Artifix Music is coming to Substack soon.

Now, it’s time for pilot. Substack doesn’t have proper script formatting, but if you would like an .fdx or PDF format, please send me a DM. All paid subscribers have access.

For those who don’t speak Spanish, I’ve included translations in a smaller font to not distract bilingual readers.

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FADE IN

EXT. PARK PANDEROL - EL GRAO DE CASTELLON - SUNSET/NIGHT

Silence. Swallows swarm through the sky above Park Panderol. The fully grown London Plane’s green leaves pop in the early summer sunset. More birds emerge from the tree, flying above the beige and brick apartment buildings.

CAMERA SWEEPS down through the sand-filled streets: shoulder-to-shoulder bodies, everyone slick with sweat.

As we continue through the streets, fast-forwarding through time, the sunset turns to night, and more people fill the streets.

The silence gives way to a chaotic orchestra of HORNS, FIRECRACKERS and pounding DRUMS. A PANDEMONIUM of hundreds of SPECTATORS sitting on the wooden bleachers and standing in metal cages surrounding the dozens of CORREDORES (RUNNERS).

Near the barricades, NOE SOLER GARCIA (24) watches, eyes locked on a wooden crate in the middle of the street. She’s radiant in the worst and best ways — half-transfixed, half-feral. Her hair is damp, face streaked with glitter and sweat.

She LAUGHS unsettlingly, looking directly into the camera.

NOE

No seas un cagón y métete, coño.

Don't be such a coward, go for it!

CAMERA CUTS TO:

Then back to her grin that cracks to reveal a seductive sadness.

We hear CHEERS as Noe continues to stare.

We can’t see MATEO VAN DE BROEK (32), but his gravelly, sensual voice hints at his cultured intellect and charming demeanour.

MATEO (O.S.)

Vale, vale.

Okay, okay.

The camera reveals Mateo’s POV as he jumps from the bleachers and joins the corredores--some stretch and some laugh.

The crowd CHEERS even louder as the ANNOUNCER (40) walks along the street, holding a microphone.

ANNOUNCER

¡Atención, atención! ¡Se va a proceder a la suelta del toro embolado!

Attention, attention! The release of the fire-horned bull is about to begin!

EL PASTOR opens the wooden crate, guiding the bull out onto the street.

ANNOUNCER

¡Desde del Grao... llega 'Valiente', de la ganadería X! ¡Un toro con fuerza, con fuego, y con honor!

All the way from El Grao… it’s ‘Valiente’, from the X ranch! A bull of strength, of flame, and of honor!

El pastor lights the horns on fire, and--

Quick FLASH:

— A discarded religious pamphlet trampled underfoot. The cover shows a blank-eyed Christ under the words: “Solo los que buscan serán encontrados.”

— A strange symbol graffitied on a shutter: an open eye surrounded by flames.

— A blurry figure in the crowd — still, watching Noe. Hood up. Face unreadable. Gone in a blink.

Silence. We only see the people screaming. We can only assume the announcer says:

ANNOUNCER

¡A la cuenta de tres...

On the count of three.

(beat)

Uno!

The crowd joins in.

CROWD

Dos!

(beat)

Tres!

El pastor releases the bull and--

CUT TO:

INT. BAR ALDEA - CASTELLON DE LA PLANA - DAY

Mateo sits at a table with his eyes closed and a drink in his right hand. His left arm is in a sling.

Across the table sits MARÍA (36), a charismatic Colombian whose compelling presence seems to tower over the others. Beside her is LAILA FLORES RIVERA (28), a sharp-witted local artist with an understated bohemian style. Completing the trio is EMMA SMITH (26), a bubbly yoga teacher with an influencer persona that masks a deeper, emotionally chaotic interior.

MARÍA

(Columbian accent)

Hey Mateo, ¿Donde estas? Are you okay?

Mateo opens his eyes slowly, wincing. He takes a long sip of his drink.

MATEO

(English & Dutch accent)

Aquí. Estoy aquí. Mi brazo me molesta un poco, pero estoy bien.

Here. I’m here. My arm’s bother me a bit, but I’m okay.

EMMA

(Slight Manchester accent)

Serves you right for being a show-off, Mateo. What were you thinking, running with those bulls? Mad.

Mateo waves her off dismissively.

MATEO

Fue... una experiencia. Intensa.

It was… an experience. An intense one.

LAILA

(Castellano Spanish)

Intensa es una forma de decirlo. Parecías un fantasma cuando te sacaron de allí. Y la Noe, ¿dónde está ella? Se metió en un lío contigo, ¿no?

Intense’ is one way to put it. You looked like a ghost when they pulled you out of there. And Noe — where is she? She got caught up in that mess with you, didn’t she?

The mention of Noe hangs in the air. A beat of uncomfortable silence. Emma fidgets with her phone. María glances at the entrance of the bar.

Just then, JAKE CONROY (26), a slick remote tech bro, saunters in, eyes immediately scanning the room. He carries a small, professional-looking camera.

JAKE

(American accent)

What’s up, team? Just finished scouting some killer spots for the next Insta story. Did I miss anything? Anything… viral? Or at least anything as viral as Mateo getting his ass handed to him by a bull.

Jake takes out his iPhone 16 Pro.

INSERT – JAKE’S PHONE: TIKTOK REEL

VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

SFX: Distant firecrackers, cowbells, and shouting. REGGAETON MUSIC layered underneath, slightly distorted.

CAMERA SHAKES as it follows the chaos of the Toro Embolado run.

ANGLE ON:

A bull barrels down the narrow street, its horns ablaze.

MATEO enters frame — clearly drunk, arms out like he’s trying to impress someone.

SOMEONE OFFSCREEN (O.S.)

¡Está loco, tío!

A split-second later, the bull clips Mateo’s side — not a full gore, but hard enough to send him spinning into a vendor table.

GASPS, SCREAMS, LAUGHTER erupt from all sides. Someone yells, “¡Hostia puta!”

People crowd toward the camera, laughing, pointing. One woman fans herself. Another yells, “¡El guiri está vivo, está vivo!”

The camera zooms in on Mateo, sprawled, groaning.

MUSIC CUTS OUT.

END VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

Jake grins, but his eyes are calculating. He pulls up a chair, a little too close to Emma.

JAKE

Absolute fire, Mateo.

Mateo GROANS and takes another sip of his beer.

EMMA

Noe’s still gone, Jake. I doubt you care since it’s not really content for your feed, is it?

JAKE

Woah, easy there, Emma. Just asking. I’m concerned, you know? She’s, like, part of the… community.

TIMA IVANENKO (22, Ukrainian), a brilliant but cold engineering student, enters. He’s carrying a backpack and looks preoccupied. He nods curtly at the group and heads straight for the bar, pulling out a small, intricately designed earring from his pocket. He looks at it, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes, before quickly stuffing it back into his bag. He orders a drink from DAVID ALDEA (41, Spanish/Romanian), the disillusioned academic turned bartender.

David, leaning against the counter, is wiping down glasses. He watches the group with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

DAVID

(Castellano Spanish)

Más vale que no la busquéis, a la guiri esa. Siempre dando problemas. Estos putos guiris vienen en chanclas con calcetines y luego desaparecen.

You’d better not go looking for that foreign chick. Always causing trouble. These damn tourists show up in socks and sandals and then vanish.

David glances pointedly at Jake’s trendy sandals and socks. Jake doesn't understand Spanish, but he gets the gist of the look.

JAKE

(To Emma)

What’d he say? Something about my… fashion choices?

EMMA

Just David being David. Ignore him.

JAKE

Well, tell him to get me one of the Spanish Sangria things.

EMMA

Sangria is Spanish.

JAKE

Yeah, but the cheap, fruitless version they actually drink here.

EMMA

Tinto de Verano?

JAKE

Yeah, that.

(to David)

Un Pinto de Verano, por favor.

David cringes at Jake’s Spanish.

MARÍA

(to David)

Noe no es una "guiri", David. Es de aquí. Y no está dando problemas. Está… desaparecida.

She isn’t a “guiri,” David. She’s from here. And she isn’t causing problems. She’s… missing.

DAVID

(Shrugs, muttering in Romanian)

Acesti straini prosti…

These stupid foreigners...

Emma takes a sip of tea.

EMMA

If there’s anything that would chase me away, it’s the red tape in this country. I tried to get a doctor’s note for heat exhaustion last week. They needed a cita previa, two copies of my NIE, and a signature from someone who doesn’t exist.

Cita previa = scheduled government appointment.

MATEO

You need a miracle, not a médico.

Médico = doctor.

EMMA

I’d settle for a receptionist who doesn't say "vuelva mañana."

Vuelva mañana = return tomorrow.

MATEO

The real secret is becoming a funcionario, so you can pretty much do whatever you want and not get fired.

Funcionario = government worker.

Suddenly, the front door of the bar opens, and INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ (50), conservative on the outside, suppressed and perverted on the inside, walks in. He’s calm, unhurried, and quietly suspicious. The chatter in the bar dies down slightly.

MATEO

(whisper to Emma)

Talking about funcionarios.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

(Calm, professional Spanish)

Buenas tardes. Disculpen la interrupción. Solo una visita informal. Entiendo que todos aquí conocían a Noe Soler Garcia.

Good afternoon. Sorry to interrupt. This is just an informal visit. I understand everyone here knew Noe Soler García.

He looks directly at the table where the expats are sitting. A palpable tension settles over the group.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

(to David)

Un café.

A coffee.

David doesn’t need to look at his hands to know what he’s doing. His eyes stay fixed on the inspector.

EMMA

(forcing a smile)

Inspector. Yes, we all know Noe. Lovely girl. Bit quiet, as you know.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

No entiendo--

I don’t understand.

JAKE

Quiet! That bitch be loud AF.

EMMA

Sarcasm, Jake. It’s something you Americans don’t understand.

MATEO

Meh, take a Yanks optimism away and they’re one step closer to sounding like you Brits.

JAKE

I’ve spent half my life in the UAE, Mateo. You’re the Canadian--that’s like half American, half British, all nothing.

MATEO

My mom’s Mexican--

MARIA

But white.

MATEO

And my dad’s Dutch. Plus, you went to an American school in Dubai, Jake.

JAKE

Well yeah. You ain’t getting me into some Muslim school. I need to be able to touch women.

(to inspector Beltrán)

In a totally respectful and legal way, of course, officer.

Beltrán’s amazed at the conversation, not quite sure he understands. He switches his attention to Mateo.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

Y tu, Mateo. ¿Tuviste algún contacto con ella en el festival? Su brazo, parece… reciente.

And you, Mateo. Did you have any contact with her at the festival? Her arm… it looks recent.

Mateo shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

MATEO

Inspector Beltrán, amigo. ¿Cuanto tiempo, no?

Inspector Beltrán, friend. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Inspector Beltrán waits for a useful response.

MATEO

Pues, sí, la vi. En la fiesta del toro. Pero… con toda la gente, ya sabe. Y el brazo… fue un accidente. Nada que ver con Noe.

Yeah, I saw her. At the bull festival. But… with all the people, you know how it is. And the arm… it was an accident. Nothing to do with Noe.

Beltrán nods slowly, his eyes sweeping over each face at the table. He takes out a small notebook.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

¿Alguno de ustedes ha recibido algún mensaje de ella? ¿O han escuchado algo inusual?

Have any of your received a strange message from her? Or heard something unusual?

JAKE

Is he asking us if we know anything?

María nods.

JAKE

(Too quickly)

Nope! Nothing here. My personal DMs are dry. All business lately. Are you looking to get into crypto?

Inspector Beltrán looks at Jake, both confused and unimpressed.

David brings Inspector Beltrán his coffee, his hand trembling slightly. Inspector Beltrán notices.

LAILA

Yo no. La última vez que la vi fue en el festival. Estaba con Mateo.

Not me. The last time I saw her was at the festival. She was with Mateo.

Inspector Beltrán Sanchez looks over at Tima sitting at the bar.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

Señor Ivanenko, su familia llegó hace poco, ¿verdad?

Señor Ivanenko, your family arrived recently, correct?

TIMA

¿Cómo sabes mi nombre?

How do you know my name?

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHE

Todas las últimas publicaciones de Noe en las redes fueron con este grupo.

All of Now’s last social media posts where with this group.

Tima glances at Emma, accusingly.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

¿Fue complicado el papeleo? ¿Cuenta bancaria, padrón, visado? ¿Noe le ayudó con algo de eso?

Was the paperwork complicated? Bank account, residency registration, visa? Did Noe help you with any of that?

TIMA

(dry)

No. Nunca hablamos de eso.

No. We never spoke about any of that.

Beltrán doesn’t respond. Just sips his coffee.

Then — silently — he picks up a crumpled napkin from the table, smooths it out, and studies it. Meaningless, but he does it intentionally.

His eyes rest a moment longer on MARÍA.

Then on TIMA again.

Emma’s phone buzzes. She quickly checks it, her eyes widening slightly. It’s a voice note from Emma’s Instagram burner account. A shaky, distorted voice.

NOE (O.S., V.O. DISTORTED)

Tuve que pillarme. Ni se te ocurra seguirme.

I had to split. Don’t even think about following me.

Emma quickly shoves her phone into her pocket, a panicked look on her face. She tries to maintain a poker face, but her eyes betray her.

EMMA

Voy al baño un momento.

I’m going to the washroom for a moment.

She disappears into the hallway.

Meanwhile, Tima, who has been quietly nursing his beer at the bar, feels the earring in his pocket. He looks at his reflection in the polished bar top, then subtly glances at the group. He hides it deeper in his bag.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SANCHEZ

Es importante que cualquier información, por pequeña que sea, se comparta con las autoridades.

It’s important that all information, however minor, be reported to the authorities

María, looking at the Inspector, then at the group, suddenly speaks up, her voice a little too casual.

MARÍA

Bueno, hay mucha gente en España que… desaparece. Algunos se van con grupos. Comunidades nuevas, ¿sabes? Como sectas. Noe… a veces hablaba de cosas así.

Well, there are a lot of people in Spain who… go missing. Some leave with groups. New communities, you know? Like cults. Noe… she used to talk about things like that sometimes.

Her eyes flick towards Mateo, who pales slightly.

FLASHBACK – EXT. BAR TERRACE – NIGHT

A hazy night. We only see the back of a MAN leaning toward NOE.

MAN

There’s this place in Aragón where the mountains feed your soul and keep the sheep out.

Noe says nothing. Just watches him.

BACK TO PRESENT

Mateo gulps his drink, hard.

Inspector Beltrán fixes his gaze on María.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN

¿Tiene algún detalle sobre estas "comunidades"?

Do you have some detail about these “communities.?”

MARÍA

(Shrugs, feigning innocence)

Solo chismes. De la calle. Cosas de… gente buscando algo diferente.

Just gossip. Street talk. Stuff about… people looking for something different.

Beltrán sighs, a hint of weariness in his eyes.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN

Entendido. Bueno, les agradezco su tiempo. Si recuerdan algo, ya saben dónde encontrarme.

I understand: Well, I appreciate your time. If your remember something, you know where to find me.

He gives one last, lingering look at the group before turning and leaving the bar.

As the door closes, the tension in the room explodes.

MATEO

¿Porque le contaste algo sobre comunidadas nuevas?

Why did you tell him something about new communities?

MARÍA

La policia me pone nerviosa.

Police make me nervous.

MATEO

Pero, ¿Piensas que ella esta con un grupo así?

But, do you think she’s with a group like that?

MARÍA

No sé... I wish I hadn’t said anything. I’m not sure I want the cops looking for her.

Emma walks back into the scene.

EMMA

(Whispering, pulling her phone out)

Oh my god, guys. I just got a message. From Noe. She said, "Tuve que pillarme. Ni se te ocurra seguirme."

I had to split. Don’t even think about following me.

The group stares at her, stunned.

JAKE

(Eyes wide)

No way! Seriously?

LAILA

¿Y no se lo has dicho al policía? ¡Emma!

And you didn’t tell the cop? Emma!

EMMA

(Defensive)

Well, what would he do? She said don’t follow. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. But… she sounded… troubled.

MATEO

I remember it. That night... at the festival. There was a man. He spoke of a community. In Aragon. Something... spiritual.

María looks at Mateo, her expression unreadable. Tima, from the bar, watches them intently.

EMMA

(A sudden burst of energy)

Aragón... We have to go after her. Not the police. Us.

DAVID

(From the bar, scoffing)

¿Vosotros? ¿Ir a buscarla? ¡Qué tontería! Os vais a meter en un lío.

You guys! Go look for her? What a joke! You’re going to end up in a mess.

JAKE

(Excited, already pulling out his camera)

A road trip! This could be epic!

LAILA

No sé, Emma. La policía...

I don’t know, Emma. The police…

EMMA

I’m going. Who’s with me?

A beat of silence.

DAVID

(beat, bitter)

¿Y qué vais a hacer? ¿Una búsqueda espiritual con GPS? ¿Os pensáis que los perdidos quieren ser encontrados?

And what are you going to do? A spiritual quest with GPS? You really think the lost want to be found?

MATEO

Simplemente no quieres perder a tus mejores clientes.

You just don’t want to lose your best clients.

DAVID

Ella no es una víctima. Y vosotros no sois héroes.

She’s not a victim. And you guys aren’t heroes.

Mateo looks at María, then at Emma.

MATEO

I’m in.

Emma beams.

MARÍA

(A hint of worry in her eyes)

Yo manejo.

I’ll drive.

Jake is already filming himself, narrating.

VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

Jake looks at the camera/at us.

JAKE

So, looks like we’re embarking on an epic quest. Early stage of the journey. There’s no refusal to the call when you’re with “yes” people.

(whispers)

Hashtag, finding Noe.

END VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

María glares at Jake.

JAKE

I’ll delete that video right away.

(whisper)

Maybe.

Laila scans the room, a slight smile breaking through her worry when her eyes meet Mateo’s.

LAILA

Vale. Pero si la cosa se pone fea, yo me bajo.

Okay. But if things turn ugly, I’m out.

Tima walks over from the bar, his expression still unreadable.

TIMA

I don’t trust any of you. But I’m coming. Someone needs to keep you out of trouble.

LAILA

You’re the youngest of all of us.

TIMA

And somehow still the most mature.

EMMA

María could be your mother.

Tima blushes, unable to hide his attraction.

David watches them, shaking his head. He wipes down the bar with exaggerated slowness.

DAVID

(to himself)

¡Por fin! No voy a tener a ese grupo de putos guiris en mi bar.

Finally! I’m not going to have a fucking group of foreigners in my bar.

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LATER THAT DAY...

INT. EMMA’S APARTMENT – LATE AFTERNOON

Emma reorganizes her living room in a flurry. Books. Yoga mat. Charger cords. Too many essential oils. She mutters to herself as she dumps things into an open duffel.

EMMA

No heavy fabrics. Hydration. Two crystals. Why does everything feel like a bad omen?

Among the rubble in the duffel bag, there’s a picture of a TWO-YEAR-OLD BOY sitting in a pile of leaves in a park. She picks it up, a bittersweet look on her face.

A KNOCK at the door.

Emma quickly stuffs the picture in her pocket and opens the door: Maria, holding a paper bag and wearing sunglasses indoors.

EMMA

Oh--hey.

MARÍA

You texted. Said “logistics.” That usually means you’re spiralling.

EMMA

I’m not spiralling, I’m... staging.

MARÍA

Mmm. Claro.

María pulls two beers and a tight joint from the bag. Cracks one open.

MARÍA

We don’t need a plan. We just need movimiento.

EMMA

So you’re really in?

MARÍA

Obvio. I’ll drive. Tengo la furgo, musica, and summer’s started, so school’s out and I don’t need to counsel anymore private school teens.

La furgo = van.

(beat)

But I’m not babysitting gringos con complejo de salvador.

Con complejo de salvador = with a saviour complex.

EMMA

Fair.

María scans the room. She grabs a sarong from the pile

MARÍA

Mija, esta ni tapa ni abrgiga ¿Para qué?

Sweetie, this doesn’t cover you or keep you warm. What’s the point?

EMMA

It’s for vibes.

MARÍA

It’s for Instagram.

EMMA

Exactly.

MARÍA

(sits on the bed)

You're packing like a white girl on a panic trip.

EMMA

That’s literally what this is.

MARÍA

You don’t need half of estas cosas.

EMMA

Says the woman who packed nothing but eyeliner and duct tape for Valencia.

MARÍA

Oh, I packed a lot more than that.

EMMA

Like what?

MARÍA

Olvidálo.

EMMA

Reckon we all came with a bit of baggage, didn’t we?

Beat.

MARÍA

And none of us really chose to be here.

EMMA

Who chooses Castellón?

MARÍA

People who can’t afford Valencia.

EMMA

I’m actually starting to like it more here. Better beaches, less crowded--

MARÍA

Plus, you get to mas guapa que la mayoría.

Plus, you get to look hotter than the majority.

Emma is about to rebut, but then realizes it’s true.

MARÍA

But really... why do you want to do this?

Why are you going?

EMMA

To find her. Obviously.

MARÍA

No.

Emma keeps folding, but her hands are slower now.

EMMA

Because she messaged me.

MARÍA

Because you need to be the one who fixes it.

EMMA

(sharper now)

You don’t know me.

MARÍA

Claro que sí. I do. You’re the helper. The good girl. But also the one who needs to be needed.

Claro que sí = of course.

EMMA

And what, you're going just to drive? To flirt? To what?

Beat.

MARÍA

Maybe she wants to be found. Maybe she wants to test who will follow.

Emma stares at her bag. Her lip twitches.

EMMA

I just... I can’t not go.

MARÍA

That’s the only good reason.

María softens, sits beside her, beer in hand.

Emma smiles and raises her can.

EMMA

Cheers to bad decisions.

MARÍA

Los mejores tipos.

The best types.

CUT TO:

INT. JAKE’S APARTMENT – EVENING

Jake stands in front of a ring light, shirtless, applying beard oil while his phone records.

JAKE

(to camera)

Prepping for the unknown isn’t about fear. It’s about freedom. Mobility. Precision. Three shirts--okay, ten shirts--Two chargers. One mindset.

TIMA (O.S.)

And zero self-awareness.

JAKE

Jesus, do you sneak into everyone’s place like that?

TIMA

Your door was open.

He throws a roll of duct tape onto the bed, followed by a tangled extension cord and a first-aid kit.

JAKE

Fuck, do all Ukrainians pack like that.

Tima ignores him.

JAKE

It’s like you’re at war or something.

Tima’s about to say something, but decides not to waste his breath.

Jake continues packing, which is mostly brand-new gear, folded into colour-coordinated cubes.

TIMA

You’re treating this like a fucking content trip.

Jake grabs his ring light.

JAKE

If we get lost, I’d rather have good lighting.

TIMA

You care more about followers than facts.

JAKE

And you care more about being right than being human.

(beat)

Plus, you’re a student. Some of us have jobs.

TIMA

You’re a tech bro content creator, Emma’s an influencer yoga teacher, Laila’s an artist with family money, and Mateauz--what does he do again?

JAKE

Online sales or some shit. It’s never really clear.

TIMA

Either way, María’s the only one with a real job.

JAKE

School counsellor? I counsel the world, baby. I’ll help those kids drop out of school with six figures.

TIMA

You should probably start by fixing yourself.

JAKE

That’s the gayest shit I’ve heard you say.

TIMA

You’re not supposed to use that word.

JAKE

You’re right. That’s the gayest thing I’ve heard you say.

TIMA

Well, it’s true.

JAKE

Oh yeah, and what can you fix?

TIMA

Pretty much anything with wires.

JAKE

But can you fix being a dick?

TIMA

No, I don’t have wires. But I can fix our van if it breaks down.

JAKE

Vans have wires?

TIMA picks up the beard oil, studies it as if it were radioactive.

TIMA

What is this? Slippery narcissism?

JAKE

Coconut-based confidence.

They lock eyes for a second — both annoyed, both amused.

CUT TO:

EXT. CASTELLÓN – PLAZA MAYOR – NIGHT

It’s late. The square is empty except for soft yellow streetlights, old stone benches, and two figures hunched over on the edge of a fountain. The Cathedral imposes a powerful presence in the background.

