15/5/25 Fiona, the friend who felt like we’d always known each other

Shikin Xu
3 days ago
10 min read

On my first morning in Cusco, I had a rather emotionally intense conversation. Combined with some altitude sickness and a lingering headache, I didn’t feel quite like myself—definitely not at a hundred percent.

After getting up, I ate some fruit and sat on the balcony, letting the sun warm my skin. Slowly, I started to feel a little better.

I wandered around the local markets and found myself drawn to two pieces of clothing. Unsurprisingly, they turned out to be the most expensive ones—of course, haha. I didn’t plan on buying them now though. I want to explore a bit more, to see what else catches my eye. It made me think of how I used to travel.

Back then, whenever I saw something beautiful, I had the impulse to buy it—almost like holding on to beauty by owning it. But now, I only choose the things I truly love, the ones I know I’ll want to carry with me for a long time. Things that will become part of my journey, not just souvenirs from it.

Last night, I booked my ticket back to Lima. I’ve decided to stay in Cusco for a full two weeks. There’s something about this place—it feels spiritual, grounded. I’m not in a rush for anything.

After leaving Buenos Aires—my second home—I realize I need a moment to rest. A place that allows my heart to return to itself, rather than jumping immediately into new discoveries and connections.

This trip feels different.

In the past, even though I was never actively looking for connections, I would always end up meeting new people along the way—sometimes friends, sometimes a fleeting romance—and we’d share a part of the road together.

But this time, I don’t feel that pull.

And that, too, feels like something new.

A quieter kind of joy.

Right now, I’m sitting here, looking out at this city surrounded by mountains. The sunlight pours down, and I feel a sense of peace—like I’m connected to myself. As I type slowly, I can feel my heart gradually settling.

I remember a few years ago, in another mountain city—San Cristóbal. Back then, I was restless. I felt cold, lonely, and often had the urge to escape.

Looking back, I think part of that came from my yearning for a sense of “home,” something to fill an unnamed emptiness inside me. But perhaps the way I traveled back then also played a role—staying in hostels, living as a backpacker.

I do love the backpacking lifestyle. There’s something freeing and vivid about throwing yourself into the rhythm of an unfamiliar city, crossing paths with people from entirely different worlds, sharing short bursts of time and stories. Those memories are ones I hold dear. That openness led me to a few unforgettable friendships (for some reason, most of them French, haha).

But at this moment in my life, that way of traveling doesn’t quite match my inner rhythm. I want quiet space. I want to feel the pulse of this country on my own terms—by walking through local markets, tasting a bowl of soup from a street corner, watching the sun dip behind a tiled rooftop, by myself. Not to “meet someone,” not to “do something,” but simply to be—with myself. I want to give my inner world time to settle.

I’ve tried staying in hotels, but they often feel too detached. Like neatly packaged containers—there’s a bed, a lamp—but none of the textures of life. What I long for now is a space that carries a sense of everydayness. That’s why Airbnb feels right. It’s like a temporary home nestled inside a city—not quite a stranger’s place, not quite mine, but something in between. It gives me solitude without cutting me off from the intimacy of local life.

I can sip Peruvian coffee on a balcony, flip through the old books my host left behind, or come home after a day of wandering, wrap myself in a blanket, eat fresh fruit under the night sky, and write—quietly, slowly, freely.

Right now, I have so many things I want to write.

But most of all, I want to write about my friend, Fiona.

The way we met was pretty special.

That evening, Andrey was hosting a burger night. Our Polish friend happened to be visiting Buenos Aires, and one of my former lovers—now a very close friend—had flown in from Germany to see me. We all gathered at Andrey’s place and brought along a bottle of red wine, only to realize he didn’t have a wine opener.

We were sitting on the terrace when we noticed a light on upstairs. So Andrey and I decided to knock on the neighbor’s door to ask if we could borrow one.

That neighbor turned out to be Fiona.

From the moment I met her, I felt that I know I like her.

She had this open-hearted energy, curious and gentle eyes, and wild, expressive eyebrows. There was something about her that felt both adventurous and critical—like her spirit held both fire and depth.

She is smart, funny, kind, and quietly powerful.

And, funnily enough, the first thing we truly bonded over… was disliking the same guy.

