CANTO DA CEREJA

Lo vivido no se olvida. Tampoco hace falta. Hay cosas que se recuerdan con una sonrisa, otras con cierta nostalgia y algunas que, sinceramente, habría preferido no vivir. Pero todas dejaron algo. Lo bueno me dio alas. Lo malo me enseñó a elegir mejor dónde aterrizar. Durante mucho tiempo pensé que ser fuerte significaba aguantar. Dar otra oportunidad. Intentar comprender. Perdonar una vez más. Encontrar explicaciones para comportamientos que, en el fondo, no necesitaban ninguna explicación. Hoy pienso diferente. No todo merece una segunda oportunidad. No todo merece una respuesta. Y, definitivamente, no todo el mundo merece un asiento permanente en mi vida. Tengo cicatrices, sí. Pero también tengo algo que antes no tenía: claridad. La claridad de saber quién soy. De reconocer lo que quiero cerca de mí. Y, sobre todo, de saber perfectamente lo que ya no quiero. He aprendido que la paz no consiste en que todo sea perfecto. Consiste en dejar de permitir que lo que no puedes controlar cont...

  I've been deleting things lately. Old words. Old thoughts. Old versions of stories I no longer feel like keeping. Not because they weren't true when I wrote them. They were. But something being part of your history doesn't automatically earn it a permanent exhibition. Some things deserve an archive. Some deserve a footnote. And some, quite frankly, deserve Delete. There is something wonderfully satisfying about deciding that a chapter no longer needs shelf space. No ceremony. No explanation. In the dramatic rewriting of history. It happened. I wrote about it. I lived through it. And now I'd rather use the space for something better. That might be one of the underrated pleasures of getting older. You realize that closure doesn't always require one final conversation. Sometimes closure is simply deciding: I've given this enough fucking paragraphs. Delete. Empty trash. Carry on. And somewhere in the process, you discover something rather ...

Apparently, at sixty, I'm supposed to calm down. Dress sensibly. Choose sensible shoes. Wear sensitive colors. And generally become a slightly quieter version of myself. That sounds exhausting. So I went to New York Fashion Week instead. Because if there's one place where nobody asks you to tone it down, behave yourself or dress your age, it's New York. Fuchsia. Ridiculous sunglasses. Trainers instead of heels. Coffee in one hand and absolutely no intention of becoming invisible. Perfect. I've never understood the expression “act your age.” Which part of sixty am I supposed to act? The part that has survived enough bullshit to stop caring what people think? The part that finally knows what she likes? Or the part that has enough shoes to know that sensitive ones are wildly overrated? Age doesn't make you boring. Giving up does. And I have absolutely no plans for that. So if you're looking for me, I'll be the sixty-year-old woman in fuchs...

Tokyo is a contradiction I could happily live with. Silent where you expect noise. Completely mad where you expect order. Neon, temples, immaculate streets, tiny details, enormous crowds — and fashion that seems to have absolutely no interest in asking anyone's permission. Which, obviously, I approve of. And then there was Onitsuka Tiger . Now that requires serious cultural research. By cultural research, I mean shoes. Because you cannot go to Japan — certainly not my Japan — and ignore Onitsuka. There is something wonderfully Japanese about the story of the brand: starting with performance, experimenting, solving problems for athletes, and eventually producing trainers that became fashion icons around the world. And then came Mexico '66. Yellow. Black stripes. Uma Thurman made that combination impossible to forget. I didn't need them. This has never been a relevant criterion when buying shoes. The Tokyo stores are another experience altogether: tourists, walls of trainer...