Mateo and David share a small bottle of cheap rum. Mateo’s sling is crooked, his shirt half-unbuttoned. David lights a cigarette with his free hand.

MATEO

¿Sabías que me pidió que me fugara con ella?

Did you know she asked me to run away with her?

DAVID

¿De los toros?

From the bulls?

MATEO

De todo, tío. Del pueblo. De la mierda. De... la vida.

Everything, man. From the town. From the shit. From… life.

DAVID

¿Y qué le dijiste?

And what did you say?

MATEO

Me reí. Le dije que prefería que me empitonaran.

I laughed. I told her would prefer that they impale me.

DAVID

Good choice. You’re already halfway there.

Good choice. You

Mateo LAUGHS, but stops suddenly with a wince of pain as he moves his arm, forgetting it’s sprained.

MATEO

¿Tú crees que se fue? O sea… que lo eligió.

Do you really think she left? Like… that she chose to?

DAVID

No la secuestraron, eso seguro. Castellón no da para tanto.

They didn’t kidnap her, that’s for sure. Castellón’s not that kind of place.

MATEO

Era rara, sí. Pero no tonta. No del tipo que desaparece así, sin dejar rastro.

She was weird, yeah. But not stupid. Not the kind to just disappear without a trace.

DAVID

Nadie lo es. Hasta que lo es.

Body is. Until they are.

Pause. David takes a drink. His tone softens.

DAVID

¿Sabes que mi madre también se fue?

Did you know my mother also left.

MATEO

Pensé que había muerto.

I thought she died.

DAVID

Lo mismo da, cuando tienes ocho años.

It’s the same when you’re eight years old.

Long silence.

MATEO

Recuerdo que... Noe mencionó algo de una comunidad. Un tipo que “veía su potencial”. Yo estaba demasiado borracho para escuchar bien.

I remember… Noe mentioned something about a community. Some guy who ‘saw her potential.’ I was way too drunk to catch all of it.

DAVID

Entonces todo sigue igual, ¿no?

Then you’re still in the same state, no?

They both LAUGH. The laughter turns to silence.

MATEO

¿Crees que soy un cobarde?

Do you think I’m a coward?

DAVID

Creo que estás pedo.

I think you’re drunk.

MATEO

También.

That, too.

David passes Mateo the ultimate gulp of the bottle. Mateo finishes it in one gulp.

Then promptly leans over and vomits into a nearby planter.

DAVID

(very dryly)

Estás listo pa' Aragón.

You’re ready for Aragón.

David lights another cigarette. Mateo wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt.

They sit in silence. Two exhausted men in a town that’s shrinking around them.

CUT TO:

EXT. LAILA’S ROOFTOP - AVENIDA REY DON JAIME – NIGHT

A gentle breeze. The city hums below. Laila sits cross-legged on a flat rooftop, wrapped in a blanket. She scrolls through her contacts. Stops. Stares at a number labelled “Nico (Don’t)”.

She hesitates.

Dials.

LAILA

(small)

Hola.

Beat. She listens. Her expression stays unreadable.

LAILA

No. No llamo para discutir. Es solo que... Necesito preguntarte algo.

No. I’m not calling to argue. It’s just that… I need to ask you something.

She stands and begins pacing.

LAILA

¿Te acuerdas de aquel sitio en Aragón? El de los tatuajes en círculo y el “ayuno del sueño”?

Remember that spot in Aragón? The one with the circular tattoos and that ‘sleep fasting’ thing?

(beat)

No mientas. Sé que te acuerdas.

Don’t lie. I know you remember.

Long silence.

LAILA

Alguien que conocemos puede que haya ido. Una chica. Se llama Noe. Estaba... buscando algo, supongo.

Someone we know might have gone. A girl. Her name’s Noe. She was… looking for something, I suppose.

She sits down and pulls out her sketchbook. On the page: a van, flames behind it, and a figure standing in the road, half-shadow, half-light.

LAILA

No intento meter tu nombre en esto.

I’m not trying to involve your name in this.

(beat)

Tranqi.

Relax.

(beat)

Basta, en serio. Solo quiero saber si siguen activos.

Enough, seriously. I just want to know if they’re still active.

She adds a quick line on the page — a second shadowy figure now appearing behind the first. It could be Noe.

Her hand hesitates. She presses the pencil down harder. The line darkens. Too much.

LAILA

Dijiste que no era una secta. Pero también dijiste que me querías.

You said it wasn’t a cult. But you also said you loved me.

(beat)

Así que.

So that’s that.

She hangs up, rips the page out, and crumples it with sudden intensity.

She lets the silence sit and then lights a cigarette with shaky hands.

LAILA’S MOTHER’S figure casts a shadow on the terrace.

LAILA’S MOTHER (O.S.)

Basta ya de fumar, Laila!

Stop smoking, Laila!

Laila quickly stubs out her cigarette.

LAILA’S MOTHER (O.S.)

Ven aquí! Vamos a cenar.

Come here. We’re going to have dinner.

LAILA

Mamá, no tengo hambre.

Mom, I’m not hungry.

LAILA’S MOTHER

Ahora mismo, flaquita.

Right now, skinny sweat heart.

Laila stands near the ledge now and takes a look at the city below.

WIDE SHOT: EXT. AVENIDA REY DON JAIME – NIGHT

LAILA stands barefoot on her rooftop, a still silhouette against the low orange haze of Castellón at night. The tiles beneath her are warm from the day.

Street lamps cast stretched shadows over the quiet avenue below. Palm trees sway slightly in the hot air. The statue of Jaime I looms in the traffic circle nearby, pigeons sleeping at its base.

Cars drift past slowly, windows down, BASSLINES pulsing — reggaeton and pop. A pair of teenagers on a shared scooter weave through the painted lanes, yelling and laughing, nearly dropping a plastic bag of beer.

Down the block, someone argues loudly on a balcony, gesturing with a lit cigarette. Another plays flamenco-trap on a cracked Bluetooth speaker, the bass thin but insistent.

A van honks at an illegal parking job and swerves.

A pigeon lifts off the edge of Laila’s roof, wings slicing the warm air.

Laila doesn’t move. She’s part of the architecture now.

FLASHBACK – INT. LAILA’S STUDIO – DAY

Laila hyperventilates in front of a blank canvas. Noe crouches beside her, calm.

NOE (WHISPERS)

Draw it before it eats you.

She slips a pen into Laila’s shaking hand.

MATCH CUT TO:

INT. / EXT. VARIOUS LOCATIONS - MONTAGE (FLASHBACK INTERCUTS WITH PRESENT)

SOUND DESIGN: Bare, textured. The hum of mopeds. A single dog barking. A neighbour yells faintly from an open balcony. No music. Just weather and breath.

INT. EMMA’S LIVING ROOM - APARTMENT - NIGHT

Emma closes her door, picks up two cans of empty beer, and throws them in the recycling.

She stands in front of the mirror. She zips her duffel, then unzips it. Pulls something out. Puts it back in. Her phone screen lights up with a social media notification, but she ignores it.

She looks at herself.

FLASHBACK – INT. YOGA STUDIO – DUSK

Emma demonstrates a pose. Noe, lying on the mat, watches her upside down.

NOE

You’re so good at pretending it’s not killing you.

Emma flinches, caught.

EXT. BAR ALDEA – BACK DOOR

David locks up. The empty bar behind him glows with tired fluorescent light. He turns off the switch. The hum dies. He looks at the building for a long moment.

Then pulls a crumpled photo from his pocket. A woman and a young boy on a Romanian street.

He exhales. Folds the photo.

FLASHBACK – INT. BAR ALDEA – VERY EARLY MORNING

David closes up alone. Noe sits at the counter with a cigarette.

NOE (SOFTLY)

La gente solo piensa que estás amargado porque es más fácil que admitir que tienes el corazón roto.

She gets up. Leaves a tip in Romanian bills. He's left staring.

INT. TIMA’S ROOM

A small, sterile space. The bed is made with military precision. A YouTube video on car diagnostics plays muted on his laptop.

Tima sits at his desk. His face lit only by the blue glow of the screen.

He opens a metal box. Inside: a perfectly organized array — tools, cables, a mini flashlight, zip ties, a pocketknife.

He checks the charge on the flashlight. Full. He flips the knife open. Tests the edge with his thumb.

Next to the box, his phone screen lights up.

INSERT – PHONE SCREEN:

Search history:

“transition Europe”

“Can testosterone cause mood swings?”

Missed: MARÍA (1:14 AM)

Tima quickly locks the phone, expression unreadable.

He picks up a family photo from the desk — just him and his parents. A small ribbon pinned in the corner: blue and yellow.

He turns it over. The back is blank.

His jaw tightens. He puts the photo face down.

Back to the metal box. He snaps it shut.

FLASHBACK – INT. GARAGE WORKSHOP – NIGHT

Tima works on a busted scooter. Noe watches silently (she’s wearing the same earring as Tima had in his hand at the bar), then hands him a tool--from the same metal box--he didn’t ask for, but needed.

NOE (DRYLY)

You’re not as cold as you want to be.

He doesn’t respond. But he doesn't correct her either.

INT. JAKE’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

A ring light glows softly in the corner, casting a blue-white sheen across the minimalist setup. Cables, protein bars, and a half-zipped gym bag clutter the edges.

JAKE sits cross-legged on the bed, back hunched, scrolling on his phone.

His thumb flicks through Instagram stories:

A crypto influencer at a villa in Ibiza, shirtless, raising champagne.

A girl dancing in Lisbon, tagged: #GrindSet #LocationFreedom.

He switches to selfie mode. Front camera: his face, perfectly lit by the ring light. He adjusts his hair, angles the shot.

He stops. Doesn’t press record.

For a beat, he just stares at himself. The ring light reflects in his pupils, like a target.

For the first time — a crack in the confidence. Not fear exactly. But emptiness.

FLASHBACK – EXT. BEACH AT SUNSET

Jake sets up a tripod, perfecting a selfie. Noe walks past behind him.

NOE (WITHOUT LOOKING)

You always miss the moment when you're trying to own it.

He lowers the camera, rattled.

INT. MARÍA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

María stands at her dresser in a silk robe, lighting a candle with a match. Her room is spartan but warm — half lived-in, half guarded.

She opens a drawer and removes a small leather pouch. Inside: cash, a rosary, a single Polaroid of a woman (her? someone else?), and a packet of painkillers.

She adds lipstick, then pauses.

FLASHBACK – EXT. STREET MARKET – NIGHT

Crowds pulse around them. María and Noe walk close.

NOE (LEANING IN)

I know what you are, and it’s beautiful.

María stops walking. Noe keeps moving, slipping into the night and strangers.

EXT. PLAYA PALMERAL - EL GRAO – NIGHT

The horizon is grey-blue, the sky still deciding whether to storm or clear.

MATEO stands barefoot on the cool sand, shirt half-tucked into swim shorts. His hoodie hangs loosely off one shoulder. His face is puffy, eyes shadowed, but more alive than drunk.

Behind him, a row of chiringuitos — the beach bars — sit shuttered and silent. Plastic chairs are stacked. Umbrellas furled.

He holds a half-empty wine bottle in one hand. He stares at it for a long beat. Then places it carefully in a nearby recycling bin.

He pulls out an orange from the pocket of his hoodie.

Sits down in the sand.

Peels it slowly. Juice glistens on his fingertips. He eats in silence, piece by piece. No music. No phone.

Then he stands and walks toward the water. The sea is flat. Muted waves roll in like a pulse.

He walks in up to his knees. Hesitates. Breathes.

Then he dives.

FLASHBACK – NIGHT – ROOFTOP, STRINGS OF LIGHTS

Noe dances barefoot across the tiles, her hair wild.

NOE (SHOUTING)

¡La vida es corta y el mundo es falso!

She pelts Mateo with olives, cackling. He ducks and smiles — the rare, real kind.

INT. POLICÍA NACIONAL – INSPECTOR BELTRÁN’S OFFICE – NIGHT

A small office lit by the blue glow of a computer monitor. Paperwork everywhere. Files stacked like tired metaphors.

INSPECTOR BELTRÁN SÁNCHEZ, mid-50s, methodical, sharp eyes, unmoved by chaos — slowly flips through a manila folder.

INSERT – FILE:

MATEO VAN DE BROEK

Prior Charges:

Drunk and disorderly (Benicàssim, 2022)

Public urination (Castellón, 2023)

Resisting arrest (Valencia, 2021)

Beltrán’s pen taps the page rhythmically.

He clicks a key.

A second profile opens:

MARÍA G. CASTAÑO

Photo ID: She’s younger. Smiling.

The camera doesn’t show the charges. Just the look on Beltrán’s face. Slight tension. A small frown.

He closes the file and slides it into a drawer marked: EXPATS / LOS GUIRIS.

Locks the drawer.

Leans back in his chair, thoughtful.

END MONTAGE:

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EXT. SUPERMARKET PARKING LOT – DAWN

The sun now hangs high, white-hot and oppressive. A few gulls circle overhead. Cicadas hiss in the background.

The van waits by the curb. It’s a battered white Fiat Ducato, sun-bleached and dented. The back bumper is cracked.

One sticker near the taillight shows the Colombian flag in faded colours, flanked by the words: “Vivir sabroso.”

Just below it, another sticker — this one handmade — features a Virgen de Guadalupe surrounded by tiny drawings of roses, knives, and a hummingbird.

One taillight is taped up with red cellophane. The side mirror rattles in the wind.

María leans against the side of the van, sipping instant coffee, hoodie up. Calm.

Emma approaches, dragging her duffel. She’s wearing a fanny pack, yoga pants, and a neck pillow.

EMMA

Morning. I brought snacks. Mostly seeds.

MARÍA

That’s not food, Emma. Eso es cebo para ardillas.

That’s bait for squirrels.

Emma smiles.

She tosses the duffel inside.

Mateo is curled in the back seat, hood over his face, arm in a sling, out cold.

Tima pedals up on his bike and skids to a stop.

TIMA

Alguien trajo herramientas, ¿no?

Somebody brought tools, right?

EMMA

I have peppermint oil?

TIMA

No es lo mismo, princesa.

That’s not the same, princess.

He tosses his pack inside, opens the van’s side panel, and peers at some exposed wiring.

MARÍA

Don’t start taking her apart.

Jake rolls up, wheeling a sleek suitcase, earbuds in. He’s filming a selfie video.

JAKE

And here we are—dawn patrol. First light.

He sees everyone.

JAKE

Wait, why does everyone look mad?

TIMA

Porque existes.

Because you exist.

EMMA

We’re missing water. And bandages. And... food food.

MARÍA

Someone go to Mercadona.

David walks up, plastic bag swinging with promise. His hair’s wet from a sink-shower. He glares at the group.

DAVID

Esto no es un viaje. Es un atentado logístico.

This isn’t a trip. It’s a logistical nightmare.

JAKE

Wait, the bartender is coming with us?

Mateo peeks his head out from the sliding car door.

DAVID

Sí, señor, y si no hay espacio, estoy seguro de que a nadie le importa si tú te quedas aquí.

Yes, sir, and if there’s no room, I’m pretty sure no one cares if you stay here

JAKE

What’d he say?

TIMA

The truth.

Laila arrives last. No bag again — just her leather jacket and sketchbook. She surveys the scene.

MARÍA

You didn’t bring anything.

LAILA

Doesn’t look like there’s much room anyway.

(beat)

Why’s David here?

DAVID

Para poneros combustible.

To make us flammable.

David reveals the bottles of rum and gin in the plastic bag.

LAILA

I thought you didn’t understand Spanish.

DAVID

Solo cuando los guiris están en mi bar.

Only when guiris/white-ass foreigners are in my bar.

María places David’s bag in the corner of the trunk.

MARÍA

Alright. Split up. Two for supplies. Two for beer. One for fuel. Someone keep the van breathing.

TIMA

Yo me quedo.

I’ll stay.

MATEO

(muffled from inside)

No! I’ll guard... the spirits...

MARÍA

We leave in one hour. Not one hour and Spanish five minutes. One hour.

EXT. CALLE COLÓN – MORNING

María and Emma walk briskly down the narrow street, passing shuttered storefronts and early-bird pensioners dragging shopping carts.

EMMA

You really think we’ll need all this?

MARÍA

Sí. Because I’ve done this before. And by “this” I mean surviving seven-hour car rides with men who don’t shut up.

They turn a corner and approach a herbolario.

INT. HERBOLARIO – MOMENTS LATER

A tiny, overstuffed herbalist shop. Dream catchers dangle beside bulk lentils and incense cones.

Emma picks up a bundle of sage and a bottle labelled “Jugo de Clorofila.”

EMMA

Do you think the van needs energetic cleansing?

MARÍA

It needs gas, cariño. And maybe brakes.

Emma pulls out her phone. Begins to film herself, holding the sage and a crystal.

VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

Emma looks at the camera/at us.

EMMA

Okay, fam — prepping for a slightly chaotic but spiritually aligned journey. Protection, hydration, and--

END VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

Marí shakes her head, disappointed.

MARÍA

Emma. Esto no es una puta serie de reels.

Emma, this isn’t a fucking reel series.

Emma freezes. Lowers the phone. A beat.

EMMA

I wasn’t trying to—

MARÍA

Sí, sí. I know.

EMMA

I know. I just... it’s how I cope.

MARÍA

Entonces cópialo sin cámaras.

Then cope without cameras.

María hands the sage back to her.

MARÍA

You can keep this. But no hashtags.

EXT. MERCADONA PARKING LOT – LATER

The two exit with a couple of bags — practical groceries, plus one kombucha and a vegan chorizo that María did not approve.

MARÍA

If someone dies of hunger on this trip, it’s on you.

EMMA

At least they’ll die cleansed.

CUT TO NEXT SPLIT SCENE.

EXT. REPSOL GAS STATION – MORNING

Jake is inside paying at the counter, awkwardly flirting with the teenage cashier in Spanglish.

JAKE

(holding up an energy drink)

Esto... ¿tiene taurina? Like… the strong stuff?

This… does it have taurine?

The cashier just blinks.

Outside, Tima crouches under the van’s front bumper with a toolbox open beside him. He mutters in Ukrainian, pulling at wires.

Jake exits with a bag of chips and two energy drinks.

JAKE

Got us the essentials.

TIMA

¿Tienes aceite? Coolant? Break fluid?

Do you have oil?

JAKE

No... but like, I got electrolytes.

TIMA

(snarling)

Idiot.

Jake rolls his eyes and leans against the van.

JAKE

You know, you’re not the only one who’s been through shit. We’ve all lost something at some point.

Tima slams the hood shut. Stands up slowly.

TIMA

How many buildings fell on your friends, Jake?

Jake shuts up.

TIMA

You talk like pain is currency. But yours is counterfeit.

Jake looks away, jaw tight. Opens the energy drink.

JAKE

It still depends. Like, I’ve lost--

TIMA

Your virginity when you were thirteen to a seventeen-year-old babe. I know, Jake, you’ve told me.

JAKE

I was going to say an iPhone, but I’m glad you remembered. Shit was fire, bro.

TIMA

So you got the clap?

JAKE

No, bro. Fire, like that shit slapped.

TIMA

I don’t know how you’re older than me.

JAKE

It’s my strict diet that keeps me young.

Jake takes another sip of his energy drink.

Tima wipes his hands with a rag. Tosses it in the van.

TIMA

I fixed the relay. You can film that for your followers.

He starts to walk away.

JAKE

Why do you even care if we find her?

Tima stops. Doesn’t turn around.

TIMA

I don’t.

He walks off.

Jake watches him go. Then drinks the whole can in one long chug, burps, and gets in the van.

CUT TO NEXT SPLIT SCENE.

DAVID and LAILA walk down a quiet street toward a modest cervecería. The OWNER, a wiry older man with a cigarette stuck to his lip, stacks crates outside.

DAVID

Si no tienen Estrella Galicia, nos piramos.

If they don’t have Estrella Galicia, we’re out.

LAILA

Podrías intentar ser simpático por una vez.

You can try to be kind for once.

DAVID

Soy rumano. La simpatía nos hizo perder fronteras.

I’m Romanian. Kindness made use lose borders.

LAILA

Pensaba que eres un Español de pura sepa.

I thought you were a purebred Spaniard.

DAVID

Enfrente de los guiris, si.

In front of guiris, yes.

Laila rolls her eyes as they head inside.

INT. CERVECERÍA – CONTINUOUS

A local TV mumbles in Valenciano above the bar — fire warnings, budget cuts, heat waves.

David steps up to the counter confidently.

DAVID

Una caja de Estrella. Bien fría, ¿eh?

A case of Estrella. Properly chilled, right?

The owner doesn't answer. Instead, he looks at Laila.

DUEÑO

(In Valenciano)

Res més?

Anything else.

LAILA

No, gràcies.

No, thanks.

DUEÑO

Teniu gelera? Fa una calor de collons.

Do you have a cooler? It’s damn hot.

LAILA

Sí, sí. Portem una. Gràcies.

Yeah, yeah. We brought one. Thanks.

The owner disappears into the back. Laila glances at David, who looks annoyed.

DAVID

Traidora lingüística.

Linguistic traitor.

LAILA

Lo has entendido todo.

You understood everything.

DAVID

Ese no es el tema.

That’s not the issue.

LAILA

¿Entonces cuál?

Then what?

DAVID

Que no pertenezco. Ni aquí, ni allí. Y fingir lo contrario cansa.

I don’t belong. Not here, nor there. And pretending otherwise is exhausting.

Laila studies him. He doesn’t meet her gaze.

LAILA

Entonces no finjas. Únete al club de los jodidos.

Then don’t pretend. Join the club of fucked up ones.

The owner returns with the crate. Laila pays without hesitation. David doesn’t reach for his wallet.

They each grab a side of the crate and exit.

EXT. STREET – MOMENTS LATER

They walk in silence. The sun is already hotter.

LAILA

¿Tú crees que de verdad se fue?

Do you really believe she left.

DAVID

Ojalá.

I hope so.

LAILA

¿Por qué?

Why?

DAVID

Porque si sigue cerca... ¿Qué sentido tiene todo esto?

Because if she’s close… What’s the point in all this?

They keep walking, the weight of the crate between them and something heavier under the surface.

CUT TO:

EXT. CASTELLÓN – TRANSITIONAL MONTAGE – MORNING (SUMMER VERSION)

A SERIES OF VIBRANT VISUALS capturing the pulse of Castellón in the heat of summer.

EXT. PLAZA SANTA CLARA

Tourists sip cold drinks at shaded terraces. A group of ERASMUS STUDENTS in bucket hats take selfies near the fountain. A child screams — laughter or meltdown, unclear.

EXT. MERCADONA – PARKING LOT

LOCLAS fight for spots under the awning. A MIDDLE-AGED MAN yells into his phone in Valenciano. Someone drops a watermelon; it explodes across the asphalt.

EXT. EL GRAO – MARINA AND PROMENADE

STROLLERS, RUNNERS, ROLLBERBLADERS. Seafood grills smoke behind glass. Overpriced paella, cheap vermouth. A BUSKER plays SPANISH POP covers on a battered guitar.

A group of THREE ABUELAS LAUGH and CHATTER in Valenciano as they walk down the street past a bar filled with OLD MEN drinkig beer, wine, and shots.

INT. CHURROS STAND – STREET CORNER

Greasy heat. A WOMAN (50) fans herself with a church bulletin while dipping churros into lukewarm chocolate. A radio plays flamenco. The teenager behind the counter scrolls through TikTok.

EXT. GRAFFITI WALL – HIDDEN SIDE ALLEY

Bright mural art bursts through layers of tags. One section looks vaguely like Noe — or maybe just someone trying to look free.

EXT. ROOFTOP – OVERLOOKING THE CITY

Tile roofs shimmer. The church bell tower looms over it all. You can hear kids shouting, mopeds revving, and cutlery clinking.

This town is awake.

FADE TO:

EXT. SUPERMARKET PARKING LOT – LATE MORNING

The van is still parked under the sun, which now beats down with full Spanish intensity. A small dog pisses on one tire, which Mateo chases away.

He’s been cleaning the car and reorganizing everything so there’s more space.

María walks over, her arms loaded with bags.

