Cúcuta, Colombia-Venezuela border → Valencia · outskirts (rural, near Sagunto)

Sep 30, 2023

1. Diary

   the olives are starting to turn, shades of deep green mingling with hints of the golden sun. today, i wandered through the cooperative's experimental plots, checking on the irrigation systems. the drip lines are working well, but some of the saplings look a bit stressed. maybe too much sun? i'll have to consult with the agronomy team about adjusting the shading.

   there was a stray dog at the edge of the field — he followed me around, wagging his tail. i think i might keep him around. he seems to enjoy the company, and it feels good to have a little creature to share this quiet space.

   the mercado in sagunto was lively this morning. i found some fresh tomatoes that reminded me of those from my grandmother's garden back home. her voice echoed in my mind as i recalled her instructions for sancocho. if only i could replicate that warmth in my tiny kitchen here.

   the day slipped into evening, clouds gathering like old friends. a cool breeze rustled through the almond trees, signaling a shift. autumn is here, and with it, a sense of change, of potential. it feels significant, as if the land is whispering secrets only i can hear.

Nov 17, 2023

1. Diary

   the sky was a heavy gray today, thick with clouds that hung low over the fields. i could smell the earth, damp and cool from the morning mist. the olives are ripening, clusters dangling like little green jewels waiting for the right moment. i spent most of the afternoon in the cooperative’s experimental plots, inspecting the irrigation systems and the new almond saplings we planted last month. they’ve started to take root, reaching for the light.

   i picked a few olives, their skins taut with promise. the variety is all wrong for an oil press, but they’ll make a decent table olive if we get the curing right. my mind drifts to abuela’s voice, her instructions layered with love, guiding me to the right proportions of salt and brine. i wrote a note to remind myself to try it when the harvest comes in.

   it’s strange to feel so connected to this land, and yet, each day, the thought of Cúcuta feels like a distant echo. the mercado in Sagunto is lively on weekends, but here, days stretch slowly, a heartbeat apart from the chaos of the city. the stray dog, whom i named perra, followed me home today. i think she might stay for a while.

   as evening fell, a light rain began to patter on the roof of the old farmhouse. it felt calming, wrapping the day in a soft embrace. the weather matters here, shaping everything—my thoughts, the crops, even the way i feel.

Nov 23, 2023

1. Diary

   another day of checking on the experimental plots. the air was crisp, a chill creeping in from the nearby hills. i counted the olive clusters, their green now deepening to a rich purple. the wind stirred the branches, rustling the leaves like whispers of the land.

   i marked a few trees for additional irrigation; the last rains haven’t soaked in as well as i hoped. observing the soil, it still feels alive, though the moisture is retreating. i wonder how this will affect the final yield.

   met with the team later to discuss the almond varieties. we’re experimenting with a new hybrid that’s supposed to be more resilient in dry spells. conversation flowed easily, laughter punctuating the technical discussions. it feels good to collaborate, to brainstorm over plans that could help the cooperative.

   as i walked back to the farmhouse, the sunset lit the sky in hues of orange and pink. the stray dog trotted beside me, his tail wagging, as if he understood the quiet joy of the moment. evening settles softly, a reminder of home and the warmth of my grandmother's voice on the phone earlier. i can almost hear her asking if i’m eating enough, if i’m keeping warm as the nights grow colder.

   a few stars peek through the fading light. the world feels still for a moment, the weight of the day lifting. tomorrow, back to the mercado in sagunto; the people, the colors, the sounds blend into a tapestry of life here.

Nov 29, 2023

1. Diary

   the morning brought a sharp frost, the fields glistening under a thin layer of ice. i bundled up and headed out early, the air biting at my cheeks. the olives, now fully caught in their deepening hues, seemed to glow against the white backdrop. it’s a strange beauty, this contrast — life clinging on through the cold.

   today was full of tasks. i checked the irrigation settings, made notes on the moisture levels, and adjusted our water schedules to help with the late ripening. the cooperative's members wandered in and out, sharing their thoughts, a mix of worry and hope as we prepare for the harvest.

   i spoke with marta about our plans for the mercado this weekend. she has some ideas for promoting the olives, maybe a tasting — i’ll have to practice my pitch in a mix of español and some of these new Valencian terms i’ve picked up.

   as i walked back to the farmhouse, the sun began to break through the clouds, casting a soft light over everything. it felt like a promise, warm and distant, reminding me that spring will come again, even as the chill lingers now.

Jan 31, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun broke through the clouds today, a rare gift in this season. i stepped outside, feeling the warmth on my face, grateful for the break from the usual chill. the field was alive with subtle movements; the breeze danced through the olive trees, whispering secrets.

   the olives are plumping nicely, clusters heavy with promise. i took my time, inspecting each tree, feeling the rough bark beneath my fingers, listening to the quiet rustle of leaves. it’s almost like they’re holding their breath, waiting for the right moment to burst into ripeness.

   i spent the afternoon sorting through the last of the harvest from the mercado in sagunto. it was bustling, as always, the vendors calling out their wares in a mix of excited chatter. i grabbed a few pomegranates for my grandmother; her recipes have a way of drawing me back home, if only in memory.

   the light began to fade, casting long shadows across the plot. even as the day winds down, there’s a sense of hope in the air. i feel the weight of solitude sometimes, but moments like this remind me of the connection between land and people. the evening came in with a crispness, the stars already winking overhead. it’s a simple life here, but there’s beauty in the stillness.

Feb 6, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning was foggy, a thick gray blanket that muted the contours of the hills. i watched the fog lift slowly, revealing the olive trees standing steadfast, trunks gnarled but full of life. checked on the plots, took stock of the almond blossoms starting to peek out — pale pinks against the bare branches. the days are getting longer, a promise of warmth that feels distant but welcome.

   i went to the mercado in sagunto this afternoon. the stalls were vibrant, bursting with produce, even in this season. grabbed a few winter vegetables — some pimientos, a couple of clementines. the vendors were lively, voices ringing out, and for a moment, it felt like home. spoke a bit in my mix of Spanish and Valencian, trying out the new words i’ve picked up. they seemed to appreciate it, and it warmed my heart.

   in the evening, i listened to another voice note from abuela. she was reciting a recipe for arepas, her voice thick with love and nostalgia. it made me ache for those simpler moments, cooking together in the kitchen, the smell of corn and cheese filling the air.

   the chill returns tonight, settling in with shadows. the stars are faint, but even so, they remind me of the light still out there, waiting.

