Before I started this newsletter, I always sat in the same spot: at the back, where four seats are arranged as if they were waiting for a little table in the middle. But once I started writing it, I chose to sit behind the driver. I needed more privacy —and better views too.

But, as a good horticulturist friend of mine says: roots pull. And coming back from vacation, on autopilot, I found myself stepping onto the bus through the middle door and sitting in the same old place. Until today, when I finally noticed.

Roots pull. And how right he is.

I started my career in Torelló. From there I jumped to Vic, and from Vic, straight to New York. What got me there was a feeling as common as it is contradictory: I felt like the queen of the world and, at the same time, the most insignificant person on the planet. I had to come back against my will. No sponsor wanted to cover the cost of the visa, and there I was: with a plane ticket, a box of sleeping pills, a paper cub of wine in my hand, two hundred euros in my account, and a sign on my forehead that said: Failure.

I had left with just over a thousand euros. They paid me fifteen dollars a day for full-time work at what, for me, was the best studio in the world: RoAndCo. I could afford one subway ride; the other, not so much (and yes, getting caught can cost you). I ate once a day. Slept on friends’ couches —who, surprise, were never American. And when I returned to Barcelona, Olga Capdevila took me in and lent me money. Blessed friendship.

From here I could pull on a lot of threads: effort, the economic pressure that so many people face as they step into working life, the boldness of your mid-twenties, crossing the ocean with barely enough money to survive, only to end up in a studio playing the exact same music they play in small-town offices. But today I came to talk about roots. And how they pull. So let’s go.

When you’re from a small town, you grow up thinking the important stuff only happens in the big city. That if you don’t have a studio in the coolest neighborhood, like that girl you follow on Instagram —the one with the takeaway coffee, the sunglasses, the latest sneakers, and the phone in her hand saying: “I can’t talk right now, I’m sliding through life with too much on my plate, mind if I call you tomorrow?”— then you’re NOBODY.

But here’s the spoiler: the mirror only reflects if you look into it.

Wait. The bus isn’t moving. What’s going on? I look up and see the driver waving at me from the front. We’re alone —him on one end, me on the other. I take out my earbuds and say:

—Sorry?
—Where are you going?
—Isn’t this the H6?
—This is the D40. Where are you headed?
—Oh no, I’m so sorry, I was on my phone, listening to music… I didn’t even realize.
—Don’t worry. Look, if you walk over to that café, you’ll find a stop where the H6 passes.
—Thank you.

And now I’m wondering: should I include this in the text? Or would it make it too trivial? Should I save the anecdote for another day when it feels more conceptually relevant?

Never mind. I’ll leave it here. The important thing is getting there —even if it’s not exactly your stop, or even if you arrive a little late.

Hugs from the H6,
Ingrid