Bigotes Verdes (Green Moustaches)!

Now, I am the one asking myself: who am I? What are we in this life? For now, I will only say that life is an adventure in which there are accidents and illnesses, laughter and tears, and relationships that come and go, and that being in Montreal is very different without Bigotes Verdes.
Coming back to Belén, another curious character and my friend in town, we met by chance because I didn't know what I wanted and Belén was determined not to get attached to any Spaniards because she had seen them all come and go without settling down. She longed to return to Spain, but she couldn't and was emotionally torn, unable to find anything but a partial solution. Who knows why, despite all the barriers, that we sought each other out, talked a lot and became inseparable yet separated.
Belén has also been living with cancer for six years. She never told me, but one summer, when I surprised her with a visit, I found her in bed, watching Christmas films. She was herself and someone else at the same time. Belén knew what it was like to live with cancer; of course she wanted to see me, and of course I wanted to see her. The route had to start in Montreal.
But Montreal was connected to New Brunswick, the province through which I entered the country, just as Maine was the first place I set foot in North America. These three territories gave me refuge when I needed to go into exile. But that's another story from my adventurous life. Maine, New Brunswick and Montreal have been like second homes to me, and I put down roots there with a new adoptive family — that's different from friendship. I don't know if I can explain why, but that's how we all felt. There was never any doubt about where or how we would celebrate Christmas, Thanksgiving or birthdays, or who would visit me in hospital after I was involved in a car crash. Not only were my friends with me there, but also my extended family. Rania always called me her sister. Connie was always the aunt although I only call her that quietly because she doesn't want to look old. Jackie and Mark were Bigotes Verdes proud grandparents and had a large photo of him in the center of the living room above their TV.

Aunt Connie, …, in the little border town… For some reason she came because she needed to understand what I was doing there or why she was there. We both had the same question: two cosmopolitan women from beautiful Mexico and Barcelona in a little border town in the conservative Canadian maritime province buried in snow?
Connie and I crossed the border weekly, if not daily. For us, it meant broadening our horizons and feeling that we could come and go as we pleased, without thinking about how far away our other homes and selves were, so as not to feel homesick. We found fun in the white snow, in building snowmen and making snow angels.
We talked endlessly, sometimes for hours on end. Sometimes that silly talk turned into laughter. At other times, it turned into existential questions or tears. We were always together. Connie protected me, and I gave her advice and answered her frequent questions. 'Hey, why is that...? Why did that happen? What are we doing here?'
I left Saint Stephen to move to Montreal, and Connie continued to look after me as though I were her own niece. Her calls would always start with: 'What have you been up to? What have you been eating? How did it go?' And I would give her the same answer: 'Oh, Auntie!' From that silly question would ensue a long conversation, a journey through various responses to life's challenges, and a warm farewell accompanied by the words, ‘I love you very much.’
We saw each other again when her husband and companion in the snow, Ron, died. During my illness, she was affectionate from her home on the border. I promised to visit her — because I never stopped flying — and she would say, 'Don't get my hopes up, Sara.' I had to hug Connie, too — boy, did I hug her! What do you think, Connie? (At least, what was left of her, since we both know how to smell each other very well).

I still need to talk about the grandpas, Jackie and Mark. But first, Jackie. Wow, what a woman! She has a cosmopolitan mindset despite living in a tiny, rural, conservative town in Maine, and she has a wonderful ability to understand and a desire to learn. She was afraid to fly and didn't consider getting a passport. She was one of the many people who arrived there, probably fleeing violence and hoping to cross the border. While they were in Orland, however, she offered them chicken noodle soup, which became chicken soup for the soul because of the compassion she naturally showed others. She used to wear T-shirts that said: 'I love children', 'I love teenagers', or 'I love people'... She was like this: a transparent soul. She knew how to set boundaries while remaining sweet.
Jackie was diagnosed with cancer three months after I received the same diagnosis. While I was recovering in hospital, she was convalescing. In two months, she left us young and full of vitality. Why is lifelike this, Connie?
Mark, who had always known how to live beside such a personality, suddenly ceased to be part of the duo. Bigotes Verdes’ grandfather was another kind soul who knew how to give and receive a lot of love from his position in the background. Mark needed another hug, although male hugs sometimes scare me. However, my encounter with Mark was indescribably intense, surrounded by Jackie's aura and with unique depth. Mark told me, "How nice it is to receive a hug from you, my friend."
I had doubts about pursuing my dream. Could I afford the trip? Would I find a large suitcase to fill with “hugs” and “tickles”? Who would take care of my cat, Golden? Would I be able to withstand the hardships of the journey and my own emotions?
How could I continue to be myself? Didn't I want to dream? Didn't I want to fly? Didn't I want to be free? I found a huge red suitcase on the street, bought a ticket, and set off. Then I found again in the street a pair of sneakers and hired a cat sitter. You might say this doesn't happen, but I also found a backpack containing a canteen full of water. I said to myself, 'Sara, there's no turning back now... Walk and pursue your dream, your self.”
'How nice it is to receive a hug from you, my friend.'
The reunion with Mark, Connie, Belén, Rania, Carolyn, Roxane, Rosa, Lilia, Emily, Alexandra, Charles, Elisse, Femke, Jerelyn, Jenny, Walter, Peter and Rachel, as well as meeting new friends like Petit-Chat, has been like a tender embrace of life.
The red suitcase, which was a little cracked, survived both the outbound and return journeys. I filled it with hugs and tickles. Now my friends in exile have an "abracitos" and a "cosquillitas" and something of mine. Together, we have cried because we feel the beauty of life and the love that unites us.

Belén has promised to visit me, Mark says that one day I will be surprised opening the door of my far-away home to him, and Connie dreams of going to Istanbul with me.
In Montreal, I was invited to share my story with the Spanish-speaking support group “Juntos en el Camino” (Together on the Journey), who are recovering from cancer at the Hope and Cope organization. At that moment, we all felt understood, and we realized that tenderness is a language of the soul that sustains hope and perhaps even recovery. Cancer makes us sensitive and connects us, reminding us that humans are capable of understanding and acceptance. Only by feeling together and belonging can we continue on the path.
In Saint Stephen, I shared my experience again with a small group of people living with the disease. This moment challenges us due to the vulnerability it exposes. I was able to reveal the depths of my thoughts because to inspire hope, we must show our true selves, free from cultural and social constraints. The experience was repeated: compassion is felt, making it easier to embrace the person next to you.
I have the best friends that life can offer. I thank them all for walking alongside me and sharing my life. They are all in my heart. Cancer has taught me to trust my instincts. I want to shout from the rooftops that love is the essence of humanity and that I am alive thanks to the loving energy shared with me.
I have returned home, but I already want to fly again. I also love the solitude of my retreat, spending time alone with my thoughts, reflecting and writing. But the prospect of something new, of discovering another place, of seeing another perspective, of finding other points of view, of experiencing other cultures, seduces me. I close my eyes and imagine the smell of guavas and the green moustache of a mischievous child who laughs and dreams that he lives on the roof with a sack containing something for everyone. That is flying, and it has no limits.
Have I come back different? I don't usually know how to answer my own questions, and I don't know what Bigotes Verdes would say either. But what would you say, since you've been following my journey? Perhaps I can answer with more questions: Did I have to come back as a different person? Is it possible to return if I am different? What does travelling mean? Is it to close my eyes and fins myself? To close my eyes and find myself.
A hug and lots of tickles.
Sara, with love.