The Shooting Star

A mi amada | To my love They lived in Vall d’Aran, a valley far, far away.

As luck would have it, I landed up in Prague in the midst of an intense heatwave.

I happened to spend a week in Prague during its peak travel season, and in the midst of an intense heatwave that had gripped much of Europe.

I see myself seated up the steps, on a makeshift stage, under the snow-dusted Dhauladhar range and fluttering prayer flags.

Years ago, my partner and I spent a month travelling in the south of Spain, through the cities and villages of Andalusia, grand in their architecture and soulful in their music.

Nearly 8 years ago, when I published my first book, The Shooting Star, I was pretty sure I would never embark on the long and lonely journey of being an author again.

On a cool Sunday morning, my Rwandan hostess, her son, his bicycle and I piled up in her car, and drove the short distance to Kimihurura, near the Kigali Convention Centre.

I’m sitting at my favorite neighborhood cafe in Berlin as I write this, nibbling on a delicate vegan chocolate crepe cake, sipping soul-warming Hojicha latte, watching the snow drift outside.

On an early autumn morning, I woke up to the sun’s rays streaking through the colorful stained glass windows of my stone and wood room.

I’m thinking of the year gone by sitting by the Red Sea in Egypt, sipping deliciously fresh mango juice, staring at the deep blue hues of the water.

On a breezy afternoon, I sat at a rooftop cafe in Kigali, writing with a glass of regionally-grown iced chocolate.