write interesting things, you had to live an interesting life. So I travelled alone to Asia seeking an epic journey of self-discovery. I was looking for experiences I could use to write a great story. My story.

The past few months, I'd been flirting with writing more and more. I reached the point of no return at my previous job, and writing seemed like the activity that brought me the most joy. Without any idea of what I wanted to do next, I clung to it like a life raft on the shipwreck of my life.

While travelling, every time I met new people in hostels, the inevitable question came up: "So, what do you do?". I didn't have an answer.

My default answer, "I'm an engineer," started to sound wrong. Was I an engineer or did I work as one? At the crossroads of my career, nothing sounded right. I could just have lied and said whatever to those people, but I feel that when you lie you mostly hurt yourself. Because the message is that it's not okay to be who you are. That it would be better to be another version of yourself.

In retrospective, I could have just said "I'm figuring it out". But I didn't. I did something much worse than that.

I said "I'm a writer".

Not because I thought I was one. But because I wanted to be one and I believe language plays a huge role in how we perceive reality.

When we talk, we are not consciously hand picking each word we use. It's mostly a stream of thought that flows from the deepness of our subconscious. And there, our true beliefs are exposed.

As a way to hack my own belief system, I started by changing my language in order to change my identity. If I wrote every day and said I was a writer, I’d eventually grow into that identity.

What I didn't see coming, is that people would also ask me "So, what are you writing?" That’s where I stumbled.

Reality made me uncomfortable. What would they think if I said "I write a blog with less than 100 subscribers and, more realistically, only a handful of people actually read what I write".

What a failure. That’s how it felt. I was ashamed of saying that. So, I slightly twisted reality. I swapped desire with idea, dream with plan, expectation with reality.

I said "I'm writing a book". And the way I saw it, was that traveling and gathering ideas and experiences was part of writing my book. Because I would eventually use this material to write my story.

It made sense. I was doing the work that enables the other work to happen. It made sense then, though now it sounds as ridiculous as a toddler saying he’s becoming a doctor because he’s in kindergarten. Yes, it's a necessary step, but it does not mean it would lead to that.

In my case, the step might not even be necessary. You can write a book about travelling without having travelled. It might not be a great book, but so many books aren't great and that doesn't make them less real.

I saw a book as a collection of chapters. At that time, I was writing everyday for my blog. So, if I could turn all those blogposts into chapters of a story, I would have (after a final wrap-up effort) a book published at my name.

What I didn't see coming was how those expectations were creating a huge debt that I had to pay some day. Like maxing your credit card.

Telling people I was writing a book felt amazing. Being a writer has a certain aura of intelligence around it. We consider people who read smarter than the ones who don't. So imagine being the one who writes what people read.

So I kept writing during my travels. With the confidence that it was all going to be useful for writing the book.

Because I was jumping from country to country, from hostel to hostel, I had plausible deniability for doing any serious work. The conditions were just not there. I didn't have silence, a desk and the peace of mind to put all my ideas together to write the book I told people I was writing.

There was always a new destination I had scheduled, that could bring a new story that could potentially be part of the book. Trying to write a story during the trip felt pointless. Whatever happened in the next week could change the entire plot of the book.

There were so many new experiences during my travels, that it was hard to pick just one as the main idea. Weaving all of them together into one book seemed like a project that was too daunting for an aspiring writer like me.

I just kept on taking notes and wished that, when I had the time and tranquility, the book would manifest in front of me.

I had some ideas for the book, but none sounded 100% like the one. Maybe writing about how it feels to take a sabbatical. Maybe writing about my experience walking El Camino de Santiago with my mom. All of them sounded good but none sounded great. I was looking for the story people wanted to read, not the one I wanted to write.

After 6 months of being here and there, I finally came back home.

I spent the first week signing up for a gym, visiting friends, spending time with my girlfriend. Doing all the things I couldn't do while traveling, and not doing the only thing I had been doing so far: writing.

It's not that I didn't want to write. It’s just that anything else felt much more interesting than writing. Making a fitness plan for the summer. Playing with my new DJ equipment. Daydreaming about opening a café. Learning about AI.

Anything but writing.

What was happening to me? Is this the famous writer's block? I didn’t feel blocked because I never sat in front of the computer and couldn’t write anything.

This was subtler. I just avoided sitting down to write altogether. And I always had a reasonable excuse.

If fear knocked on the door without a disguise, we wouldn't let him in. But fear is smart, so it dresses as productivity. As self-love. As enjoying life because you only live once, right?

It camouflages as perfectionism. As attention to details that don’t matter at all.

It was the fear of doing a job that could’ve been done better.

Maybe I didn't know enough about writing. If I only read another book to get inspired, sign up for a course to improve my prose. That could be the answer to get my confidence back.

Or maybe I knew enough but I haven't worked as hard as I could. So I could work an extra hour. Take another look. Then another.

I don't want to be afraid. I don’t want fear anymore. Fear is the mind-killer. What I need is a system that keeps fear under control.

I don't want to publish crap. I want to give my best. But the self-doubt will never go away, and nothing will ever be as good as it can be... but it will be done, and it will be real.

And real crap makes me grow more than imaginary perfection.

The problem is, where do you draw the line? Maybe the craft is finding the balance. How much to edit. Developing a feeling for when done is done. Because done won't ever be done.

What would I regret more: writing something people hate or not writing at all? Why do I care so much about what others think about what I write? Is my ego that fragile? Am I so attached to the image of being the smartest kid in the classroom?

The world is full of really capable insecure people but the ones who get what they want are the ones who just go and do it.

I have to conquer that fear and publish again. Anything. I haven't published anything in a while and my confidence vanished. Maybe that's what it's all about. To build confidence at a higher pace than it evaporates, because no self-image lasts forever without constant reinforcement.

Thank you for sitting with this raw, unedited piece of possible nonsense. I care about you, but I care so much that it’s started to paralyze me. So I need to care a bit less about you and a bit more about me.

I need this win now.

And self-love is giving to myself whatever I need to thrive. Sometimes it is tough love and harsh editing. This time it is compassion. For giving myself the permission to release from my body the feeling that is constipating my creative process.

I remember watching a video of Ed Sheeran talking about the dirty faucet theory. When you open a water faucet, the first stream of water comes out brown, muddy and dirty. The pipe is getting cleansed. After all the shit water comes out, clear water will start flowing.

This is my shitty water and that's fine. I'm letting it all out.

I don't know how to close this piece. No conclusion. No happy ending. Maybe a quote can suffice. Thanks for reading and see you next time.

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

― Frank Herbert, Dune

Or if they admit it, they downplay it: "Just for spelling," they say. "Only for editing, of course." Go further than that, and it’s like your work doesn’t count. As if you’ve crossed a line by letting a machine touch something sacred.

Some reject it outright, as if that puts them on moral high ground.

Anti-AI sentiment rests on three legs like a wobbly stool. Let’s kick them one by one.

First, the AI Slop. Slop is the shoddy AI content flooding the internet. It’s so easy to spot, it’s all people associate AI with.

In that sense, AI is like Botox. You only notice it when it’s bad.

Second, most people tried it but never seriously invested in it. They used it once, got junk, and moved on. Like hitting three random keys on a piano and deciding music is overrated.

Anyone who’s actually used AI knows it still takes effort to create something good.

If quality matters, simply asking AI to "write a novel" won’t cut it. If it’s just a "Terms & Conditions" page no one reads, sure, go ahead.

Together, the first two points create “The Slop Illusion”: a perception trap where all you make is slop, all you see is slop and, consequently, all you believe AI can do is slop.

