Dispatch 04: The Someday Syndrome
A 2002 roadster, a 70th birthday, and why we must stop postponing the present.
I have been silent for the past ten days.
Silence, when intentional, is usually a sign that life is happening exactly where it should be: in the physical world, far away from the screen.
For years, I had a road trip across Spain mentally scheduled for a day called "someday." It was a vague idea I kept pushing forward on the calendar. Maybe in May. Maybe when work slows down. Maybe later. But two weeks ago, a sudden realization struck me: my mother, Antonia, was about to spend her 70th birthday alone.
We hoard our time like a currency we believe we can spend indefinitely. We save our grandest gestures for a future that is completely unpromised, forgetting that to the one who gave us life, we owe our presence today, not tomorrow. So, I canceled my trip to the Canary Islands, flew from Zurich to Barcelona, and showed up at her door.
"We hoard our time like a currency we believe we can spend indefinitely, forgetting that to the one who gave us life, we owe our presence today."
I fired up my 2002 BMW Z3, lowered the roof, and we began to drive.
We created our own racing team for the occasion: Escudería A. García. We had custom caps and polos printed. Our slogan was simple: Crossing Spain for the 70th. I was merely the pilot; she was the owner of the team.
What followed was a masterclass in returning to the roots. Driving a pure, analog roadster forces you to be undeniably present. You feel the wind in your hair, you engage with every manual gear shift, you read the texture of the asphalt. It demands your physical attention. I documented our stops through the viewfinder of my Olympus, capturing moments on film that I haven't even developed yet, allowing the memories to marinate in the dark for a little while longer before they meet the light.
Our first major stop was Zaragoza. We sat in the quiet pews of La Pilarica for Mass, not to ask for wealth or success, but simply to ask for health and a safe journey across the peninsula.
From there, we drove to Logroño for a deeply intentional, two-hour private visit at Bodega Contino. Walking through their vineyards and the ancient tunnels built by the Moors, we learned the origin of their name: the continuos were the royal guards who continuously protected the king. We finished with a relaxed tasting, accompanied by jamón and picos. But the story of the continuos stayed with me. It struck me how fiercely we protect our money, our status, and our digital image, yet we leave our most valuable asset—our time—completely unguarded.
We continued to Lerma, sleeping within the heavy, historic stone walls of the Parador and sharing a traditional lechazo for dinner. The road was pulling us South, towards the heart of the country, where the true weight of this journey was waiting for us.
The moral of this first chapter is simple, yet it is the hardest lesson to learn: Tomorrow is a concept, not a guarantee. The experiences we crave, the conversations we need to have, the people we need to hold—they belong to the present tense.
Stop saving your best intentions for "someday." Drive the car. Open the wine. Hug your mother. Do it now.
(To be continued in Dispatch 05).
