20/4/25 Easter Fragments

Just around the corner from my house, there’s a tiny café I love—cozy and green, with exposed brick walls and a quiet palette of deep green and black. The large floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft daylight, and from inside, you can see a beautiful residential building just across the street.

Some of the seats have soft leather cushions and pillows, perfect for sinking into. I chose a particularly comfortable spot—not right by the window, but just close enough to overlook the whole street corner. I could see people walking by, cars passing, and leaves drifting gently through the air. It felt like I had quietly stolen a calm moment from the loud and intense Buenos Aires.

They had a few interesting books lying around, and I picked up one called La melancólica muerte de Chico Ostra (The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy), by Tim Burton. It was a small, strange little book—tinged with dark humor, a bit absurd, a bit gloomy, and oddly adorable, like a bedtime story dressed in a gothic coat.

I didn’t order coffee—after 3 p.m., I stay away from caffeine. Otherwise, I’d be lying in bed wide awake at 3 a.m., and grumpy as hell the next day. Thankfully, this café serves hot chocolate. After triple-checking that it wouldn’t be too sweet, I ordered a cup, along with medialunas con jamon y queso.

Pure joy!

The hot chocolate arrived piping hot, the milk foam whipped to a silky perfection. The first sip melted through me. The food was just right too—slightly sweet, slightly salty, slightly fatty.

But honestly?

Who cares!

It's autumn.

In my ears, Pat Metheny’s Are You Going With Me? was playing.

And I can’t even begin to describe the kind of quiet, full-hearted peace I felt in this moment.

It truly felt like I was living inside a dream.

This morning, as soon as I woke up, I tossed all the laundry into the washing machine. Sunlight was streaming in, and right on cue, the neighbor’s cat showed up—loud and assertive as usual. Her meow always sounds a little like she’s here to collect a debt.

Sometimes I pull her into my arms, sometimes I laugh and say, “Callate, shut up!”

Today, I let her in again. Held her for a while. She purred like nothing else mattered.

These cats—well, there are three different ones who drop by my place from time to time. I don’t know their names, nor who they actually belong to. I’ve never tried to name the cats—I mean, who am I to name such free little creatures? They choose to cross paths with me, maybe only once, or maybe a few times—and that, already, feels like a small and beautiful thing.

A kind of passing affection. Fleeting, sweet.

So I call them all miaomiao.

Not as a name—more like a conversational prelude. Before I speak to them, I always start with “miaomiao.” Just like how Argentinians often begin a sentence with che (a friendly “hey”), or how in Mandarin we might say “nèige…”—a hesitation word, similar to “uhh” or “let me think”—or how English speakers start with “so” or “you know?”, or how in Japanese, there’s “ano…”, which also means “um…” or “well…” when you’re pausing to find your words.

They’re all soft little breath-marks before a thought.

A gentle knock on the door before a sentence begins.

Miaomiao is how I open the space between me and them.

But before I get into the stories of these three visitors, I should probably start with myself: I’m allergic to cats.

Yes, truly.

It sounds dramatic, I know—but I used to have both a cat and a dog when I lived in Beijing. My cat’s name was Yǐ Jiǔ, and he was a gentle, goofy, sweet creature, with a character more like a dog than a cat.

In the springtime, we suffered together.

Conjunctivitis? Both of us.

Sneezing fits? In sync.

Itchy nasal passages? Absolutely.

We were seasonal allergy soulmates.

His name is Yǐ Jiǔ倚酒—a name layered in both sound and meaning.

My Chinese name is Xinyi (心仪). In an old poetic sense, it means "to admire," "to long for," or quite simply, to fall in love with. 

The 已久 (yǐ jiǔ) part means “already for a long time,” but spoken aloud, it sounds exactly like 倚酒—the name I gave my cat.

There’s a phrase in Chinese: 心仪已久, which means "I’ve admired her for a long time"—a kind of quiet, enduring affection.

But there’s more. The number 19 is my favorite—it’s pronounced yī jiǔ in Chinese, and it sounds nearly the same.