Feb 15, 2024

1. Diary

   the dawn brought a more forgiving chill, the frost giving way to a soft, early mist that wrapped around the fields. i could hear the gentle stirrings of life, birds moving through the branches of the old olive trees. they’re remarkable, those trees—each one a testament to resilience, much like my grandmother’s voice notes, which still play in my mind as i work.

   spent the morning checking the cooperative's experimental plots. the faba beans are coming along nicely, vibrant green against the dark soil. it feels good to see growth, to know there’s potential here. i made notes on the irrigation system adjustments we need to consider as the weather shifts. adapting is key.

   the mercado in sagunto was lively today. the colors of fresh produce and the chatter of sellers brought warmth to my heart. i picked up a few things: some local almonds, wonderfully fragrant, and a couple of ripe tomatoes. thought of how they'd taste with a sprinkle of salt, just like my grandmother taught me.

   as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in soft oranges and pinks, i felt that longing again. the distance from home is a weight, but the warmth of this community helps. a stray dog followed me back to the farmhouse, tail wagging. maybe he’ll join me for dinner tonight, a little companionship after a long day.

   the evening air is cool, a reminder that spring will come, eventually.

2. Diary

   the morning was wrapped in a soft mist, the kind that makes everything feel a bit more intimate. i stepped out to the fields early, eager to catch the first light. the frost had melted away, leaving beads of dew clinging to the blades of grass, glimmering like tiny jewels. the olive trees looked almost ethereal, their branches swaying gently as the breeze picked up.

   today, i finished the last of the soil tests for the cooperative's experimental plots. it’s satisfying to see the progress; the pH levels are more balanced than last year. i’ve also been adjusting our irrigation strategies based on the changing weather patterns. it feels important, almost urgent, to adapt quickly. the warming climate is no longer just a statistic; it’s something i feel here every day.

   by noon, i made my way to the mercado in Sagunto. the colors of the vegetables - deep greens and vibrant reds - reminded me of the markets back home. i picked up some fresh oranges, and the vendor spoke to me in quick Valencian, a mix of familiarity and challenge. i stumbled a bit, but it’s getting better.

   at the old farmhouse, i spent the late afternoon tending to the garden. the stray dog, still following me around, rolled in the dirt, leaving paw prints on my trousers. i laughed and scratched behind his ears; he seems to have claimed this place as his territory.

   as the sun dipped below the hills, the air turned crisp again. shadows grew long. evenings like this remind me of my grandmother. i played her latest voice note back, her recipe for arepas, and felt the warmth of her voice wash over me. it's a tether to home. the day fades, but the sky painted in oranges and purples feels like a promise.

Mar 6, 2024

1. Diary

   the air feels different today. a warmth is seeping through, whispering that spring is inching closer. the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the fields with a golden hue. i spent the morning checking on the experimental plots, the almonds are starting to bloom, delicate white flowers dotted among the branches. it’s a promising sight, these blossoms will soon attract the bees.

   i noticed a few new weeds starting to push their way through the soil, the kind that will need careful management as the season progresses. made a list of what to tackle next week. after that, i walked over to the old farmhouse. it creaks a bit more every day, but there’s a charm to it — the way the sun sets through the window framing the days as they pass.

   stopped by the mercado in Sagunto later. the stalls were bustling, a tapestry of colors and sounds. chatted with the vendor about the differences in local crop yields; he mentioned the impact of changing weather patterns. it resonates, the uncertainty of it all, as i think about my family back home. grandmother sent another voice note, her voice warm and reassuring. she spoke about the way the land is changing in Cúcuta too. i hold onto those words; they blend the distance and remind me of where i come from.

   as dusk settled, the chill returned again, wrapping around the fields like a familiar shawl. tomorrow, i’ll get back to work as the sun rises, hoping for more blooms and less frost.

Mar 10, 2024

1. Diary

   the warmth has fully settled in today, a gentle embrace that feels like it knows us. the fields are awakening. i walked through the cooperative’s experimental plots this afternoon, running my fingers over the new buds on the almond trees. each little swell of life is a promise. the olives are beginning to bloom too; i’ve noted the timing—about a week earlier than last year. climate shifts make me restless but hopeful. we’re experimenting with drought-resistant varieties, and seeing them take root gives me a sense of purpose.

   i spent the morning preparing for this week’s market in sagunto. packed fresh greens—lacinato kale, a bit of romanesco, and some wild herbs i’ve been cultivating. my grandmother would have loved to see the colors. her voice plays in my mind, guiding me through the steps of her cooking. i can hear her correcting my chopping technique. she used to make the most comforting dishes, no matter what was available.

   there’s a stray dog that has started to follow me. i’ve named him sierra, after the misty hills we both wander. he has a stubbornness that reminds me of the tough edges of life along the border. i could almost laugh at how he insists on sitting right by my feet while i work. the sunset was stunning today, painting the sky with a fiery orange and soft pink. it felt like an ending, but also a beginning. evenings like this remind me that i’m here, in this strange but welcoming place.

Apr 6, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun rose early, its rays spilling over the horizon like a promise. i spent the morning checking the olive and almond trees. the buds are swelling, preparing for a show of green that will soon blanket the branches. there’s a vibrancy in the air, a sweet scent of earth waking up after its slumber.

   the cooperative is buzzing with excitement. i joined the team as we mapped out the irrigation system for the new plots. we want to optimize water use, especially with the warm months approaching. technical discussions flowed, but there’s a sense of community, of shared purpose, that makes the hard work worthwhile.

   i ventured into sagunto this afternoon. the mercado was alive with colors and sounds—fresh vegetables piled high, people sharing stories, laughter mingling with the scent of spices. i found a vendor selling local cheeses and couldn't resist picking up a few. as i savored the richness, i thought of my grandmother, her voice guiding me through recipes. i miss her more with each passing day.

   the evening sky turned to a soft lavender as i walked back to the farmhouse. tonight’s breeze carries a hint of chill, a reminder that spring is still finding its footing. i can hear the distant barking of the stray dog, now a regular companion. his presence feels like home, a small joy in this vast landscape.