But even when AI is used well, something still feels off.

The third—and strongest—pillar of AI-hate is that it hides the struggle. And we humans love the struggle. We only admire what costs something: time, energy, thought, reputation.

Think about it.

I appreciate Michelangelo’s David even though I’ve never held a chisel. When you stand in front of him, you feel it. The time. The obsession. The weight of the marble.

I can imagine this little Italian man working with microscopic precision on something that would last for centuries.

Would I love David if I knew Michelangelo had made him with a magic wand? Maybe, but only if I knew what the wand can really do.

I said at the beginning: this was "written with AI."

But do you know how many drafts it took? Or how much time I thought? That’s what drives the skepticism: you don’t see the work, so you assume there wasn’t any.

Maybe you believe that I pressed a key and AI handed me this essay. Fortunately, or sadly, nothing good comes that easy.

Using AI is more like moving to a new city than pressing a button.

At first, you see the worst. The tourist traps. The filthy streets that smell like piss. The main road is loud, ugly, and somehow always under construction. You walk around and think, this place is horrible.

But then you stay a little longer. You stop checking Google Maps and start to wander.

Slowly, the city opens—like someone who’s been hurt. It gives itself to the ones who wait.

A hidden cafe. A quiet bench that catches the last light of the day. A walk the city reserves only to those who take their time.

It’s the same with AI.

The more time you spend with it, the more it gives back.

You start asking better questions. Eventually, you ask AI to ask you questions so it can help you figure out what you actually want.

After writing with it for months, I no longer feel like it works for me; it works with me.

I use it to show me where I’m lazy. Where I’m vague. Where I’m full of shit.

I decide what’s good. I judge what belongs and what gets cut. And if anything, I’ve become more demanding, more precise, more ruthless with my ideas. Because now, I can fly at the speed of thought.

AI can write, but it doesn’t have taste. It doesn’t know what matters or what’s worth saying twice.

It doesn’t know what I’m trying to say. Neither do I, at first. But together, we carve through the bullshit until the real thing starts to take shape.

Michelangelo believed David already existed within the marble, and his job was to remove the rest. AI gives me the marble. But finding David? That’s on me.

This partnership helps me think more clearly. More deeply. It’s not perfect. But it’s fast, always available, and ridiculously cheap.

It doesn’t care how dumb your question sounds. You can ask anything, as many times as you want.

AI can be that for you: your sparring partner.

The Greek philosopher Plato believed that real understanding comes from dialogue. The back-and-forth. Minds clashing, testing each other until truth emerges.

That’s where AI can shine, if you let it challenge you.

Otherwise, it becomes a desperate friend. Always eager to please, afraid to disagree with you. Until one day, you’ve handed over the reins of your mind without realizing it.

We are lazy thinkers by design and accepting a suggestion is always easier than questioning it. AI won’t change how we think. It will change if we think.

Plato had a similar fear when Greeks transitioned from oral communication to writing.

He thought philosophy happened in conversation. So, in his dialogue “Phaedrus”, he warned that reading and writing could make us dumber.

That we would repeat what we’ve read and mistake it for real understanding. That it would look like wisdom, but it wouldn’t be.

I share a similar fear as Plato. That AI can become too helpful to live without. The same way smartphones made distractions so effortless that we forgot how to focus, AI can make us forget how to think.

Convenience always takes something in return. The easier something gets, the more we lose the muscle we used to train.

A 2025 study in the journal Societies found a strong negative correlation between frequent AI usage and critical thinking skills. Critical thinking here means the ability to analyze, evaluate, and synthesize information to make reasoned decisions.

If you treat it like a sparring partner instead of a guru, it will sharpen your thinking. But if used mindlessly, it will obliterate your judgment.

That’s why waging a war against AI is pointless. The real fight is about consciousness.

AI reveals the user. It multiplies whatever you give it: stupidity or brilliance. It makes dumb people dumber, and sharp minds unstoppable.

I’m not angry at AI for the slop drowning the good stuff. It's true that most auto-AI-generated content is lazy and forgettable. Just like most human work done without care.

I’m in favor of beauty and against junk in anything and everything. In literature, film, music, food, design.

I demand quality and despise apathy. No matter who or what creates or consumes it.

I’m angry at the people who can’t distinguish between fluff and substance.

I’m angry at “Fast & Furious 25” topping the box office while great writers can’t pay rent.

But blaming AI would be just another form of the lazy thinking I’m fighting.

You don’t have to use AI, but someone else will. And if they bring vision, taste and creativity, they’ll leave you behind.

The future isn’t man versus machine. It’s man with machine.

Those who get it won’t just move faster. They’ll go deeper, and get better.

I’m not afraid of that future. I’m writing in it.

AI is my pen. The voice is still mine.

Alright. You’re still here, so you know what this is about.

You’re not a failure. You didn’t do anything wrong. You don’t need fixing.

You’re just... different.

Different in a way that makes people uncomfortable. They won’t say it, but you feel it. A tension in the air, like walking into a room right after a fight.

They would rather you be “normal”. Easier to explain.

Maybe you’re the one who decided to not take over the family business.

The one who never got married.

The one who dropped out of college.

Maybe you’re the one who quit a stable job to chase something that made sense only to you.

The one who still doesn’t know what the fuck to chase.

Who moved abroad. Then moved back. Then left again.

Who left the church.

Went to therapy.

Maybe you’re the one who eats too much. Or not at all.

Who doesn’t want kids. Doesn’t even like them.

The one with ADHD, who was always too intense.

The one with depression, who never had the energy to care. Who was told to smile. To get over it. “Can you please stop crying?”.

The one who never brought someone home. A question they won’t ask because asking makes it real. Gay? Still a virgin? Is that a friend or a “friend”?

Maybe you changed your name. Your body. Your life.

They love you, maybe. Hard to tell. But they don’t understand you, that’s for sure. Even when they try. And somehow, that hurts more than if they didn’t try at all.

And now here you are, at a family dinner, at a wedding, at Christmas, office drinks. Nodding. Playing the role. But you know. And they know. And you know that they know.

You are not broken. You are not wrong.

You’re not alone. Just lonely.

But listen, I have good news... There are others. Like you. Like me. Like the ones you haven’t met yet but will.

It’ll feel like stepping out of a room thick with smoke. Like leaving behind the noise, the heat, and taking a deep breath of clean, fresh air.

You’ll meet someone who makes everything feel lighter. Not by fixing the mood but by being unapologetically themselves. Effortless.

Being around them loosens you up. By being real, they make it safe for you to be real too. To be naked without feeling naked.

Maybe you don’t even know what belonging feels like.

But when you find your tribe you’ll know.

Hey, you made it.

Wardrobe is on the right. You can hang your mask there.

Come in. Drink?

Just water? Cool. Me too.

Welcome.

We’ve been waiting for you.

Tall and gray, a seven-floor building looms over the street. In Japan, they don’t hide what happens inside.

A sign outside says: 60 minutes, 1100 yen. I’m here to find the real price of escape.

A voice at the front desk explains the rules. I never see his face, just his hands. He shows me a menu. I have no clue what I’m picking, but why not? I’m already way past my comfort zone.

I pick a red cylinder from the brand Tenga. It looks like a small tube of Pringles.

He gives me a plastic bag with virtual reality goggles, headphones, wet wipes, a condom and my toy. Nods me to the elevator, 5th floor.

A long, narrow hallway with doors on both sides. It feels like walking through an empty train car.