He got the name the very first time I saw him. He walked up to me, pressed himself softly against my leg, and began to purr—long and low, like he was drunk on some invisible warmth. There was something about him—tender, vulnerable, a little dreamy—that felt like someone who had leaned into love, or wine, or both.

And so he became Yǐ Jiǔ—my little drunk poet of a cat.

倚 means "to lean against," and 酒 means "alcohol." So Yǐ Jiǔ became his name.

Then there was this time—just last year—I went over to a friend’s place. He has a cat. That night, when I got back home, I broke out in rashes all over my body. My face turned red, and my mood tanked. I sat there scratching and sighing dramatically, thinking:

Maybe it’s my fate. I was born in the Year of the Rat—maybe I’m just cosmically incompatible with cats.

To be fair, I was genuinely afraid of cats when I was a kid.

There were a lot of strays in the neighborhood where I grew up. And these weren’t the soft, cuddly kind of cats you heard in my podcast. Most of them had likely been mistreated and had learned to be wary of humans.

One time, they even ate my pet rabbit.

Yes.

My friend.

The rabbit.

I think that alone gave me a bit of childhood trauma I still haven’t quite processed.

And then there was winter in Ürümqi. The darkness came early and lingered long. Mornings were reluctant, and by a little after 5 p.m., it already felt like midnight. I had to walk a dimly lit path to and from school every day.

Can you imagine? That thick, quiet kind of air—and out of nowhere, a cat suddenly darting out from behind a trash bin, green eyes flashing at you from the dark.

I was terrified.

So yeah, you could say that cats, to me, have always been a mix of allergy and anxiety.

It wasn’t until I was around twenty that something started to shift.

I remember one day, I took my younger cousin to meet a close friend of mine at a cafe. I was on my period and feeling kind of drained. There was a cat, and for some reason, she was incredibly curious about me—circling me, brushing against my legs like I had some secret message written on my skin. My friend took a photo of us. It ended up being the very first photo I ever had with a cat.

Later on, I somehow ended up having a cat of my own.

And then later still, I’m not sure if it was me who changed, or if cats changed me—but somehow, they just started showing up in my life. Always around.

In the little towns and villages I’ve lived in, cats would appear in my courtyard uninvited, like they’d always belonged there. Once, when I was living in Dahab, the mesh screen on my bedroom window had a small tear. One afternoon, a cat squeezed through it, leapt onto my bed, and curled up against me for a nap. I was startled—he wasn’t. He looked at me like, “Young lady, why you are so surprised? I live here.”

Even more absurd? He eventually started biting every friend who came over. He had clearly claimed me as her territory.

But let’s come back to my current home in Chacarita, and its miaomiao visitors.

Cat No. 1 was the first I noticed. She’s come by three or four times. Chubby, short-haired, grey. She walks with missions, like she’s got a to-do list. But she always gives me a few moments of affection before moving on. Sometimes I see her on the street just as I’m arriving home. She’ll trot over, give me a head-bump or a quick leg rub—like a scheduled check-in—and then off she goes again, all serious and brisk, as if saying, “Alright, that’s done. I’ve acknowledged you today.”

Cat No. 2 comes almost every day. I’m a night owl—I go out dancing at milongas—and nearly every time when I return home, she’s waiting for me. Sometimes in the courtyard, sometimes at my terrace. She’s always soft and warm, and as soon as she sees me, she flips over and shows me her belly like a freshly baked loaf of sweet bread.

I sit down, and she climbs onto my lap to knead and purr, purr, purr.

One night, it started pouring outside. I heard a faint meow by the window—it was her, soaked and shivering at my bedroom window. “Where’s your family?” I asked her.

I opened the window and brought her in, dried her off with a towel, and gave her a blanket. She curled up at my feet and fell asleep almost instantly.

Sometimes I forget to close the window at night, and in the morning, she jumps right in. I always shoo her out—I don’t like being woken up, no matter who it is. But even so, her presence has become a part of my daily rhythm. She’s like a tiny, sweet, clingy piece of gum—always waiting by the door, or appearing at the edge of my day. She gives off the vibe of someone with secure attachment—loving without hesitation, approaching without fear, expressing without doubt.