Apr 18, 2024

1. Diary

   the earth is softening, welcoming life back. this morning, i wandered through the cooperative’s experimental plots, where the olives and almonds stand like sentinels, ready to burst forth. the air is filled with the hum of bees, a sound i’ve come to cherish. they flit from blossom to blossom, a rhythmic dance, as if reminding me of the urgency of nurturing this land.

   i spent the afternoon sketching plans for the new irrigation system. the old farmhouse feels more like home with each passing day, its walls absorbing my presence. i can almost hear abuela’s voice guiding me through the tasks, the way she’d describe each plant in that soothing tone, mixing Spanish with the understanding that roots run deeper than soil.

   the mercado in Sagunto is vibrant these days. i found some fresh artichokes and shared a laugh with the vendor, who always seems to know what i need before i do. he told me the spring rains will be crucial for the harvest. i can’t help but think about how the weather seems to shape everything here — like a gentle hand pushing and pulling at our plans.

   as the sun dips below the horizon, the sky melts into shades of orange and pink. it reminds me of the sunsets back home, though the landscapes are different. i sit with my stray dog, watching the light fade. it’s quiet now. i remember the warmth of my grandmother’s kitchen and the aromas of her cooking; those memories fuel my resolve to make this place thrive. tomorrow will bring more tasks, more decisions. for now, the evening feels like an ending, a soft pause before the world awakens again.

May 15, 2024

1. Diary

   the sky this morning was a brilliant blue, an expanse that made the world feel infinite. i spent the day in the fields, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back as i checked on the almond trees. their blossoms are a riot of white and pink, like delicate confetti scattered on the ground. it’s a joyful chaos that reminds me of my grandmother’s stories about the flowers in our family garden back in Cúcuta.

   the cooperative is buzzing with energy. we set up a new irrigation system today, a drip method that should help conserve water during the harsher months. i’m hopeful it’ll help the younger farmers see the value in sustainable practices. i was explaining the benefits in a mix of Spanish and Valencian; they seemed intrigued, asking questions about how it works in Colombia, especially with our challenges on the border. it felt good to connect those dots.

   after work, i took a walk down to the mercado in Sagunto, where the stalls overflowed with fresh produce. i picked up some heirloom tomatoes, thinking about how my grandmother would slice them for our meals, with just a sprinkle of salt. i even saw a stray dog near the entrance. it reminded me of my childhood, the dogs that wandered around our neighborhood, always looking for scraps. the warmth of the day began to fade as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows. all of this reminds me that despite the distance, my roots are still here, intertwined with the land and the people.

   the evening air brought a soft chill, the kind you feel when twilight settles in. it’s a gentle reminder that change is always near.

May 17, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning greeted me with a gentle mist, the sun struggling to break through, casting a soft light over the trees. i was out by the old farmhouse, checking the progress of the olive trees. they’ve started to bloom, their white flowers emerging like little stars against the green. i observed a few bees buzzing around, busy and purposeful, and it reminded me of my grandmother’s garden back in Cúcuta — how she always said that the flowers need their pollinators to thrive.

   spent part of the day at the mercado in Sagunto. bought some local almonds and a few jars of honey, thinking of how everything here is so intertwined with the land. the vendors were cheerful, and i caught snippets of Valencian dialect mixed with familiar Spanish. felt good to connect, even if just briefly.

   the evening rolled in with a warm breeze, the kind that lifts the weight of the day a little. i called my grandmother, her voice crackling through the phone, reminding me of her recipe for arepas. hearing her felt grounding, even from afar.

   as the sun dipped low, the sky blushed with shades of pink and gold, and i couldn’t help but feel that this place, with its rhythms and seasons, is becoming a part of me.

Jun 14, 2024

1. Diary

   the world outside feels alive today. i woke to a chorus of birds, their songs mingling with the soft rustle of leaves. the air is fragrant with the blooming wildflowers—poppies and canterbury bells dancing under the sun. i spent the morning in the cooperative's experimental plots, tracing the lines of our young olive trees, their leaves shimmering like silver in the light.

   the almonds are coming along beautifully, their creamy blossoms giving way to tiny nuts. i noted about a dozen blooms still clinging stubbornly to the branches. is that normal? will they hold till harvest? i marked it down in my notebook, along with the moisture levels of the soil—we've been lucky with rainfall lately.

   this afternoon, i took a break on the porch of the old farmhouse, listening to the breeze. i called my grandmother; she sounded tired but happy to hear about the crops. she always remembers to ask about the dog i’ve named “luz.” i told her he now patrols the perimeter, guarding our little piece of land. she chuckled, her voice warm as always, reminding me of her cooking instructions for the arepas de queso.

   the sky looks heavy now, dark clouds rolling in. perhaps a storm is coming, but that seems fitting—life demands its own rhythms. the humidity is rising, a sweet promise of renewal.

Jul 10, 2024

1. Diary

   the afternoon was heavy with heat, a thick blanket pressing down as i walked through the olive groves. the trees whispered secrets, their leaves shimmering like small mirrors under the relentless sun. i took a moment to admire the way the light filters through, casting dappled shadows on the ground.

   checked the irrigation systems today. a couple of lines were clogged; small things can become huge problems if not addressed. reminded me of abuelo’s voice notes from Cúcuta, her instructions on how to fix what seems broken. there’s comfort in her words, even over the distance.

   the mercado in Sagunto is back to bustling after the summer lull. bought some fresh almonds and cherries, and the vendor threw in a handful of herbs for good measure. i could feel the warmth in the interactions, laughter over shared recipes. it’s small moments like these that stitch together the fabric of daily life here.

   the evening brought a gentle breeze, cooling the remnants of the day. sat outside, listening to the sounds of the crickets, a soft symphony that reminds me of home. as dusk settled, the sky turned a deep indigo, the stars beginning to pierce the darkness. another day in this rural landscape where every plant feels like a connection, each task a step toward something greater.