At that party, there was this man going on and on, pompously dismissing Simone de Beauvoir, claiming everything she wrote was nonsense. Fiona and I exchanged a glance—and without saying a word, we both knew exactly what the other was thinking:

He clearly hadn’t even read The Second Sex. Just another performative guy pretending to be deep. What a pretentious idiot.

After the party, we exchanged contact info, not long after, she left for a trip to Europe.

Later on, Fiona returned to Buenos Aires—right around the time of my birthday. I had told everyone to bring a dish that represented their culture, and that night turned out to be pure magic. Maybe I’ll write about it in more detail another time.

Fiona and I weren’t particularly close yet, but I had this quiet, clear feeling: I want to invite her.

So I did.

She came with her then “just a friend” boyfriend and her childhood bestie. She made panqueques con dulce de leche in Argentine style, and also a Dutch-inspired version—apple dutch baby sprinkled with sugar, thin apple slices, and maybe cinnamon?

I honestly can’t remember if there was cinnamon, but I do remember how tasty they were.

I’ve always felt like I exist somewhere between introversion and extroversion—usually leaning more toward quietness in a group. But that night, my home was wrapped in an atmosphere of love and sunlight.

I felt as if I were bathed in the light of my friends, and in turn, I could radiate warmth effortlessly. What brought me so much joy was seeing how my friends—from different circles—naturally connected with each other.

We came from different countries, different lives, but that evening, at my home, we shared something tender and bright, love.

Later, on a hot summer day in Buenos Aires, I went over to her place to cool off in the pool and ended up meeting two of her other friends.

Then came Lunar New Year—I hosted a little gathering, and she came with a few friends to celebrate with us.

After that, she helped me move.

Then one day, we went out for pizza and ice cream.

And then… there was that beautiful midsummer weekend.

She invited me to Santa Fe, to her family home. We spent a few days together with her loved ones, and it ended up becoming one of the happiest weekends I had in Buenos Aires.

The day before we left, I accidentally cut my finger—but that part of the story I’ve written about here. [Click here]

At 7:30 in the morning, I strapped on my backpack and headed to Fiona’s place—we were about to start our girls' road trip. On the way, we joked that we were like Thelma and Louise, off on some slightly chaotic, slightly magical adventure.

Four hours later, we arrived.

It was the hottest day of the year—44°C.

Her family welcomed us with homemade pasta and ice cream for dessert, and I brought chocolate from Ecuador—it was the kind of simple happiness that felt almost too perfect.

After lunch, everyone went off for a little siesta. I was so exhausted—probably from the stress of having cut my finger the day before—and now, finally feeling safe and relaxed, I completely knocked out. I slept for hours.

When I woke up, it was already dark outside.

Later on, once we’d become closer, Fiona told me she was genuinely a bit worried I had “dropped dead or something,” hahahaha.

As night fell, the house came alive again. I thought we were winding down and heading to bed, but no—her family was just getting started on dinner prep.

Of course: asado, Argentine barbecue.

At eleven, we sat outside in the garden, surrounded by the sounds of crickets and birds, and finally started dinner—so typically Argentine. We gathered around the long table, talking about everything and nothing, Spanish and English flowing in and out like waves. Her family was just like her—warm, genuine, funny, full of heart.

We drank clericó—a refreshing mix of white wine, fruit, sugar, and ice—and let ourselves melt into the soft countryside night, slow and fresh and full of ease.

A fun little anecdote: her family once hosted Prince Philip of the United Kingdom. And somehow—I still can’t believe this—I was invited to sign the same guestbook that had once held his signature. What a surreal moment.

The next morning, I slipped into the pool wearing my bikini. Because my hand was still injured, I spent the entire swim holding up my left hand, slowly pacing through the water like I was doing some kind of absurd performance art. Her hippie mom burst out laughing and joked,“Shikin’s swimming the whole time with middle finger up!”We couldn’t stop laughing.

Later, Fiona’s mom made coffee and brought out some pastries, and the three of us sat around, sipping and nibbling in the morning sunshine.

Then I pulled out my watercolor set and said, “Let’s paint.”

And so we did.

Fiona sat at the edge of the pool, while her mom and I stood in the water, all three of us painting under the sun. Five dogs and one cat kept running around us, occasionally splashing our papers with water, messing everything up.

It was perfect in its own way.

At noon, we had asado again. Pure joy.

After lunch, her aunt took my measurements and said she was going to make me a tango dress.