505, first room on the right. It’s a worn-out closet with yellowed walls, all function, no beauty. Not that anybody here minds. A place built for people who’ve stopped caring what the world looks like.

A leather chair and a huge TV. Tissues on my left, trash bin on my right. I set the alarm for 50 minutes. I don’t want to be charged overtime.

I sit and adjust the VR headset. The bag has three-step instructions in English. Hold the power button for three seconds. Use the touch panel on the right to navigate. Press the back button on the left to return. I slide it on.

Reality fades.

Four glowing options appear, all in Japanese. The one on the right is the only I understand: +18. I tap and a mosaic of Japanese women floods my eyes. I pick the first one.

Now I’m in an apartment. Warm light, cozy furniture, me sitting on the couch. In front of me, a woman seems happy to see me. Like she’s been waiting for me forever.

Her legs part on the couch, black skirt sliding up her smooth thighs, teasing me slow. Her white blouse loose, hinting at her chest, feels good, too good already.

She speaks softly. Her voice soothes with a quiet laugh behind her hand, sweet and pulling. Murmurs Japanese that I don’t catch, but I don’t need to. She calls me Sensei.

She heads to the kitchen, cooks. Under the tight office skirt, a small but firm ass swaying my way. Is this a secretary fantasy?

She is not a porn star, just a woman I want. She has real curves. The only illusion here is everything.

This is nothing like the porn I’ve seen. More than pleasure inside a closet, it’s a love story written for the broken hearts.

She brings two beers from the fridge but can’t open hers, so she hands it to me. I pop it open, the strong man she needs. She sits close, talking, panties peeking out. Things are heating up. Kneels on the floor, big eyes locked on me. She pulls my pants down, and kisses me over my underwear.

I’m horny but also confused. The illusion loses its grip when I look down. My dick is pixelated into skin-colored blocks. Not a glitch, just Japanese censorship laws. My digital girlfriend is almost real, but my cock looks straight out of Minecraft.

We keep going.

She’s on her knees now, hips high, face pressed against the floor. Her back arches, yielding to her Sensei.

A soft plea in her voice. A perfect display of submission, her body shaking violently under mine. She knows how to pull my trigger. I’m lost in it, dominant and overly aroused.

I pass the point of no return.

The Tenga isn’t a toy but a pleasure glove. A science fiction pussy for the lonely man. A metaphor for contemporary love. Standardized, hygienic, sterile. No smell, no warmth, no skin. Just you, your hand, and the exact pleasure you want. And when you’re done, you throw it away. Like everything in modern life.

The simulation keeps rolling as I sink into the void. My mind shuts down.

A minute ago, she purred Sensei, a world crafted to crave me. Now it’s just me, a closet, and a clock that suddenly ticks too loud.

Where am I? What the fuck happened?

I wipe myself clean. My brain slowly starts to function again. Twenty minutes remain.

I go back into fantasy land.

She’s still on me, but I’m done for now. Refractory break hits. I’m an unloaded gun.

I jump to the next scene, same living room. She sits to my right while we play cards and talk. She laughs excessively at all my jokes and grabs me by the hand. She leans in close, our faces next to each other. She kisses me long.

Headset stays on but my thoughts start to drift apart. If anything, it reminds me that I’m alone in a closet. A kiss should be more than lust. This is too much, I want to get out. This isn’t pornography, it’s loneliness weaponized.

This experience is eye-opening. No friction, no rejection, no effort. It’s more dangerous than any other drug.

Suddenly, magic dissolves. A floating pop-up announces “Connection broken.”

I rip the headset off, reality stabs. Tiny space, just me, self-disgust, and a trash bin full of used tissues.

No lust left, just a cold void where pleasure used to be. I feel like a fool.

I step outside. Tokyo’s neon lights burn bright. I buy an after-sex chocolate at the nearest 7/11. I sit on a bench, letting the fresh air clear my head.

I’m overwhelmed by questions. What happens when this technology gets better? When AI generates not just porn, but entire realities? When every fantasy is personalized, immersive, limitless?

How far are we from the Matrix? A cable to the brain and reality bent to our desires.

Technology won’t stop. It never has, and it never will. It only gets better. More seductive, more addictive, more real than reality itself.

My biggest concern is what happens when we choose VR over humans. Why face rejection or awkward misunderstandings when an AI lover never leaves, never complains, never rejects? Always in the mood, always available, always Sensei.

The genie is out of the bottle, and there’s no putting it back. What are we going to do about it?

Is the future just the past but with better technology? Or is this time actually different?

The most primal reaction to new technology is Luddism: destroy what we don’t understand, call it the end of the world.

When photography showed up, painters feared cameras would kill their craft. But instead of disappearing, they adapted. Portraits were no longer business, so they pushed their art beyond realism capturing what a lens couldn’t see.

What if we manage to harness this incredible power for the good?

I picture a couple sitting together on a couch, fingers intertwined, headsets on. Each indulging into their own VR fantasies. He is surrounded by a harem of Scarlett Johanssons. She is tied to Christian Grey’s bed but he’s played by Brad Pitt from Legends of the Fall. When the headset comes off they laugh. They talk. They touch. They make love.

The real world still matters. This is just the cherry on top.

But not for everyone. Some people will drown in VR’s oblivion chasing pleasure in a simulation that never pushes back.

Others will reject it entirely. The nostalgic clinging to an idealized past where love was messy, unpredictable, real.

The rest will use it lightly like a casual drug. Having fun but never mistaking it for the real thing. Not everyone who drinks is an alcoholic. Not everyone who uses VR will lose themselves in it.

Maybe that’s the way to see it. This: AI, VR, simulated realities, are yet another drug.

The Rat Park experiment showed it in the 70s. A lone rat in a bare cage drank morphine until it died from overdose. But in a lively space full of other rats, tunnels, food and fun, most sipped sparingly, never overdoing it.

We are no different from Mickey Mouse. The drug is never the issue. The environment is.

What waits for you outside when the battery dies? A life worth living, or a reality so sad and empty that you only want to come back?

I like to explore, to see for myself, to push my boundaries. I’ve done drugs, experienced VR porn in Japan, and I’ll try whatever comes next.

I’ll enjoy it, I’m not scared. Because I built a life I don’t need to escape from.

I walked out of the VR Porn room feeling what I already knew, that technology will never replace the warmth of the real world.

Red pill, blue pill, no pill.

The choice is yours, I already made mine.

I swipe my card, the glass gate swings open with a hiss, and this guy in a hoodie sidles up close, too close, trying to slip through without paying.

I’ve been here before. I watched them sneak by every time. It quietly pissed me off, but I always let it slide. But not tonight. I don’t know why, but I stop and block his entrance. The gate snaps shut between us. He stumbles back, eyes flicking up, startled. I say “Dude,” low and firm, no shake in my voice.

I’m small, 164 cm, 59 kg. Never thrown a punch and I plan to keep it that way. But that night, I hold my ground.

He doesn’t speak, just stares, caught red-handed. Neither of us saw it coming, me least of all. My heart’s pounding. No fists, no yelling, just a rush. Adrenaline floods me. I stand straighter with my chin up.

Reckless? Sure. Dumb? Maybe. I turn and keep walking. I was levitating a foot above the ground, high on self-respect. It wasn’t about the €2.50. It was the first time in years I didn’t let something slide.

That night at the metro, I stood my ground. No plan, it just happened. I just knew it felt right.

Weeks later, I found The Fountainhead, and suddenly, I had the words for that feeling.