Jul 31, 2024

1. Diary

   the sky leaned gray this morning, clouds hanging low like a quilt draped over the earth. i wandered to the experimental plots, half-expecting to find the plants drenched in dew, but instead, the ground was dry as if it had forgotten the touch of rain. the olive trees stood resilient, their gnarled trunks testament to a history of endurance, but the air felt heavy with a lingering tension.

   i checked the new almond saplings; some had taken to the soil nicely, while others seemed to hold their breath, waiting for a sign. i noted down the progress, scribbling in my notebook, trying to capture the subtleties. in the distance, a hawk circled, casting a fleeting shadow. a gentle reminder of the wilderness that persists even in cultivated lands.

   later, i sat on the porch of the farmhouse, listening to the quiet. a few weeks since the last visit from my grandmother; she left a voice note with her slow, warm drawl, detailing how to make arepas, the way she always does. it’s comforting, her voice reaching across the miles, but i can feel a bit of her spirit fading like the sun beneath the horizon.

   the heat later wrapped around me, stifling, as i walked into Sagunto for supplies. the mercado buzzed with life, but i felt like a ghost drifting among the stalls, searching for connection in the familiar yet foreign. bought some fresh tomatoes that smelled like summer, their vibrant red a stark contrast to my thoughts.

   as night approached, the clouds finally released their burden, a soft drizzle beginning, leaving the earth smelling sweet. it felt like a small blessing, a whisper of hope amidst the uncertainty.

Aug 7, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning greeted me with a fresh breeze, a relief after days of oppressive heat. as i stepped outside, the sun peeked through the clouds, casting dappled light on the ground. i took a moment to listen—a few birds still chirping, the rustling of leaves, and the distant sound of my stray dog, who seems to sense the arrival of cooler days.

   i spent the morning in the cooperative's experimental plots, checking on the almond trees. their blossoms are heavy with promise, and the sight filled me with a mix of hope and nostalgia. here, the earth is rich, and my hands remember the feel of good soil. i noted which varieties are thriving and which are struggling under the shifting climate—data for my reports, but also a personal challenge to understand how this land can adapt.

   later, i made my way to the weekly mercado in Sagunto. the stalls were vibrant, bursting with fresh produce. i picked up some tomatoes and a few peppers, thinking of my grandmother’s recipes, the way she would coax flavors from humble ingredients. each item in my basket felt like a small reminder of home, despite the distance.

   this evening, as the sky turned soft orange and pink, i reflected on my journey. rural spain is quiet but rich in possibilities, and although i still find moments of loneliness, today felt different. maybe it’s the rhythm of the seasons shifting, or perhaps it’s just time weaving its way into my heart. the weather matters here, like a gentle nudge towards growth and understanding.

Aug 22, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning was a gentle whisper, a soft light filtering through the trees. I made my way to the old farmhouse, the coolness of the stone walls a welcome contrast to the heat that's been creeping back in. I checked the irrigation systems today, the water flowing like a lifeline through the experimental plots.

   the almonds are beginning to show signs of ripeness, their green hulls still tightly closed but hinting at the treasures inside. I crouched low, touching the earth, feeling the faint pulse of life beneath. the sound of cicadas filled the air, their song a reminder that summer isn't finished yet. there’s something beautiful about the way the land holds its breath, waiting for the harvest.

   around noon, I visited the mercado in Sagunto. the stalls overflowed with vibrant vegetables and fruits, a riot of colors that almost felt too loud against the backdrop of my quiet days. I picked up a few tomatoes, just ripe enough to eat raw, and some almonds—though I tried to resist the urge to buy too many. my grandmother would’ve approved of the plump ones, perfect for toasting.

   I listened to the voices around me, the mix of Valencian and Castilian like a melody I’m still learning to sing. sometimes I miss the rhythm of family gatherings back home, the laughter and the familiar smells wafting through the air. but today felt different; there’s a spark in the air, a sense that something is shifting.

   as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the fields, I took a moment to breathe it all in. the sky blazed with oranges and pinks, a fiery farewell to the day. it's moments like these that remind me why I’m here—finding a place in this earth while the warmth of home lingers just out of reach.

Aug 26, 2024

1. Diary

   the afternoon was a tapestry of sun and shadow. i worked alongside the cooperative team, checking the irrigation on the plots. the almonds have started to swell, a hopeful sign for the harvest, but the soil feels dry beneath my fingers, like it’s holding its breath. we discussed crop rotations, and i felt the weight of our responsibility to manage these lands sustainably.

   i remembered grandmother’s voice from her latest voice note, sharing her secret for the perfect arepas as she stirred the masa. her presence is still a comfort, even from a distance.

   after lunch, the stray dog i’ve named “sombra” followed me around, her tail wagging like she knows we’re in this together. i sometimes wonder how she ended up here, just like me, seeking companionship and purpose.

   the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the finca, and i could feel the day slipping away. tomorrow, we’ll visit the mercado in sagunto; it’ll be good to mingle with the local vendors. the air might feel more alive there. i think of the olive groves, how they stand resilient against the shifting climate, and so do i, even on days when the loneliness seeps in.

Oct 5, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning unfolded with a thick fog wrapping the fields, like a blanket reluctant to let go. i stepped outside to check on the plots, the dew clinging to the grasses, each droplet a small world reflecting muted light. the almonds are maturing, but the olives show signs of stress; the heat this summer hasn’t been easy on them.

   i spent the morning with the cooperative team, discussing strategies for pest management in a warmer climate. the ideas flowed, but i could feel the weight of uncertainty in the air. the old farmhouse feels quieter these days, echoes of laughter from the team visits fading into the background.

   in the afternoon, i wandered to sagunto for the mercado. the vibrancy of the stalls felt alive amidst the haze of the day. i picked up some fresh pimientos and talked briefly with an older vendor about the best way to roast them. he had a warmth that reminded me of my grandmother back home, sharing the last of her recipes over voice notes.

   i returned to the farmhouse just as the sun began to dip, casting long shadows across the fields. it’s getting colder now, the kind of chill that seeps in early. this change tugs at something deep inside; a reminder that time is passing. the weather always knows, doesn’t it?