MATEO

Let me get that for you!

MARÍA

Wow, Mateo. Where did you get all that energy from? ¿Ya has tomado unas rayas?

Did you snort some lines?

MATEO

No, no. I just--

EMMA

Want to wash away the guilt from drinking so much. We’ve all been there, mate.

María places the bags strategically — food, beer, tools. Her sunglasses are on, but her jaw is tight. She’s sweating through her hoodie.

Jake and Tima walk up, Tima holding two bags, while Jake has one, as his other phone is occupied texting.

JAKE

All that was twelve euros more than I expected. Do we expense this to--

TIMA

Puedes facturar tu ego.

You can check your ego.

JAKE

That sounded like an insult.

TIMA

Correcto.

María places another bag into the trunk.

MARÍA

We’ll calculate the other expenses later.

She smiles at Tima. He smiles back uneasily.

Laila and David arrive next, carrying the crate of Estrella Galicia between them.

DAVID

(putting it down)

Vengo sudando como cerdo, y este no ayuda.

I’m sweating like a pig, and this doesn’t help.

LAILA

Podríamos haber conseguido latas.

We could’ve gotten cans.

DAVID

Latas son para turistas.

Cans are for tourists.

MARÍA

Where’s Emma?

TIMA

I thought she was with you.

MARÍA

She went back to get some medicine from her place or something.

As if summoned:

Emma jogs into view, balancing an aloe vera plant and a dreamcatcher.

MARÍA

You said you were getting medicine!

EMMA

Sorry! I had to.

MARÍA

You’re not bringing that plant.

EMMA

I can’t just waste it.

MARÍA

You can put on Mateo. El ya es mas rojo que un cangrejo.

He’s already redder than a crab.

Laila drops her bag.

LAILA

I’ll do it.

Everyone pauses.

LAILA

I mean, Mateo, you’re looking pretty red.

JAKE

And jacked. Dude, how do you do it with all the beer you drink?

MATEO

I work out the shame every morning, Jake.

Laila walks over to Emma to grab the plant. Emma hesitates before handing it to her. Her thoughts are unreadable as Laila cracks open the aloe vera and rubs Mateo’s back.

MARÍA

Everyone, get in.

JAKE

Shotgun!

Jake runs to the front seat.

EMMA

Fuck no.

JAKE

Shotgun. Whoever says it first gets the front seat. It’s the American way.

EMMA

This is Spain!

DAVID

¡Viva España!

Jake SLAMS the door.

MARÍA

We’ll kick him out of there as soon as we get gas.

Maria heads to the front, and everyone else piles into the back.

INT. MARÍA’S VAN - DAY

Tima and David sit in the very back row. Mateo’s about to take the seat behind María, but Emma comes from the other side, forcing him in the middle, between Emma and Laila.

Laila looks over at Emma, agitated.

JAKE

This van has zero airflow. And smells like--

María shoots him a look of death before he can say anything.

JAKE

Smells like a beautiful Colombian lady.

LAILA

And what does a Colombian lady smell like, Jake?

JAKE

Mangos?

TIMA

Well, it sure doesn’t smell like mangos in here.

MARÍA

Any complaints, and you can get the fuck out. Pendejos.

Pendejos = assholes.

Tima shrugs, “Fair enough.”

EMMA

Should we check the route?

MARÍA

No maps. No plans. Aragón is that way.

(points east)

O pa'l oeste. Lo que sea.

Or west. Whatever it is.

A low voice from the van:

EMMA

Are we really doing this?

MARÍA

Already did.

María’s about to turn the ignition--

JAKE

(phone in hand)

Wait! Say that again; that was epic.

MARÍA

No.

JAKE

Oh, come on.

(to Emma)

Emma, I know your game.

Jake turns the phone to Emma.

VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

Emma looks straight at the camera/at us.

EMMA

Are we really doing this?

Jake looks at the camera.

JAKE

(low voice)

Already did.

María turns the ignition.

END VERTICAL VIDEO FORMAT

Jake snaps his fingers.

JAKE

That snatched.

The engine coughs, then rumbles.

JAKE

... in the video at least.

Finally, the engine starts.

EXT. SIDE STREET NEARBY – SAME TIME

At a shaded terrace, Inspector Beltrán stirs sugar into his cortado. He sips slowly, watching the parking lot from a distance.

From his POV: the van starts moving.

He doesn’t write anything down. Just lifts an eyebrow slightly. Lights a cigarette.

Next to his saucer: a folded police file. The label reads:

EXPATS / LOS GUIRIS – CASO: NOE S.G.

He exhales smoke.

BELTRÁN

(en voz baja)

Idiotas románticos…

Romantic idiots…

EXT. HIGHWAY OUT OF CASTELLÓN – MOMENTS LATER

The van rumbles down the on-ramp, tires kicking up dust. It shudders slightly as it picks up speed — nothing fatal, but enough to suggest future problems.

The landscape stretches out — dry fields, distant hills, rows of half-built apartment blocks.

As the van merges onto the highway, it passes a faded road sign:

← MORELLA | TERUEL → | ZARAGOZA ↑

A shadow crosses over the van — not dramatic, just enough to notice. A cloud? A bird? Or something imagined.

Inside the van: silence. Faces turned toward the windows. Tension travels with them.

EMMA’S PHONE BUZZES.

She checks it — one last voice note.

INSERT – SCREEN:

Same burner account. Audio file.

She plays it. Very low.

NOE (V.O., LOW AND DISTORTED)

I know you’re following me.

SMASH TO BLACK.

Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. Please share this article if you enjoyed it!

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Series Bible

FORMAT: One-hour dramedy (42–50 minutes per episode). Limited series with potential for anthology-style follow-ups set in other cities (e.g., Vancouver, Dubai, Tbilisi).

TONE & STYLE: Darkly comedic, sharply observed, emotionally raw. Stylistically akin to The White Lotus (surreal social critique with a mystery plot), Fleabag (wit and fourth-wall breaks), and the Spanish satirical flair of Machos Alfa. A multilingual series (English, Spanish, and other languages depending on location), grounded in realism yet heightened by stylized elements like confessional asides, dreamlike vignettes, and overlapping timelines.

The "Spanish satirical edge" draws from local customs and institutions: it mocks bureaucratic absurdities, lingering nationalism, the cult of Catholic festivals, Mediterranean machismo, expat privilege, and the subtle hierarchies between locals, "guiris," and migrants.

LOGLINE: When a young woman disappears after a festival in Castellón, a dysfunctional group of expats and locals set out on an impulsive road trip across Spain to find her, each with their own secrets, motives, and growing doubts about whether she wants to be found at all.

Series Overview

Expats: Los Guiris explores the tensions and contradictions of global expatriate life and the extremes to which we go to belong.

Season one begins in the overlooked coastal town of Castellón, where a mismatched group of expats and locals have gathered to escape or find themselves. But their fragile social bubble is ruptured when Noe, a troubled young woman known by all but truly understood by none, goes missing.

What begins as a shared concern soon escalates into paranoia, blame, and bizarre alliances. The disappearance becomes the catalyst that pulls this ensemble out of complacency and into motion. One member of the group receives a cryptic message hinting that Noe may have joined a cult. Another admits to knowing her family. Instead of turning to the authorities, the group decides to take matters into their own hands.

What follows is a twisted, character-driven road trip across Spain—equal parts emotional excavation and cultural misadventure. Each stop on the journey peels back the layers of their curated lives, revealing what they've done, what they're capable of, and the truths they've buried. From yoga retreats and anarchist squats to dusty pueblos and over-the-top festivals, they chase shadows of Noe—and themselves.

The road destabilizes relationships and redefines alliances. Each new town is a mirror, each ride a confession, each night a gamble. And still, no one agrees on who Noe really was—or why she vanished. The season culminates in an unexpected reveal—Contact me if you want the series bible with spoilers.

Each future season could reimagine this same premise in a new setting and with a new disappearance, turning Expats into a hybrid anthology about identity, illusion, and the magnetic pull of escape.

Why This, Why Now?

The global rise of remote work, migration, and digital nomadism has created a class of people caught between cultures, belonging everywhere and nowhere. Expats: Los Guiris taps into that disorientation with biting humour and raw vulnerability, offering a mirror to our shifting sense of identity, community, and purpose. This series explores timely themes: cultural appropriation, privilege, burnout, emotional isolation in hyper-connected times, and the seductive illusion of reinvention. The world is craving stories that are deeply personal yet universally resonant—stories that reveal how belonging is both our greatest need and our greatest trap. Expats delivers that with flair, laughter, and heartbreak.

The World

Season one begins in Castellón, a coastal Spanish city rarely seen onscreen. Urban yet overlooked, it's a melting pot of sun-seekers, locals, misfits, and middle-class dreamers burned out by their home countries. But the story quickly expands beyond Castellón—into a road trip that becomes as much about Spain's cultural contradictions as the characters' inner ones. From tourist-catered clubs in Benidorm to working-class suburbs of Vigo, wine country communes to abandoned inland pueblos, each stop offers a new mirror. The country itself becomes a secondary character—seductive, elusive, and full of contradictions.

Rules of the world:

• Appearances deceive. The most well-adjusted character is often the most lost.

• Each location changes the group dynamic—what works in one town fails in the next.

• Languages, customs, and regional tensions vary wildly. Miscommunication is inevitable.

• Time is slippery—memory, fantasy, and desire constantly distort reality.

Main Characters

"No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main."

— Meditation XV. Keep that in mind as you read the character descriptions.

• Emma Smith (UK, 26): A vibrant but emotionally chaotic yoga teacher whose influencer persona masks a traumatic divorce and contact me for character arc reveals.

  She wants to "do less harm" but can't stop meddling in others' lives. Her bubbly exterior hides darker tendencies, which begin to surface after a surprise visit from her controlling ex-husband. Once her violent side emerges, we start to wonder if her involvement in Noe's disappearance runs deeper. Emma receives the initial message from Noe's burner account: "I had to leave. Don't follow". That message sets everything in motion—and puts her own sanity under scrutiny. Her fierce (and perhaps naive) sense of responsibility for Noe is a primary driver for the initial search.

• David Aldea (Spain/Romania, 41): A disillusioned academic turned bartender hiding family shame and professional failure. He struggles with resentment toward foreigners, although many still consider him one due to his Romanian background. "Estos putos guiris vienen en chanclas con calcetines..." is a weekly refrain. Nobody cares what David says as long as his beers remain cheaper than the other bars. He whispers in Romanian, pretends not to understand English, and fails spectacularly with women. His misogyny begins to unravel when—The rest of the character description contains spoilers.

• Tima Ivanenko (Ukraine, 22): A brilliant but politically incorrect engineering student. His coldness and arrogance are usually forgiven thanks to his gift for fixing anything and his quietly tragic past. Although his family lost part of their fortune in the war, he hasn't lost his pride. When María softens his heart, she also distracts him and—Spoilers.

• Jake Conroy (US/UAE, 26): A remote tech bro with a curated online presence masking his inner chaos. Raised between luxury and neglect, Jake has no idea who he is. He performs masculinity—weightlifting, crypto, alpha posturing—but avoids any real intimacy. As tensions rise, Jake's backstory surfaces: Contact me for spoilers. The trauma distorts his sense of control and emotional response, especially—You know what to do.

• María (Colombia, 36): Charismatic and impulsive, María uses seduction and storytelling to control her narrative. Her past traumas are unclear—and that's exactly how she wants it. Like Tima, she didn’t leave her country out of choice, but necessity. When she hears Tima and Jake express (spoilers) views, she seduces them both, planning to—Sorry, spoilers.

• Laila Flores Rivera (Spain, 28): A local artist who feels too cultured for Castellón but can't bring herself to leave—mostly because she’d miss the comforts of living with her wealthy parents (but that’s something she denies). She thinks she's morally superior to Jake and Emma, but when it comes to her crush on Mateo, it’s clear she’s just as hung up on superficialities. Her moral compass is real, but it's been through a few earthquakes— she once dated a cult leader, which makes her an integral part of the investigation into Noe. Although she avoids Jake as much as possible throughout the trip, his privilege reflects her own, and after—Spoilers.

• Mateo Van de Broek (Canada/Netherlands/Mexico, 32): A third-culture kid working in online sales. He understands everyone but feels connected to no one. He’s a charming alcoholic who drinks like a fish and swims like one, too. Mateo is intellectual, cultured, and triggered by family conversations. Every discussion on identity leads him to drink. As Noe's disappearance deepens, so do suspicions around Mateo's lost nights. He's not a killer, but—Spoilers.

• Noe Soler Garcia (Spain, 24): Manipulated by her parents and the Catholic Church, rejected by her peers, and damaged by men—or so she claims. Her disappearance unites and divides the group. Everyone's memories of her contradict. She's a mystery to others and to herself. Noe is charismatic but unsettling, a "human mirror" who reflects the hidden desires and fears of those around her. Her eventual revelation of—More spoilers.

• Inspector Beltrán (50): Castellón's local cop, initially introduced as a side character, becomes a dark horse. Buttoned-up, conservative, and quietly observant, he approaches Noe's disappearance with stoic detachment—too stoic, it turns out. As the group gets deeper into the investigation, Beltrán reappears in increasingly inappropriate contexts. By mid-season, we discover—If you want to know more, help me get this produced.

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Minor Characters

People they meet along the way:

• Hans (Germany): A retired philosophy professor who's become a local conspiracy theorist.

• Debbie (UK): An estate agent with a loud laugh and a sixth sense for expat divorces.

• Theo (France): A wannabe screenwriter who never finishes anything. Claims he's "researching".

• Raquel (Spain): A weary bureaucrat at the immigration office. Knows more than she lets on.

• Jordi (Spain): Owner of the local café where the expats hang out. Dry humour, deeper heart.

• Nico (Spain): The charismatic and spiritual sex addict—the leader of the cult.

• Marek (Poland/UK): I can’t describe him without spoilers.

• Rotating guest expats, seasonal tourists, language students, and locals who keep the world alive and unpredictable.

Pilot Synopsis

Episode 1 Synopsis: "Toro Embolado"

"Expats: Los Guiris Pilot" introduces a diverse group of expatriates living in Castellón, Spain, whose lives are disrupted by the disappearance of Noe Soler Garcia. The episode opens at a "toro embolado" festival where a bull injures Mateo van de Broek, while Noe is observed by a blurry, unreadable figure in the crowd. Later, at Bar Aldea, Mateo, María, Laila, and Emma discuss Mateo's injury and Noe's absence, hinting at a connection between them and Mateo's encounter with the bull. Jake Conroy, a tech bro, arrives, more interested in viral content than Noe's well-being. Tima Ivanenko, a Ukrainian engineering student, also appears, subtly hiding an earring. The bar owner, David Aldea, expresses disdain for “guiris,” white-ass foreigners who say things like:

JAKE: Well, tell him to get me one of the Spanish Sangria things.

EMMA: Sangria is Spanish.

JAKE: Yeah, but the cheap, fruitless version they actually drink here.

EMMA: Tinto de Verano?

JAKE: Yeah, that. Un Pinto de Verano, por favor.

The group's conversation that goes from alcohol to Spanish red tape is interrupted by Inspector Beltrán Sanchez, who is investigating Noe's disappearance. He questions them, noting Mateo's injury and asking if anyone has heard from Noe or received unusual messages. While Jake quickly denies any knowledge, Emma receives a distorted voicemail from Noe saying, "Tuve que pillarme. Ni se te ocurra seguirme." Emma hides this from the inspector. María, under pressure, reveals that Noe sometimes spoke of joining new "spiritual communities" or cults in Aragón, a detail Mateo recalls from a hazy night.

After the inspector leaves, Emma reveals Noe's message, leading to a heated discussion. Despite Laila's hesitation and David's cynical warnings, Emma, Mateo, María, Laila, and Tima decide to go after Noe themselves, believing she might be in a spiritual community in Aragón. The episode ends with the group preparing for their journey, each with their own personal baggage and motivations, hinting at deeper individual struggles and unresolved pasts.

Episode List

Episode 2: "Echoes in the Emptiness" (Aragón / Muro de Bellos)

Plot:
The group sets off for Aragón, chasing Mateo’s vague lead about a spiritual community connected to Noe. They arrive at Muro de Bellos, a nearly abandoned village nestled in the sublimity of the Pyrenees, where the empty landscape mirrors their buried fears and unresolved pasts.

Character focus:

• Emma struggles to keep the group cohesive while battling mounting anxiety about Noe and a cryptic message from her burner phone. Her fractured past simmers beneath the surface, but the—Spoilers.

• David vents bitter resentment about foreigners, channelling his anger into fracturing group dynamics.

• Tima stays coldly pragmatic, silently haunted by his own losses.

• Jake uses humour and tech distractions to keep his distance.

• María appears confident but keeps her cards close. She doesn’t know much about the cult, but subtly tests the group’s boundaries while hiding the fact that she—Spoilers.

• Laila reveals hints of a painful and meets her—Spoilers.

• Mateo drinks heavily, carrying guilt tied to Noe’s disappearance.

Tone & Themes: Isolation, hidden truths, early fractures.

Cliffhanger: As the group settles into a creaky inn for the night, Emma notices a familiar silhouette—Inspector Beltrán—standing outside the window, watching them in silence.

Episode 3: "Vineyard of Secrets" (Rioja Wine Country)

Plot:
They arrive at a secluded wine commune where Laila’s ex-cult leader once exerted influence. The community’s insular nature offers both refuge and danger, reflecting the seductive pull of false belonging and blind loyalty.

Character focus:

• Laila confronts painful memories while supporting Mateo, whose—Spoilers.

• Emma tries to maintain control, but her mental strain grows. After a drunken—Spoilers.

• David’s hostility toward outsiders spikes, but cracks appear in his hard shell. It’s clear these are the only people who—Spoilers.

• María remains mysterious and wary of revealing—Spoilers.

• Jake and Tima share tension-filled exchanges about trust and survival in an unstable group. They also hustle—Spoilers.

Tone & Themes: Groupthink, addiction, fractured loyalties.

Cliffhanger: Deep into a midnight vineyard scavenger hunt, Tima steps in to protect María from—Spoilers.

Episode 4: “Que te largues” (Vigo)

Plot:
In Vigo, tensions around immigration and identity surface. The group encounters distinct immigrant communities, and María’s—Spoilers—rocking the group’s dynamic and exposing their biases.

Character focus:

• María’s reveal shocks the group but also—Spoilers.

• Emma struggles to reconcile her own privilege with María’s experience.

• David’s prejudices emerge bluntly, creating conflict and forcing self-reflection.

• Jake grapples with discomfort and guilt.

• Laila and Mateo try to mediate while wrestling with their own insecurities.

• Tima’s cool and calculated shell is finally broken. We see—Spoilers.

• Tone & Themes: Identity, belonging, prejudice, trust fractures.

Cliffhanger: Overwhelmed by guilt and shame, Mateo staggers into a dingy Vigo alley and—Spoilers.

Episode 5: "Festival of Fools" (Festival Internacional de Música y Danza de Granada)

Plot:
A bustling multicultural festival becomes a pressure cooker for the group’s tensions. Emma’s darker impulses rise as her fragile grip on reality slips. The sensory overload and crowd chaos provoke betrayals and dangerous confrontations.

Character focus:

• Emma edges toward volatility, her behaviour increasingly erratic and unpredictable.

• Jake’s trauma and jealousy explode after discovering—Spoilers.

• María is left vulnerable but begins to open up when she notices—Spoilers.

• David and Tima (too many spoilers)

• Laila and Mateo lose themselves in excess but find moments of painful clarity.

Tone & Themes: Chaos, emotional overload, fractured bonds.

Cliffhanger: As the festival’s fireworks explode overhead, Jake, trying to save—Spoilers.

Episode 6: "The Unseen Hand" (Rural Andalusia / Cult Compound)

Plot:
The group nears the cult compound controlled by the charismatic Nico, where Inspector Beltrán’s sinister presence looms. As they infiltrate or spy on the cult, psychological manipulation tightens its grip, forcing each member to face their vulnerabilities.

Character focus:

• Mateo's depression from—Spoilers.

• Laila wrestles with painful memories of the cult leader she once loved.

• Emma’s obsession deepens, blurring reality and paranoia.

• María remains cautious, learning dangerous truths about—Spoilers.

• David struggles against manipulation, revealing cracks in his bravado.

• Tima tests his loyalty and strength as the cult’s enforcers circle closer.

Tone & Themes: Manipulation, power, vulnerability, dark secrets.

Cliffhanger: Hidden in a shadowed corridor, Inspector Beltrán slips a groomed dossier into María’s duffel—a photo of her—Spoilers.

Episode 7: “Fucking Lads" (Benidorm / Alicante)

Plot:
In the chaos of Benidorm, a tourist hub and anarchist squat-turned-digital nomad space, the group searches for new leads. Emma’s—spoilers—forcing Emma to face her double life. Inspector Beltrán also appears, using his power to—spoilers.

Character focus:

• Emma is torn between—Spoilers.

• Jake’s—Spoilers.

• María tries—Spoilers.

• Laila and Mateo face the toll of—Spoilers.

• David and Tima navigate the noisy urban alienation, their—Spoilers.

• Inspector Beltrán exerts his—Spoilers.

Tone & Themes: Family fractures, control, loneliness in crowds, shadow power.

Cliffhanger: Too many spoilers.

Episode 8: "Mirrors of Truth" (Return to Castellón)

ALL SPOILERS.

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Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. Please share this article if you enjoyed it!

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"Man has achieved his present position by being the most aggressive and enterprising creature on earth. And now he has created a comfortable civilization, he faces an unexpected problem... The comfortable life lowers man's resistance, so that he sinks into an unheroic sloth... The comfortable life causes spiritual decay."

The Colin Wilson quote is how Erik Rittenberry from starts one of his most successful posts, “The Comfortable Life is Killing You.” He follows it with statistics on depression and overdoses in America, research on the psychological impact of social media, and quotes from Viktor Frankl, Khalil Gibran, Ernest Becker, and, like many recovering Christian dudes navigating the line between mysticism and psychology, Carl Jung. The article ends with a conclusion written by AI.

I don’t judge Erik. I could only tell it was written by an LLM before plugging it into zerogpt.com and sapling.ai because I also experimented with ChatGPT when I felt rushed and lonesome.

Like many of the poets Erik praises, I’ve spent much of my adult life writing, travelling, and wandering alone. Yet, unlike those old poets, I have AI, and I’ve concluded we shouldn’t applaud a solitary life in a world where Big Tech capitalizes on physical withdrawal and diminishing community values. Unless, of course, you yourself capitalize on using social media and AI. Anyway, I didn’t want to call Erik out on that in the comments.

Instead, I wrote:

I’ve actually designed my adult life around the kind of discomfort this article advocates for. My income is inconsistent. I’ve lived in countries where I don’t (didn’t) speak the language. I’m often seeking out nature (admittedly, not enough in the wild), unfamiliarity, and silence (well, when I can find silence in Comunidad Valencia).

I’ve deleted all social media except for Substack Notes, which I check a few hours a week at most lately. I’ve kind of done the digital detox and the wilderness adventures. And I still often wake up anxious and depressed. Feelings of fulfilment are usually fleeting in my case.

So what’s my deal? I’ve rejected some forms of comfort, well, stability compared to peers. Yet, I often feel hollow.

Maybe it’s cause I’ve built my life around writing cause I thought it gave me meaning. I guess meaning gets slippery when the self you believe you are starts contradicting the self the world reflects back. As Viktor Frankl wrote, “Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose.” When the thing that once gave you purpose no longer aligns with external reality—when the world doesn’t mirror back your efforts—it can start to feel like you’re living someone else’s story.

After 14 years of failing to become a “professional” writer, I wonder: was this ‘man’s search for meaning’ a lie I told myself? Who the hell really am I?

It makes me think of the Leonard Cohen quote:

I fought against the bottle,

But I had to do it drunk—

Took my diamond to the pawnshop—But that don’t make it junk.”

Plus, I’ve been guilty of what Rollo May said: “It is an ironic habit of human beings to run faster when we have lost our way.” I think I’ve slowed down, at least my actions have. I write less, in other words. But my mind? I don’t know.

