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Nothing has changed, yet everything has changed.

The same smell of smoke that defines the city of Caracas still follows me as I walk, or when I roll down the car window. The same neighbors... a new shop here or there, maybe a small detail that’s different—but the same essence. The familiar heat, the constant noise of buses, honking horns, and late-night parties. I’m surprised by the kindness of the people, the warmth in their voices.

This time, my arrival was colored with nostalgia—the joy of seeing my parents after 16 months, mixed with the sadness of finding them weaker and sad. My grandmother, with tears in her eyes, says, "I can’t believe you’re standing here," as she hugs and kisses me. Then she adds, "I wish it were under different circumstances. You look so beautiful, my little princess María Laya.1"

My mom makes her usual arepas, but now there are tears mixed into the recipe. My grandmother shows me photos and cries over the uncertainty of it all. All I can do is hug them and savor the meals they prepare—meals that, despite being seasoned with sadness, carry their unique touch and flavor. We try practicing Slovene; I share stories about what I’ve learned and seen, and for some moments, we transport ourselves to another reality.

I hear the sound of gaitas2 playing from the pharmacy speakers, and I feel like dancing to the rhythm of the music. A small smile forms on my face as I glance at my mom. Have I grown? Why do we seem to get smaller as we age?

At the gas station, the attendant chats about the heat and the beach, he tried to flatter me with a nice compliment (something very common in our culture and not always very nice) but he managed to make me smile.

We open the store that fed me throughout my childhood. The feeling is strange—this store has given so much and received so little in return.

Whenever I can, I step out into the sun. El Ávila is breathtaking. I wake up early, full of energy thanks to the jet lag. I feel a bit nervous about going to Sabas Nieves alone so early, but I get dressed with determination and go anyway. I drive through the streets I know so well—have there always been this many mango trees? The green vegetation, so tropical, almost like a jungle. People greet me as I pass, men stare at me and make comments. Hmm... I reflect on why they are like this... what made them this way?

I shower in my old bathroom and can’t help but smile at the same old frustration with how inconveniently the water flows.

Once again, I’m reminded of something I learned during my two years as a nomad: it’s not so much about where you are—it’s about the people who make a place special. I’m in the city where I was born and raised—a city that taught me so much and that I chose to love despite all its hardships. Today, being here feels strange, a mix of emotions, a new chapter in our story. My little Venice, living yet another adventure with me.

On another note... We are thrilled with the reception of the Woodfire candle. Of our three candles, this one has gone through the most testing and development. The number of wicks, the type of wicks, the amount and proportion of wax in relation to the container, and the blend of fragrances that complement and enhance the natural scent of beeswax—all of it was a long and faith-filled process.

Many of these newsletters were written in the early hours of the morning, while it was still dark outside, with the sound of crackling wood in the background and the subtle scent of pine or the sweetness of vanilla reminding me it’s too early for coffee but just the right time for tea.

Thank you for trusting us!

Rosa | CocoBee