But then again, sometimes I wonder if it’s actually anxious attachment—because she can be so pushy, almost like she needs to constantly close the distance.

Maybe it’s both.

Cat No. 3 is new. A large tabby. I think he’s male.

He has this streetwise energy—strong, silent, alert.

The first time I saw him, it was dusk. I’d just stepped out to the gate. He was sitting on the wall. Our eyes met for a split second—just once—and then he bolted.

The second time, I was working at the dining table, staring into my laptop. The big glass door leading to the garden was open. He quietly crept up and watched me through the glass. I sensed someone watching, turned my head—and he vanished again.

The third time was in the early morning. I was brushing my teeth, half-awake, and glanced outside. He was sitting there on the wall—composed, waiting.

I gently opened the glass door, my mouth full of foam, and said, “Hey, hello, it’s you. We’ve seen each other a few times now, haven’t we? Do you remember me?”

He didn’t come closer. He just sat there, eyes wide open, perfectly still.

We had about three meters of air between us. He held his distance, but then something shifted—slowly, he began rubbing his face against the door frame, like he was flirting with it. Then he turned slightly, showed me his belly for a few seconds—and just like that, vanished again.

These cats, they come and go like the wind—leaving behind soft moments and elusive shadows.

And me? I’m just someone passing through their lives, a brief flicker in their world.

In this neighborhood, there’s only one person I truly know—my neighbor, Eduardo.

Eduardo is 73 years old. A gentleman with a deep love for life. He is an engineer, and he’s lived all over the world. His heart is open, his kindness effortless. He loves to sing, does Pilates regularly, and cooks healthy meals with real joy. He invites me to eat with him and his family from time to time—there’s always warmth at the table, the scent of something good in the air, quiet laughter in the room.

He reminds me of what family is around can feel like—an unexpected connection, found far away on the southern side of the world.

We only met once at first, just enough to exchange names. But one day, while I was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, I slipped. The knife cut deep—slicing through my finger and a big part of the nail. Blood rushed out instantly. I panicked, grabbed some gauze, tried to press down and stop it, but it just kept bleeding. I’d never lost that much blood before.

I heard footsteps in the hallway. Eduardo was about to head out. I ran outside and blurted out:

“Hola, Eduardo! Podrías ayudarme por favor?”

He turned back, and went to grab hydrogen peroxide and medical tape. He cleaned the wound efficiently, then wrapped it carefully while calmly explaining how to take care of it in the coming days.

As I listened, without warning, tears started rolling down my cheeks.

Not from pain. Not from panic. Not even from feeling sorry for myself.

They just came.

My mind was composed, but my body was quietly releasing fear, the ache, the strange fragility of being taken care of when I wasn’t expecting it.

Later, still uneasy, I went to the hospital on my own.

I walked the whole way holding my injured middle finger up in the air—awkward, ridiculous, and oddly comical. I didn’t even end up seeing a doctor.

On the way back, I passed a street vendor selling flat peaches—the kind we have back home. That familiar scent hit me like a gentle tap on the chest. I bought a few, held them like little pieces of memory, and carried them home.

When I got to my home, Eduardo asked, warmly:

“Shikin, ¿cómo está tu dedo?”

I said, “Mejorando.” Getting better.

He replied,

“Voy a navegar al norte con mi hijo, ¿querés venir?”

—I’m sailing north with my son. Want to come?

I paused for a second, then laughed and said:

“Dale, ¿por qué no?”

Why not?

And just like that, I joined Eduardo and his son on their sailing trip.

That day, the Río de la Plata looked like a painting—wide and open, the wind soft, the sun warm but not harsh. The water shimmered with gold, one ripple folding into the next. The boat glided gently across the surface, pushed by a breeze that felt perfectly measured. In the distance, the faint outline of the city lingered like a quiet thought.

Eduardo adjusted the sail and explained the wind and directions to me.

He pointed to either side of the boat and said,“Left is red, right is green.”