I’ve been allowing myself to enjoy comfort the past month because chasing meaning through discomfort hasn’t actually helped my anxiety or depression. Maybe it’s not just about getting uncomfortable but about realizing that our despair might not be coming from comfort but disconnection. From a fractured identity, like a mismatch between some inner truth and outer feedback.

So yeah, sure, comfort can dull us. But meaninglessness doesn’t only arise from ease and modern conveniences. I think that sometimes it comes from giving your everything to something and realizing that what you thought gave you meaning isn't actually what you should be doing. And that hurts in a place no hustle, hardship, or comfort can fix. But who knows, my response might be different in a few hours because I'm one of those people who experience everything super intensely. Some of us are just sensitive as well. Soft? I dunno.

But I gotta ask you, man. I can't imagine a more comfortable life than making thousands of dollars a month writing about poetry and what you love. You choose your own schedule, work from anywhere you want, and don’t have to deal with shitty people (just a few comments like this one). Is it killing you?

It’s the most successful text I have ever written.

Thanks to Erik, I finally know how it feels when hundreds of people like what I wrote—it feels just the same. Getting paid for the work and words gives you the hit. Don’t give me that do-goody-good bullshit.

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And look, I don’t know Erik. His account was Instagram-famous long before AI could create content like his. When I still had Instagram, he was among the only people posting material that added depth to my scroll. I can imagine the hours he spent researching and creating posts. That’s why I became a paid subscriber for a couple of months.

I also followed his epic camping posts, but whether you find writing about poetry as you escape into the wild comfortable or uncomfortable is up to you.

"What white people want for vacation is what black people are trying to escape."

— Trevor Noah

Suffering is subjective. I don’t know Erik’s history or what he’s going through. Maybe setting up a tent is really hard for him. Plus, as a successful writer and content creator, he has to deal with an unfortunate caveat: readers. He told one of them, “You bore me. Suffer more. Talk less.” And again, who am I to judge? I believe he’s heeding his own advice. To respond like that to a reader, one must be suffering through their comment section. Plus, maybe using an LLM is just his way of talking less to humans.

Sure, it’s a bit worrisome when someone who has written about the importance of the artistic process uses an LLM. But let’s be honest, AI doing some work for you as you rack up paid subscribers and find more free time to do what you love doesn’t sound that bad. In fact, it sounds rather comfortable.

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By the way, pointing out a few of Erik’s hypocrisies doesn’t mean I don’t respect the guy. As from said, “Taste matters now more than ever before in history.” And Erik’s got some of the best taste in poets, philosophers, musicians, and American camping spots out there. I recommend subscribing to , but remember this: Beware of people who quote Carl Jung too much.

Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. Please share this article if you enjoyed it!

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Related Articles & Poetry

The celebrated godfather of the nation, Mao Zedong, promised a socialist utopia but brought China to the brink of disaster. His campaigns, such as the Great Leap Forward (1958–1962) and the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), caused poverty, famine, political fanaticism, and violence. Yet, he unified China after decades of civil war and ended what many Chinese view as a “century of humiliation” by foreign powers. They still refer to him as a saint, well, without the religious connotation, since communists don’t believe in God, but in “hard work.”

The nation’s current kingpin, Xi Jinping, is a strongman who came to power in 2012 with a mission for national greatness. At first glance, Xi seems to have succeeded. China’s kicking Western ass with technological innovation, electric vehicles, robotics, and arguably, artificial intelligence. The only thing the USA has recently done faster is weaken the liberal order and dismantle democracy.

Compared to the USA (and most of the West), China seems like a utopia. Unlike many Western cities, where alleyways smell of piss and broken dreams, Chinese alleys and streets smell of flowers, clean air, incense sticks, or sizzling garlic. This wasn’t the case ten years ago, but now most vehicles are electric, public toilets are everywhere, and the only nasty smells come from the barbaric backpacking Westerners who packed three t-shirts and two shorts—me. I thought China would be polluted and hectic. Instead, I walked along quiet, clean streets (thanks to all the electric cars) through immaculately maintained green parks to restaurants with some of the best food I’ve ever eaten.

You can easily find noodles, dumplings, or rice dishes for around 10–20 RMB (1.50–3.00 USD). Government-subsidized canteens (e.g., in factories or universities) offer meals for 5–15 RMB ($0.70–2.00). And if you want to eat like an emperor, requiring fresh ingredients and classy service, you might spend 20 USD per person, especially if you bring your own alcohol, which they usually let you do.

Endless amounts of affordable, delicious food might be all that’s needed for a utopia to my primitive man-brain, but I understand some of you might have other paltry requirements, such as healthcare.

China has established the world's largest basic medical insurance system, covering over 1.3 billion people (more than 95% of the population). Basic check-ups can cost as little as 50–200 RMB ($7–30 USD), and common surgeries may cost 3,000–10,000 RMB ($420–1,400 USD). And in the same way that you pay for a meal and shop, China uses its mega apps like WeChat and Alibaba to enable quick online consultations. The people I met book check-ups for the next day within minutes and never wait more than two weeks for surgery. All this would make you think that taxes in China would be as high as those in European social democracies. That’s not the case.

Let’s ignore the government researchers who estimated that tax fraud cost the state ¥1 trillion (about $157 billion at the time) in 2011, and found that the largest culprits were state-owned enterprises—we can focus on utopia for a bit longer.

Most middle-class workers earning 5,000–30,000 RMB/month (USD 700-4,100) pay 3–20% income tax. On top of that, child education, elderly care, mortgages, and rent are tax-deductible, so most of the people I spoke to pay close to nothing. On top of that, businesses get a bunch of tax exemptions, and the general Value-Added Tax (VAT) is 13% (reduced from 17% in recent years). There’s no nationwide property tax (only pilot reforms in select cities), no inheritance tax, and only 1–3% for home purchases. And, as always, everything is efficient because of the mega apps—there’s fully digital tax filing through WeChat and Alipay.

But a utopia isn’t just a numbers game for our non-rational species. What about the feels?

China feels as safe as a gated-community daycare. The robocops are almost as cute as their real cops. Who needs a scary, racism-fueled police force when you have cameras pointing in all directions on every corner?

Whereas in the West, where we’ve willingly signed away our privacy via our phones, we can still escape Big Brother by leaving our phones behind, paying for burgers in cash, hiking to the middle of nowhere to drop acid and shoot guns into the night sky with stars dancing on swimmable lakes, and organizing raves where we run around half-naked sharing our love and bodily fluids with strangers. This is not safe.

In China, danger isn’t sexy. A woman doesn’t need a man who rides his motorcycle while playing his guitar with his calloused hands. A woman needs a man who’s over 170 CM, makes over 15,000 RMB (2’000 USD/month), has a university degree, and is well-groomed. When it comes to marriage, men require a woman between 22 and 28. After 30, they may be labelled "leftover women" (剩女, shengnü). However, fewer young people in China are getting married. Love can be dangerous, or even worse, a distraction from your bottom line. Thanks to romance apps, sex has become transactional. Whereas older generations still hold rather conservative views on sex, the porn-brained, money-focused generation of the present is down to hop in a Didi (China’s Uber) for a quickie before using an app to order their next meal or groceries.

Whereas I’m not sure if men always come wrapped up, meals sure do. Cooking and grocery shopping in markets are becoming rarer among China's middle and upper-middle classes. People don’t have time. Instead, everything is ordered online and arrives in plastic. Although China has cleaned up its skies due to its affordable electric vehicles and incredible infrastructure that puts Western countries to shame, plastic is everywhere. Even at restaurants, reusable utensils will often come wrapped up.

You’d think Chinese people would be wary of using so much plastic, as it’s detrimental to our oceans and sea life. Fish and seafood are an integral part of their culture. Nowhere have I ever eaten such a rich variety of delicious fresh seafood. Yet, it comes at a high price—morally, not financially.

The United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime found that organized crime groups, including those from China, are deeply involved in illegal fishing operations targeting high-value species such as abalone and sea cucumber. These species are highly sought after in Chinese markets due to their perceived delicacy and medicinal properties.

I had to ignore the Australian friend I made in Malaysia while enjoying abalone in China, but when I returned to Spain, his words, “My fishermen mates get threatened with guns these days,” kept creeping into my mind. Reports from Queensland detail how some illegal fishing activities (believed to be backed by Chinese gangs) have led to tense confrontations with local fishermen. Although this was in 2014, it hasn’t slowed down. In early 2025, Australian authorities reported an unprecedented increase in foreign fishing boats, especially near remote areas like the Kimberley coast.

I’m not saying the CCP has any stakes in this illegal activity, but like all powerful political parties/gangs, they’re tough on crime when you go against their policies, but have their own form of omertà (code of silence) when it benefits them.

Take fentanyl. Well, not literally. Anyway, China is the primary source of precursor chemicals used to manufacture this synthetic opioid, which continues to ravage communities, particularly in the U.S. and Hastings Street, Vancouver, where I once ended up painted as a radioactive fish at 4:00 AM. According to a report by the U.S. House Select Committee on the Chinese Communist Party, China provides subsidies in the form of value-added tax rebates to companies manufacturing fentanyl analogues and precursors, provided these substances are sold outside of China.

These same companies reportedly received bonuses and awards from local officials for good "export performance." I’m not sure if performance is measured in overdoses, but the China’s gansta shit doesn’t stop at pharmaceuticals.

The global reach of Chinese Money Laundering Organizations (CMLOS) is expanding rapidly, especially in Latin America. These networks collaborate with Mexican drug cartels, using underground banking systems and cryptocurrency to bypass China’s rigid capital controls.

These underground systems aren’t just for criminals. They also cater to wealthy Chinese nationals trying to dodge Beijing’s $50,000 overseas transfer limit, creating a black-market ecosystem where fentanyl money, cartel proceeds, and elite capital all come together in encrypted harmony.

The contradictions get even more surreal when you look at wildlife trafficking. While China builds eco-cities and flexes its renewable infrastructure, its demand for traditional medicine and luxury animal products fuels a $7 billion industry rooted in environmental collapse. Rhino horn, pangolin scales, and tiger bone wine are not just relics of outdated superstition, but a convenient front for laundering dirty money. Conservationists lose, criminals win, and somewhere, someone gets a government bonus.

And of course, we can’t forget counterfeit goods. According to Global Financial Integrity, from fake Nike shoes to knock-off cancer medication, China is responsible for a staggering 86% of global counterfeit production. This isn’t just about Gucci bags or Rolex knockoffs. It’s about intellectual property theft, international public health risks, and transnational criminal networks distributing everything from phony electronics to substandard pharmaceuticals. I guess 700 million surveillance cameras in China turn a blind lense when financial success props up local economies.

As I was saying, China is a utopia. Make sure to visit.

Really, most Chinese want you to come. They want to do business and show you their country's greatness. As a European and Canadian, it’s clear which of the two world superpowers (China and the USA) I trust more regarding commerce and forming loyal relationships. Mao may have considered tourism anti-socialist, but in China’s new communist model, the only anti-communist thing is anti-money.

Didn’t Marx preach anti-materialism and equality? Seems strange when China’s official Gini coefficient (a measure of inequality) is 0.474 (some estimates suggest .61). Either way, they’re in the same playing field as Suriname and Honduras. However, in China’s Utopia, you don’t see poverty or homelessness, especially as a tourist in the cities, because local authorities send the homeless to their hukou (registered hometown) areas.

But let’s drop the cynicism. Another reason you don’t see homelessness is that local governments offer basic housing and food stipends. Most importantly, it’s culturally stigmatized to let family members “fall through the cracks,” especially among older generations. Families often support unemployed or struggling members, meaning people rarely end up on the street. And that’s what made my travel experience in China feel utopian—the people’s love and support.

Nowhere else in the world have I encountered such consistent humility, hospitality, and honesty. After a few simple questions, the immigration officer welcomed me into her country. From then on, I was picked up and dropped off at airports by families ready to show me everything they knew about their country, whether it was the BBQ restaurants where people drank and laughed late into the night or temples with 5000 years of history.

Yet, as I listened to what they said about China and its history, I felt something was missing. Their pride and knowledge seemed severed from deeper truths. The information and stories they shared often left out the traces of the pain and contradiction that China’s history is rich with. Nuanced history has been replaced with propaganda, thanks to the father of the nation.

Chairman Mao believed in “permanent revolution.” In 1966, he exhorted young Red Guards to “Smash the Four Olds” (old customs, old culture, old habits, and old ideas). Zealots denounced Confucius for fostering “bad elements, rightists, monsters, and freaks.” Mao’s lieutenants even let their men dig up his grave.

The real Confucius, the one who actually lived, was neither a sage nor a king … He had no power or status—only morality and learning—and dared to criticize the power elite of his day. He traveled around lobbying for his policies, racking his brains to help the rulers of his day with their problems, always trying to convince them to give up evil ways and be more righteous … He was tormented, obsessed, and driven to roam, pleading for his ideas, more like a homeless dog than a sage. This was the real Confucius.

— Li Ling, a Peking University professor.

Now, Confucius’s tormented spirit lives on in Didi drivers. These are the people I met in China who showed me traces of human pain. Although they have little power and status, they make it possible to get whatever food you want and go anywhere within minutes of touching a button on a mega app. They don’t roam freely, but work day and night—some are driven to suicide.

They are not what parents want for their children. Children attend school from 7:30 to 17:30 (sometimes 21:00 when night classes are needed), and between school hours, they get tutored and attend extracurriculars. If there’s a holiday during the week, they make up for it by going to school on the weekend. These children do not complain. Instead, they are happy and grateful for the opportunities to become engineers, doctors, professors, and to join the white-collar workforce. Few talk of becoming artists, actors, writers, or any other careers associated with dissidents. Of course, artists still exist, but the subversive ones society needs are rare.

Mostly among the elite classes (those who didn’t need to study to become wealthy), you find people working in film and commercials. Even with the new middle class, some parents support their children’s artistic endeavours, but usually as hobbies for which children have less and less time. It was with Didi drivers that I found my favourite Chinese songs. Songs like 月亮照山川 (The Moon Shines on the Mountains and Rivers) by Wo Wo, 归途有风 (The Road Home Has Wind) by 海来阿木 (Hai Lai Amu), and 我要的不是雪 (What I Want Isn't Snow) by 李发发 (Li Fafa). Songs about love, sorrow, and hope. Some parts of the human experience are true across cultures and societies, but our values can be affected (and manipulated) by where we were raised.

In this consumerist-driven socialist utopia, hard work is valued above all else, but respect for elders, discipline, and filial piety remain cultural pillars. Children compete relentlessly and rarely rebel. They don’t speak of anxiety, depression, or needing to “find themselves.” Instead, they push forward. Even as their parents chase brand names and property portfolios, there’s still a quiet pride in self-sacrifice and collective progress.

Meanwhile, in the West, we’ve traded duty for dopamine. Many young people chase vague notions of "authenticity" while feeling more isolated than ever, scrolling through curated lives and medicating their way through existential fatigue. For all our talk of liberation, we’ve forgotten how to anchor ourselves to anything beyond the next novelty hit. Our healthcare systems involve more waiting, our food is too expensive, our cars still run on gas, it’s dangerous for women to go out at night alone, our shit will get jacked if we don’t keep an eye on it, and even with all this, I’d never trade our chaotic freedom for a “safe” surveillance state. And that’s why I’d like to end this article with a lean, boney, chain-smoking hero.

Liu Xiaobo, a literary critic turned dissident, was arrested for co-authoring Charter 08, a manifesto calling for democratic reforms.

Freedom of expression is the foundation of human rights, the source of humanity, and the mother of truth.

— Liu Xiaobo

In 2010, while serving an 11-year sentence for “inciting subversion,” he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. The Chinese government blacked out the news, scrubbed his name from the internet, and made sure no one could attend the ceremony. Yet, he still managed to say:

I have no enemies and no hatred. None of the police who monitored, arrested, and interrogated me, none of the prosecutors who indicted me, and none of the judges who judged me are my enemies.

— Liu Xiaobo

In 2017, he died of liver cancer while in custody under tight surveillance. His crime? Words. That’s why I do not fear piss-scented streets where political gangs clash. Show me the beautiful and ugly parts of humanity. Show me the marginalized, the criminals, the artists, and all who inspire. I fear a society where one gang controls all. I fear a society that pushes perfection and a clean image over messy truths.

Beware of those who think they can create a utopia. That’s the hubris of a godfather.

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Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. Please share this article if you enjoyed it!

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穷则变，变则通，通则久。
“When things reach an extreme, they change; with change comes adaptability, and through adaptability comes continuity.”

—《易经》(Yì Jīng / I Ching) – Book of Changes

塞翁失马，焉知非福。
“When the old man from the frontier lost his horse, how could one have known it wouldn’t be a blessing?”

—《淮南子》(Huainanzi) – from the Western Han Dynasty

彼一时，此一时。
“That was one time, this is another.”

— 庄子 (Zhuangzi)

The curse it is cast
The slow one now
Will later be fast
As the present now
Will later be past
The order is rapidly fadin'
And the first one now
Will later be last
For the times they are a-changin'

— Bob Dylan

True wisdom washes over the West-East divide, puts a plug in politics, and unshackles what you feel. There’s no better way to find these truths than to travel, read, and listen to music voraciously.

Do I have wisdom to share? I don’t know. I’m still working on my article about China—the country that changed my perspectives at the same impressive (and possibly perilous) rate it changed its GDP.

Those deep reflections and research will come out next week. For now, here are my unfiltered, premature thoughts and experiences while I was in China.

Hong Kong

Zhuhai

Chengdu & the Sishuan Region

Xiamen

Shanghai

Dalian

Beijing

The People & Food

Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. Please share this article if you enjoyed it!

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I will be back from China on May 9th. Whether I write stories, essays, or another form is based on your feedback and interactions.

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I designed this series for Substack. Each story stands alone, but if you started two months ago, I highly recommend reading the first story again. The cyclical narrative is more compelling.

Lucas

Ushuaia, January 21,  1992

The wind blows safely from the west, but change hangs in the air.

Navarino Island.

I wait for the Pelagic to dock and see that beautiful 16.5-meter sailing vessel approaching Puerto Williams. She sails half-wind, and Julia is on the front deck, ready to bring down the sails while Skip Novak—yes, the Skip Novak—captains the ship.

“Hey Luca, how are you doing?” Julia asks.

She’s gorgeous, always with a smile, a great sense of humour, and a lovely mixed accent from Australia and Kenya, where she was raised when the British Empire was still in full swing.

“Doing just fine,” I say. How was Antarctica?”

“Ah, you know, first you got the storms, then the ice, then the penguins, the ohs and ahs from the tourists, and of course, cooking in a vessel that bangs you around is also a real joy,” she says as the sail comes down. “How’s Catalina doing?” 

“I don’t know. She went with Diana to the hospital for a check-up.”

She lowers herself from the boat and toward me on the dock.

“Hey Luca, I was thinking of skipping the next trip, so you better talk with Skip. He’s okay with replacing me for that one.”

“Me, sailing with Skip? On the Pelagic? I will talk with him right away.”

“He is busy doing some paperwork but will come back tomorrow. Talk with Catalina and let us know. If not, it’s all good. Don’t worry about Skip. He will find somebody.”

Of course, he will find somebody!

Skip Novak is best known for participating in four Whitbread Round the World Races. At age 25, he became a living legend by navigating the British Cutter King Legend to second place in 1977. Now, he’s widely considered the world’s preeminent authority on polar sailing.

The sailing vessel Pelagic is also a legend. It was built in 1987 in Southhampton with the goal of exploring the polar regions. The boat's ethos is robustness and simplicity with a go-everywhere philosophy.

I almost skip uphill to our tiny house. I want to be part of those two legends. 

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Catalina.

When I was in my late twenties, my biological clock started ticking, but after the gynecologist told me there was only a very slight chance to have children without interference, becoming pregnant was in a very distant corner of my mind.

I was not the kind of woman to go to a fertility clinic or tell her husband, “I’m ovulating.” If I were destined to have a child, it would come naturally and freely.

Do not long for what nature doesn’t want. That was my moeke’s philosophy after seven pregnancies, of which three were miscarriages. Another was a stillbirth at eight months

With me, she was bedridden by the fifth month because she had a placenta previa and lost a lot of blood getting up. At seven months of being pregnant with me, my father had to carry her to the taxi and rush her to the hospital, where they performed a cesarian.

“We zijn allebei door het oog van een naald gekropen.” We crawled through an eye of a needle, my moeke told me.

When I found out I was pregnant with you, Nolan, these thoughts were running through my mind—that and paperwork.

I had started to claim a piece of land along the Beagle Channel, west of Ushuaia. Land that was only accessible by boat. I pictured myself there with a big belly while making our homestead.

The Beagle Channel.

I thought about the Yaghan people living on the shores of the Beagle Channel before the white men came and wiped them all out. Their women would wade their canoes along the beach through the ice-cold waters of the Beagle Channel and dip their newborns in the water to make them more resistant.

Is that why you love ice baths and swimming in cold water, Nolan? You tell me that it’s for muscle recovery and increased testosterone, but you’ve loved it since childhood. The spirit of the land you were conceived runs through you.

As your father always says, you were sperm on the rocks.

Cape Horn: the southernmost headland of the Tierra del Fuego.

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Lucas

Catalina isn’t home yet, so I make myself an instant coffee. I rehearse how to tell her about the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

When she finally arrives, I jump up for a kiss. There’s an energy to her I don’t quite recognize, or maybe it’s my own excitement I haven’t processed.

“Hello, beautiful! I got good news!”

The way she looks at me transfers me back to the moment I met her—the moment I fell in with her in Antwerp.

“You better sit down”. 

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

It takes me a second to sit down.

“I’m pregnant.”

“You mean you have a baby?”

“I sure hope it’s a baby.”

My brain cells fire, working their hardest, just formulate the very obvious.

“I will be a father,” I state or ask. I don’t know what the hell is going on in my mind.

“Yes. How do you feel?”

“How do I—”

I can’t talk. I grab my wife, tears filling my eyes. I kiss her and we dance to the music playing in our hearts.

“And what is the good news you wanted to tell me?” she asks.

“Well, Julia told me that Skip Novak was okay with me replacing her as a sailor and cook on the next trip.”

“And you made a decision?” she asks. “Is a lovely pregnant woman going to make love to you or Captain Grumpy? What will it be?”

We both know she won't stop me no matter the decision I make. She always supports me no matter how crazy or flat-out irresponsible my decisions are. And she has paid a high price for it… more than once.

“Yes, I made up my mind.  Let’s get out of here. We’re leaving.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know, baby. We need a good hospital where doctors don’t smoke. Somebody told me that the best hospital in South America is in Santiago de Chile, Clinica Alleman or something like that. That’s where we’re going.”

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The end of Forever Foreign.

If you read my last post, “Coping With Failure: Replacing Unpaid Work With Leisure Time,” you know this is the previous story from Forever Foreign. Originally, this story was supposed to come three months (and three countries) later, but I wanted those who read Forever Foreign from the beginning to experience the power of two children bound by kismet strings and their longing to feel the end of the world, Tierra del Fuego.

To experience the cyclical narrative, you can find the first chapter here.

Why did we stop Forever Foreign?

You can find the answer in “Coping With Failure: Replacing Unpaid Work With Leisure Time.”

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Each story stands alone but holds more weight for those who start from the beginning.

Catalina.

Isla Gitana was a place forgotten by time, a hidden gem in the vast expanse of the Golfo El Nicoya, untouched by the frantic pace of the outside world. Here, among the whispering palms and the salt-kissed breeze, stood a solitary cabin and a little shack your father and I called home. 

A path from the cabin meandered through an avenue of full-grown palm trees. Their fronds, broad and verdant, filtered the sunlight into a gentle, dappled dance of shadows on the ground. The dock awaited at the end of this path, its time-worn planks weathered by the salty sea spray.

A grand sailing vessel had been at the dock, a majestic two-master stretching a proud 60 feet in length. This old two-master had a storied past whispered secrets of a bygone era. During the tumultuous days of the Korean War, it had been involved in a covert operation, smuggling weapons and supplies to far-off shores, all in the pursuit of the mighty dollar.