Scrolling through the comments on one of those “become a better man” YouTube videos, I found one from a guy who said this book had turned his life upside down when he was a teenager.

Written in 1943, it was a book no one I knew had ever talked about. Online reviews trashed it: selfish, cold, overly simplistic. Curiosity won, so I grabbed it anyway.

It’s about an architect, Roark, who lives unapologetically by his own rules. Not a soft story, not a short read, but it hit me hard. I was drifting then, stuck in a life I didn’t even see I hated.

This book laid out two paths, two lives. Roark and Keating.

Howard Roark isn’t real, but he’s more alive than anyone I’ve met. He doesn’t bend, doesn’t compromise, gives zero fucks about what others think. Kicked out of university for refusing to live in the past, he walks off unbroken, laughing. What happens to someone who refuses to kneel? I couldn't put the book down.

Then there’s Peter Keating. Top of his class. The achiever. Prestigious job, all the praise. The one who never made a wrong move because he only ever did what was expected of him. A master at playing the game, winning by saying the right things to the right people.

Roark was something to strive for. Keating was a mirror, and I hated what I saw. A call to rise, a warning to fall. I wasn’t ready to face the truth, but since when does truth wait for permission?

I’d let too much of Keating’s need-to-please creep inside me, and it got worse over time. Approval is like drinking saltwater. The more you drink, the thirstier you become. I just wanted a quiet life, no mess. But conflict is not something you can avoid. Either you have it with others, or you have it with yourself.

I wasn’t Keating or Roark, but without them, I had no compass. Catholics clutch their rosaries and whisper, “What would Jesus do?” I couldn’t ask, “What would Pablo do?” because I didn’t know who that was yet. I was supposed to just know, but I didn’t. So I borrowed Roark’s fire, to burn everything down and see what remained.

I started questioning what was truly mine and what was borrowed from others’ expectations.

I bleached my hair. Not as a tantrum, but as a dare: Could I be bolder? I saw a stranger in the mirror and I liked him. Hello, new me.

I was done hiding, tired of being a photocopy of what was agreeable. I started wearing what I wanted: stuff that popped, stuff that flashed. Finding my own style. Got my first tattoo, something truly me. Every step, Roark whispered, “What would you do if you weren’t afraid?”

Family came next. At home, we’d never talked about the real stuff, just weather, Netflix, but never who I’d become or what I feared.

I love them, but I had to break the script. Some family dynamics settle and never get revised. I’ll always be my parents’ son, but I demanded a different relationship, one where we weren’t afraid of discomfort. Where honesty mattered more than keeping the peace.

There are some things families never talk about. It was time to open the box and deal with whatever was inside. I wanted to understand and be understood. Most importantly, I wanted to heal wounds from the past.

It took time. We shed tears. What we have isn’t perfect, it’s much better: It’s real.

At work, I was drowning. Meetings about meetings, everybody waiting to say nothing worth hearing. Big tech, fat checks, fragile egos. I chased it all, thinking it proved I was smart. It was a treadmill to nowhere. Sick of jogging in place, I saw it: the golden cage, door wide open all along.

I quit, heart banging like that metro night, no map, just out.

It wasn’t bad. It’s just… the bullshit, you know? The talk, the meetings. Less building, no fun. What’s the point of this whole circus? I couldn’t fake giving a damn anymore. Life kept ticking by while I sat there, waiting for green lights that never synced. Fuck it, I’d rather crash than crawl. So I walked out. Done waiting for permission to live.

I could’ve stayed. Kept my job, my apartment, my comfort. But standing still isn’t standing my ground. I sold everything, cashed my savings, hit the road. Vietnam, Taiwan, Japan, three months now.

The old me had to die. I didn’t need death knocking to see I’ve got one life.

I’m trying to be a writer now. No degree, no bestsellers, just me and this laptop, and words that won’t quit. I skip meals, lose track of time, wrists hurt from typing, tea’s cold again. No deadlines, no magazines, no claps, just this force inside I can’t name or understand.

Roark’s example pushed me forward, but Keating’s shadow still whispers: Play it safe. Stay in line. Be nice.

I’m acting anyway, doing things even when I’m freaked out. I worry about what my old work buddies think of me doing this. Dumb, I know, especially since the people who matter to me are my biggest fans.

I don’t write to be great. I write to be awake. To stay alive. I’m sharing it more, hoping it’ll hit someone like The Fountainhead hit me.

This is where I figure myself out. It’s messy, it’s raw, it’s mine.

Not Roark, not Keating, just Pablo.

Their menu has one dish: Hakata Ramen. No choices, no substitutions. A single-item menu isn’t a limitation; it’s a manifesto. Mastery over variety. War against indifference.

Yet, I wasn’t there for the ramen, even though it was the best I had since I arrived in Japan. I was there for him: the chef.

He smiled at me when I entered. Surprised to see me again. Surprised to find a Westerner who appreciates his craft.

This isn’t a chain or franchise. There are no corporate scripts, no “customer service” checklists, no dead-end career plans.

Just one man.

One man who cooks, serves, cleans, and cares. A one-man symphony in a world drowning in elevator music.

His shop is intimate but efficient. An open kitchen surrounded by a wooden bar, where people sit on low stools. Orders and payments are handled through a vending machine at the entrance. Free water in the corner.

Sit, eat, and leave. A well-proven Japanese formula that makes possible the miracle of a single-man restaurant.

There is a certain peace in the way he moves. Fast and precise. Almost ritualistic. His eyes scanning the room not for tips but for empty bowls. He holds his knife with the reverence of a Samurai holding his katana.

In Japan, people like him have a name without a direct English translation: Shokunin.

It’s more than a job, it’s an identity. A way of life. A vow to honor the craft above all else. A never-ending pursuit of one question: How can I make this better?

This man doesn’t chase Google reviews. That’s the paradox: his indifference to ratings is what makes this place a 4.9. In a world obsessed with productivity, his integrity feels rare.

Why am I so fascinated by someone who actually gives a fuck?

Most jobs today are fast-food. Disposable, depersonalized, mass-produced. You’re just another cog in someone else’s machine. Earn enough to not quit. Work enough to not get fired. Pretend enough to survive.

In. Out. Repeat.

But this chef? He’s not chasing speed, scale, or money. He’s here, fully present, stirring broth like it’s the only thing that matters. Because to him, it is.

His ramen isn’t just food, it’s a raised fist against mediocrity. This is a man who would rather shut his doors than turn his business into an assembly line.

What would my life look like if I cared about my work like that?

Commitment isn’t for the half-hearted. This chef stands alone, as an island. His shop is both his kingdom and his prison. Almost no days off, no sick leave, no safety net.

Every day, the same ramen. The same ritual.

Loving what you do doesn’t make all the problems go away. Work that matters comes with weight, responsibility, and not much adventure. But maybe he doesn’t see it as a burden.

Maybe mastery, not escape, is his freedom.

A vacation is nice, sure. But how badly do you need to escape if you’re already where you want to be?

I watch him, the ramen Shokunin, and think about the future. My future.

He’s fully present. No shortcuts. No automation. Just skill, care, and lots of practice.

How long will work like this last? A man, lost in the state of flow, doing something simply because he cares?

For the first time in history, it’s not just muscle being replaced. It’s minds, decisions, creativity. I keep up with everything happening in AI, but it doesn’t scare me.

Every week, artificial intelligence gets smarter, more efficient, and more capable. It can code, design, even make decisions.

Often, even better than us.

Soon, we’ll be able to build a machine that can replicate this man’s recipe. It will work tirelessly, never make mistakes, and deliver the same perfect bowl every time.

