This morning began with the news that Mexico’s beloved Paquita la del Barrio had passed away. Paquita was more than a singer—she was a voice for Mexican women, delivering sharp, witty, and fearless lyrics about the realities of machismo. Her song Rata de Dos Patas (Rat with Two Feet) came to mind, and I listened again, appreciating just how clever and biting it is.

Thinking of Paquita led me to another powerhouse: the incredible Spanish singer Rocío Jurado. Back in the ’70s, I heard her perform Ese Hombre Que Ves Ahí, a song where she warns us about a man’s true nature—vain, deceitful, and undoubtedly a heartbreaker. I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many ways to describe a despicable man in a single song! Rocío delivered it with such fire and conviction.

That song, in turn, reminded me of Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain. It wasn’t a love interest that made this song meaningful for me, but rather a former boss—an absurdly handsome yet utterly traicionero man. One Christmas, he had us wrap dozens of presents for his many girlfriends, all of whom believed they were the one. Carly Simon’s lyrics felt like justice set to music, and we all loved the song for it.

One thought led to another, and soon I found myself on my YouTube channel, where I store music I love. I stumbled across a long-saved documentary about Django Reinhardt and decided to watch it again. What a treasure. The film beautifully weaves together Django’s life, Roma culture, and the rich musical world that grew around him. His son, Babik, narrates, and so many talented Roma musicians—some I’ve admired for years, others new to me—play and speak about their craft. Their passion is palpable, and they are accompanied by their wives and children, making the film feel like an intimate gathering rather than just a documentary.

Much of it is set in Samois-sur-Seine, where Django spent his final years. I visited in 2019, and the memory of that place—its natural beauty, its traditions—came rushing back. I’d love to return someday and immerse myself in its quiet magic again.

It was a morning filled with music, nostalgia, and unexpected connections—a perfect way to start the day. And now, I’m enjoying my oatmeal with walnuts, raspberries, banana, and dates. A delicious ending to a morning well spent.

​Yesterday, a Lyft ride to my bone density exam turned into an unexpectedly rich conversation. My driver, a man from Algeria, and I began chatting, and at some point, I mentioned that my knowledge of his country mostly came from L’Étranger by Albert Camus—read long ago but still lingering in memory. He perked up, intrigued. “Oh, my mother is a professor of French literature. She would love to hear that you’ve read Camus and know something about Algeria.”


That gave me an opening to mention The Meursault Investigation, a more recent novel that flips L’Étranger on its head, telling the story from the perspective of the unnamed Arab victim’s family—people who, in Camus’ book, never received so much as an acknowledgment of their loss. My driver lit up with excitement, immediately taking a photo of the cover on my Audible app. Then I laughed and pointed out that the author’s first name, Kamel was the same as his. It was a small but delightful coincidence, and he seemed eager to tell his mother about this unexpected literary discussion with a passenger.


Lately, I’ve felt a bit isolated, not just physically—being mostly homebound with multiple spinal compression fractures—but intellectually, too. I was just telling my son how rare it is to stumble into conversations that interest me. Most casual exchanges seem to revolve around TV shows or social media, and I sometimes feel that my interests—French literature, Latin American fiction, Portuguese writers—don’t make for great small talk. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe, every so often, if I reach out, I’ll find someone equally eager to engage. Yesterday proved that.


On the ride home, another driver, this time from Ethiopia, shared his own story. He had just returned from a visit to his family, and I mentioned a friend of mine who had lived as a child in a remote Ethiopian village in the 1950s when his father was working in literacy training. I wondered aloud how much that small village might have changed over the years.


My driver, Frank, nodded knowingly. He had visited his old neighborhood in Addis Ababa, eager to see his childhood church—the heart of his community when he was growing up. But when he arrived, he couldn’t find it. The little church had been swallowed by the city, buried behind high-rises, banks, and modern businesses. He had to search to locate it. It was still there, and stepping inside brought a sense of familiarity, but the world outside had shifted so dramatically that it no longer felt like the same place.


This resonated deeply with me. I’ve spent a lot of time in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and when I first moved into my apartment there over a decade ago, I had a lovely little view from my back balcony. I could see the rooftops, the dome of the Basilica, and even another small church peeking through. It felt like a glimpse into the rhythm of the neighborhood—the hills, the life unfolding below. Now, all I see is construction. Eleven- and twelve-story buildings have completely blocked what was once a window into the town I loved. Walking down Basilio Badillo, a street I used to cherish, I hardly recognize it. The small local shops and family-run restaurants have been replaced by sleek, modern businesses catering to tourists. And I find myself wondering—what was it, exactly, that I loved about this place? If I stay long enough, I still find traces of it, but the tranquility I once felt there is harder to come by. Maybe I just have to find a place in my mind for that tranquility instead.


Now, back home in Oakland, mostly confined by my back pain, I spend a lot of time simply looking out at my garden. The bamboo sways gently in the winter wind, and in that quiet moment, I feel a deep sense of peace. The world is changing fast—places, landscapes, conversations—but there is still something to be found in stillness.


So maybe that’s the key: turn down the noise and focus on something beautiful.