This daring endeavour had been masterminded by a man called Willy or Bill, depending on his mood, who had amassed considerable wealth at the age of 72. A free-spirited American with an unwavering belief in the power of commerce had parlayed his wartime exploits into a comfortable estate in the heart of California. His house, nestled in the opulent surroundings of L.A., boasted six bedrooms and an equal number of bathrooms, offering his wife an exuberant life close to the city.

Yet, Bill himself remained a man of simple tastes. He preferred the comfort of his humble cabin on the inhabited island, where he lived in perpetual leisure, donning swimming shorts and a T-shirt as his daily uniform. Free as a bird, living without rules.

Well, there was one rule on the Island.

One.

Here, amid the emerald palms and the harmonious chorus of the Howler monkeys, he tended a small garden devoted to cultivating beets. Each morning, he transformed these earthy roots into a rejuvenating beet juice, sipping its vibrant elixir with a contented smile.

“Morning, beautiful. How’d ya sleep?” he asked as I trudged towards him. 

“Not so good, Bill. The first thing I saw was an enormous scorpion on that narrow beam above the bed.”

“And it kept you up?”

“No, a snake did. It was at least three feet long, curled up in that opening above the door.”

“Did he kill it?”

“With what? His bare hands? He’s not afraid of snakes, but it looks like a Bushmaster.”

“Those are great for sleep, Caty.”

“What?”

“Eternal sleep, that is.”

“Exactly. I’ll sleep on the Corsario until I know the shack is snake-free.” 

I squatted down to level myself with Bill, who had his hands in the soil. 

“By the way, Bill, yesterday I took two beers. Next time we go to Puntarenas, I’ll get you back.”

“All good, Caty. You want me to make some beet juice? You know, if you want to stay young and beautiful, you better start drinking beet juice.”

“I know, Bill,” I said, wondering how many more times he would prescribe me his beets—turned out to be many more.

“Where’s Luc?”

“He’s collecting coconuts for breakfast.”

“My coconuts?”

“Well, they grow here naturally—”

Bill jumps up, his face redder than his beloved beets. 

I heard him yelling and cursing as he charged towards our shack. Keeping a safe distance, I speed-walked behind him. 

“Let go of my damn coconuts, you son of a gun!”

Your father dropped the coconuts. I believe one landed on his foot, but he was too focused on Bill to notice. 

“If you want to stay on this island, do not—DO NOT—touch my coconuts.” 

“Are you serious, Bill?” he asked, gesturing towards hundreds of coconuts hanging from the abundance of palm trees.  “Is this a Bible joke, or what? Expel Adam and Eve from paradise.”

“So, you don’t get it. DON’T TOUCH MY COCONUTS! I don’t give a damn that you get drunk, smoke weed, or make love on the dock, but take your hands off my coconuts. Comprende?”

He turned around, and as he stormed past me, he quickly said, “One fucking rule, Caty. And even that’s too much.” 

It took all my willpower to keep from laughing at the red beet juice squeezing out between his front teeth like a vegan Dracula. 

Unsure what to do with the coconuts and sensing it wasn’t the right time to ask for beets, the approaching sailing vessel came as a blessing. We ran towards the dock, waving enthusiastically and hoping for food. 

At the bow, a fearless cat with its fur ruffled by the wind, stood proudly—a symbol of John’s return from Panama.

“Hey, Catalina. Mr. Luca.”

John threw the bow line and your father swiftly tied it around the dock’s cleat. 

“Man, am I ever happy to be back. How’s Bill doing?” 

John jumped on the dock and fastened the spring line around another cleat closest to the stern.  “This baby isn’t going anywhere.”

“Well, John, Bill’s pretty upset with Luca. But you won’t guess why.”

John stroked his long blond hair with both hands, looked me straight, inhaled deeply, and said, “Coconuts. Yes?” 

“How did you know?

“Well, a couple of years ago, I collected a bunch of coconuts for my trip to California, and when Bill found out, that old bastard almost killed me. And he’s my best friend.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “So now you know about the only rule of the island. But no worries. He’s forgiving. And I have a nice surprise for him.”

John bent over the stern rail, turned his head towards the cabin, and yelled: “Senoritas, estamos en paradiso.”

And out come three young women with big smiles and tiny bikinis.

“Every year, the old man organizes El Dia de Caza. A kind of hide-and-seek for adults in the jungle. A lovely tradition that feminists hate.”

His deep blue eyes shimmered like the ocean on a clear sunny day, a reflection of a life spent sailing the ocean and riding the waves, evoking the unmistakable essence of the Californian beach boy.

“Are you a feminist, Catalina?”

I watched the young women skipping their way towards Bill's cabin.

“No, I am not a feminist, John. I’m nothing that ends with ‘ist.’”

John laughed and watched Lucas playing with Captain Whiskers, the famous sea cat who got landsick after an hour or so.

“Luca, I am going to see Jacques. Do you mind if I take the dinghy?”

“Go ahead. Tell Jacques we have to talk about the day trips, lunch, and so on. We’ve got some clients to show around.”

It was a short trip with the dinghy to the mainland, where Jacques, a Belgian friend of ours, was building a boutique hotel encircling a tropical-creek-inspired swimming pool.

I pulled the dinghy onto the little beach beside the dock and walked up towards the hotel. Iguanas and butterflies gave colour to the verdant landscape. And there Jacques was, wiping away the drops of sweat on his bald head. Luca called him the bulldozer with a golden heart, as he was literally moving mountains to make his dream hotel come true.

“Hello Jacques, do you have some time for a woman escaping the madness of Isla Gitana?”

“Caty! You’re the best excuse to take a break,” he said, wiping his hands on his dirty shorts before giving me three kisses. “Let’s have a drink at the bar.”

As a proper Belgian, he ensured the hotel's most important part was ready. The bar was made of a pebble mosaic with an abstract design of wind and waves. The Bar’s terrace gave ample room for the several tables that overlooked the swimming pool and jungle encroaching on the hotel’s perimeter. 

“So, what’s up? Is the old man going crazy?”

“Hello, Caty, I made you a Pina Colada. I remember you liked it a lot,” interjected Johan, a young German guy who helped Jacques with the hotel.

“Thanks, Johan.” 

I turned to Jacques and told him about the snake, the one and only rule, the dia de la caza and Captain Whiskers.

“Caty, you’re living on an inhabited island in a shack where all your belongings fit in a tiny suitcase. Don’t you miss the university in Belgium? Why did you drop out three months before the finish line, love?”

You’ve asked me the same things, Nolan. And my answer was the same back then. I told him I didn’t know. That perhaps it was love. I also felt trapped in Belgium. My parents were going through an ugly divorce; my father looked down on my studies, and my mom had no interest. I always felt like an outsider. And yes, I also told Jacques that your father drove me crazy, but at least I connected with him. Like you, I needed his free spirit.

“That’s what I like about you both, Caty. You’re both hungry for knowledge and finding a kind of truth in the real world. I know that feeling. Do you know what’s helpful? The realization that ninety percent of the people are sheep. The ten percent who can think for themselves are difficult to find because they don’t belong to clubs, political parties, churches, or all the trulalla of society. So you better enjoy your total freedom as long as it lasts because one day, believe me, Caty, you will deal with tax returns, house insurance, and school meetings, and then you’ll think about the one and only rule of Isla Gitana.”

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Then, like now, the vision of Isla Gitana unfolds before me in all its splendour: the dense jungle, the palm trees, the sailing vessels and our Corsario gracefully moored alongside the dock.

The jungle stirs to life as the chorus of howler monkeys reverberates through the air, signalling the onset of 5.00 pm. Much like the reliability of Big Ben, their timely performance can be counted on without fail.

Emerging from the jungle's depths, three young women materialize, their joy evident as they run, laugh and giggle towards the cabin. Bill follows suit, his arms waving in an unbridled display, creating a scene that is nothing short of picture-perfect.

I row the dinghy alongside the Corsario, and the tantalizing aroma of fish sizzling on the barbecue makes me very hungry.  I hear Bob Dylan singing; she’s got everything she needs, she is an artist/she don’t look back/she can take the dark out of the nighttime and paint the daytime black.

“Here, catch Caty.” John gently throws a can of beer towards me.

“How was your afternoon, love?” asks your father, but I can’t answer. There are no words. I walk to Lucas and embrace him until we dissolve into each other, our beings intermingling like whispering wind in a dance of shared breath. 

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Each story has a related cultural psychology or sociopolitical article.

Beneath the Red Mask

The first week of July, 1983

The terrace of Hotel Colonial bathes in the Costa Rican sunrise, setting the stage for its myriad of tongues. Over in the shadowy corners, conversations unfold among the whispers of the CIA operatives, arms dealers, crooked bureaucrats—individuals who thrive on chaos.

“Luca! Luca, Luucaa, look aat you,” sings Rob, stealing my attention from across the street.

He offers his arm to an elderly lady struggling to cross the street. Sure, Rob grows the best marijuana in town, the bartenders love him, and he knows his way around a bureaucrat, adding convenience to our lives, but it’s moments like these that make me love the Dutch bastard.

After kissing the woman’s hand, he skips towards me.

“Where’s your better half?”

“She’s at Pablo and Ludo’s place right now for a haircut.”

“The only men that get to touch that divine woman are two gay guys and you. What a waste. Anyway,” he continues before I can interrupt. “Luca, my friend, I heard you built that motor yacht of yours.” 

The waitress comes by and asks Rob if she can get him anything.

“Mi vida, claro que si. Me traes un cafe solo, porfa.”

He admires her backside as she walks away.

“Where was I? Oh yes. I also heard you were desperate to see that yacht of yours in the water. El estafador huele las victimas faciles a kilometros de distancia. I told you, Luca, not a good idea to build the yacht yourself together with a certain Jimmy.”

“Jimmy said he—”

“You are like the eternal Peter Pan, refusing to grow up and face the harsh truth.”

Rob knows full well that I really wanted to buy two hectares on a beautiful beach for $65,000. It was the chance of a lifetime, and the only person Caty and I knew who could lend us that type of money was her father, but since he saw our life here as a stint, he was more inclined to invest in a little yacht, so we could give tours.

Of course, Rob goes on, poking at the wound.

“Not everyone is a well-meaning fairy godparent, or in your case…babysitter.”

He leans back, satisfied. His underlip hanging a bit to make space for that little sarcastic smile of his. His dark eyes glow with energy, madness, and kindness.

“Good morning to you too, Rob.”

“And hey, maybe you can use your yacht for smuggling weed instead of tourists. I hear it’s more profitable. Speaking of profit, have you seen my latest Rolex I brought back from the US?”

“Another piece of greatness from your beloved USA.”

“Well, at least I know greatness when I see it. Can’t say the same for your taste. Or anyone from Belgium, really.” 

“Oh, here we go again—the eternal Dutch superiority complex. You know Rob, it’s no wonder you grow the best weed. It’s probably your only escape from that Dutch ego.”

He moulds his face into the clownish smile he reserves for intimate friends.

“By the way, what’s the latest cause you’re championing? The Sandinista Revolution, I presume. Watching how the Ortega brothers are getting rich?”

“Next week, Catalina and I are leaving for Nicaragua.”

“Luca, I must say, your taste in politics is as terrible as your business decisions. But be careful, the revolution devours its own children.”

He puts one hand on my shoulder, the other arm with the Rolex in front of my eyes, and says, “Catalina deserves better.”

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Managua, July 17, 1983

Under the star-filled sky of Managua, the city—or what’s left of the city—comes alive. Those not singing on the streets cheer from balconies, many without railings. Kids get to be kids again, now running and chasing for fun.

Beef on the asado grills, waiting to be shredded and chopped, and the sweet orange marinade mixes with the scent of sweat. It’s a day of celebration, marking the victorious overthrow of the oppressive Somoza regime.

Chants of "No pasaran, No pasaran," They shall not pass, They shall not pass! echo through the streets.

Strangers hug and dance and sing. Through this colourful fabric tailoring its way through the resting shadows, a woman embraces Catalina, noticing she’s not from here.

"¿De dónde eres?"

"De Bélgica, Argentina, Costa Rica—vos elegís." You choose, Catalina says with a laugh.

"Gracias por estar aquí con nosotros. Significa mucho." Thanks for being here with us. It means a lot.

Distracted by the woman’s radiant smile, I don’t notice her missing foot until she kisses Catalina and hops away with the rhythm of the victory.

In the crowd, a cohort of individuals our age twirls amidst red and black flags, the colours of Sandino. One of them, brimming with laughter, seizes Catalina's hand, casting a derisive glance my way, and they dissolve into the heart of the plaza, where the air pulsates.

"A él le gusta menear tanto como le gustan las chavalas bonitas. Pero, tranqui, Rafael la va a traer de vuelta,” says Carlos, a short but grandiose figure. 

He likes to dance as much as he likes beautiful women, but don’t worry, Rafael will bring her back. I repeat the words to myself, hoping I understood “Rafael la va traer de vuelta” correctly.

“Sobre todo si son gringas.” Especially when they are gringas, adds Carmen, a girl with the sweetest of smiles.

We discuss the revolution, and although I can’t comprehend every word, I understand every message. Carlos, trying to step through the shadow of the past four years, grapples with the aftermath of their hard-won triumph, harbouring doubts about any true betterment. Carmen, echoing his unease, concedes to the struggle, her eyes bearing witness to a fusion of pride and uncertainty.

I stand up and go to the bar to buy a bottle of Flor de Cana, de local rum, a big bottle of coke and four glasses filled with a rare find—ice cubes. 

"Gracias, Luca," says Carmen.

“Pa' la gente de Nicaragua, maje,” says Carlos.

We are about to cheer, but then—

Gunshots, one after the other. The drink falls out of my hand, and I jump up to search for Catje.

“Tranqui, Luca,” says Carmen, taking my hand and bringing me back to the table. "En Nicaragua no tenemos cuetes, pero sí tenemos un montón de balas.”

They use bullets instead of firecrackers!

Amid shared laughter, the sincerity in their eyes grants me solace, a rare comfort with newfound friends.

“Wow,” pants Catalina, who appears behind me. “That Rafael can dance.”

The combination of her panting and Rafael’s satisfied face makes me want to chop off Rafael’s dancing legs and use them as my own. But that disappears as soon as she kisses me lovingly. Long? Time disappears. 

“Amor, amor, amor, viva el amor,” sing our new friends.

That’s what the day’s about. And it all would have been perfect if I had stuck to rum instead of fruit juice festering in a plastic bag.

The next day.

Catalina.

I tried to get your father to the top of the Masaya volcano, but shit got in the way. His legs were akin to rubber, transforming each meter into a marathon. The proximity of the bus (and toilet) lingered in the air, adding weight to the impending journey, so we turned back a few hundred meters from the summit.

Outside the gas station bathroom, as I waited for your father, a distinguished man with skin of velvet dusk sidles up. "Apologies for overhearing—is your friend doing okay?"

“I think so, but he has some stomach issues.”

"Where are you staying? In Masaya?”

“No, in Managua. We have to take the bus back because I think my husband wants to be as close as possible to a toilet.”

We laugh, knowing what Montezuma’s revenge can do to a person.

“My wife’s buying some textiles at the market. She’ll join me any moment, and if you want, we can give you a ride back to Managua.”

It didn’t take long for his wife, Eleni, to invite us for a lunch of Cypriot delights at their house. For Luca’s stomach, she made Sultan, an ivory-coloured cream with a dusting of cinnamon and nutmeg. While wer tasted Cyrpus, Eleni enchanted us with tales of its history and folklore. She told me about The Legend of the Cyprus Moufflon, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of Luca and me.

The Cyprus Moufflon was a rare wild sheep native to the island. According to legend, the Moufflon resulted from a forbidden love affair between a beautiful shepherdess and a handsome shepherd. The gods turned them into wild sheep, and their offspring became the Moufflons that roamed the island's mountains—maybe you and Yano are my little Moufflons.

Of course, my love for your father wasn’t forbidden or an affair, but with my family being Catholic and he coming from a long line of atheists, some might have seen it that way.

Once the food and tales were finished, Professor Elias took the stage from his wife to size us up with subtlety and class. As you know, this is a game your father loves, but on that day, he was a mere spectator instead of a performer.

“The first time I was invited to Yale University, I experienced something funny,” Professor Elias said as he took a sip of wine and stood up. “Well, frightening might be a better word.”

“I was standing in that big aula full of white students who came to see what a professor from Africa looks like. That I was black was not a big surprise to them, but that I spoke English like on the BBC, well, that came unexpectedly.”

He coughed, morphing his voice into the didactic austerity of a professor.

“I am from Kenya, a beautiful country on the African continent. Is there anybody who has visited Africa?

He paused, echoing the silence from his story.

“Nobody from the 300 hundred students raised their hand, so I continued, ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, Africa is a very special continent. It’s the only continent where you can see two moons.’ I could hear the questions amongst the murmurs. ‘What? Really Professor? I didn’t know that. “How can that be?’”

Yes, how could that be?

“But nobody realized I was joking. And that was at the prestigious Yale University.”

“No wonder the American people chose Reagan as president,” I said, and from their laughter, I realized we were on the same side of the game.

In turn, because your father was very silent, I took his place and shared stories of our adventures. As you know, it was a time we couldn’t help but tell our stories through a political lens. Reading about all the ideologies, frictions, and conflicts weren’t just ideas—we lived them. Yet, in that moment, your father existed outside the realm of living ideas.

“Caty, we have to go,” he whispered.

Fortunately, I didn’t need to make an excuse. Professor Elias and Elina saw him suffering and excused us with grace.

"Before you go, Catalina, I want to give you this tea towel from Cyprus.”

“I can’t accept that, Eleni. You and Elias have already done so much for us.”

“Please accept Catalina; it will keep memories alive and foster a sense of closeness across distances and time.”

“And I am sorry, Luca, that I have nothing from my home country to give you. Instead, I wanted to give you Lomotil, the best medication against Montezuma's Revenge, but I noticed I don’t have any left. So, please, the least I can do is bring you to your hotel,” said Elias.

To Luca's ears, that sounded like the best farewell present.

Refer a friend

Managua, July 19, 1983.

As the night wore on, your father's condition deteriorated. A relentless urge forced him to the bathroom. The pervasive smell enveloped him, intensifying the discomfort and humiliation of vulnerability.

He wrestled with waves of pain and discomfort, his body weakening with each passing minute. In a foreign land, fear gripped him, with no one to turn to for medical aid.

Come morning, I approached the hostel staff, who did their best to provide water and a thermometer. The reading, 40.5°C, rang alarm bells.

I sought a pharmacy, navigating the remnants of a downtown ravaged by earthquakes and Somoza’s bombings. Just before my knees buckled, I found a young pharmacist who offered me a small bottle and a needle, wishing me luck in administering an intramuscular injection.

Returning to the hostel, I asked the boy to call a doctor or nurse. His attempts with the phonebook seemed futile, but I had to check on your father.

As I turned to go upstairs, the boy revealed his experience, having fought with the Sandinistas and morphine.

“Vamos, gracias, vamos.”

Arriving upstairs, the room confronted me with the reality of your father's condition. Delirious and breathing irregularly, Luca welcomed the injection from the young man with surprising calm.

“Muchas gracias. Eres un profesional.” I thanked the young man, impressed by his confidence. An hour later, your father's fever subsided.

“Gracias, gracias, gracias,” I said, wrapping my arms around the unsung hero.

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Nicaragua, Penas Blancas, July 21, 1983

Lucas

The bus is packed with people, and I am squeezed between two heavy Nicaraguan ladies. To my left is a woman with remarkably large breasts, and on the other side sits an even larger lady with a live chicken perched on her lap.

I need a snorkel to get some air from above all the flesh surrounding me. I glance ahead, spotting my beautiful Catalina sitting near the front, attempting not to succumb to car sickness in the sweltering heat.

When we reach the border crossing, the Costa Rican immigration officer betrays neither emotion nor malice.

“Buenos Dias. Pasaporte por favor.”

He takes both passports and starts to turn the pages like he’s reading a story.

"¿Qué van a hacer en Costa Rica?" What are you going to do in Costa Rica?

“We are going to enjoy the beauty of Costa Rica, Sir.”

Our lawyer in Costa Rica specifically instructed us not to tell them we were living there.

"Usted no lo está. Usted ya excedió su límite la última vez que estuvo en Costa Rica.”

No, you aren’t. You already overstayed your limit the last time you were in Costa Rica. I wish I didn’t understand him correctly. The words stop my heart.

"¿Perdón? Cuando salimos de Costa Rica la semana pasada, el oficial de inmigración no mencionó eso,” Catje says.

When we left for Nicaragua, did the immigration officer tell us anything about a time limit?

"Debería haberlo hecho. Por favor, retírese y dé paso al próximo pasajero.”

I step aside, as instructed, but my head spins from fever and fear. Desperate, I put 20 USD in my passport, step forward, and say, “Sir, I think you overlooked the visa on the last page.”

He looks at the passport like he's studying the visa, puts it down, the money disappears underneath a paper, asks for Catalina’s passport, stamps it, and says, “You are good to go; you can stay three months in Costa Rica but not one day longer.”

We thank him and cross over to Costa Rica, where our yacht awaits.

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What is one of the biggest challenges you have faced in the U.S.?

Cool Beans Expat Group: One of the biggest challenges we've faced in the U.S. is building real friendships—the kind of deep, lasting connections we're used to in Italy. In America, people often say, "Let's stay in touch" or "We should meet again soon," but follow-through is rare. We don't think they do it to be mean, but the follow-up comes late, and it's perceived to be scheduled and less spontaneous. Therefore, the lack of consistency is the reason why it's difficult to create a meaningful connection. Even when they know you're new in town and looking to make friends, there's little effort to include you, regardless of whether you are an expat or not; we saw this happening between Americans as well.

Nolan: As far as the lack of spontaneity goes, I think that's something those of us who love Mediterranean cultures would miss. I've heard the same from people who moved from Spain to the Netherlands. They want to call up their new friends to meet up in a few hours and get a response like, "Yes, I'm available at 15:00–18:00 next month on Sunday." Like fuck me, I don't even plan trips across the world that far ahead. I also think it's something Protestant—to show how busy you are.

(Fun fact: Max Weber, a German sociologist, actually argued that Protestantism—specifically the Calvinist work ethic—laid the foundation for modern capitalism in the U.S. Hustle equals virtue.)

Anyway, that's a whole new topic to get into.

How do you feel relationships are different in Italy?

Cool Beans Expat Group: In Italy, friendships tend to form more naturally, with people inviting you into their existing circles and making you feel at home from day one. Another major difference is how certain topics—religion, politics, mainly personal struggles—are often off-limits in casual conversations here. We miss being able to openly discuss deep or controversial subjects without fear of offending someone.

Nolan: In Valencia, relationships also form more organically, apparently. People can strike up a conversation with someone at a café and find themselves drinking at a chiringuito (beach bar) during sunset. Yet, I live in Castellon de la Plana, where entering friend groups is notoriously difficult. I've lived here for five years and have two friends who have actually invited me into their homes.

Now that I speak Spanish better, I've noticed the average person is blunter here (no tienen pelos en la lengua). You can talk about politics, but honestly, political correctness and fear of offending people seem to have spread all over. People become more polarized and boxed in when they have to hide behind soft language and can't actually express how they feel.

Yet, my experience is quite different from yours because I grew up in Canada, and all my friends are the opposite of PC. I don't vibe with people who define themselves through ideologies and labels, so the people I surrounded myself with in Canada were fine talking about politics, religion, and so on.

What do you think is missing in the U.S.?

Cool Beans Expat Group: As we've written before (in this issue), true relationships are built on vulnerability, but in the U.S., there seems to be a strong preference for keeping things light and surface-level. There's also a noticeable tendency to exaggerate positivity. You do the bare minimum at work, and you're told you're amazing. People constantly receive compliments or reassurances, whether about their performance or appearance. It sometimes feels like validation is an essential part of communication here, which is very different from Italy, where feedback is often blunt and direct.

Nolan: For sure, in America, mediocrity is awesome. It's a country of people in the middle who require feedback that gives high self-esteem, prescription meds, or weed to get through regular-day tasks. If that sounds harsh, I hope readers realize I'm pointing one finger at the USA and three back at me.