I leaned back against the edge of the boat, and my whole body softened. The wind brushed gently across my cheeks—clean, quiet, kind.

I didn’t think about anything.

Sometimes I smiled.

Sometimes I closed my eyes and let the sunlight wrap around me.

Sometimes I chatted with them.

Sometimes I just listened—let their voices drift away by the wind.

It was a simple kind of happiness.

Light.

Free.

Still.

And I didn’t have to control a thing—just breathe, and float inside that moment.

That night, I shared the story with a friend, he said, “Shikin, I’m always amazed by you. You texted me in the morning about cutting your finger—and by evening, you’re sailing?”

I laughed.

I don’t really know why.

But somehow, again and again, I find myself lucky—crossing paths with people this kind, this generous.

That night, when I got home, I knew perfectly well I could just order takeout.

After all, I’d just sliced my finger—not exactly in shape to hold a knife.

But for some reason, something inside me whispered gently:

No. I want to cook.

Not because I was hungry.

Not because I craved anything in particular.

Just a quiet, instinctive urge to make something for myself.

To find a bit of rhythm again—slow, clumsy, but mine.

So I did.

I started.

My left middle finger was still wrapped in thick medical tape. The cut sent out occasional pulses of pain—sharp and rhythmic, like my blood vessels were staking their claim. But I wasn’t panicked anymore. I knew how to hold the knife to avoid the hurt. I understood how to cook—naturally, with intuition, guided by my heart's fundamental instinct.

I chopped slowly. Carefully.

Not with my usual rhythm, but with a kind of hesitation—like a child learning to walk, each slice gentle and deliberate.

I observed the vegetables taking shape under my hands. As the pan warmed up, I added the onions. As soon as they hit the hot oil—zzzlaaa—they sizzled as if the world had just come alive. The spices followed, one by one.

And so—on a summer night, in a quiet apartment, somewhere in the city—

a Chinese woman in a floral dress, with one bandaged finger, stood in her kitchen and made herself a pot of Thai curry.

No music.

Just the scent rising from the pan and the sound of her own breathing.

The curry simmered, gurgling quietly,

and though her hand still throbbed, her heart was strangely still.

The pain was still there.

But somehow, it didn’t matter anymore.

In the blink of an eye, the day I cut my finger and sailed the river was months ago.

Summer has passed, and autumn is slowly on its way.

Today, some friends and I gathered in San Telmo to celebrate Jana’s new home—and to mark Easter, too. I brought her a few of my plant’s little “babies,” carefully grown at home and ready to start a life somewhere new.

We shared a meal she had made: gulash, a traditional Czech stew of slow-cooked beef, red peppers, and spices—rich, tender, slightly sweet and just a little spicy. She served it with noquis, soft and pillowy. There were bowls full of colorful, fresh vegetables, and we ate as we talked, laughter rising and falling like sunlight shifting across the table—light, easy, unhurried.

As we kept chatting, I started to feel sleepy. So I hopped on the familiar No. 39 bus and headed home. The air had turned cool by the time I got off. I passed by this café and saw its warm lights still glowing—so I went home, threw on an extra sweater, grabbed my laptop,and came back out.

I scribbled down a long to-do lists.

To be honest, I’m not even sure I’ll do them. Maybe I’ll leave them for tomorrow’s me. Tonight’s me isn’t in a hurry.

And now, here I am—sitting in this café, looking out at a street corner tinted soft with yellow light.

People walk by slowly.

Leaves fall in silence, carried by the wind.

And truly,I feel like I’m living inside a dream.

A quiet, gentle dream.

The autumn evening is cold, but it’s also kind.

The hush around me feels just right.

Even the soft whirr of the coffee machine, the delicate rustle of someone turning a page—it all feels quietly perfect.

I’m just here, curled up in this little moment.

And in that space, there’s something whole:

Warmth.

Contentment.

Joy.

Stillness.

Moments like this feel like life, gently holding me.

So cozy.

So lovely.

I’ll end the entry here. It’s time to read La melancólica muerte de Chico Ostra.

A warm Easter to whoever's reading this.

Sleep well tonight.