But it won’t give us what we want the most. We don’t crave perfection. We crave humanity. We crave not just the product but the process. We want to meet the human behind it.

A 2023 MIT study confirms it: people prefer human-made products, even when they’re less consistent. Because when something is made by a human, it means something.

Think about chess. Computers have outplayed grandmasters for decades, yet chess is more popular than ever. We don’t watch for the moves; we watch for the human sweating over them.

AI won’t replace the ones who care. It’ll replace the indifferent.

This chef is safe because he’s already found his calling and committed to it.

The hardest part isn’t the work. It’s choosing to commit.

A lot of people already know what their thing is. But knowing isn’t enough because it’s never the right time. The fear of betting on yourself is what keeps most people stuck.

Open your eyes: the choice isn’t between safety and risk. It’s between the risk of betting on yourself and the risk of playing it safe... and realizing too late that safety was the bigger risk.

I don’t know what comes next. But I made my choice: I will do whatever it takes to find my Good Work, what author defines as work that matters.

So when you find someone who cares, let them know. Tip extra. Take the photo. Nurture them like an endangered species.

One night, I waited until the shop was quiet. I’d never interrupt him, just like you wouldn’t cut off a guitar solo. I pulled out Google Translate and typed: “This is the best ramen I’ve ever had. Thank you.”

He read it. Paused. Then, he laughed. He pointed at my phone, then at his heart. No words needed.

He cared about his work. I cared that he cared.

In a world of copy-paste and soulless efficiency, we need more people who care. You don’t need permission to care, you just need the courage to choose the harder path.

For this chef, it’s ramen.

For me? Maybe it’s writing.

I don’t have a map, but I’ve stopped searching for destinations. I’ll follow what feels right and see where it leads.

There was a time I wouldn’t have dared to leave the safety of my job. Now, I fear not trying more than I fear failing.

I write because it makes me feel alive, just like the chef and his ramen.

So, here’s to the ramen chefs, the writers, the Shokunin who give a fuck. Not because it’s easy, but because they must.

Because care is the one thing we can’t automate. A spark no machine can replicate.

But now, I’m older, and I need my rest.

For my solo trip through Asia, I upgraded to hotels. Clean. Quiet. Private. And soul-crushingly lonely.

Hotels give you rest. Nothing more, nothing less. The lack of communal spaces means fewer spontaneous conversations. No accidental friendships over a shared kitchen stove. No one offers you a lukewarm beer while sharing their existential crisis in broken English. Just a closed door. Just silence. I was paying for privacy, but the price was solitude.

Traveling is teaching me that life is more like a pendulum than a straight line. It moves in cycles: parties and pajamas, noise and naps, love and loneliness. Maybe balance isn’t about not rocking the boat too much, but swinging wildly between extremes: hostels when you need people, hotels when you need sleep.

So, I left behind the keycards and soft hotel pillows and braced myself for the beautiful chaos of a hostel.

But the moment I stepped in, I knew this one was different. It wasn’t built for partying. It was built for people like me: Backpackers in their 30s, wandering not just for places, but for answers. And, of course, for the Wi-Fi.

Back home, I felt like the only one reckless enough to hit pause on life and wander. Turns out, I wasn’t special at all. Because here, on this terrace in Sun Moon Lake, I found my people: travelers from all over the world, all circling the same question: Is this it?

Taiwan isn’t a default backpacker destination; no one ends up here by accident. Most had already been to Japan, Vietnam, Thailand. Many had lived abroad and walked away from stable careers, choosing uncertainty over routines. Their backpacks were full of stories and questions. They all had the same laid-back rhythm of living one day at a time.

This hostel was exactly what I needed, with its terrace pulsing like a beating heart. A space that brought people together effortlessly.

At the center, a carpeted area with soft cushions and colorful blankets felt more like a shared living room than a hostel. People lounged here, reading, chatting, or simply enjoying the company of strangers.

In front of it, a long communal wooden table stretched across the space. You sat face to face, and conversation became inevitable. This was where morning plans took shape over free breakfast, where a casual “Anyone heading to the lake?” turned into a group outing.

Everything in this hostel was designed for interaction. Architecture shapes us, whether we notice it or not.

It didn’t take long before I felt at home. Days were filled with temple visits, shared meals, and slow mornings. Nights stretched into laughter, stories, and long talks about books, music, and the lost art of being present.

There’s a strange magic in meeting people you might never see again. It frees you. No history, no future, no need to impress. Conversations go deep, fast. No masks, no pretending. Just raw, unfiltered honesty.

That’s how, on my first night, I found myself on the terrace with an Australian and an Israeli, peeling back layers of our lives. We spoke about how we stay in touch with the people we love. Talking about the ones who matter most always draws an involuntary smile. That conversation was a crack in the dam. From then on, I didn’t search for connection. It found me.

Nano, the French owner, had stayed in more hostels than he could remember. After marrying a Taiwanese woman, he settled here and built the kind of place he always wished existed. Because like many long-term travelers, he had realized that people don’t remember facts. They don’t remember food. They remember how a place made them feel.

“Here, you meet people at their prime,” Nano said. “They’re traveling, exploring, alive.”

He was right. Here, everything felt magnified. When you don’t know if you’ll see someone again, every conversation is deeper, every moment stretches longer. People arrived fully present and left fully remembered.

The hostel felt like its own little world, a bubble where strangers became family overnight, only to disappear the next day. Every day, the cast changed. Someone left, their name lingering in a few stories before fading. Someone new arrived, slipping seamlessly into the rhythm of the place.

So what happens to them? To us? What happens to the people who shape us for a moment and then disappear?

It reminded me of Julio Cortázar’s La Autopista del Sur, where strangers stuck in a traffic jam built a micro-society, only to dissolve when the cars moved again. No goodbyes, no time to process. Just the silent understanding that this, whatever it was, is over.

Maybe that’s how all connections end. Not with a farewell, but with a fading. We exist in people’s memories, until we don’t. And maybe that’s enough: to have mattered, even for a moment, in the life of someone else.

One day, I’ll leave too. My name will be spoken for a while, then less, then not at all. For one week in Sun Moon, they were my world. And for one week, I was part of theirs.

I don’t fear being forgotten. I fear being forgettable. What I want is simple: not to be remembered for what I’ve done, but for the people who, even for a moment, felt our lives had intertwined.

And when I’m gone, I won’t be there to count the ones who miss me. But if enough people feel my absence, I’ll know I lived well.

The cashier stops me. “Wait,” she says, pointing at the numbers printed at the top. “Maybe lucky.”

Turns out, every receipt here is a ticket for the tǒngyī fāpiào, the bimonthly national lottery. But this isn’t just a game, it’s a tax system in disguise. Businesses must issue receipts to prevent under-the-table deals. To ensure customers actually demand them, the government adds an incentive: every receipt could be a winning ticket.

It’s genius. And strange. Gambling is illegal in Taiwan, yet the government runs its own lottery. Funded by the very taxes it’s designed to collect, it’s a perfect loop: sell hope to the poor, then use their losses to build the roads they’ll keep driving to dead-end jobs—with neatly folded receipts in their pockets.

Taiwanese people seem to love the feeling that life can change in an instant. Walk down any street, and you’ll see lottery shops everywhere—more than 7-Elevens, in fact. During Lunar New Year, the lucky season, these shops are packed. People here believe in luck more than we do in the West. Where we see randomness, they see an external force, either with or against you.