On the other hand, what do you love more about American culture?

Cool Beans Expat Group: One thing we love about American culture is the freedom of self-expression. People dye their hair bright pink or wear bold outfits without anyone batting an eye. In Italy, people tend to judge based on appearance, and society can be much more closed-minded. This openness is also reflected in the variety of events and activities available in major U.S. cities.

Nolan: Oh, hell yeah, the freedom of self-expression is something I enjoy more in Canada and the States than in most of Europe. Well, depends. I've noticed way more self-expression in a city like Hamburg, Germany, than, let's say, Calgary, Canada. But still, overall, Europeans seem to judge way more. They're much more focused on what group you belong to. Maybe that's the flip side of being more community-oriented and less individualistic.

How does this cultural difference show up in everyday life in a city like Chicago?

Cool Beans Expat Group: In Chicago, you can find something for every niche interest, whereas in Italy, many social experiences revolve around food, fashion, design, and Italian music. Even in the culinary world, we've noticed a stark contrast. When our Italian friends visit, they're often surprised by how daring American chefs are, experimenting with bold and unexpected ingredient pairings. In Italy, chefs tend to be more conservative because they fear being judged by customers who expect tradition over innovation.

Nolan: There's no doubt that American chefs would be more daring because it's such a boiling pot of cultures and tastes, but I've also heard this: "They need to cover up their shitty, bland GMO ingredients." I can't speak for the States, but the produce in British Columbia is incredible, so I don't think people who diss' American chefs had a valid argument. I think they were just sour.

Instead, what's the big difference in terms of lifestyle?

Cool Beans Expat Group: In terms of lifestyle, we miss spontaneity. In Italy, you can text a friend last minute to meet for coffee or dinner. Here, it feels like every social interaction needs to be scheduled in advance. Plans are made weeks ahead, which makes everything feel a bit rigid compared to the fluid, last-minute nature of social life back home.

Nolan: Yep, that's the one. In Spain, you can text a friend at 7 pm and be clinking glasses by 7:30 pm. You go with the flow of life, not the calendar. In North America, it sometimes feels like if something isn't planned, it doesn't count. But I think that's more of an East Coast thing. The West Coast is more laid-back. People don't plan (or show up on time) as much.

Are there aspects of the American culture you connect more with than in Italy?

Cool Beans Expat Group: Yes, definitely! For one, the culture of fairness and meritocracy. Unlike in Italy—where middle management rarely changes, making career growth stagnant—here, if you work hard, you can move up. There's also a greater sense of honesty in day-to-day transactions. You can use a credit card anywhere without someone pretending the machine is broken, and people are generally less likely to take advantage of you. While adapting to American culture has had its challenges, it has also broadened our perspectives. Some aspects still feel foreign, but others—like the freedom to be yourself and the opportunities for growth—make us feel more at home than we expected.

Nolan: I've heard that as well. Personally, I can't say much about it because I've never worked in the corporate world aside from being an independent contractor selling and promoting whatever gig came my way. Yet, even in that world, I noticed that anyone could become anything. In Spain, people have titulitis—they overemphasize paper qualifications and ignore practical experience. To be honest, I don't like the Spanish work and education culture. People work longer hours but do so much less within those hours, schools are conservative, and there's a lack of entrepreneurial spirit. Luckily, I have my own education business online, where I work with people worldwide. I get to enjoy the aspects of Spanish culture I love while avoiding the parts I don't… sometimes.

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Born Without Borders is for anyone who wants to unshackle the chains of conformity. It’s for people unlearning what holds them back and global citizens looking to increase their cultural competence. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. You can also Buy Me a Coffee.

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Each story has a related cultural psychology or sociopolitical article.

Butterflies

Limon, Costa Rica

December 2, 1982

Lucas

The blood spread across the ceiling is ample forewarning to turn the fan off. Our room has a double bed, a little nightstand, and a pendant lamp suspended by a frayed wire, dangling precariously close to the two clammy pillows.

"I feel like I'm in Graham Greene's novel," Catalina says.

I inch my way out of the bed, careful not to get decapitated, and make my way to Catalina, sitting on the windowsill, lighting up one of her Camel cigarettes.

"Thinking about your father, Catje?" I ask, knowing her father was a Graham Greene fan.

She smiles as I grab the cigarette from her hand.

"Women were either depicted as saints or sinners." Catalina leans her head against the wall and looks me in the eyes. "I know I keep bringing it up, but the indigenous cultures with matriarchal societies—I want to meet one of those women. I want to feel what they feel."

I grab her hand, and she strokes mine. We look outside the window and see two men with thin gold chains sparkling against their skin. The moment they sip their Red Stripes, Catalina and I look at each other and ask, "Thirsty?"

We rush to the little kiosk as the wind picks up, and in the distance, a dark black curtain of billowing clouds moves over the sea toward the hotel. No problem, we’ll be back in two minutes.

Nature waits for nobody.

Raindrops fall from the sky with such force that they bounce like rubber balls when they hit the concrete.

It takes us three minutes to get back to the hotel, but that’s enough to be entirely soaked.

We strip down and wrap two humid towels around ourselves. We sit on the windowsill, watching lightning bolts pierce their fiery signatures throughout the sky. The wind amplifies, her mournful howls intensifying with each passing moment. She pushes the palm trees into Cs and rips the foliage, spreading it across the street.

The Caribbean Sea grumbles, and her power fills the room with a presence that silences us. We watch the lightning illuminate the crests of the waves with white foam and the rain that lashes the terrace, causing the drops to bounce back upwards.

However eerie the blood, the concrete slab we ended up in doesn't seem all so bad anymore.

We hold each other tightly as she thunders with a sound of sharp metal. She pours out all her rage and sorrow, giving life even amongst the darkness and pain. And then, suddenly, it’s over. The thunder and lightning have moved inland, leaving only a drizzle.

The room is humid, and we are still wet, but Catje looks radiant as she tastes the seawater on her lips. The light line of her "Van Thillo furrow" (a characteristic of the father's side of her mother) has vanished.

She kisses me, then fits her head between my shoulder and chest like a puzzle.

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The next day, we head to Cahuita with a car that’s likely stolen. No paperwork or license is necessary, just trust.

The road from Limon to the Panamanian border meanders through densely forested areas and small banana plantations. I dodge old trucks laden with bananas every few minutes, rumbling up the hill, ignoring any concept of right, left, or lanes.

I read about the atrocities of the United Fruit Company, but being here, on the land they destroyed, I sense the suffering. The only way I can keep sane in this madness is to let everything I have learned spill out of me.

"Can you believe what the United Fruit Company did in the early 20th century? The fuckers grabbed lands for their damn banana cultivation. It’s pure banana politics with the UFC having the government eat out of their hands, shaping policies for their pockets. They don't give a shit about the Bribri and Cabecar communities. They trample all over the ancestral territories of these Indigenous people, ripping away their connection to the very lands, their cultures and souls—

I swerve and honk.

“These fucking trucks! And it isn't just Costa Rica. Jamaica's biodiversity and resilience have gone down the drain with these plantations. And then, as if that isn't enough, the Fusarium Wilt disease strikes, wreaking havoc on the plantations.”

Time to gear up and pass this shithead!

“And what does the United Fruit Company do? They try to wiggle out of it by changing their name to Chiquita! So it goes."

I pass the truck, suddenly aware of how heavily I’m breathing.

"Don't get so worked up, Luca. But you're right."

"I do get worked up. I mean, those bastards from the UFC practically own countries like Honduras and Nicaragua—actually, all of Central America. Civil wars, repression, genocide—a bloody puppet show for them."

Catalina doesn't respond at first. The banana plantations are behind us, and Catje looks out the window at the towering moss-laden trees that shade the road and cool me down.

"Well, maybe we can tell our children about the wonders of nature. They could be the last witnesses of the beauty on this planet. Just imagine."

"Did I miss something? When did you give birth?"

"No, no, you know my mind's not there. Kids, I mean. But nature's all about reproduction, right? What else is the purpose of life?"

"The purpose? Trying to reproduce as much as possible."

"I think that's the drive. Maybe the purpose is diversity. The more types of plants, ideas, and people, the healthier our world and societies. It's those who try to reproduce more of the same who misunderstand this."

I place my hand on Catje's knee, and the wild beach of Cahuita appears in the distance. As eager as we are to tackle the teeming vegetation surrounding the trails to the beach, we must find a place to sleep.

After a few turns, we realize we’ve seen the entire village. The choice is easy.

There is no choice—a motel-ish shelter is all there is. The room’s shower head is connected to electric wires, creating a makeshift water heater at 110 volts next to mouldy, damp walls.

But a beach town is a beach town, and we quickly find a bar where the Cuba Libres come with the right amount of rum and a splash of cola.

From the bar, I peer over at Catalina, who sits speaking Spanish with an elderly woman who bursts into laughter. I know to leave the ladies alone and turn back toward the bartender, a man as black as onyx. I admire the intensity of his colour and wonder if racism arises from jealousy.

"Es bueno hacer snorkel en el arrecife," I say in my rudimentary Spanish.

"A wah dat," he answers in what must have been Limonese Patois. That or my Spanish is indeed very basic.

Time to try English.

"How is the snorkelling at the reef?"

"Best reef in the world. Plenty of fish and colours. But now you won't see your hand in front of you. End of the rainy season. Very cloudy and messy. Chaka-chaka.”

I study my surroundings, inhale the stillness, and—

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Six dates—that's all it took for my parents (Catalina & Luc) to elope in Jamaica. To read those chapters, start from the beginning, "Forever Foreign." However, each story stands on its own. The following story is set in America before my parents wander amid CIA shadows and sticky red tape, celebrate with the Sandanistas, dwell on a monkey-ridden island with a beat-loving recluse, rise to the top of Tenerife's tourist sector, dodge the draft, smuggle—

I suggest subscribing and starting from the beginning if you're new here.

Each story has a related cultural psychology or sociopolitical article.

The USA Was a Stepping Stone

Here, I stand in the fluorescent-lit corridor of bureaucracy in Miami airport, facing an immigration officer who could easily double as a drill sergeant. As he inspects my passport with the precision of a surgeon, I wonder if I've unwittingly stumbled onto the set of a military-themed reality show.

“Why are you staying in ‘Merica?” he asks.

“I’m not.”

“You’re in the United States of America, son. So, I’ll ask you again. What are you doing in America?”

“I have a layover on my way to Argentina.”

“A layover on the way to where?”

“Argentina.”

“Ar-gen-tina.”

“Yes.”

“You have a layover here on the way to Argentina?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And exactly what do you plan on doing in America on your way to Argentina?”

“Nothing. If there were a flight where I wouldn’t have to step foot in this country, I would have taken it.”

The immigration officer is so taken aback that he hands back my passport and lets me catch my plane.

Refer a friend

I was twelve years old when I heard this story from my father, but it didn’t come as a surprise. People who had never left Canada or the United States often credited Jesus for my parent’s survival in godforsaken countries. Instead of fearing the country of Africa (as many of these people referred to it) and those cocaine-ridden death traps below Mexico (again, not my words), I was wary of the USA.

My parents had slept in Latin American ghettos and avoided death by luck dozens of times, but when I asked my mother where she had been most afraid in her life, the answer was New Orleans.

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Catalina

We saw my father’s corporate apartment in New Orleans as a stepping stone to Costa Rica.

As a sailor on merchant ships, your father wasn’t obliged to do his one-year military service in Belgium. But he wasn’t a sailor anymore, so he had to stay out of Europe for the next five years if he wanted to avoid his military service. For your father and I, staying out of Europe for five years to avoid military service was worth it. And what better place than Costa Rica, a country without an army? 

However, staying in New Orleans wasn't precisely aligned with our pacifist ideals. 

I was all alone because your father had gone to Costa Rica to check it out beforehand. Since he was searching for places we could afford (which wasn’t much), he didn't have a set itinerary, and I had no way to get a hold of him.

I sat by the phone all night, craving his voice. Instead, I received muffled telephone calls with strange, distorted mumbles three days in a row. Between the heavy breathing, shrieks, and sudden pauses, I couldn’t make out any clear threats, but it was enough to bring me into a surreal state of fear. Sleep-deprived, I started to imagine...

As a visual artist, the best way I can describe the feeling is with a painting.

I didn't select The Death of Marat II by Edvard Munch for the murderess it depicted, but rather because I found myself stripped bare, vulnerable to the unrelenting presence of death looming ever closer. In a world where death denial shadows every step, the canvas spoke to my raw exposure to my mortality.

The third morning, I finally built up the courage to go outside to my car so I could get more food and experience life in downtown New Orleans. But to my horror, I saw somebody stuck match sticks in the doors' keyholes.

Although nothing physical happened, these mind games went on for three weeks until I finally got a call from Lucas.

He rented an apartment in the capital, San Jose, and was waiting for me to join. I was ready to get the hell out of America.

Two weeks earlier…

Luc

The Mississippi River takes a sharp turn where the French Quarter stands, a historic community translating the history of the US into jazzy undertones. Every drop of water from Lake Itasca in Minnesota, where the Mississippi River originates, mixes with the sweat and blood of the population, as well as the melting snow and subtropical rains from the ten states through which this mighty river winds its way.

Here, at the deepest point of the river, Algiers Point, 60 meters deep, the fascinating city of New Orleans emerges, squeezed between the river and Lake Pontchartrain, fighting against floods and sociopolitical injustices.

If all the sorrow of the African slaves and the decimated Native American population were collected in a lake, it would be Lake Itasca, just big enough to channel those tears into the second-largest river in North America, with the ultimate goal of reaching the Gulf of Mexico.

Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Mississippi, and Louisiana—states that should be ashamed of their racist past and the glorification of church and dollar. Instead, they voted for Ronald Reagan, who, along with Margaret Thatcher, gave the starting signal for unbridled capitalism and unlimited greed. The beginning of—

A large African-American man sits beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. He wears a baseball cap with the Saints logo, the local American football team. Sharing my opinion about American football is the fastest way to die, or so I think. Instead, I sit quietly, observing the river with my thoughts in silence.

"You 'sposed to be scared of me."

"Sorry, why?" I say, continuing to roll my cigarette.

"Cause you on the wrong side o' da river."

"Perhaps. Yesterday I was on the right side of the river, thoroughly enjoying Mardi Gras, the flashing of boobs when people yelled, 'Show your teets, show your teets’.”

When I notice his smile, I know to continue.

"And this side of the river is far enough from the French Quarter to heal my hangover."

He laughs and extends his hand. I shake his bear paw and look into his eyes, a friendly brown, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken stories, each tale etched into the creases that radiated from their corners like the delicate fissures in the parched earth.

"Sorry, son, I ain't familiar with dat side o' da river. I ain't welcome there. But it sounds like a good time. Where you hailin' from?"

"Belgium. You know, squeezed between Netherlands, France, and Germany."

I'm used to having to locate Belgium on a map and give further explanations, but then he says, "I know 'bout Belgium. My grandad passed there durin' the war. He had the choice to be killed by a German or a redneck from Louisiana. He preferred the bullet to the hanging tree."

Silence.

"First time here?" he asks.

"No, three years ago, I was at the wheel of an enormous cargo vessel, steering the ship from the delta to Baton Rouge. Super scary. I mean, the American pilots were. Holy shit."

"And now?"

"I'm here with my wife and father-in-law, who promised me a job in the offshore oil business. But that seems like a pipe dream."

"So, back to ships?"

My father-in-law suggested managing his new plant in Aberdeen, Scotland, but I sensed his business partners didn't want to have the "eye of Moscow" in their vicinity. So, yes, going back to supply vessels in South Africa or Canada is certainly the most rational solution.

Unfortunately, I am not rational, and I belong to the species of apes who first jump into the river to find out if they can swim, so all I say is, "A Mexican friend told me about Costa Rica. I think I’ll try the little paradise in the midst of hell."

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Art is about the process, not just the result. Can AI be part of the process, or does it kill the artistic struggle and, therefore, the human soul?

In a world where AI creates results we endlessly scroll through, we can counter the disparaging of art by showing the value of our process.

Therefore, before revealing today’s story from Forever Foreign, I want to show the process.

It started with scrawled notes, remnants of rides to school, tipsy nights, and phone calls from youth until now.

‘Schrijf verdoemme oew verhoale op!"

I’ve pleaded with my father to pen his tales throughout my life. He told his stories in various languages, adding layers as he code-switched and retold stories from the perspective of different idiomas. I’d beg him to write the stories in Flemish, English, Spanish, or a mix of the three.

He never listened

… until 2022.

Cancer has a silver lining.

Over the past year, we’ve been editing my parent’s travel stories. Since my parents wandered amid CIA shadows and sticky red tape, celebrated with the Sandanistas, dwelled on a monkey-ridden island with a beat-loving recluse, and smuggled what they needed to survive.

In other words, structuring the stories so their wants and desires are faced with obstacles didn’t need a stretch of the imagination.

Yet, the driving force of Forever Foreign is not their wants but their destiny—something I didn’t realize until reading ’s “CRAFTING CHARACTERS: HOW TO ACTIVATE YOUR CHARACTERS’ WANTS.”

Whereas antagonism and obstacles can create conflict that hopefully leads to a climax where the thematic, external, and internal goals come together, every chapter in life isn’t always like that.

If I were going the traditional publishing route, I would have taken the following story out, but I designed this series for Substack. Although every story stands alone and has gone through several drafts, I also include stories that are part of the process and hold more weight for those who read from beginning to end.

The Beginning

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A quick summary for those who missed Marrying a Stranger: Paper & Pens.

Miracles happen at 10:30 am—like getting married with ostrich feather necklaces instead of rings. Lucas and Catalina arrive at the Civil Register with their witnesses, Gary and Alex, two friends they made a few days before. The official, a proper Jamaican gentleman, scrutinizes their details, adjusting Alex’s spelled name (Alex wasn’t sure how to spell his name) and diplomatically correcting my parents’ lodging history, which happened to be a brothel.

More context from previous stories

My father, a wild-hearted seafarer, claimed he knew my mother was "the one" the second he saw her. My brother and I had heard the story before, but this time, it was with his cancer diagnosis hanging in the air.

Back in 1981, my mother stepped off a train in Antwerp, only to find my father waiting—without knowing her schedule, just a feeling. That "feeling" turned out to be hours of watching trains pass, but it worked.

So, was it love at first sight? Who knows. But when he told her he was heading to the Bahamas and Jamaica a few weeks after knowing her, my mother asked, "Can I come with you?"

A Surprise Marriage Party

2:00 pm. The Wedding Party.

You don’t always get what you want. Sometimes, you get much more.

—Lucky people.

The centre table at My Brothers—the pub where we meet Gary—is covered with the flowers I found in my dream. On the terrace, gazing upon a beach, the table houses a bouquet of birds of paradise, their vivid orange sepals and blue petals unfurling from the spathe's beak-like embrace.

"What is going on?" Catalina asks, snapping me out of the flowers’ seduction.

"We havin' a little shindig for di Jamaican friends. No, for di friends of Jamaica, I mean," replies the owner of My Brothers.

"But we requested a table for four people."

"Dat right," he says, pointing to a table with the birds of paradise.

"Dat deh yuh table deh, mon. Yu get hitched a Jamaica, mon. Yu a real friend a Jamaica," Gary says, wrapping his arms around me and Catalina, my wife.

"Our table," Catalina stutters, grateful at our wild story taking a fairy tale turn.

"Bwoy, mi a starve till mi dead," Alex exclaims, putting Gary in a headlock. "Mi a murder mi food rival, yuh see!”

Once Gary gets out of Alex’s strong arms, he takes a seat across from Catalina, and Alex sits next to her. The spirit of Bob Marley serenades us with "Could You Be Loved" as the afternoon sun waltzes upon the sea.

Shortly after the song that will forever be etched into our hearts, four Red Stripes arrive along with two large bowls of goat curry.

"Mi granny cook di wickedest curry, mon," Gary says.

Catalina has a weakness for kids—the baby goat kind. When she holds a fork and knife, she does so with eloquence and style, but not today. She picks up a bone with some meat and sucks it clean while looking me straight in the eyes. 

In my mind, everyone but Catalina disappears until—

"Your wife knows how to treat a man," Gary moans. 

"What?" Catalina asks, but before anyone can answer, she looks under the table and realizes her foot is stroking the wrong leg. 

Catalina almost chokes. "I am so sorry."

"Not me," Gary says with a wink.

As the orders of Red Stripes increase, so does the magic. Midway into the night, a group of young men appears armed with guitars, maracas, and tambourines.

"Wi bring love an' joy to unuh heart," says the man holding the guitar. 

They stand around Catalina, all four of them, singing about the wonders the big bamboo performs in the bedroom. Their muscular bodies glisten in the late afternoon sun as they jam a style that reminds me of Harry Belafonte's infectious rhythms and smooth vocals but with spicier lyrics.

In the doorway, the owner stands, surveying everything with a smile. When he notices me looking his way, he winks. 

What a wedding gift from a man we don't even know.

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Catalina

April 29, 1981

The next day, we said goodbye to My Brothers to spend our honeymoon at Negril Beach, a seven-mile-long white-sand beach with crystal-clear, turquoise waters. 

At the village entrance, a colossal tree loomed, and beneath its branches reclined an equally large woman, encircled by a cadre of robust and, I must admit, rather handsome Rastafarians.

"Hey, darlin', you got any smokes?"

Your father and I could immediately tell she wasn't from here or didn't grow up here. When she waved me over, I gave her one of my Camel cigarettes, which she gratefully accepted. 

"What’s your name, sweetie?"

"Catalina."

"Hey, Caty, pleased to meet you," she said, startling me with the use of Caty— the name only my family and Lucas use. "Ah'm Miss Rose, and dem good-lookin' fellas ova there are mi boyfriends," She said, laughing and revealing her white teeth as she playfully squeezed one of the Rastafarian's legs.

"Where ya'll headin' to? The village?"

"Yes, indeed, we are looking for Miss Pat."

"My dear Caty, then we a go be neighbours. Just follow dis road for half a mile, and when you see a house with chillun playin' in da street, that's when you arrive at Miss Pat's. By the way, do you got rolling papers? This whole island is on strike. There are hardly any rolling papers or cigarettes about. I wish I neva lef Florida," She said, shifting her body to slump back against the tree.

"Okay, thank you, but I don't have any rolling paper. I'll see you around, Miss Rose."

"Bye, darlin'"

Following Miss Rose's directions, we strolled along tiny, simple wooden houses adorned with bougainvillea and young girls with beaded hair and the friendliest eyes.

"Do you know where Miss Pat lives?"

One of the girls pointed to a woman in loose, colourful attire and giggled before running away.

"Hi, are you Miss Pat?"

We approached the woman sitting on a step leading up to a wide veranda that wrapped around the entire light blue house. It seemed large enough to house several people comfortably. 

"Yeah, dat’s me, beautiful." 

"Do you happen to have a room, Miss Pat?"

"Yeah, I do. How long yuh a go stay?"

"Five nights."

"Aight, dat be twenty dolla a night. Wha part yuh a come from?”

"We're from Belgium and just got married in Montego Bay. This is our honeymoon."

"Yuh get married a Jamaica? Well den, yuh can stay for twelve dolla a night, and I will go cook you up some dinners. Dinner tonight at six o'clock."

The price was indeed a gift for the room. The wood on the walls and floors was old and scratched but added a rustic charm. And at least we didn’t end up in another brothel.

After a refreshing shower, we walked out onto the patio and found a fit Jamaican man with an American baseball cap in the hammock right outside our room. 

"Aftanoon, yuh mind if mi tek a smoke on di patio?"

It was a large marijuana joint wrapped in brown wrapping paper.

"For you," he said. 

Rejecting it seemed unnatural. I took a small inhale from the cigar-looking thing, Lucas took a few more, and soon after, the world turned into a comedy show. 

Suddenly we heard a familiar voice. 

"Hey, yuh have any ciggies?" 

It was Miss Rose, walking towards towards Miss Pat and I.

A dozen or so children ran back and forth from the yard towards the three of us on the patio, urging Miss Pat to give them a piece of pineapple or banana. 