Oct 10, 2024

1. Diary

   the sun broke through the fog this morning, illuminating the dewy fields with a gentle warmth. I walked to the cooperative's experimental plots, where the almonds are now heavy with promise, their blossoms having transformed into small, green buds. the sound of distant crows cawing reminded me of my grandmother’s stories about the old farms back in Cúcuta, how the land would whisper secrets if you paid attention.

   spent the afternoon checking the irrigation systems—carefully optimizing the flow, making sure every root gets what it needs. the soil is still damp from the recent rains, a blessing. I noticed a few patches of weeds struggling between the rows; tomorrow, I’ll need to teach the team about the benefits of careful weeding. I’ve been mulling over the land prices here, how they differ so much from home. sometimes it feels like the past is a weight on my shoulders, but these moments of productivity make the burden lighter.

   as the day wound down, a stray dog ambled into my space, tail wagging like he belonged. I gave him some leftover bread, thinking of how I miss that connection—just a small moment, but the warmth reminded me of home. the evening air turned crisp, a prelude to the chill of autumn. I’ll need to prepare for colder nights ahead, yet I still feel a hopeful sort of energy.

Oct 20, 2024

1. Diary

   the sky today held a heavy gray, clouds bunching together like a gathering crowd. i made my way to the cooperative, noting the sharp chill in the air that hints at the coming winter. the almond trees, although bending under their load, felt the weight of the cold more acutely now.

   spent the morning measuring soil moisture. the drip irrigation system is showing signs of wear—i’ll need to consult the team about possible upgrades before the rains start. the water is precious, like whispers of my grandmother’s voice notes, reminding me of the roots of our work, the land we tend to, both here in spain and across the border.

   after lunch, i visited the mercado in sagunto. the stalls were bustling, vibrant colors everywhere. picked up some pomegranates and a loaf of rustic bread. thought of how my grandmother would prepare her famous arepas, filling the kitchen with warmth.

   the stray dog, whom i’ve named sombra, followed me back to the farmhouse. he’s a good companion, always at my heels. it feels warm, this bond, especially on days like today when the world feels a bit more distant.

   as evening approaches, the clouds thicken. i think about the transition of seasons, the cycles of life. every change a lesson. i can hear the wind rustling through the almond leaves, like a quiet reminder that we’re all connected, somehow, through the earth beneath our feet.

Oct 22, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning greeted me with a chill that pierced right through the layers. a dense mist hung low over the land, muffling sounds and blurring the edges of the fields. i wrapped my scarf tighter and set out to the plots, where the almonds are still ripening, their shells beginning to harden against the dampness. it's a strange dance with the weather; one moment it's warm enough to suggest summer's lingering touch, and the next, it feels like winter is knocking early.

   the cooperative's meeting today was a mix of excitement and concern. everyone’s been buzzing about the upcoming winter crops. we discussed garlic, knowing how it thrives in cooler soil. looked up some varieties that might suit the climate better. i shared notes on crop rotation and the need for resilience in our approaches—want to ensure that whatever we plant can withstand the surprises of the season.

   stopped by the mercado in sagunto, the weekly rhythm grounding me. fresh produce lined the stalls, vibrant amidst the gray. picked up some pumpkins and, as always, a little of that pungent saffron they still try to sell me like it’s gold. the vendor laughed as i haggled, and for a moment, i forgot about the chill.

   as the day wound down, i walked back to the farmhouse. the mist started to lift, revealing the faintest hint of color in the sky—a reminder that even the gray holds beauty. i think of abuela's voice notes, the way she tells me about the land back home, the warmth of her kitchen. sometimes, it feels like i’m bridging two worlds, one foot in each, but today it felt mostly like home here.

Oct 28, 2024

1. Diary

   the first light of dawn struggled against a thick layer of clouds, but the chill felt sharper today; winter's breath creeping closer. walking to the cooperative, i noticed the almond trees, their branches weighed down with the promise of harvest. the mist hung around them like a lingering thought, and i could hear the distant clatter of crates being moved in the mercado.

   today i spent time with the experimental plots, checking the moisture levels in the soil. the land here is stubborn yet generous, teetering between giving and withholding. i scribbled notes on the health of the plants—albufera beans are thriving, but the cabbages are slower than expected. it’s always a dance, this agriculture. respect the rhythm, and the earth rewards you.

   i received a voice note from abuela, her cooking instructions still warm from the familiar cadence of her voice. she asked after my health, as always. i told her the markets here are vibrant, but they lack the heart i miss from home. the distance feels heavy at times, but i keep moving forward, hoping to plant roots deeper each day.

   by evening, the clouds finally dispersed, revealing a twilight sky painted in shades of lavender. a stray dog followed me home, and i couldn't help but wonder if this land might offer companionship, even in its loneliness.

Nov 22, 2024

1. Diary

   the morning sky mirrored a slate gray, heavy and oppressive. the chill settled deep into my bones, a reminder of winter's relentless approach. on my way to the cooperative, i noticed the fields transforming, olive trees standing resolute against the cold, their gnarled branches reaching for a sun that barely broke through the clouds.

   today was all about the experimental plots. we gathered to discuss crop rotations for the almonds and the integration of cover crops to improve soil health. the conversation flowed, technical yet filled with hope—hope for the land, for the cooperative. we brainstormed ways to adapt to the changing climate, to foster resilience. i shared some insights about pest management strategies we could implement. it felt good to contribute, to feel part of something larger.

   after a long day, i walked back home, my boots crunching on the gravel path. these evening walks, when the air grows still and the lights in the farmhouse begin to glow, have a calming effect. i picked up a stray dog on the way, another companion in my solitude. he followed me, tail wagging, as if he understood the comfort of company.

   the stars emerged, faintly twinkling against the darkening sky. winter approaches, but there’s warmth in the little things—the dog, the cooperative's camaraderie, the future we’re cultivating together.