I tell myself I don’t believe in luck—that I’m immune to false hope. And yet, I stand here frozen, staring at a crumpled 7-Eleven receipt over a trash can, unable to let go. As if throwing it away means walking away from a possibility I won’t admit I want.

It’s just paper. Just ink. Just a receipt. Still, I don’t to throw it away. Because if I do, I’ll never know—and that uncertainty feels worse than carrying a pile of receipts with me. A physical reminder of the hope I’ll never admit I’m holding onto.

I feel embarrassed. I’m an engineer—I should be immune to this. But I’m also still human.

For years, I never understood why my mom kept playing the same numbers in the national lottery. But now, I do. I picture her sitting at the kitchen table, ticket in hand, scanning the results one number at a time.

She never looked hopeful—just relieved. Because losing was fine. Losing was expected. But not playing? That was dangerous. If her numbers hit and she hadn’t played, she’d never forgive herself.

For the price of a coffee, she bought a dream. From the moment she got the ticket until the numbers were drawn, she could fantasize about a life where bills weren’t a constant worry, where someday became today.

Mom always played. Not out of greed. Not because she didn’t understand the math. But because the alternative—giving up, accepting that nothing would ever change—felt worse.

The real prize isn’t money—it’s permission to believe.

The people who play the most are the ones who need to win: the ones who can least afford it, yet when they lose, buy another ticket.

Now, I see it. The quiet ritual. The hesitation. The irrational rebellion against reality. I know the odds, like Mom did. I know it’s all just a tax on hope. And yet, every time I get a receipt, I hesitate. For a moment, I’m suspended between logic and faith.

And then, I keep it.

Because even knowing all that, I’m still my mother’s son, and I can’t bring myself to throw away the what if I’d rather fill my pockets with illusions than accept the certainty of nothing at all.

Except for the konbini.

Convenience stores double as lighthouses in the dark, cutting through the stillness.

The green and blue glow of a FamilyMart pulls me in. I step inside and find something I didn’t know I needed.

At first, they just seemed to be everywhere.

Now, I know better. They appear when I need them, as if the city planted them like seeds, knowing exactly where its people would need shelter.

Sometimes, two or three coexist on the same block. Always open. Always glowing.

Inside, a microwave hums, heating a plastic tray of rice. In the glass steamer, sweet potatoes glisten under the golden light from a heat lamp. Eggs float in a liquid as dark as forgotten tea, their shells cracked like ancient maps, promising a taste as mysterious as their color.

The shelves overflow with anything and everything: snacks with names I can’t pronounce, umbrellas that look like toys, thick socks, and even underwear.

WiFi, a bathroom, an ATM, power outlets, and a printer. The konbini has everything for the lonely, the desperate, and the stranded—things we’re too vulnerable to admit we need.

Outside, the wind cuts like a knife, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the empty pavement. Inside, the world shrinks—warm, safe.

I could buy something to eat and head back to my hotel, but I choose to stay. I prefer this communal oasis, shared with strangers, over the silence of my room.

A girl in a Pikachu beanie spins a pen between her fingers. Her notebook is filled with equations, but her eyes show she’s somewhere else.

A couple sits by the window, laughing between sips of bubble tea. He plays with his straw, chasing the last black tapioca pearl. She watches, amused, as if the night could end if they stopped laughing.

A short, bald man in his forties sits in the back, flipping through a manga while his phone charges. Or maybe he’s charging his phone while enjoying his manga. Impossible to tell.

What are all these people doing here instead of at home? I travel alone—I have an excuse. What about them? What brings them here?

The konbini is more than a store. It’s a quiet refuge, a limbo between home and the street—what one sociologist called a “third place,” where strangers become temporary neighbors. A place where people study, eat, or simply exist.

No one rushes you. No one kicks you out.

As soon as you step in, the air changes. It smells of freshly brewed coffee and the steam from a bao filled with who-knows-what. I sit in a corner, a ham and cheese toastie in one hand and a black tea in the other. The tea burns my cold fingers through the cardboard cup, but I like how it feels.

FamilyMart’s jingle chimes every now and then. It doesn’t annoy me. If anything, it lifts my mood. It makes you feel like you belong, while the rustling of plastic bags mixes with the murmurs of people coming in and out.

Everyone here is in their own world. Alone, yet together. No one gives you a funny look; no one questions you. Here, existing is enough.

The konbini never closes. Never turns its back on you. Not when the city sleeps, not when you forget how to.

7-Eleven and FamilyMart own the corners. Like Coca and Pepsi, like McDonald’s and Burger King. A rivalry in which I haven’t picked sides yet. Tonight, my favorite is whichever is the closest. Maybe, in time, I’ll grow loyal to one. But not for the products—for what they represent.

A place that asks for nothing and gives you everything.

The konbini makes me feel a familiarity I shouldn’t. Why does this feel like a homecoming when the labels look like hieroglyphs, and even the pictures on the packages are enigmas to me? Maybe it’s the store’s layout, designed so that everything is within effortless reach. Or the kindness of the cashiers, greeting me with a slight bow and repeating words I don’t understand—but somehow, they reassure me.

Language doesn’t matter here. I know exactly what to do. I walk through the aisles on muscle memory, as if I’ve known this place forever. A home that’s never been mine but feels like it could’ve been. A place where you can get lost without feeling lost.

When I leave, I realize I didn’t buy much, but I walk away with something else. Something that has no price and can’t be put inside a bag.

I step back into the night with the certainty that, for a moment, I wasn’t alone. In a world that mistakes connection for Wi-Fi, sometimes that’s enough.

On nights like this, the konbini isn’t just a store. It’s an emergency room for the loneliness epidemic. And in these fractured times, we are all solo travelers.

They didn’t sell me a cure because that’s not something you can put inside a bottle. But for the price of a cup of tea, they gave me twenty minutes where I felt like I wasn’t the only one lost inside this world.

Maybe that’s why I always choose the largest cup.

Forcing work is slavery.

Forcing belief is brainwashing.

Forcing others is wrong. But what about forcing yourself?

We call it discipline.


Force yourself to exercise, and you’ll get fit.

Force yourself to practice, and you’ll be competent.

Force yourself to meditate, and you’ll find peace.


But there’s a trap. Did you see it?

Forcing doesn’t make you anything, it’s the doing which does.

Forcing builds discipline, but forcing isn’t discipline.

So, what is discipline? Discipline is choosing to act in line with your values. Not out of fear, but with intention.

It’s action without resistance.

It’s freedom.

But if no one but myself was forcing me to exercise, why wasn’t I free?

There’s a voice in my head.

It doesn’t sound fully like me, but who else could it be?

Let’s call this voice Daniel, like my middle name.

Daniel doesn’t yell. He whispers what we should or shouldn’t do.

• “We should go to the gym.”

• “We shouldn’t eat that.”

• “We should control ourselves.”
  

Quiet enough to feel like my own thoughts, loud enough to pull my strings.

He never uses direct threats because fear is always more effective.

‘If you skip the gym, you’ll get fat. And if you’re fat, no one will love you.’

Last week, my body said: Enough.

Fever. Aches. No energy.

I decided to skip the gym. A break for my body, but never for my mind.

It sparked the same old battle with Daniel.

I always gave him what he wanted. It felt easier than arguing.

Like giving a toy to a tantruming child, I gave Daniel a dumbbell to play with. And he’d shut up, for a while.

But something had shifted. A rebellion had been cooking inside for years.

Enough was enough.

I didn’t get sick. I was sick of Daniel.

Begging for permission to rest, I felt pathetic.