"Are those your children, Miss Pat?"

"All di children of the street a mi children, Catalina," Miss Pat laughed. "Dis ya place a one big community. Wi love an' feed each odder pickney. Di young maddas in di resorts, so dem pickney come to me. Woman dem cook, woman dem clean, woman dem do everything while man dem smoke funny cigarettes," She said with an accusing look at your father and the Jamaican in the hammock.

Later that night, Miss Pat invited us to eat Escovitch fish, a typical Jamaican dish with grilled red snapper topped with a savoury and tangy mixture of scotch bonnets, bell peppers, onions, and red wine vinegar. To be honest, I wouldn't have known any of that at the time. It just tasted like good, home-cooked food.

When we finished the meal, your father went to the hammock, and I ordered two more Red Stripes for Miss Pat and me. 

"The fish was really delicious, Miss Pat."

"Red snapper a one good fish. An' as a married woman, yuh haffi learn to cook. Yuh cook, Catalina?"

"Well, I like to eat. Lucas is the cook."

"So yuh man can cook, dat already someting. But a di woman haffi bring love inna di kitchen. Yuh haffi bring love inna di bedroom an' love inna di kitchen."

Well, one of those I was confident in. 

"Do you love your husband, Catalina?"

"To be honest, we just met. But I've had nights and feelings with him I've never experienced with anyone before. He's full of life and loves the small details of everything, just like I do. There's nobody I'd rather travel with," I said, feeling how proud and happy I was to have him as my husband. "He likes so many things. He likes butterflies, flowers, food, and everyone seems friendlier when he's around…But he can't dance. At least, not like the men in Jamaica."

"Oh honey, but can him perform?"

I blushed at the question, but I guess my eyes said it all. 

"Dat good, baby. A woman need weh she need. But mek him know fi no smoke dat funny stuff. Tell him all di things him like fi hear, but just do yuh own ting. Yuh a di boss. Mek dem think dem a di boss, but don't fuhget dat. An' bein' wid a good man, Catalina, is like a journey. A journey weh neva end."

She was the first woman I really spoke to since getting married. As you know, I usually don't like women. I find them boring and hung up on things that don't matter. Maybe it was the milieu of women I came in contact with in Belgium, and Miss Prat was the opposite. She had no time for… bullshit. You know, I don't curse often, but that's the word. There was something maternal and wise about her. Maybe it was the stern and loving way she played with those children. Maybe it was her tired, knowing eyes that sprang to life when she laughed. Whatever it was, she was the person I was meant to speak with at that moment. 

"I will never forget you."

Her smile was a silent affirmation of the truth in my words. The unspoken understanding lingered between us—our paths would never cross again. There was no need to write down names or addresses for letters. To me, people had always been chapters, transient narratives intersecting with mine. They'd come into my life, and then one of us would leave. That's what I learned as a little girl. 

Then she winked at me, left the small dining room, and sang the song playing in our hearts.

We're jammin'

I wanna jam it wid yuh

We're jammin' jammin'

And I hope yuh like jammin' too.

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Born Without Borders is for anyone who wants to unshackle the chains of conformity. It’s for people unlearning what holds them back and global citizens looking to increase their cultural competence. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. You can also Buy Me a Coffee.

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Each story stands on its own, but if you’re feeling a bit lost, start from the beginning.

The following stories and associated articles were originally published in 2024. I re-edited them for new subscribers. From March 31st to May 9th, I will release these stories twice a week while I’m in Malaysia and China. If you want to support my work, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your interactions with these stories and articles will help me deliver the type of writing you want when I return.

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A quick summary if you didn’t start from the beginning.

My father, a wild-hearted seafarer, claimed he knew my mother was "the one" the second he saw her. My brother and I had heard the story before, but this time, it was with his cancer diagnosis hanging in the air.

Back in 1981, my mother stepped off a train in Antwerp, only to find my father waiting—without knowing her schedule, just a feeling. That "feeling" turned out to be hours of watching trains pass, but it worked.

So, was it love at first sight? Who knows. But when he told her he was heading to the Bahamas and Jamaica a few weeks after knowing her, my mother asked, "Can I come with you?"

It's Easy to Marry in Jamaica: A proposal after six dates.

Catalina

We needed to leave the hollow tones of material ‘progress’ behind.

With metallic groans and grinding protests, the little Honda got us out of the fisherman's port-turned-resort town, Ocho Rios, and into the tropical sanctuary, Konoko Falls.

Around us, flowers in the deep green canopy burst forth in a riot of red, yellow, and purple hues. We inhaled their beauty and then took off our clothes, immersing ourselves in the refreshing embrace of the pools, born of the cascading waterfall. Limestone steps, worn by time, guided the waters' descent, creating a symphony of liquid echoes. Each droplet a fleeting testament to the ceaseless rhythm of nature.

After the scent of damp soil and tropical foliage filled us with energy, we decided to move on.

Your father drove through the mountains so we could see more of the island. Along the way, locals told us to stay on the paved main road and not drive off into the mountains, as it was dangerous—especially for “Whiteys.”

It was hard to believe.

Although Bob Marley was dying of cancer in Miami, his spirit was present throughout Jamaica. We were both aware of the political tensions, particularly between the two major political parties, the Jamaica Labour Party (JLP) and the People's National Party (PNP). However, Bob Marley's music and philosophy of peace and unity seemed to transcend these political divisions.

Still, the locals warned us that if we went too deep into the forest, the chances of whiteys making it out alive were close to none. We heeded their advice.

As we drove further away from the tourist spots, I saw poverty I'd never seen. It was the first time I saw children with protruding bellies from malnourishment, making it difficult to believe the Rastafarian beliefs of equality and social justice were anything more than a pipe dream.

In the evening, we stopped at a bay, locally known as Glistering Waters or Luminous Lagoon. Here, microorganisms called dinoflagellates fill the water and emit a greenish glow when touched, leaving behind magical trails from wherever you swim.

We sat on the porch of our cabin and watched the orange sun drip over the Caribbean horizon. Then the stars came out, the infinity of the cosmos laughing above us as the fluorescent light show played its game.

It felt as though the energy of the cosmos aligned, and I was connecting to something beyond myself. The more we talked, the more I felt my soul was binding with another.

I was falling deeply in love.

Back in Montego Bay, we were discussing where to go next, and while browsing through the tourist brochures, I picked up one brochure that claimed, "It's easy to marry in Jamaica."

"Why don't we do that?" I asked Lucas.

On a practical level, it made sense. There was too much politics in Flanders surrounding weddings—there would be nothing but drama. Lucas came from a family full of atheists and socialists, and I came from a family full of conservative Catholics. His great-grandfather risked his life to house Jews, and my great-grandfather signed the agreements—

Well, you know how the story goes.

Anyway, the next morning, we went to the Civil Register of Marriages, above the town's locksmith, and asked Gary, a Jamaican man we befriended in Montego Bay, if he wanted to be one of our witnesses.

Lucas

"Yaw man, mi woulda love fi be yuh witness," Gary says. "An’ mi a go bring mi bredren Alex, too."

I look at Gary’s bare feet, wide with built-in soles from his callouses.

“I need to find nice shoes, man.”

And so, Gary brings us to the notorious Canterbury neighbourhood, where it immediately becomes clear that as a whitey couple without Gary, we have no chance of getting out unscathed.

“Ease up, mon. Dem people are mi fren dem. Yuh like Lambs Bread? Mi a go buy yuh some good Lambs Bread.”

“We have eaten, Gary,” Catalina snaps but stays close to his side.

“Lambsbread a di best ganja inna di world, yuh know. Happy stuff.”

Before I can clarify exactly what he means, he ducks under a tin roof held up by two concrete slabs, one of which we lean against. It is difficult to know if he has entered someone’s home, a communal yard, or is simply part of Canterbury’s maze. Within a minute, he reappears and hands me a brown paper bag with marijuana. He says it is enough for two weeks. To me, it looks like enough for a year. And to Caty, a lifetime.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“From yuh odda witness, Alex.”

Although I struggle to comprehend everything Gary says, I understand the witnesses are arranged—hopefully with shoes.

After Gary guides us out of Canterbury, Caty and I head to the cheap hotel we booked in an old colonial building in the heart of Montego Bay.

The only sign of life in the dark reception adorned with aged wooden furniture is the receptionist, an aging Jamaican beauty, exuding sensuality and rhythmically tapping the desk in front of her with long, manicured nails.

“Wah yuh waan?”

“A room for the night.”

She studies Catalina attentively with an approving glance.

“Tek di stairs, fus door on di lef’. Di bathroom is on di odda side a di hallway.”

It is a spacious room with a worn-out double bed that doesn’t exactly scream ‘Night before a wedding.’ It is humid, too. But not the type of moisture caused by the climate.

“I’m going to take a shower.”

“Strange hotel. Come back quickly.”

I feel refreshed after the shower and find Catalina sitting on the bed, her brows furrowed, like when she’s angry, studying, or sometimes just thinking about what to do next. I’d be worried if it weren’t for the smirk.

“Listen to this. The Jamaican lady asked me if I wanted to earn some money tonight.”

“Earn money?”

“Sex.”

Fuck. I brought my soon-to-be wife to a brothel the night before our wedding.

“Is this a brothel? That can’t be.”

“Oh yes, it is. Put your ear up against the wall over there.”

I walk toward the wall, cup my ear, and listen to exaggerated sex sounds.

“Maybe it’s another happy couple.”

“Sure, where the woman in the relationship earns twenty dollars an hour.”

I search for the best way to say sorry, but Catalina lets out her laugh that could make any of my problems disappear.

“Well, now you can say you slept in a brothel before you got married,” she says.

We cuddle up close. I feel the softness of her thighs and with my hand on her breast and my nose dug into the small of her neck, I fall asleep to the scent of her sweet skin and coconut-scented hair.

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Born Without Borders is for anyone who wants to unshackle the chains of conformity. It’s for people unlearning what holds them back and global citizens looking to increase their cultural competence. If you want to support my work, the best way is to subscribe for $5/ month or $30/year. You can also buy me a Coffee.

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All these stories stand alone but hold more weight for people who read from the beginning.

The next story. You already got it, thanks to Substack glitches.

*Originally, this post was supposed to come out yesterday, but due to a Subtsack glitch, my scheduled posts disappeared the day they were supposed to be released. Now, the system won’t let me schedule posts anymore. Also, some of my drafts are randomly deleted. I also don’t receive notifications when people comment on my posts—if I haven’t responded to you, you know why. The support team has been unable to help me with these glitches.

I hope I don’t have to move my publication elsewhere.

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This series is designed for Substack. Each story stands alone, but it holds more weight for people who start from the beginning.

Each story has a related cultural psychology and sociopolitical article.

A quick summary if you didn’t start from the beginning.

My father, a wild-hearted seafarer, claimed he knew my mother was "the one" the second he saw her. My brother and I had heard the story before, but this time, it was with his cancer diagnosis hanging in the air.

Back in 1981, my mother stepped off a train in Antwerp, only to find my father waiting—without knowing her schedule, just a feeling. That "feeling" turned out to be hours of watching trains pass, but it worked.

So, was it love at first sight? Who knows. But when he told her he was heading to the Bahamas and Jamaica a few weeks after knowing her, my mother asked, "Can I come with you?"

Marrying a Stranger: Papers & Pens.

April 28, 1981. 10:30 am.

Miracles happen at 10:30 am.

Gary and Alex stand in front of the locksmith which is on the floor below the Civil Register of Marriages' building. They are both dressed more stylishly than me, even though their freshly ironed pants are a size too big and cover the leather shoes.

"Di only ting mi fada lef' behind," Alex says, proudly pointing to his shoes.

Alex's Jamaican creole is even stronger than Gary's, but his low voice sucks me in and forces me to concentrate on every word.

"You guys look fantastic," Catalina replies, stroking Gary's back to straighten his shirt.

"Fi a beautiful lady, wi do anything."

"Alright, alright. Let's go," I say, taking Catalina's hand as we walk up the narrow staircase to the second floor that leads us to the Civil Register & Marriages office.

"Shall we?" Catalina says, opening the door to the office where a Jamaican official sits behind an impressive desk, wearing a suit with a stiff collar and French cuffs finished with golden cufflinks.

He bows his head and then looks paternalistically over his glasses as he says, "Welcome to Jamaica."

His gaze slides over Catalina's mauve long skirt to her dark purple top. Then he appraises me, my white pants and a slightly crumpled shirt that barely passes the stylish Jamaican's scrutiny.

"So, you are Lucas Jan Amandus—”

The second the name Amandus leaves his lips, Caty bursts out laughing.

“—Janssens.”

"Yes, sir."

The official squints, tapping his teeth with his index finger as he looks up at Catalina.

After another minute, she stops laughing, and whispers, “I didn’t know your middle name was Amandus.”

I smile at the official, wondering if he judges the trivialities we haven’t learned yet.

"And you want to marry this beautiful lady, Catalina Renata Thiers," he says.

"Yes, sir."

He licks his finger to flip another page in the marriage documents. I can read the letters from where I’m standing, but he doesn’t seem to decipher—or want to decipher—what I’ve written.

"Is it true that you stayed at the mansion of Lady Tiyana yesterday?" he croaks.

Must be a good customer of Lady Tiyana.1

In Catalina's dancing eyes, I see she rather enjoys the description of "mansion."

"Well, we will change the name to a good hotel in Montego Bay. We do have good hotels in Montego Bay."

"Thank you," Caty says as the tip of her nose curls with suppressed laughter.

The official’s eyes quiver as he gauges Alex and Gary.

"First, the witnesses must sign this document with their full names."

He motions Gary closer with a slight hand gesture; his eyes glued to the golden pen he hands Gary, making sure he won't replace it with the Bic nestled in the breast pocket of his floral shirt.

Then it's Alex's turn.

"I cyaa write," he says as he nervously fiddles with his pressed trousers.

"Just your full name, Alex," says the official.

Catalina encourages him with a supportive smile, and Alex leans over the desk. His hand trembles as it slowly moves across the paper. He signs his name and reads aloud, "Alex Ander Stone."

The official shoots an irritated look at Alex and says, "Your name is Al-ex-an-der.”

"My mother calls me Alex," he replies firmly.

"So your second name is Ander?" the official sighs.

"Alex Ander Stone."

"I hope he didn't write 'd' after Stone," I whisper to Catalina.

Unable to convince Alex Ander otherwise, the official connects Alex and Ander with an elegant curve, adding character to the marriage certificate.

Relieved that the Alex-Ander issue is resolved, the official asks if I can provide the rings.

"Well, uh, I don't have..." I stammer. "We thought—"

"Rings are boring, sir. We have necklaces. They come all the way from South Africa. Made of ostrich feathers."

Once again, the official's mouth falls open, and he repeats to himself the word "ostriches." Not gold, not silver, and God forbid, diamond necklaces, but jewellery made from the useless wings of ostriches.

"Yes, well… Okay. Dear Catalina, please put the necklace around your husband's neck."

She’s about to do as instructed, but—

"No, Catalina, the white necklace is for me. I've been wearing it for weeks." Then I silently add, "Besides, the black one is more expensive, seven dollars instead of five."

As the words leave my mouth, I realize how stupid I sound.

"Lucas, please put the necklace around your wife’s neck."

My wife?! The words buzz in my ears, and then it hits me—I am married.

With admiration, I look at my wife. She's like a bloom in the breeze, content to sway with the whims of all that transpires.

"Yow, dat cool, yuh a get married a Jamaica, man," Gary says. "Mi never a go forget dat."

"Yeah, man, so cool, so cool. Love a float inna di air.," Alex Ander sings.

"I wish you all the best for the future. Love each other, and enjoy a happy life," the official says.

It's clear that the man bears the weight of the spectacle, touched and yet relieved it’s over.

Or so he thinks.

"Sir, I still have one question," Catalina says, turning around at the door.

"Yes, dear Catalina, how can I help you?"

"Where can I get a divorce in Jamaica? You know, just in case.”

The office falls silent.

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Born Without Borders is for anyone who wants to unshackle the chains of conformity. It’s for people unlearning what holds them back and global citizens looking to increase their cultural competence. If you want to support my work, the best way is to subscribe for $5/ month or $30/year. You can also buy me a Coffee.

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Related cultural psychology and sociopolitical articles.

Hong Kong ➡️ I have no clue ➡️ Zhuhai ➡️ Xiamen ➡️ Shanghai ➡️Dalian ➡️ Beijing ➡️ Back to Spain, probably.

Frankly, I have no taste for either poverty or honest labor, so writing is the only recourse left me.

— Hunter S. Thompson. 

Why do writers who make several hundred thousand dollars a year doing what they love have the audacity to write about burnout?

Look up one of the most successful Substack newsletters— by —search burnout, and you’ll see people relish mental exhaustion advice from writers. 

But unlike paramedics, firefighters, social workers, and the heroic-like, our situations aren’t always exhausting—we are. We write that we have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat as we sit comfortably at our desks. 

So, why do those who make several hundred thousand dollars a year doing what they love have the audacity to write about burnout?

What an ugly question. It’s filled with envy, ego, and a lack of rational compassion. It’s a way to exhaust myself. 

It doesn’t matter how much money Anne or make. People at different stages in their Substack careers, like from , have also shared their personal journeys, helping others in the process. Everyone’s struggle is different, but everyone’s struggle is the same. 

Except for the Chinese. 

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A shitty joke, of course. But every joke contains a grain of truth. Entre broma y broma la verdad se asoma. 

I’ve been teaching Chinese children for the past six years. My workdays are from 9:00 AM to 9:00 PM Monday through Saturday, 30 hours on Substack. I own my own business, which means I’m free to create my own schedule around my students and fill in the hours between classes on Substack, meal breaks, and physical activity—these last two are often spent on Spanish terraces and beaches, so it’s nothing like China’s 996 system. 

Chinese companies have turned the 996 system (working from nine to nine, six days a week) into the “new industry standard.” Allegedly, it’s been declared illegal, but laws and regulations do little without cultural change. 

And that’s where Neijuan (内卷) comes in.

I’ve worked with Japanese, Korean, Vietnamese, Japanese, Canadian, American, Dutch, Belgian, and German people, and I can honestly say that Chinese people are the best of all of us… to work with. 

If we look at Erin Meyer’s cultural time scale, we can see that Chinese people are on the flexible side, along with many southern European, African, and South American countries. The difference is that Chinese people will let you know if they can’t show up on time.

Rescheduling classes has never been a problem, but lately, my students’ weekends have become even busier than their weekdays. When I asked one of the parents why, he replied:

‘Are you familiar with involution?’

Since I was their English teacher, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, so I quickly looked up the word.

1.
PHYSIOLOGY
the shrinkage of an organ in old age or when inactive, e.g. of the uterus after childbirth.

2.
MATHEMATICS
a function, transformation, or operator that is equal to its inverse, i.e. which gives the identity when applied to itself.

No tengo ni idea, coño. 

‘Yes,’ I said.

Luckily, he followed up with, ‘We call it neijuan,’ and I figured it out. 

The Chinese term for involution, neijuan, which is made up of the characters for “inside” and “rolling,” suggests a process that curls inward, ensnaring its participants within what the anthropologist Xiang Biao has described as an “endless cycle of self-flagellation.” Involution is “the experience of being locked in a competition that one ultimately knows is meaningless,” Biao told me. It is acceleration without a destination, progress without a purpose, Sisyphus spinning the wheels of a perpetual-motion Peloton.

— Yi-Ling Liu in China’s “Involuted” Generation.

We’re familiar with this in the West. The endless cycle of self-flagellation is what many ‘How to deal with burnout’ articles come down to. We need to allow ourselves to take a break and stop comparing ourselves to others. However, how we describe what led up to our burnout differs.

Everyone’s struggle is different; everyone’s struggle is the same.

China has a culture of saving face. They do and say what they can to preserve one's social reputation, dignity, and honor. Chinese people are more likely to use indirect communication, criticize privately, and use intermediaries than Westerners in a business setting, but every culture has situations where people save face. Just think about the conversations at Church, strata meetings, school functions, and all the other places where secrets and double lives fester behind our lying smiles and small talk. 

However, when I give Western students a chance to complain, they go off. But when I asked my Chinese students to write about the positive and negative effects of Neijuan, it came down to…

Negatives:

• It makes me tired.

Positives:

• It’s great for motivation.

• We know where we stand compared to others.

• It can contribute to the great rejuvenation of the Chinese Nation.

Of course, my experience with students doesn’t tell the whole story. 

At Internet companies, software engineers have protested their working conditions on GitHub, a coding-hosting platform, sharing their overwhelming schedules and drafting petitions for an improved state of affairs. Others have adopted coping mechanisms similar to those of Silicon Valley dropouts: quitting their jobs, joining remote communes, setting up Chinese versions of Burning Man, and developing a “Buddhist” (that is, a chilled-out and laissez-faire) approach to life. Some young Chinese have embraced sang—an attitude of sardonic apathy and nihilism.

— Yi-Ling Liu in China’s “Involuted” Generation.

If nihilism spreads, it will destroy China, and the rest of the world is no different. Nihilism tightens its grip when people are burned out and hopeless—when they realize they were holding onto a lie. 

In China, the lie is neijuan. People believe their nation will prosper from excessive work schedules, but it’s backfiring. An increasing proportion of state and private-sector funds have been taken up with servicing debt, which is now inching towards 300% of GDP. China’s GDP per capita is still under $13,000, roughly between Turkmenistan and the Maldives.

Yet, those numbers aren’t what really matters. 

“The CPC’s greatest terror is nihilism. It was nihilism, in their analysis, that destroyed the Soviet Union: as soon as Khrushchev denounced Stalin’s crimes, all faith in the system fell apart; the ruling cadres ended up believing in nothing, and the people believed in nothing, too; eventually, everyone simply stopped pretending, dropped the communist pretence, and embraced sheer nihilism as the governing philosophy of state and society. You have to believe because the other option isn’t nice Western liberalism; it’s the void. This is why China is committed to building a ‘socialist spiritual civilization,’ a mass uniform ideological enthusiasm for whatever it is that passes here for socialism. China does not dwell on the evils of its past, even if the enforced silence over events well within living memory breeds a nihilism of its own. Which is why the people who govern China, one of the most cynically capitalist societies on the planet, really do believe that they are on the road to communism.”

—

Everyone’s struggle is different; everyone’s struggle is the same.

Sam is on to something, but not having faith in the system is very different than nihilism. In fact, I’d argue it’s the opposite. 

We put our faith into money—something meaningless at its core—instead of what makes us human. All around the world, we’re losing touch with mystical experiences and replacing fulfilment with pills, cheap laughs, quick resort trips, one-night stands, and whatever else gives us a taste of happiness before we return to our burnout cycle. 

Instead of feeding our souls with art, we consume entertainment like fast food. We value quick highs that leave us feeling depressed instead of trips that bring meaning into our lives. Instead of rejecting this rapid consumption, we become it. 

We are what we consume, and we consume meaningless shit. 

Yet, we live in a time when there are more artists and intellectuals than ever. It’s never been easier to buy a book that will change your life, watch a movie that defies constructs, visit a museum that will broaden your view, and create something for the world.

The opportunities to find meaning are all around us; you just have to break through the algorithm. We are more than labels, brands, and consumers. Our most human experiences can’t be categorized or explained. 

When we live for what makes us human, we can dismantle the systems that cause Neijuan, involution, and burnout.

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Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. Please share this article if you enjoyed it!

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More recent articles by Born Without Borders.

Because we are a species of contradictions.

A tangle of desires and denials

We say one thing, do another.

Preach humility, crave recognition

We ache for authenticity,

then filter ourselves into brands.

We sell self-love in neatly packaged courses

taught by those who only love their reflection.

Like the shoeless, bright-teethed white guy

with tribal tattoos, who’s all like

“I’ll help you unlock your authentic self

with this with a twelve-step module for $499”

I can mock.

But when I think of him as a boy with a dad

who yelled, “You’re a worthless shit”

I cannot.

Narcissism—capitalism’s bottomless resource,

supplied by loneliness, demanded by egos.

They say, “Be yourself.”

But which self?

The one shaped by love? Culture? Trauma? Fear?

