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    THE UNEXPECTED

Sundays usually follow a predictable rhythm: a long run at dawn, coffee, brunch, and then lunch with my family , where, without fail, someone complains about terrible service. And nine times out of ten, that someone is me. I’ve earned the reputation. If there’s a missing detail, a forgotten order, a waiter with selective hearing , I’ll catch it. My family doesn’t even ask anymore; they just glance at me and say, “Alright, Gerardo… ¿ qué te hicieron ahora ?” But last Sunday th

I never understood the obsession with trekking poles.You know the type — people decked out like they’re racing UTMB when they’re really just hiking up the local hill. It felt excessive, even pretentious. The same way someone running 6 min/km in carbon-plated shoes feels a bit too eager for speed. Then one morning at Cerro de la M, my friend Memo — yes, the same Memo who’s always convincing me to do things I swore I wouldn’t — insisted I give them a try. I resisted, obviously