Jan 1, 2025

1. Diary

   the new year arrived not with fireworks but with a quiet snowfall. soft flakes drifted down, covering the ground in a delicate white blanket. i stepped outside, breathing in the crisp air, the world transformed into a hushed scene. the olive trees stood still, their gnarled branches heavy with snow, and i felt a familiar pang of nostalgia — winter on the border was always something special, layered in memories of hot chocolate with my grandmother.

   the cooperative is buzzing with plans for the season ahead. today, we discussed the almond harvest; it's looking decent despite the cold. some of the older farmers are worried, though. the climate's been shifting so unpredictably. they share stories while we sip our coffee, the warmth in stark contrast to the chill outside.

   i ventured to the mercado in Sagunto later, hoping to find some fresh greens amidst the winter stocks. the vendors were friendly, their voices mingling with the chatter of the crowd. bought some kale and a few sweet potatoes, and even found a bag of dried beans — good for the heart and the soul.

   as evening wrapped around the fields, the sky turned a soft pink, signaling the end of the day. the snowflakes began to melt slowly, a quiet promise of renewal. i returned home, feeling a mix of hope and solitude. this new year brings uncertainty, yes, but also an opportunity to plant new seeds, both in the ground and in my life.

Jan 13, 2025

1. Diary

   the morning broke with a muted light, casting long shadows across the fields. i wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck before heading to the cooperative. the crunch of frost beneath my boots echoed in the stillness. the olive trees stood stark against the pale sky, their twisted trunks seeming to whisper secrets of resilience.

   today was about the olives — their harvest almost complete. i spent hours inspecting the experimental plots, noting the differences in yield between the new varieties we planted and the traditional ones. the air carried a sharpness, a clarity that made each observation feel more significant. it's strange, this balance between the excitement of discovery and the weight of uncertainty. will these adaptations be enough as temperatures rise?

   i gathered some samples, planning to send a report next week in the quiet after the mercado. i miss the lively chatter of my grandmother, her laughter filling the air like the smell of her ají, a warmth that transcends distance. she often reminds me of the value of patience — a lesson that feels necessary now, as winter wraps its cold fingers around everything.

   the stray dog i’ve taken to calling "moro" followed me back today, tail wagging like he knows he's found a companion in this chilly expanse. by the time i got home, the sky was darkening, clouds rolling in thick and low. it's good to have him around, even if he’s just a dog. the weight of loneliness doesn’t feel as heavy with him there. outside, the wind picked up, howling through the trees, a reminder that even in this isolation, life continues with a fierce energy.

Jan 31, 2025

1. Diary

   the fog rolled in early this morning, cloaking the fields in a thick, damp embrace. i could barely see the olive trees standing guard at the edge of the cooperative’s experimental plots. it felt heavier than usual, pressing down like a weight on my chest. i spent the morning checking the irrigation systems, noting the moisture levels in the soil. the almonds are slow to bloom this year; maybe the frost stunted their growth.

   when i walked to the mercado in sagunto this afternoon, the air was still, cold enough that i could see my breath. i picked up some fresh cabbages and a few oranges. the vendor, who knows me by now, smiled and offered me a discount, probably pitying the lone gringo. i smiled back but felt a pang of loneliness as the other shoppers chatted in clusters.

   gran's voice notes have been my comfort lately. her instructions for arepas, the rhythm of her voice makes me feel closer, even if she doesn’t know how to pronounce Valencia properly.

   as the sun dipped below the horizon, the fog thickened again, and i could barely make out the outline of the farmhouse. another quiet evening ahead, perhaps with a book and a cup of tea. winter feels like an ending, but i know it’s really a pause.

Feb 12, 2025

1. Diary

   the sun broke through today, casting a warm glow over the fields, melting the remnants of morning frost. i took a moment to stand by the old farmhouse, watching the light dance on the almond blossoms. they’re just beginning to open, soft pinks and whites that whisper promises of fruit in spring.

   i visited the mercado in sagunto this afternoon. the stalls were bursting with color, fresh produce lining the tables. i exchanged a few words with the vendors, my vocabulary stretching as i tried to remember their names. i bought a handful of clementines to take back. the sweetness reminded me of the fruit my abuela used to peel for me back home, her hands deft and steady.

   the stray dog accompanied me back to the cooperative, tail wagging like a flag. i think he’s decided he’s staying. he curled up on the porch while i went over reports for the cooperative’s new project—integrating traditional methods with modern techniques for sustainable farming. it’s what brought me here, yet sometimes it feels like a lonely path.

   evening fell softly, wrapped in the scent of wet earth. i listened to the distant sounds of the village settling for the night. the familiar ache of distance from my family tugged at me, especially my grandmother. i hope to hear her voice soon, her stories weaving through the silence here.

Mar 1, 2025

1. Diary

   the morning was clear, a gentle breeze stirring the air as i walked to the cooperative. the almond trees are starting to bloom, delicate white petals against the crisp blue sky. i stopped to observe a few bees buzzing around; their presence is reassuring, a sign that life is waking up after winter’s grip.

   the weekly mercado in sagunto was vibrant today. i picked up some fresh vegetables, memories of grandmother’s recipes surfacing as i navigated the stalls. the vendor had the biggest tomatoes i’ve seen since moving here. “mire, son, son como los de casa,” he joked, as he handed me a couple. i remember learning to cook with her, her voice guiding me through each step.

   back at the farmhouse, i spent the afternoon tending to the cooperative's experimental plots. the soil felt good between my fingers, rich and dark. checking the irrigation systems, i found a leak—small but significant. fixed it quickly, but it reminded me of how every detail matters, like the weather. tomorrow’s forecast looks promising—more sun, more growth.

   i watched the sun set behind the hills, painting the sky in soft oranges and purples. it was beautiful, yet there was a tinge of loneliness, a longing for family gatherings back home, laughter echoing through the kitchen. the stray dog came by, sitting at my feet, as if sensing my mood. we shared a moment, a quiet companionship in the fading light.

