Everything is a portal

A place for princesses and frogs.

Jan 22, 2026

I just want to talk to you. Live! truly live right now from the desk. My phone says it feels like 14 degrees. Daily highs are well below freezing for the foreseeable future. Its absurd and I’m scared. The holidays were delicious, I spent three full weeks outside of the city in a Miami sandwich with family trip to Portugal and Spain in between. I feel so lucky all the time.

Going home is always a shock to my senses. The humidity hits the moment you touch down, it squeezes through the cracks connecting the plane to the jetway, making you want to strip immediately. Everywhere you look are women in skin-tight workout sets with big sunglasses and bigger asses, both natural and man-made. We crowd together at the entrance of my favorite nail salon with the $20 mani-pedis that actually last. They say they’re fully booked but always find a way to seat us for Miami’s beauty agenda of perfect nails and hair no matter what. I go Big Apple Red but opt out of getting a blowout. The nail lady calls me ‘mi niña’ and pops and disinfects a blood blister for me. My mom drives me home and I sit in the passenger seat with my mouth agape. Nature’s greatest all around me, the blue and the green. Not a cloud in the sky, palm trees swaying, booty shorts and flip flops in December.

On Christmas Eve we fly to Portugal and I start reading Lolita on the plane. We road trip all around the country, from Porto to Nazaré to Cascais and Lisbon. It’s my second time in Nazaré where the world’s biggest wave forms and daredevil surfers leave their fate up to their skills and god. Mostly god. For the second time I see little to no waves. A glistening pool safe for kids. It’s beautiful but it’s not what I want. We stand on the cliff where the famous swell dwarfs the lighthouse in every photo and documentary and I think of how it must sound, the crash of a hundred foot wave. The craving is stronger than ever now, I need to hear, see, feel it myself.

Cascais is a maze of cobblestone and quaint houses. I take photos of every colorful door, laundry hanging out of windows, a pile of pungent fish at the market. My mom asks why I take photos of such ugly things. I shrug and post to my story. We all stick our noses up at the historic center full of neon lights, Irish pubs, burger joints, restaurants with men standing outside begging you to eat there. I sip on a cappuccino at the devil’s mouth, marvel at the sunset and the self-cleaning public toilets. Some rocks and some views are tailor-made for romance. My sister and I sigh at the abyss. Whatever.

On New Years Day its raining in Lisbon and it’s all slippery and sad. After a second round of pastries at a Danish cafe we decide to go to Sintra right then and there. Uber to the train station and hop on within minutes. My dad proves he has no shame and will dance anywhere for our entertainment. Bless him. On the walk from the station into town, we’re all high off our spontaneity, eager as ever to make the most of the two or so hours of remaining daylight. Very, very quickly, I realize I am in a magical place. Misty, grey, and mysterious. Pine trees and cacti sit together like its normal, the sidewalk is lined with marble statues, weird ones that feel like Timmy Turner could have wished them to life. Everything is a portal. A place for princesses and frogs. Guillermo del Toro would love this. We stumble upon a castle covered in moss, topped with gothic spires and statues of animals, including a bunny. I wear a face of awe in every photo. The beauty makes me cry of happiness. I think its the best day of my life.

More rain in Spain. We’re very loose with our itineraries so we decide to slow down and spend the night at a hotel. I take part in my first sound bath and fight off bad thought just enough to reach bliss mode. The Scandinavians have their dicks and tits out in the sauna and steam room. I lament the fact that Americans are so scandalized by bodies. Boring. The sky clears finally and we spend our last days shopping and eating an endless parade of tapas. I finish Lolita on the way back and it makes me cry. A sentence about love is still a sentence about love. I forget the messenger and the subject for a moment.

I’ve been back for just over a week and everything is moving fast in typical New York fashion. I keep saying yes and my days fill up again and again. A productive obligation must be balanced out by a silly one and the rest is stuffed in like all of the letters I refuse to pull out of my mailbox. Boredom is a blessing when it comes.

Like everyone else, I was going to do a 2025 roundup of sorts but I vacationed too hard and decided to spare you all from another jumble of content recommendations and I grew this year reflections you’ve heard a million times. What it really was going to be was a self-indulgent vessel (like this one) for two excerpts from my google docs diary that I wanted to share which was this funny feeling on October 28:

I feel sick I feel sick I feel sick like I could hurl everywhere. Into the outlets so everyone has to stop working and go home. Onto the servers so the work crashes crumbles like the cake that was delivered here today and said happy 45th instead of 40th. I’m going to be sick . I read the gooner piece on harpers with/after my lunch and it disgusted me to no end. They are the ones who use porn gifs like [REDACTED]. I feel sick. Thwarted. Enraged and disgusted. I can’t look at the table full of greens and steak and cheese that’s been out on the counter since 10AM. I picture it rotting grotesque and covered in flies. Magpies picking at the eggplants. Worms crawling through the arugula. Ewwwww. I missed my chance to get out of here and I really really want to go. Want to run down the stairway in desperate big steps and open the door to a meadow. That’s what I want. Relief relief relief. Feel my body tensing nerve endings going this way and that. Brain tingling on the back right side. Keep getting the feeling to eat like it will heal me and make the quease go away. I would like to go very very far and run so fast that I smell like fresh air when I’m through. I don’t like this feeling. Fifty more minutes. I keep picking at my skin and it always makes a scar. I know I shouldn’t. Dignity keeps me from doing things I would like to do. Smarter not to.

and this (poem?) on November 10:

Two men have confessed their love for me in a week. Lol.

One did not leave a dent

the poor thing- I felt nothing

it was all a performance,

the glances he thought were loaded were

Nothing but a decision

To be an animal and a temptress

The other made me a crater

A pancake

Physical and chemical change

suppose there is no going back