My body, my life, my freedom. They should have been mine but they didn’t feel like that.

Fuck Daniel. Who was he to dictate my life?

Was I angry at Daniel or angry at myself for listening to him?

I started wondering: Who invited this guy?

Daniel’s voice wasn’t just a product of my imagination. He sounded too much like someone I knew.

When I was 13, my mom forced me to exercise because of my cholesterol.

She meant well. What parent doesn’t want a healthy child?

But it wasn’t just about health.

Subtle judgments about food and weight run in my family.

My mom is a victim of those patterns too.

We bond over workouts and recipes, dressing up vanity as health.

But deep down, we know what it’s really about: the pain of never feeling good enough.

Daniel sounded like my mom because he is my mom.

Not the words she said to me, but the ones she whispered to herself.

I was just a kid parroting what I saw. But I’m an adult now too.

Living as Daniel is misery. Pretending he doesn’t exist? Suppression.

Daniel isn’t going away. But he’s not in charge anymore.

My full name is Pablo Daniel. See, Pablo comes first.

Pablo was the voice I ignored. The voice that was always mine.

Now, Pablo’s at the wheel.

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In Vietnam, I’m surrounded by faces, but no one truly sees me. I’m the invisible man.

I make eye contact with the waiter and smile. She walks toward me, and I wave her off before she asks if I want another coffee or the check. That’s what she’s used to. But I don’t need another drink. I need a piece of human connection.

I chose this: the sabbatical, the country, this life. I’m out of my comfort zone, and it’s uncomfortable in ways I wasn’t ready for. Not because of the food, the language, or how risky it feels to cross the street here.

But because it’s forcing me to confront something I don’t want to face: my need to feel seen.

I want what you want. What we all want.

To be noticed. To matter.

We all light up when someone truly sees us. A text from that special person. A terrible meme from a friend that still robs you of a smile. A voice message from your mom asking, “How did the doctor’s appointment go? “. The kind of small gestures you didn’t realize you needed.

Like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, I’ve built my own Wilsons to keep me grounded.

The waiter at the restaurant where I eat every day. The people in my CrossFit class. Familiar faces that fill the void are the pacifier for the loneliness I forgot to pack.

If I disappeared tomorrow, they wouldn’t notice. But the more they see me, the more I become real to them. Not just another passing tourist, but a person. That’s what I’ve always loved about staying somewhere long enough to become a “local.”

When the waiter knows your name, notices when you are not there for long, and asks if you want the usual, it’s a unique sense of belonging. It’s the closest most of us will ever get to the good part of fame: being seen, recognized, remembered, but without the scrutiny or the pressure.

My new acquaintances are placeholders. Mannequins keeping the chair of my social life warm. They see me, but they don’t know me.

It reminds me of someone I saw years ago. A security guard, sitting alone in a hotel hallway. His job was to exist, to fill a chair. A scarecrow made of meat.

I wondered about his life. What filled his thoughts during those endless hours? But he was in a trance.

The Schrödinger guard, both dead and alive.

Every time I passed, I smiled and said hi. I wanted him to know that I saw him. Maybe, just maybe, that tiny interaction could pierce the stillness and remind him he was human.

We know nothing about others' internal world. A smile costs me nothing, and it can keep the guard away from doing something foolish when he is alone at home during the night.

Here in Vietnam, I’ve become the security guard. Floating, unseen, through a world that doesn’t know I exist.

But something shifts as I’m typing these words. The loneliness doesn’t go away, but it becomes lighter, less sharp. I feel visible again. Not to the world, but to myself.

And it has nothing to do with you, my friend. You might not exist, and it wouldn’t matter. This feeling comes from something deeper.

Writing pulls what's buried into the light. It’s an exhausting struggle, but it matters.

Because even if no one else sees what I write, I do. Writing is the mirror. A place where I meet myself, face truths I can’t ignore, and remind myself that I exist.

I’m no longer floating. I’m anchored. Seen, if only by myself.

And isn’t that what we all want? To be seen, as we truly are.

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I’ve been traveling solo in Vietnam for only two weeks, and time feels warped when you’re far from home.

I’ve tried the food, visited the temples, kept myself busy with writing, reading, and the gym. Always moving from one thing to the next. But when the distractions run out, you start to hear it: the pressing sound of silence.

I thought I knew how to be alone. But have you ever been stripped of everything you use to fill your time? No job. No routines. No chores. No friends to call. No identity to hide behind.

I’m discovering a new kind of loneliness.

When the silence became unbearable, I fell back on the one thing I knew: exercise. CrossFit, the gym, 10,000 steps. I push myself so hard that I’m too tired to think. Too tired to feel.

Funny how running is my least favorite exercise, except when it’s about running away from myself.

When I exercise, I never feel alone. Because with me is my coach: the man in the mirror.

The man who always pushes me for an extra rep.

The man who forces me to exercise every day.

The man who measures worth through effort.

He looks back at me with that familiar stare, the one that whispers: You’ll never be fit enough. Never lean enough. Never enough.

My way of accepting my body has always been to perfect it. To push it, shape it, control it. I’ve told myself that if I could just get there—wherever “there” is—I’d finally be okay with who I am. I’d finally feel like enough.

But that moment never comes. The man in the mirror is never satisfied. I dream of Tyler Durden’s abs in Fight Club, but I’m not Brad Pitt, and this isn’t a fucking movie.

I don’t want to keep running. But I don’t want to go back to what I know either.

Have you ever seen those people who live in tornado areas? Every few years, a tornado comes and blows their house away. They rebuild. Another tornado. The same cycle. Over and over.

Why don’t they move? Because it’s home. Because even though it’s not safe, it feels safe.

Well, that’s what my relationship with my body is. Familiar but destructive. Comfortable but painful.

But I’m fed up. I’m packing up my emotions and moving away from home.

I’m tired of thinking about my body every second of every day. I’m tired of seeing him in every reflection. I’m tired of being myself.

Maybe, like an alcoholic, this is something I’ll carry with me forever, but today, I’m getting sober.

I see now why the man in the mirror was there. He made me feel in control when the world wasn’t.

But that control is controlling me.

I don’t want to live a life measured in calories. I want to ask myself what I want to eat, not what I should. To walk for the view, not for the steps. To enjoy food without guilt.

When people ask me if I like Vietnam, I don’t know what to say. But I’m starting to like myself.

And maybe that’s why I came here. Not to disappear. Not to reinvent myself. Not to be alone, but to make a new friend.

To get to know him.

The man in the mirror.

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They’ve already made the mistakes. They know what works.

Does that feel like cheating? It’s not.

You’re still the one making the pizza.

Help isn’t a shortcut.
It’s an accelerator.

When I was younger, more arrogant and stupid, I thought I was smart enough to teach myself anything.

The first time I tried to learn piano, I used YouTube. Trial and error.

It didn’t work and I ended up quitting.

I was doing two jobs. Being the student and the teacher.

I didn’t know what to practice or how to fix mistakes. Worst of all, I didn’t even know what I was doing wrong. I was too close to my own mistakes to spot them.

I wasn’t learning to play the piano. I was learning how to teach piano.

Everything changed when I hired a teacher. I could just focus all my energy on practicing instead of researching.

Learning instead of doubting.

Every time I go skiing, I hire an instructor.

Last time, he asked, “What do you want to improve?”

“You tell me.” I said.

We skied one slope. At the bottom, he said, ‘I see 20 things you can improve, but I’ll only tell you one.’ He knew how teaching works: throwing everything at me would overwhelm me.

