Photo by Zi Ting Tina He

I remember, when I was younger, how you raved about traveling the world. Every trip you ventured on, you brought a piece of it back with you. I can't remember the last time you drank your blackened coffee from a cup. From Marseille, you carried the quirk of drinking it from a bowl: either the crimson ceramic one or the cream-colored clay with a rooster placed proudly on its side. You now only spell color as colour or favorite as favourite. I think that followed you from Edinburgh. Your daily attire of guayaberas and khakis from Cuba. Your passion for PG tips and English '80s bands, as well as your dark humor from London. Your love of Habib Koité from West Africa (you still go to every one of his concerts every time he visits). Your brimmed hats from Sicily even though you insist you discovered them in Cairo. You'd take grapefruits over oranges any day and lemon-lime seltzer to water. Won't drink a coffee if it doesn't have foam. Will never change your hairstyle; you still use the same brand of hair gel you used when you were in your twenties. Prefer your own two strong legs to any other mode of transportation. You're the only man I know who listens to Lana Del Rey daily. You're the only man I know who carries around fancy pens in a leather bag just to be able to write in his journal. You're the only person I want to laugh when I make a stupid joke. There's a shard of the world everywhere in your personality and depth to you even I don't quite understand. It would be impossible for me to admire anyone else.