I’m back home in San Francisco after being gone for two weeks. The apartment feels familiar, yet slightly different. There are papers pen-marked with the African word “Ubuntu” strewn on the table, photos strung and taped up on the wall, a bouquet of dried flowers hanging upside down bat-style from the curtain’s drawstring. While I’ve been away, life has continued here. Laughter has continued to echo through the halls. Memories have continued to be etched into reality.
For the first two weeks of August, I experimented with living in a self-created village in Antigua, Guatemala. At our peak, we had 23 friends—some new, some old—living within a 5-minute walk of each other, an experience I haven’t had since college.
While I was in school, I often heard alumni talk about missing college. I used to think they nostalgized over the freedom of not having “real” responsibilities like paying rent or contributing to a 401K. Then I graduated, began to miss college, and realized that while freedom is part of the nostalgia, the bigger piece is the proximity to your friends. Your lives were intimately tangled in the best way possible. You could grab dinner at the dining hall without weeks of planning, pop into someone’s room between classes, or bump into someone while walking across campus. You didn’t catch up on life — you lived life.
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When I moved to New York after college, I felt this shift immediately. Seeing friends required as much coordination and calendar management as I’d done when cosplaying as an executive assistant for my associates and VPs. I’d go days without meaningful contact with anyone apart from my roommate and coworkers — in my line of work, this didn’t account for much meaning at all. While my banking hours contributed to this shift, it felt more like the price of admission of being an adult: you trade in time freedom for financial freedom.
At best, I’d see friends every other week or so. With many, the gap stretched even longer. When we did hang out, it felt like all we did was catch up. We’d spend a couple of hours excavating the life that had happened in between, and by the time we hugged and said goodbye, we’d barely arrived at the present.
Time and energy constraints elevate the importance of proximity in your friendships. Something happens energy-wise (at least to me) when you graduate from college — maybe it’s just reality settling in after living in a bubble. It surprised me how tired I felt at the end of a day spent sitting in a chair and looking at a screen. A 30-minute subway ride at 7 PM feels much different than a 5-minute walk. One feels frictionful and requires planning, the other feels easeful and allows for spontaneity.
Consciously or not, we all want to recreate this ease and spontaneity. It just doesn’t feel possible because we have no models that it can be done while balancing the realities of adulthood. I didn’t either until I lived in Fractal last summer, or until I went to Mexico City for the first iteration of the Village. After getting a taste, I know it’s possible, and I want to show others it is too.
In Guatemala, we optimized for proximity. We had three Airbnbs in the same compound, with the main house being a 5-minute walk away. This setup gave way to days like this:
After waking up, I’d head downstairs. I have a little bit of time for myself to read or journal before the other early birds roost awake and join me. Some days we chat, other days we go for a morning walk, or sit in silence. Sandra, a lovely Antigua local, stops by and makes a big breakfast consisting of eggs, beans, bread, plantains, and fresh-bought fruit for the eight people living in the main house. Most days, an assortment of villagers from the other houses join as well. Like in the dining halls of college, a long table facilitates multiple conversations happening simultaneously between bites of food. Long after plates are cleared, conversation continues, sometimes leading into a group meditation before whatever wants to happen next happens. It might be a jaunt into town for a grocery run or workout, followed by lunch or exploring. Much like in college, something is always happening, and people opt in whenever they want to. The opportunity for connection is present moment by moment.
Imagine that every day for a couple of weeks. Imagine that every day for a lifetime. How beautiful would your life be?
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O shared this quote by Rich Bartlett in the Village group chat, which has stuck with me since I got back.
Every day, I got to see how my or someone else’s presence mattered—making someone spit water laughing, organizing a group meal, or being the one quietly slipping away to run errands like getting quetzales or groceries. These “little” things matter, not just in making the experience of more enjoyable and easeful, but by giving you insight into who someone is.
Some time ago, I came up with the phrase “normalcy leads to intimacy." It's what I witnessed in Antigua: intimacy isn't built solely through grand gestures or deep conversations, but through the accumulated weight of ordinary moments. When living life with someone, you see them in more contexts than you would during a typical hangout. You see how they move through their morning routine, how they handle small frustrations, what happens when their social battery depletes. You witness their little “isms” like how they stroke their mustache while thinking intently, fill a room with their cackling laugh, or rip out a Jamaican accent you had no idea existed in their arsenal. Each reveals a different facet of their presence. Who someone "is" is just your experience of them—string together enough snapshots, and you start to get a felt sense of their particular way of being human that is unlike any other in the Universe. They’re happening right here, right now. Not in a past story or future fantasy, just this.
This is what I want. I want to live my life with people — these people. I want to live intimately. I want to celebrate and grieve with them. I want to raise families with them. I want to see and be seen. Nothing is as important to me.
Since returning, we're learning what it means to bring the energy of the Village back to regular life. Twice now, K has messaged saying he's at a nearby cafe, and I've walked five minutes (or less) to join him. The first time, I came straight after showering, my hair still wet—the kind of spontaneous, low-friction connection that felt impossible in my New York days.
Experiments like the Village give people a taste of how good something can be. The challenge, I'm learning, isn't just creating these experiences—it's integrating the lessons into the rhythms of regular life. Hopefully, it's enough of a taste to turn into an appetite, an appetite into a lifestyle, a way of being.
Jack Johnson said it best.
Love is the answer, at least for most of the questions in my heart.
It's always better when we're together.