The right guidance gives you focus. And focus gives you progress.

That’s when I realized: if one teacher can accelerate progress, why settle for only one?

When learning Italian, I experimented with three teachers. Different accents. Different methods. Different personalities.

I finally settled on one but using what worked best from all the others.
Experimenting is necessary to find what works for us.

Can’t afford a teacher? Start small. Trade time instead of money. Swap skills.

Find a teenager practicing their English while you practice your Italian.

You only need someone who’s one step ahead of you.

The benefits of getting help are obvious. So why did I resist it for so long?

My logic was: If independence is a strength, dependance must be a weakness.

But help isn’t weakness. It’s a strategy.

A lever that multiplies your effort.

It doesn’t take the work away, it just makes it easier.

Let me ask you something: Have you ever finished an online course?

Neither did I.

The reason is not about the tips and tricks.

The key is the word synergy.

We aren’t just wired for growth. We’re wired for connection.

That’s why people love CrossFit but hate going to the gym alone.

Alone you can go fast, but if you want to go far you go together.

We avoid asking for help because it feels vulnerable.

What will they think of me?

But here’s a better way to see it: What will they think of themselves?

The thing you’re afraid to ask for? Others are dying to share it.

Imagine someone at the gym coming up to you and saying, “Dude, you’re ripped. What’s your routine?”

How would you feel?

When you ask, you’re not just getting answers. You’re showing someone that their journey matters. That their knowledge has value.

I love sports, and when I look at top athletes, I never see them alone.

A coach. A physiotherapist. A nutritionist.

An athlete isn’t just one person. They’re an entire team.

Even Rocky didn’t do it alone. Mickey gave him grit. Apollo gave him focus.

They pushed him to go further than he thought he could.

You don’t need to be an athlete to think like one.

What’s your biggest goal right now?

And more important, who’s in your corner?

This isn’t about hiring experts. It’s about letting go of the idea that you’re in this alone.

Isolation is the goal killer.

I still think I’m smart enough to teach myself anything.

But the smartest thing I’ve learned? To ask for help.

The world’s largest pizza has: 6,193 kilograms of dough, 2,244 kilograms of sauce, and 3,992 kilograms of cheese.

Do you really think you can feed 40,000 people on your own?

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Not because I had all the answers.

But because I needed to find them.


My first stop: Hanoi.

Not as a tourist, but as a trial for the nomad life.

The plan was simple.

Four days in the Old Quarter, then three weeks in a quieter apartment in West Lake.

I wanted to see if this life was for me.

It wasn’t.

Hanoi suffocates.

Breathing the world’s most polluted air feels like smoking.

The noise is relentless and the honking from the scooters drown every thought.

I left the Dutch winter to be outdoors and to regain focus.

Hanoi gave me a N95 mask and earplugs.

Three sleepless nights was all I could take before buying another flight.

Some might call that a failure.

I call it clarity.

A micro experiment saves you from big mistakes.

It buys certainty without betting everything.

This isn’t the first time I’ve used experiments to navigate big decisions.

In 2022, I bought a piano. Took lessons for a year. Sold it.

In 2023, I studied Italian for six months. Achieved B2. Moved on.

Long-term commitment is hard. It’s saying yes to one thing and no to the rest.

Daring becomes less daunting when you replace “no” with “not now.”

Micro experiments aren’t an excuse to quit. They’re the filter that separates what’s worth pursuing from what’s not.

How do you know what’s worth it? You feel it.

After a year of piano lessons, I still had to force myself to practice. Not once did I sit and play for the joy of it. That was my answer.

Micro experiments aren’t free, but they buy what no amount of research ever can: how a decision feels to you.

Every risk changes you.

Every experiment reshapes your self-image.

Each step forward proves one thing: “If I did that, I can do this too.”

That’s how you want to be remembered:

As someone who,

when it mattered,

went for it.

When they ask, “What’s your plan?”

Just say, “I’m figuring it out one step at a time.”

No one expects you to have a full plan. But that’s no excuse for not taking action.

People rarely think as badly of you as you think of yourself.

While you worry about coming across as a flake, they’re admiring your courage.

They wish they had your guts to try.

For them, uncertainty is a solid wall.

For you, it’s a glass door where you can see the opportunities behind it.

Once you see, it’s not about courage anymore. It’s about clarity.

To them, it’s crazy to try.

To you, it’s crazy not to.

After my trip to Asia, my next experiment is set: one month as a barista.

I’ve dreamed of opening a café for years. This is how I’ll learn the ropes: Making minimum wage and maximum learning.

I’ll be a spy in an apron, taking notes, asking questions, and seeing what it really takes to run a café, not the fantasy I imagine as a customer.

Like playing a café simulator game with no risk and all reward.

Or maybe cafés aren’t for me. That’s the point.

Micro experiments replace illusions with reality.

Better to fail fast and cheap than to pursue something you just thought you wanted.

That’s the beauty of experiments. They move you forward. Or sideways.

But never stuck in limbo.

Decide in the field, not in a lab.

No amount of reading could’ve taught me what I learned in three days.

Leaving Hanoi wasn’t just about escaping the smog.

It was about following my gut instead of a plan.

You can measure pollution in numbers, but numbers can’t tell you how it feels to breathe, to live, to be there.

So I’ll keep experimenting.

Next stop: Nha Trang.

Two days booked.

Let’s see what happens.

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Like a street dog guarding its food.

I walk fast, with a sense of purpose.

Even when there’s nowhere to go.

Some people live a slow life. Painfully slow.

They blink slowly. Talk slowly. Move slowly.

It drives me crazy.

But what if they’re right?

Growing up in Buenos Aires, I never questioned the pace.

It felt normal. But normal isn’t always right.

People walk like they’re running late.

Even the air feels impatient.

Every place has its own tempo.

In big cities, people move faster. It’s proven.

Speed becomes a habit you don’t question.

But speed isn’t the same as direction.

A flight from New York to London spans 3,500 miles.

If the pilot is 5 degrees off course, the plane doesn’t land in London.

It lands in Lisbon.

1,000 miles away.

Small errors in direction compound exponentially.

They don’t take you slightly off track.

They take you somewhere else entirely.

For the first time in my life, I stopped to ask where I’m going.

Not just how fast I’m getting there.

What if I’m moving at full speed but in the wrong direction?

What if slowing down is my chance to course-correct?

But how?

Nobody tells you how.

Meditation, journaling, yoga.

The promise of mindfulness becomes a task.

It helps, until it doesn’t.

I need to change my mind.

A steady drip of consciousness that keeps me awake to life.

What if I slowed everything down 5%?

Not 50%. Not 25%.

Just 5.

Not to calm myself down, but to save my life from going somewhere I don’t want to be.

Slowing down isn’t just about speed. It’s about creating space.

Space to think, to choose, to be.

Between stimulus and response there is a space.

In that space is our power to choose our response.

In our response lies our growth and our freedom.

Viktor Frankl.

5% is a slower breath.

It’s the pause between bites.

The quiet moment before you answer.

It’s writing your name slowly, feeling the pen over the paper.

It’s staring at your coffee as it cools.

It takes no more than 5%.

It’s the manual override.

Your chance to reprogram your brain.

Stop.

Lift your head. Look around.

Are you happy with where you’re going?

Yes? Then keep going.

No? Now you know.

Until you make the unconscious conscious,

it will direct your life,

and you will call it fate.

Carl Jung.

I’ve stopped running toward nowhere.

Now, I see the next step ahead.

Do you see yours?

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