Unexpected Puebla: A Journey Through Memory and Meaning
Time has a way of sneaking up on you. Not in the gentle way they write about in books, but in emails that stop your heart, messages that make you pull over your bike and stare at your phone until the words start making sense.
That's how I learned about Dario Parra. The news came from his daughter Paola - the same girl I remembered as a bubbly ten-year-old running around during asados in Columbus, Indiana. Back then, Dario was the one who made America feel less foreign to another lost Argentine, filling nights with wine, folklore, and the smoke of grilling meat. He'd passed in 2022, and somewhere in the years we'd lost touch, I learned he'd become an adventure rider too - another thread connecting us across time I never knew was there.
Rolling into their Puebla neighborhood felt surreal - all modern angles and geometric precision. When Paola crossed the street, decades collapsed. Thank god for the ritual of dismounting a BMW R1200GSA - it gave me time to compose myself behind my visor.
Inside, generations of stories unfolded. There was Marien, Paola's daughter, showing me art that cut through pretense - tablet compositions that didn't just observe the world but challenged it. Then Luz Marina - Luzma - walked in, her warmth unchanged by time, her wit sharp enough to cut through any lingering sadness.
That night, over Argentine Cabernet and stories that bridged past and present, it felt like coming home. Even the empty chair at the table had its own presence.
Ramon, Merien, Paola, Luzma, y yo.
Puebla revealed itself slowly the next day, guided by Paola and Luzma through the old town. This UNESCO World Heritage site earned its title - colonial facades telling centuries of stories, streets breathing history. But it was the sweet shops that stole the show - every other doorway offering camotes, tortitas de Santa Clara, dulce de leche that tasted like memories.
At La Oriental, I discovered what happens when Lebanese traditions meet Mexican innovation. Their tacos árabes aren't just food - they're cultural fusion perfected over generations. The chef shared his secret for the melted gouda tortilla technique, a gift I'll carry back to LA like smuggled treasure.
Later, I cooked for them - Lemon Chicken Scarpariello, my way of saying the things words couldn't capture. They introduced me to mezcal with orange slices and sal de gusano de maguey, teaching me to appreciate each smoky sip.
Morning came, and with it, the real purpose of this journey emerged. At Instituto Alfred Binet, presenting the Hera Rising Mission twice to rooms full of bright young minds, I saw the future taking shape. These kids, with their sharp questions and sharper dreams, reminded me why this ride matters.
On the road to Tehuacán, I couldn't shake the feeling that Dario was riding alongside me. Another Argentine in spirit who found his way far from home, who understood what it meant to chase horizons. Some ghosts don't haunt us - they guide us AND remind us why we started these journeys in the first place.
MI amigo Dario Parra.
When we ride united, we rise united. Even when some of us now ride only in memory.
Want to help build a future where dreams know no bounds? Support the Hera Rising Mission above. Because sometimes the stars feel closer when we reach for them together.