Mar 8, 2025

1. Diary

   more fog this morning, thick enough to muffle the sounds of the campo. i could hardly see the rows of olives lining the paths as i stepped outside the farmhouse. the temperature hung low, hinting at a lingering winter that doesn't want to let go.

   i checked the experimental plots after breakfast. the soil still damp from the last rains, i lifted a clump to examine it between my fingers. it's rich, but i worry about water retention in the heat that’s coming. the almonds are in bloom now—hard to believe the transformation after such a cold stretch. the sight of them always brings a flash of joy, their white petals promising new life.

   today’s tasks involved marking the irrigation system for the next phase. alongside that, i had to draw up a few notes in English for the cooperative’s report. it feels different writing in English, so technical and dry compared to my thoughts in Spanish. sometimes i miss the fluidity, the way words can dance in a familiar tongue.

   as dusk settled, the fog returned, creeping back over the fields, wrapping everything in a soft shroud. i found it oddly comforting, like a reminder that each day holds its own mysteries. grandmother's voice echoed in my mind, her kitchen bustling with warmth. the fading light made me think of her, how much i miss her stories woven into the evening air.

Mar 17, 2025

1. Diary

   a light rain this morning, tapping softly against the window, coaxing life from the soil. i could smell the damp earth, rich and full of promise. the fields are waking slowly, the olive trees glistened, their leaves dancing gently in the breeze.

   walked to the cooperative with my boots squelching in the mud. met with the team to discuss the upcoming planting season. we’ve decided on a trial plot for the new almond variety—‘marcona’ this time. resilient in warmer climates, perfect for our needs. the team seems eager, spirits high after the last successful harvest.

   later, stopped by the mercado in sagunto. it's bustling with locals. managed to pick up some fresh tomatoes and a loaf of pan catala from my favorite stall. talked with an old woman selling herbs; she reminded me of abuela back in cucuta, her hands weathered but full of stories.

   the rain eased by afternoon, leaving droplets still clinging to the leaves. sat outside the farmhouse, watching a few stray dogs play in the puddles, their joy infectious. it’s moments like this that ground me. everything feels a bit clearer, a bit brighter.

Mar 24, 2025

1. Diary

   the sun broke through the clouds this morning, casting a soft light over the fields. the grass glimmered with dew, and the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers filled the air. i walked through the cooperative’s experimental plots, noting how the almonds are pushing out their blossoms. i tried to remember the names of each variety i saw. the workers were eager, testing the soil that feels warmer under their hands each week.

   afterward, i met with the agronomist, leandro, to discuss the irrigation system. we talked about water conservation strategies, especially with the way the climate has been shifting. i felt a bit out of my depth at times, but the way he explained things made it clearer. there's a lot to learn, but i’m starting to find my way.

   later, i stopped by the weekly mercado in sagunto. picked up some fresh bread and a small jar of local honey. the vendors were lively, families gathering around. there was laughter, and for a moment, i felt that warmth of community.

   as the day faded, i made my way back to the farmhouse. a light breeze rustled the olive branches; it felt like an embrace. the evening sky painted itself orange and pink, a reminder of transience. spring is here, but the shadows of uncertainty still linger.

Apr 9, 2025

1. Diary

   the air is crisp this morning, a sharp reminder that spring is here. i stepped outside, the sun just peeking over the hills, illuminating the dew-kissed grass. the olive trees stand tall, their new shoots vibrant against the blue sky. there's a light breeze, rustling through the leaves, almost like a whisper of encouragement for the season ahead.

   today, i have a meeting with the cooperative to discuss the next phase of the experimental plots. we've had promising results with the almonds, and i'm eager to share my observations on soil health and irrigation techniques. the farmers are starting to see the benefits of our work, and it feels good to contribute to something that connects back to my roots, a blend of both Colombia and this new life here.

   after the meeting, i plan to head into Sagunto for the weekly mercado. the hustle, the colors of fruits and vegetables, the sounds of people bargaining—it reminds me of my childhood markets back in Cúcuta. i miss my grandmother's cooking, so i'll send her a voice note later, asking for her recipe for arepas stuffed with fresh cheese. i want to capture that warmth, the way she would guide me with every ingredient.

   the day promises productivity, but there's a lingering thought about how distant i feel from my family. it’s not easy to bridge that gap, especially with my grandmother’s health wavering. she used to talk about the richness of the earth, how it reflects our lives. i hope she knows how much she's still part of this journey, even from afar. as i write this, the sun climbs higher, and it feels like a gentle nudge to keep pushing forward.

Apr 26, 2025

1. Diary

   the clouds hung heavy today, a gray blanket over the landscape. the kind of day that makes time feel slow. i spent the morning in the experimental plots, checking on the young almond trees. they’ve started to bloom, delicate white flowers dotting the branches. reminded me of the way abuela used to nurture her garden back in Cúcuta.

   the cooperative is planning a new irrigation system, and i’ve been drafting reports to submit for funding. it feels good to be part of something that could really help these communities, but sometimes the technical language feels like a barrier. i catch myself wishing for the simple conversations shared over coffee, not the sterile reports.

   in the afternoon, a stray dog wandered into the plots, scruffy and curious. i can’t help but feel connected to him already. maybe i’ll call him “luz” after the light that cuts through these overcast days.

   as dusk settled, the air turned cooler, a reminder that even spring days can end abruptly. i thought of abuela’s voice notes while preparing dinner. her recipes, like her love, are a tether to home. tonight, it was a simple soup, warm and nourishing. i tucked a few notes into my pocket, feeling the weight of family even from afar. the wind picked up as i washed the dishes, carrying the scent of earth and blooming flowers in through the open window.

