It’s Saturday, 7:30 a.m., and my phone alarm won’t stop screaming that it’s time, that the day began long ago, and that the sun is covering the world—scorching in some places, shy in others before the inert cold of the earth. With lethargy, I grab it and hit stop. Please, just five more minutes, I think, while I feel my eyelids heavy, because sleeping only four hours is not enough, not even for eyes eager to explore the world.

A fleeting thought crosses my mind: Bogotá—cold and perhaps rainy. But immediately my consciousness lashes at my heart—No! We are not in Colombia. Yes, there is cold, but not with the fragrance of homeland. I turn over as I embrace my soul with beautiful memories:

“It would be great to just wear my favorite t-shirt under a light jacket, jeans, and my mid-calf boots, head out into the noisy city in search of a bicitaxi to take me to the main avenue, and soon arrive at my mother’s apartment to enjoy a good chat and a cup of tinto with bread—or better yet, with an empanada.”

And back to reality: I am on the other side of the continent, and alongside nostalgia comes the urge to seize the world with both hands. In my mind, my mother’s words echo: “When in a foreign land, do as you must.” Yes, here I am learning, for I am in a different country where every sunrise, with below-zero temperatures (at least for the next three months), hurls challenges at me dressed as sacrifices in a language I barely understand—and speaking it, unthinkable. How I wish there were a magic pill to master English as fast as I blink! But neither pill nor speed exists—my poor ear collapses along with my stomach every time someone interacts with me, and all I can do is pray not to mess things up (as we say in Colombia). With timidity, I throw myself into mumbling my answers with my unmistakable Bogotan accent. “Think in English,” they tell me, and desperately I search through my limited vocabulary for a simple good morning… how are you.

At last, I gather the courage and get up, heading straight to the kitchen to prepare my coffee—indispensable, of course—without bread, much less empanada, but with the novelty of seeing snow for the very first time. Outside, everything is covered in white. The streets look different, as if I were in a movie scene. The snow falls pure and unhurried, while I dress my daughter in her winter gear to go out and play, and for the first time bring to life a snowman—the one from cartoons and TV, with a carrot nose and shapeless sticks standing in for arms.

Well, I’ve already caressed my soul with the aroma of my Colombian coffee, and I am ready to go out, to live and breathe the freezing cold of my dream come true. For now, I cling to the good memories, taste a little bit of winter, and treasure in my heart the warmth of those I left behind when I flew away with hope on pause and the uncertainty of what will be, how it will be, and until when it will be…

What does nostalgia taste like? Fly far from home and you will find out.