The Art of an Unexpected Day

Morning Rituals (Because Coffee is Life)

My alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m., but I’d be lying if I told you I leap out of bed like some kind of motivational Instagram reel. I indulge in what I call the “five-minute fantasy snooze,” where I convince myself that staying horizontal just a little longer will magically make the day easier. Spoiler alert: it never works.

Once I’ve accepted my fate, I shuffle into the kitchen to start the day with old-school, stovetop coffee. None of this capsule or instant nonsense for me—I grew up in a house where the smell of freshly brewed café con leche was synonymous with life itself. It’s a ritual as close to sacred as it gets. While the moka pot does its magic, I scribble a gratitude list—three things, quick and simple. Today’s list: the blooming bougainvillea outside my window, my favorite turquoise mug, and the heart meme someone sent in last night’s group chat.

Oh, and before you ask, yes, I drink my coffee black, like my mother’s side-eye whenever someone serves tea instead.

Mid-Morning Adventures (Featuring Life's Little Plot Twists)

Around 9:00 a.m., the day takes on a rhythm. I’m a creature of habit, but life has a way of sneaking in surprises, usually in the form of neighborhood dramas. For starters, living in Santiago means I often play referee to the stray cats who take up residence outside my apartment building. This morning, it’s two calicos fighting over a sunny spot near the garbage bins. They remind me of past arguments with ex-boyfriends—equal parts petty and inexplicably passionate.

Then it’s time to write. Here’s the thing about being a writer: people think you’re perched on some aesthetic chaise lounge, sipping kombucha while inspiration strikes like divine intervention. In reality? There’s a lot of pacing, muttering half-formed sentences to myself, and debating whether my characters would text “u up? 👀” or use proper punctuation. (It’s an underrated art form, trust me.)

The Lunch Break That Doubles as a Philosopher’s Hour

Lunch is when I embrace my inner Gabriela Mistral—equal parts poet and pragmatist. Food in my house is an event, even when I’m cooking for one. Today’s menu: leftover arroz con pollo and a side of existential questioning. When did arroz con pollo become my comfort food? Was it the countless Sunday dinners growing up when it was served with loud laughter and louder conversations? Or am I romanticizing chicken and rice because I’ve read too much Neruda? Either way, it hits the spot.

I often sit by my balcony while I eat—half eavesdropping on passing conversations in Spanish, half letting my mind wander. If you’ve ever seen a telenovela, you know the impromptu confessions, family feuds, and declarations of love happen right in the middle of everyday life. Let’s just say my neighborhood doesn’t disappoint in that department.

Afternoon Reset: Romantic or Ridiculous

By 3:00 p.m., my energy dips. This is when I indulge in what I call “romantic procrastination,” which sounds poetic but really means avoiding deadlines. My guilty pleasure? Watching YouTube interviews of people discussing cross-cultural relationships, taking mental notes that somehow always make it into my fiction. The range of expressions when someone says, “I met his family for the first time and realized they kiss on both cheeks even before dessert”—it’s gold.

Other times, I take a detour into my bookshelf, rereading a poem that transports me back to some tender or tortured love story of the past. Neruda remains undefeated at making me nostalgic for things I never actually experienced. Those verses? They’ll heal you and ruin you in equal measure.

The Power Hour: Dancing, Dreaming, and Decisions

At around 5:00 p.m., when most people are starting to wind down, I’m amping up for my favorite part of the day: my solo dance session. Growing up with Nueva Canción music in the background, dancing is second nature to me. On today’s playlist: Violeta Parra’s soulful melodies, followed by something completely different—maybe Rosalía, maybe reggaeton—all depending on the mood.

Pro tip: dancing by yourself isn’t just about movement; it teaches you something invaluable. Confidence isn’t about who’s watching; it grows in the moments when no one is.

Afterward, flushed and smiling, I sit with my notebook. This is my decision-making hour: Should I reply to the text that’s been sitting in my phone since noon? (You know the one—the “long time, no see” text from someone whose timing always feels a little suspect.) Or should I draft an article about how cultural clashes in relationships are both frustrating and wildly fascinating? That's an easy "sí.”

Evening Whimsy: Finding Meaning in the “Meantime”

Dinner, around 8:00 p.m., is overtly simple and modest (think an avocado toast—don’t judge me—paired with something green), but the lead-up is sacred. It’s my “meantime,” the in-between space where I reflect. I light a candle, partially inspired by a habit I picked up in Madrid and partially because it makes chopping onions infinitely more poetic.

Once the meal is plated, I give everything my undivided attention—not my phone, not even a podcast playing in the background. A good meal deserves to be savored, and frankly, I’ve learned the hard way that texting and avocado don’t mix. Yes, avocado in your keyboard is as tragic as it sounds.

Nightfall and Nostalgia

By 10:30 p.m., my Santiago apartment is aglow with soft lighting (yes, the mood-setting is intentional). I slip into the literary version of Netflix bingeing—reading a stack of old love letters as if they’re the last episodes of a hit series. These aren’t mine, by the way. I collect antique letters like others collect vinyl records. There’s something intoxicating about seeing someone else’s heart spilled out on paper.

It’s a reminder that love, in all its messiness and magic, has always been the great equalizer. Whether the letter says, “Meet me under the old oak tree,” or something as simple as, “I can’t wait to see you next spring,” the core of human connection hasn’t changed. And isn’t that the whole point of this journey, from flirtation to familiarity?

The Closing Chapter

As the clock nears midnight, I sink into bed with a notebook and pen beside me—even after an entire day of writing, I never know when the next spark of inspiration might strike. My last ritual is scrolling through my phone, but here’s the twist: I’m not looking for connection, but reconnection. I’ll revisit photos of past trips, moments that transported me from Santiago to Madrid to Buenos Aires.

Falling asleep, I think about the unexpected habits that fill my day—not because they’re extraordinary, but because they aren’t. These tiny rituals—pouring coffee, dancing barefoot, reading someone else’s forgotten love story—are what make me feel most alive. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: meaning doesn't arrive in fireworks or grand gestures. It sneaks in through the quiet moments you build for yourself.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow is just another chapter waiting to be written.