We are not singular,

we are multitudes, opposing forces

warring beneath our skin.

We pretend at certainty, purity

We demand an answer where none exists.

Like the woman who says, “We’ll explore the answer

with your birth chart,”

I can mock.

But when I think of the woman grasping

at her last bit of hope

I cannot.

To be human is to hold paradox

To know that the good and the bad

are woven together

That the demons can possess

But only if you can’t confess they’re there.

But what is the point in me saying all this?

We chase meaning in a world that owes us none.

We break ourselves against illusions,

then blame the glass.

We romanticize the escape.

An “of-the-grid-sustainable life”

that could never sustain all humans.

Civilization, for all its sins, is where

diversity plays.

But again, what’s the point in me saying all this

as I walk through what I should be part of.

Somewhere in that silence is all that we are.

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Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year.

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In this article, we're going to explore all of these topics and more with psychology research spanning over fifty years and what I learned from my interviews with Ikue Ueno (Exploring Mental Health and Other Cultural Differences Between Japan and North America and Cultural Difference between Japan and North America).

All right, so let's get started with my Japanese food-for-thought list made possible by Heine's Cultural Psychology book. I encourage you to add your ideas in the comments. Cultural learning can't be done without dialogue.

Values & Beliefs

Japanese parents want their children to accommodate rather than assert themselves.

Japanese children are shown to make fewer demands on their parents than American children because "the developmental goal embraced by Japanese parents is much less a desire to see their children learn how to individuate and assert themselves than it is for them to learn how to accommodate others and to become part of a harmonious social group" (Rothbaum, Port, Azuma, Miyake, & Weisz, 2000).

I can second this notion from my teaching experience. Asian children often share their school supplies and rarely disrupt the classroom by yelling, playing, or hitting. Plus, Asian parents ask if there’s anything else their child can do to improve. On the other hand, if a Western child breaks or steals and fails a test, the parents might come in with mind-boggling statements like, "Why did my child fail? It just doesn't make sense. I look up to my kid." I'd love to say that's an extreme example, but it's not.

Another study related to accommodation and work ethic was by Morling, Kitayama, & Miyamoto in 2002. They found that when students were asked why they chose a particular Aerobics class, Americans were likelier to say because the schedule was convenient for them. Japanese were more likely to say it was an appropriate level and were more likely to say they would try to keep up, whereas Americans were more likely to find a routine suited for them. Plus, Americans are also more likely to recall times they influenced others rather than adjusted to others. Japanese had the opposite effect.

And what about you? Is it easier to come up with examples when you influenced someone else or adjusted to others?

Leave a comment

Japanese are more likely to persist after failure.

Heine and his colleagues experimented with Japanese and Canadian participants who privately received false feedback that they had done either very well or poorly on a creativity test. The results indicated that "Canadians are more likely to persist longer on a task if they think they are talented at it compared to when they think they are poor at it. In contrast, Japanese persist longer on a task if they think they are poor at it compared to when they think they are talented at it" (Heine).

This has a lot to do with the Japanese having high self-improvement motivation, being more interested in saving face (looking good when people evaluate you), and having an incremental theory of self (the belief that we can change). The best example is the bar exam. In Japan, only 2.5% of people pass the bar exam yearly, whereas two-thirds of those taking the American bar exam pass it yearly (National Conference of Bar Examiners, 2010). The exam makers believe that people need to improve their scores (an incremental theory in self).

Ikue also talks about this with the word "Kaizen." Kaizen is a strategy where employees at all company levels work together proactively to achieve regular, incremental improvements to the manufacturing process. (Lean Production).

Westerners Value Objects more once they own them.

Heine explains that the endowment effect is the tendency for people to value objects more once they own them and have endowed them with their own positive qualities. The endowment effect is significantly more substantial in Western samples and East Asian ones (Maddux et al., 2010). However, this research wasn't in Japan, so I hope the Without Borders community can comment and tell me if you think it's true for Japan.

It's not just vampires and nurses; Japanese people also care about your blood type.

When I read that Japanese people often surprise Westerners by asking about their blood type, as the four blood types are perceived to underlie reliable differences in personality in Japan, I thought this couldn't be that common. Wrong. Ikue confirmed this in the second part of our interview (SPOILER ALERT!). She mentioned that TV stations and magazines would announce daily predictions based on blood type and that she listened to these predictions religiously. She was around 12 years old when she received her first blood test, and until that time, she thought she was blood type A, which she describes as honest, quiet, modest, a good person overall, and typically Japanese. It turned out that Ikue didn't have A-type blood, but B, and boy, was she disappointed. Type B means you're more outgoing, which doesn't seem bad, at least from my Western perspective.

Now, I'm a thirty-year-old who still calls his mother to ask, "Mama, Wat is mijn bloedgroep?" Mama, what is my blood type? I wonder what that says about me.

Japanese companies offer lifetime employment.

I mean, I've heard of tenured professors and union workers who have a 'difficult time getting fired,' to put it one way, but a company offering lifetime employment? If I owned a business, there is no way in hell I would offer lifetime employment to a Westerner because, like me, they're likely to jump ship the second they find something better.

Interestingly, I've noticed a correlation between how collectivistic a place is and how likely workers are to stick to one job. Now, a correlation is not causation, but based on my anecdotal experience, my friends in Canada change jobs like underwear, and my friends in Spain only change jobs if they're not government employees/funcionarios (the cushiest jobs imaginable). M Asian friends? They commit and never bitch about their work unless they're more than four beers deep.

Japanese people sleep the least.

Japanese and Korean people report sleeping about an hour less than French adults (OECD, 2009), but even more interesting is how much fewer infants and toddlers sleep. Japanese infants sleep about 1.5 hours less than North American infants (Mindell et al., 2010). On a graph of infant sleep, Japan had the lowest at just over 11.5 hours, and New Zealand had the highest at just under 13.5 hours.

Japanese egalitarian gender attitudes are rising but still lower than In the West.

I had to find a few different graphs because the one in my textbook came from 1990, but countries like the Netherlands and Finland often have the highest egalitarian gender attitudes. In contrast, Nigeria, Pakistan, India, and Japan represent more traditional gender attitudes. Now, in my interview, I also use the phrase "traditional gender attitudes" to remain unbiased, but to be honest, it sounds too friendly to me. A better phrase would be "suppressive gender norms"—Ikue's opinion wasn't much different. Ikue agreed that Canada is more progressive regarding women's rights, but the information from my textbook was dated. Ikue found that more women are discovering they don't need—or even can't—rely on a man.

Mental Health

Culture influences how antidepressants work

Published studies that have explored the relations between genes and psychological variables across cultures commonly find opposite effects of genes. For example, a variant that leads to better responses to antidepressants among Caucasians leads to worse responses among Japanese and Koreans (Kim et al., 2000; Smeraldi et al., 1998; Yoshida et al., 2002).

This makes me think: do illicit drugs (that really shouldn't be) like Magic Mushrooms, Marijuana, LSD, Mescaline, and MDMA respond differently depending on your ethnicity and culture?

Culture influences which mental disorders we are subject to.

Hikikomori, which translates loosely as "pull away" or social withdrawal, has been defined as a condition in which people have spent at least 6 months in an asocial state, not participating in education or employment, having no intimate relationships with anyone outside of the immediate family, with onset before the late 20s, and for which psychiatric disorders cannot explain the primary symptom of withdrawal. (Saito, 1998). However, Ikue's definition was slightly more straightforward: Hikikomori = Hermit.

As explained in my textbook and later confirmed by Ikue's anecdotes, there is tremendous pressure for people in Japan to meet expectations and fit in. Parents coddling their kids and the decline in birth rates have allowed children to have their own bedrooms to lock themselves up in. Now, my parents would have kicked in the door if I had spent 6 months in an antisocial state, but these direct responses don't vibe with the Japanese and could make matters worse, leading to suicide.

Another disorder found in Japan is taijin kyoufushou (TKS). This term translates loosely as a phobia of confronting others. The symptoms of TKS are quite distinct from a social anxiety disorder. People with social anxiety disorder tend to be preoccupied with anxieties about how they will make fools out of themselves in social situations and how everyone will publicly discover their faults. In contrast, TKS involves several physical symptoms, many psychosomatic, such as extensive blushing, tightened body odour, sweating, and a penetrating gaze. If you want to learn more about this, check out Cousins, 1990.

Japan has different types of therapies, even in prisons.

Morita therapy involves resting in your bed, light manual activities, heavy manual labour, reading Moritaist literature, and life training, and it's all combined with meditation and therapist sessions. The goal is not to change the client's symptoms but to change the person's perspective to see the symptoms as part of who they are. On the other hand, Naikan therapy seeks to provide clients with insight into their past. In particular, it encourages people to appreciate how indebted they are to the kindnesses of significant others. The therapy has been used to treat depression, addiction, and sociopathy—it's used in a majority of Japanese prisons (Reynolds, 1980).

What's important to keep in mind about all this is that culture influences the ways you should be treated. Westerners especially need to keep an eye on this because we tend to be all like, "Don't you worry! Your white knight in shining armour is here. Let me teach you my way, which is, of course, the best way." Whether this is old-school colonialism and telling people what religion to follow) or new-school colonialism (indebting countries to control them—okay, China's the best at that now), helping out after natural disasters (see my interview with Dr. Steven Heine), telling people how to solve mental health issues, or getting the world to fall in love with Justin Bieber.

Cognition

A Gerrit Berckheyde painting from the Dutch Golden Age.

As you can see, culture influences how we view the world. Analytic thinking, which is more common in the West, is characterized by a focus on objects and their attributes. Objects are perceived as existing independently from their contexts; they are understood in terms of their component parts.

Holistic thinking, which is more common in the east, is characterized by an orientation to the context as a whole. It represents an associative way of thinking, which gives attention to the relations among objects and among the objects and surrounding context. (Heine, 2016). This influences how we paint horizons. The horizons in Eastern paintings start at a higher level, and we focus on the painting as a whole. The higher horizons show relations and connections between more objects.

Analytic thinkers tend to focus on the objects and their attributes more than the context, which you'll also notice in the painting. Another study found that when looking at a picture, Americans focus more on the centre figure than the Japanese do, especially after the first second has passed. Conversely, the Japanese spend a relatively larger amount of time focusing on parts of the background (Masuda, Ellsworth et al., 2008).

Behaviour & Emotions

Japanese baseball is played by the same rules but is a totally different game.

I don't know shit about baseball. I mean, I played kickball when I was six, but that's the extent of it. However, Heine got me interested in the sport. He writes, "Japanese baseball involves far more plays in which the individual makes a sacrifice for the team's benefit, such as the sacrifice bunt, and teams work to prevent members of the other team from losing face, such as avoiding three-pitch strikeouts or extremely lopsided victories." He also explains that "Japanese training camp is held in the frigid winter; players are typically on the field for 7 hours, run approximately 10 miles a day, and then return to the dormitory for strategy sessions and indoor workouts." Warren Cromartie, a former Montreal Expos and Tokyo Giants player, described Japanese training camps as "It makes boot camp look like a church social."

I realize this food for thought could have gone under beliefs and values. Again, it ties into the Japanese work ethic and the incremental theory of self. There's a relationship between emotions, feelings and behaviours, so before we keep going, let's define them quickly because properly writing about emotions, feelings, and behaviours would take up a whole new essay.

While emotions are associated with bodily reactions that are activated through neurotransmitters and hormones released by the brain, feelings are the conscious experience of emotional reactions. And behaviour is an action, activity, or process which can be observed and measured. All right, now that's out of the way, let's continue.

Japanese people don't get up all in yo' biznaz

In Venezuela, the typical conversation distance is 32 inches. In the United States, it is 35 inches, and in Japan, it is 40 inches. (Sussan & Rosenfeld). There's not much else to be said about that aside from the fact this information is from 1982. Has it changed since then? What do you think?

Leave a comment

Japanese people get more embarrassed.

Japanese score higher than Americans on a measure of embarrassability (Singles, Bond, Lai, & Sharkey, 1999). Why? Is it because the Japanese take baths together with their parents until they reach puberty that they become more habitually embarrassed? Is it because American schools encourage children to express their own opinions, so they become less embarrassed? (Heine, 2016). We already know that Japanese people have a more interdependent view of themselves, and interdependence scores significantly correlate with people's embarassibility. However, this is just a correlation, so we don't know all the variables. What do you think some of the causes are?

American emotions are more intense.

One theory is that people from a more homogenous society don't need to exaggerate their emotions because they belong to the same cultural background and understand how others feel with more subtle cues. Those from a more heterogeneous society must express their emotions more dramatically because how the hell are you supposed to know what a person is emotionally experiencing if you don't know anything about their background?

Ikue hints at this in our interview when she talks about Sasurru culture, which she describes as "Basically, people don't need to finish each other's sentences because we feel each other, we read each other, and that's ingrained in society."

Japanese people experience different emotions.

Whether or not there are six universal emotions (anger, surprise, disgust, enjoyment, fear, and sadness) is a whole other discussion. I believe that our words and vocabulary help us to access our emotions and reflect our culture. One emotion that we don't have a word for in English is Amae. Amae is supposed to capture the pleasant feelings one experiences when allowed to emphasize his or her dependence on another. It often involves tendencies to behave inappropriately toward a close other as a gesture to demonstrate how secure the relationship is (Niiya, Ellsworth, & Yamaguchi, 2006).

I don't know if I've ever experienced true Amae, but I can say that the closer you are to me, the more of my inappropriate behaviour you've seen. If I do something inappropriate around someone I don't know well, I might feel ashamed. If I do something inappropriate with someone I don't know well, they usually become a friend. And if I do something inappropriate with a friend, I usually–well, that's just normal behaviour for us. Doing something taboo with someone makes me feel closer to that person. Is that Amae? Probably not, but I can't think of an English, Spanish or Flemish word to describe the feeling either. Can you? What are some of the words in your language you can't directly translate into English?

Japanese people don't trust strangers as much.

Yamagishi and colleagues' research finds that Americans tend to have higher levels of general trust toward strangers than the Japanese do (Yamagashi & Yamanashi). This research came from 1994, so I don't know if it's still true today. After talking to Ikue, it seems that Japanese people are quite open to foreigners. The research also indicates that people from more interdependent cultures see members of their in-group as a part of themselves and trust them but don't trust people from the out-group as easily. Ikue also pointed out that this is changing and that more people are eager to learn English in Japan because they accept foreigners and out-group.

Japan causes lower self-esteem.

After living in Canada for 7 months, the Japanese show a significant increase in self-esteem, whereas after living in Japan for 7 months, the Canadians show a significant decrease in self-esteem (Heine & Lehman, 2004). As stated in the research and by Ikue, exposure to culture influences your self-esteem. Ikue mentions her self-esteem also went up in Canada because you don't have the constant pressure to be perfect, and you can focus on the things that make you feel good about yourself.

In my interview with Ikue, I mention that nobody gives a shit about self-esteem outside of North America. Within the North American definition of self-esteem, this is true, but it depends on how we look at self-esteem.

The following information is from The Social Self Lecture with Ara Norenzayan.

Three faces of Self-Esteem:

Self-esteem as self-enhancement: seeing oneself in a positive light, exaggerating one's favourable attributes, minimizing unfavourable ones (common in the West).

Self-esteem as self-improvement: seeing flaws in self and improving on them (common in East Asia).

Self-esteem as self-acceptance: valuing oneself (including one's shortcomings) without conditions attached (found in many wisdom traditions around the world).

Self-enhancement Strategies (These are most pronounced in Western individualistic cultures):

• Strategic downward social comparison

• Unrealistic optimism

• Exaggerated sense of control

• Better than average effect

Self-esteem as self-improvement

• Focus on flaws in self to improve on them (self-criticism)

• Self-esteem drawn from continuous self-improvement

• Common among people influenced by Confucian cultural traditions

Self-acceptance

• A healthier, more genuine form of self-esteem

• Unconditional positive regard: unconditional acceptance of oneself (Rogers, Maslow)

• Encouraged in many wisdom traditions – secular humanism, Zen, Sufi, Christian & Hindu mysticism

As you can see, it's not that self-esteem doesn't exist outside of the West; it's just looked at differently. To bring it back to my experience, many Asian students come to my class with a smile from cheek to cheek. They are happy when I give them good feedback, but they also enjoy it when I tell them how to improve. On the other hand, many Western kids start to complain the second something is too difficult for them. The Western approach to education, where everyone gets a medal, has not made kids feel any better about themselves. In fact, from my experience, Asian children are much happier in school. They find it harder to boast and brag about themselves, but I can see their modest pride and joy whenever they complete a task successfully.

All right, that's the end of my Japanese Food for Thought. I didn't go into depth on all these phenomena because I'd like love to hear what you all think in the comments.

This is an edited and improved version of one of my first articles on Substack. If you enjoy this type of research, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to keep my work sustainable.

Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or only $30/year. You can also Buy Me a Coffee.

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References

Cousins, S.D. (1990). Culture and social phobia in Japan and the United States. Unpublished doctoral dissertation. University of Michigan.

Farnsworth, B. (2021, March 16). How to measure emotions and feelings (and the difference between them). Emotions. Retrieved November 11, 2022, from https://imotions.com/blog/difference-feelings-emotions/

Heine, S. J. (2016). Cultural psychology. W. W. Norton et Company.

Heine, S.J., & Lehman, D.R. (1997a). The cultural construction of self-enhancement: An examination of group-serving biases. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 72, 1268-1283.

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I love writing, performing, interviewing people, and travelling. However, I loathe selecting short content, transcribing, posting material on various platforms, and all the shit Substack does for us now.

So, I’m posting a few of my old videos and using Substack’s new features to see if it makes a difference.

This is the show for nomads, expats, immigrants, third-culture kids, and anyone else who feels inescapably foreign. Born Without Borders is a reader-supported publication. Paid subscriptions and sharing keep this publication alive.

In this episode, we set out to various neighbourhoods in Barcelona to explore gentrification. We also risk leaving our motorbike in La Mina—one of the most notorious neighbourhoods in Spain—to ask locals how the area has changed over the years.

Originally built as a housing project in the '60s for migrants from Andalucía and the Romani community, La Mina has become a symbol of urban neglect, crime, and a system that keeps people trapped. But what about the other neighbourhoods? Has gentrification helped the locals?

Let me know your thoughts.

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Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year. Please share this article or Born Without Borders if you enjoy my work.

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No, you don’t try to sound like you’re talking to your best friend. You sound like an idiot with your best friend, especially to others without context. Instead, you’ve cultivated a syntax where 10 words take five minutes to string together. It’s yours (you just gotta throw in some personal asides), give an immediacy that makes your wit seem extemporaneous, and seamlessly show your academic vocabulary while making it clear you’re no stranger to the stresses of the streets.

People don’t read past the second paragraph. The ‘wants’ aren’t clear, the stakes aren’t high enough, and it doesn’t resonate. Just analyze the open rates, likes, and comments—see what sticks.

That’s what the successful Substackers substacking about success on Substack tell you to do. They also tell you to use more white space. You should also bold what’s important.

Make Sure to Use Headlines.

Some people are here to skim.

So you do that.

I mean, why not?

You were always into switching it up, and come to think of it, reading a paragraph from 18th-century literature on your phone is a pain in the ass.

You kill your darlings. And remember that 800-1’200 words is the sweet spot. Perfect. You don’t have time to write more than that anyway. It’s essential to be consistent and not worry too much about perfection. You gotta form a community. Comment everywhere, publish several Notes a day, and publish at least once a week. Three if you can.

Substack isn’t paying the bills, though. You have another job. It’s also in front of the computer. You publish Notes while you eat, comment while you shit, and restack when a commercial comes on because you down-graded to poor people Netflix. Now you have more money to subscribe to more Substackers.

Humour should be relatable. It should also follow the benign-violation theory.

Keep that in mind.

Oh, and the white space.

Anyway, you can’t find time anymore. You want to leave long, thoughtful comments, but you have to get back to the job that pays you. Are you really going to set aside two hours at the end of the day to reply and comment thoughtfully?

Yes.

Well, no. Life gets in the way. Plus, you just saw a Note telling you to get out in nature. You really want to because the anxiety in your spine and cotton-dry eyes are begging you to find peace among the silent pines. You rush.

Here Comes AI

You can try ChatGPT, DeepSeek, or whatever else. You quickly jot down your ideas and ask it to add some references you don’t have time to look up.

The person responds to your AI comment thoughtfully, without showing off cited knowledge, and with genuine gratitude. Shame creeps up. Who the hell are you? You’re a brand. At least, that’s what the mentors told you when you couldn’t figure out why nobody was reading your work.

You blame life. Your circle is getting smaller—only the best remain. The best, it turns out, don’t even read your work. You think about the person who left you. In hindsight, that ring was always a symbol of their betrayal and your masochism. Now, lavender tastes like soap.

⬆ Was that paragraph any good? You’ve been rejected by publishers for years, manipulated by gurus, betrayed by lovers, and supportive voices do little to keep self-doubt from weighing you down. Ugh, so much for having a fresh and unique voice.

You ask ChatGPT to make it sound more like the writers you idolize, like Jack Kerouac.

You’re getting older, man, the years slipping past like rain on a bus window, and the circle tightens—only the real ones stick, the ones who don’t need to read your damn words to know you, to know what’s been rattling in your bones all along. And that ring—Christ, that ring—always a bad omen, a little noose on your finger, a joke the universe played at your expense. Now lavender ain’t romance, ain’t nostalgia, just the scent of gas station soap and hands scrubbed raw.

And was that any good? Hell if you know. The rejections stack up like old newspapers in a shut-in’s house, the gurus with their snake oil pat your back, tell you to "believe," but belief don’t put ink on the page or keep the doubt from slithering in at night. Lovers, mentors, all ghosts now, and the "supportive voices" sound tinny, far away, like a radio tuned to a station that don’t quite reach your part of the world. Fresh and unique voice? Ha. Might as well be shouting into the void.

What the fuck is this? It isn’t Kerouac. And it sure as hell isn’t you.

How? ChatGPT already knows everything about you because you ask it every question that comes to your mind. Google takes too long. You even use ChatGPT as a therapist because it’s less expensive than weekly sessions and less intimidating than the suicide hotline.

You feed it various prompts and ask it to analyze dozens of your texts to get a sense of your voice.

Was that paragraph any good? Who knows. Publishers don’t think so. Gurus would tell you to manifest a different outcome. Lovers promised they believed in you, right up until they didn’t. And the supportive voices? They’re nice, sure, but they don’t stop the doubt from curling up in your chest like a cat that refuses to be moved.

So, you ask ChatGPT to make it sound more like the writers you idolize, like Kerouac—because if you can’t be fresh, at least you can be borrowed.

Huh. Does that sound like you? To be honest, you don’t know who you are anymore. An empire is collapsing, the world’s on fire, and since you’re a sensitive artist, you feel all the pain.

Yet, the more you use AI, the less you feel. You ask it to give you advice—it’s no different than the guru who charged you $150 for a one-hour session.

You publish your first piece with AI. It gets just as many likes—or lack thereof—as your other pieces. It affects you less, though. It didn’t take as long to write. Plus, it’s not you they rejected.

After reading over your article with ChatGPT as your editor, you realize something is off. Instead of relying on your gut, you turn to an AI detector. Turns out, “Lovers promised they believed in you, right up until they didn’t,” and “They’re nice, sure, but they don’t stop the doubt from curling up in your chest like a cat that refuses to move” is likely AI-generated.

You learn about tokens and how LLMs generate human-like responses. They have nothing to do with literature or craft. They don’t even fully align with morphemes, phonemes, or the linguistic structures you studied. You’re lost and about to click “Humanise text,” but your last bit of artistic dignity screams, “This has gone too far.”

You realize that AI isn’t an editor. It’s a thief who wants to turn your voice into data and humanity into productivity. Then, you take a look through your moleskin notebook and, once again, dive into the mistakes that left your sheets stained crimson and a ring pleasantly pressed against your neck. You play.

Born Without Borders is a reader-supported guide to stripping away social constructs, building bridges across divides, cultural psychology, and how to salir de las fronteras que impone tu mente. If you want to support my work, the best way is to take out a paid subscription for $5/month or $30/year.

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