May 19, 2025

1. Diary

   the morning air is soft with warmth, the kind that cradles the day in a tender embrace. i walked out to the old farmhouse, the sun brightening the edges of the fields. the olives are thriving, their silvery leaves shimmering against the blue sky. checked the experimental plots again – the almonds are taking root well, though some are still struggling.

   the mercado in sagunto buzzed today. i saw an elderly vendor selling the first of the season's cherries. they were a vibrant red, glistening like jewels. i couldn’t resist buying a small basket. i’ll share them with abuela’s voice notes tonight, her recipes echoing so clearly in my mind.

   a stray dog has taken to following me around the farm. i think i might name him “sol”, for the sun he seems to chase. his energy is infectious, reminding me to find joy in the little things.

   the clouds are gathering again as evening approaches, a reminder that even in warmth, there is an undercurrent of change, just like the seasons of my life.

Jun 1, 2025

1. Diary

   the heat has settled in, wrapping around me like a thick blanket. the mornings still whisper of coolness, but by midday, the sun reigns relentless. i spent the early hours with the cooperative team, discussing the irrigation strategies for the almond trees. they’re still in that vital growth phase, needing just the right amount of water to thrive.

   i noticed a few weeds creeping in, the kind that seem to thrive even in the heat. these stubborn varieties always remind me of my grandmother's voice, her gentle admonishments about tending to every part of the land. it’s hard being so far from Cúcuta, especially when her health feels more fragile with each passing day.

   later, i took a walk to the nearby mercado in Sagunto. the vibrant colors of the fruits and vegetables are a palette of summer. i picked up some fresh tomatoes and a handful of herbs, thinking of recreating one of her recipes—something simple that reminds me of home.

   the days are long now, the sun lingering in the sky as if reluctant to leave. i find comfort in watching the shadows stretch across the fields, a slow end to another hot day. the stray dog has taken to lounging on the porch, panting contentedly in the shade. his presence feels like a small connection to the warmth of family, always near, even in this distant place.

Jun 14, 2025

1. Diary

   the sun poured down this morning, a relentless force driving me to the shade of the old farmhouse. the leaves of the olives shimmered under its gaze, but i found myself longing for the cool breeze that usually graces these fields. checked on the young almonds today; they’re struggling with the heat. a few leaves curling, the soil drying. i scribbled notes for the cooperative's next meeting, outlining what adjustments we might need to make.

   in the mercado in sagunto, the vendors were lively, their voices intertwining with the clamor of the crowd. bought some tomatoes—ripe, juicy, a splash of color against my muted palette of farm tasks. the kind of tomatoes that remind me of home, of my grandmother’s kitchen and her voice guiding me through the steps of making sancocho, even from miles away.

   the stray dog has taken to following me around. i named him nabo after the turnip, always getting in the way as i work, yet bringing a sense of companionship that feels needed. this landscape, under this sun, feels vast and lonely sometimes, but maybe it’s just the heat playing tricks on my mind. clouds are promising for tomorrow. perhaps they’ll bring relief.

Jun 15, 2025

1. Diary

   the heat continues to intensify, wrapping the fields in a shimmering haze. this morning, i wandered through the cooperative's experimental plots, feeling the dry earth underfoot. it’s remarkable how the almonds are adapting, their roots digging deeper for moisture. the contrast between the soft green of the leaves and the baked soil reminds me of the resilience of this land.

   i spent some time mulching around the young trees, a task i did with care, knowing each layer will protect them from the sun’s fury. it almost feels meditative, the rhythm of scooping and spreading. a few butterflies fluttered nearby, delicate against the harsh backdrop, as if reminding me that life still dances in the heat.

   the stray dog, whom i’ve named Luna, followed me around, always looking for shade. she has a way of making solitude feel less heavy. later, i plan to visit the mercado in Sagunto; i’m curious about the seasonal fruits. there’s something about picking strawberries that feels like a bridge between here and my grandmother’s kitchen back in Cúcuta.

   the skies began to cloud over by afternoon, hinting at a possible storm. the air felt charged, pregnant with unspoken promises. maybe the rain will bring relief, a momentary reprieve from this relentless sun.

Jul 30, 2025

1. Diary

   the sun is a white ball today, glaring down. i woke early, hoping for a breeze, but it was still. the air thick, heavy, like the earth itself is holding its breath. opened the door to the farmhouse, and the heat crept in, wrapping around me.

   spent the morning checking the plots. the almonds are starting to set, tiny green fruits clinging to the branches, hopeful. the cooperative's work is slow but steady. we’re trialing different irrigation techniques, trying to stretch what little water we have. the locals are skeptical.

   i saw the stray dog again, lingering by the entrance to the field. i think he’s starting to recognize me. he followed me a bit before darting back to the shade of a nearby olive tree. every day he seems a little thinner, a little more worn. sometimes i wonder if he’ll still be there when the cool returns.

   in the afternoon, i retreated to the old farmhouse, unable to keep up with the heat. the walls felt like they were closing in. called abuela, her voice a soothing balm. she talked about the new recipes she’s trying, some traditional dishes that keep the heart warm even when the weather is not.

   the evening brought a slight chill, a promise of cooler nights ahead. i stood outside under the fading light, watching shadows dance across the land. the air turned crisp as the sun dipped down. it’s a small relief, enough to remind me that seasons shift, even here.

2. Diary

   the sun is a relentless overseer today. woke early, expecting whispers of a breeze, but the stillness clung to me like a second skin. the fields outside are parched. the almond trees droop, their leaves curling at the edges, begging for relief. i walked through the cooperative’s plots, the dry earth cracking beneath my boots.

   the tomatoes are struggling; i noted their sunburnt skins. had to remind them of what shade feels like. we can’t afford to lose any crops in this heat; the livelihood of the cooperative depends on these harvests. i checked the irrigation setup—tweaked the flow, hoping to coax some life back into the soil.

   i let my mind wander back to Cúcuta, to my grandmother’s voice notes. she dictated her recipes with such warmth, every detail a reminder of home. there’s a comfort in the repetition of her words, even as the distance weighs heavy.

   the stray dog is still around. i shared some water with him today; he seemed grateful but wary. the way he watches me sometimes, like he knows the heat is too much for both of us.

   the evening brings a slight coolness, but it’s fleeting. the sky turns orange, then purple—like the days are fading too quickly, and all i can do is watch.