Then all the tías started “directing” our girls' photo shoot—deciding our positions, the framing, even coaching our smiles. By the end of it, Fiona and I were nearly losing it, politely but firmly refusing to take any more photos. It was hilarious—honestly, I’m convinced all the world’s tías (which in my mind includes every aunt, grandaunt, and honorary older female relative) are the same: equal parts adorable and completely over-the-top.

Finally, it was time to head back to Buenos Aires.

On the road, we sang like we were in a karaoke booth, talked and laughed until our stomachs hurt, and sometimes sat in comfortable silence. Everything felt just right.

When she dropped me off at home and I opened the front door, I noticed that the ivy by my doorway had grown taller—as if it, too, had been quietly recording the magic of this sunlit weekend.

After that, we started seeing each other from time to time.

I’d bring over homemade pilaf to her place—she’d just gotten back from the gym and would head straight to the shower, while I stayed in the kitchen, surrounded by the familiar scent of spices, the whole space quietly filled with a sense of calm.

One time, we met up for coffee on a rainy day. Just as we sat down, an older woman started singing opera at the entrance—and while she was really good, she was also really loud. We could barely hear each other and ended up just smiling at the absurdity of it all.

Another time, we decided to make one of my new favorite desserts—turrón de chocolate. We melted chocolate, mixed in oats, chatted away in the kitchen, and even asked ChatGPT relationship advice.

Sometimes, we’d organize little Girls’ Movie Nights with her friends.

Other days, we’d go to exhibitions together, slowly wandering through museums.

We’d eat those old-school sandwiches that tasted like something straight out of another decade—oddly nostalgic, oddly perfect.

Then, she came over to help me sort through clothes for my upcoming travels.

And then, she came to my farewell.

She stayed until the very end.

Later on, she and my dear friend Dani took me to the airport.

The two of them are the kind of friends who carry both love and light—wise, warm, and radiant. They stood beside me through so many moments of change, witnessing my growth and transformation during my time in Buenos Aires.

That day at the airport, even though there was sadness in our eyes, what I felt in my heart after hugging them…was a deep and quiet sense of fullness.

A kind of peace that only love leaves behind.

I know that our friendship isn’t the kind that shakes the heavens or stirs the soul in dramatic ways. It’s more like a quietly flowing stream—gentle, clear, and natural.

We showed up in each other’s lives not with crashing waves, but by softly filling a tender, unspoken space.

She has a way of being there just when I need her—not to "save" me, but with a simple, steady kind of presence that says: “I get it.”

And when either of us falls into self-doubt or starts to forget our worth,we show up for each other, again and again,gently but firmly saying, “That’s not true.”

Time spent with her is always honest, simple, and unexpectedly comforting.

There’s no need to carefully prepare topics, no need to tiptoe around boundaries.

It’s the kind of space where you’re simply allowed to breathe—to just be yourself, exactly as you are.

We’ve both shed the immaturity of our younger years—weathered a few storms, and learned, at times, how to stand on our own in rough waters.

But neither of us has become the fully polished, worldly “older sister” type just yet.

There’s a kind of quiet light in her—a kind that feels real.

Sometimes, she reminds me of someone with that old money elegance. Not in the sense of luxury or extravagance, but in something deeper: a calm, understated richness—in taste, in spirit, in presence. The way she speaks carries a grounded sense of self, as if she knows who she is and where she comes from, and no need to prove it to anybody.

But more often, we’re just like two girls from our school days—rambling about things. We trade the kinds of secrets we once thought were too embarrassing to admit out loud, now saying them with shameless honesty, only to burst into laughter seconds later.

We talk about the absurdity of love, the confusion of growing up, the aches in our bodies, the texture of loneliness.

I remember that at my farewell, she gave me a beautifully thoughtful gift—an elegant bracelet, and a watercolor painting she had made herself.

On the back of the painting, she had written a note.

She said that while framing it, she realized something: life, like watercolor, is made up of layers. Every experience, every person who enters our lives leaves a trace—adding a new shade, a new hue to who we are.

Each painting, each soul we encounter, quietly shifts the palette we carry inside us, over time, each layer begins to glisten in the light of memory—clearer, more fragile, and more alive.

And I know that in our own ways, we’ve become part of each other’s canvas—leaving behind strokes of color that will never quite fade.