There’s a particular kind of joy that arrives as a happy surprise.

It comes as a message you weren’t expecting, a familiar name lighting up your screen, a simple “I was thinking of you.” No occasion, no agenda, just presence reaching across distance. These small, intentional gestures carry something profound within them. They remind us that we live in someone else’s thoughts, held, however lightly, in another person’s inner world. They are gifts life bestows upon us, one of the purest forms of serendipity.

One of life’s purest forms of happiness.

Human connection, whether it looks like friendship, family, or a community we have chosen, is what makes life feel rich and meaningful. It has a way of making our hearts feel full. It softens the hard days, brightens the good ones, gives meaning to the ordinary, and reminds us that we’re not moving through this life alone. I can’t think of anything more important, or more fulfilling, than being connected to people you love, and who genuinely love you back.

I’m always so pleasantly surprised when I get an email or a text out of the blue from someone in my circle, my community. I also want to be the kind of person who makes the effort to reconnect with someone I haven’t spoken to in a while. It’s deeply rewarding to contribute to someone’s happiness, even in a tiny way. Those little gestures are often the beginning of new stories, new chapters, new happy chances.

This is also where serendipity loves to live, and is why I write The Art of Serendipity.

So many of the happy chances in our lives begin with a simple act of connection: a message sent at just the right moment, bumping into someone because you decided to step outside. What looks like coincidence from afar is often, up close, the beautiful intersection of our intention with life’s unpredictability.

Perhaps this is why I’m always so moved by the unexpected message, and why I try, in my own way, to be that message for someone else.

While love can be given freely, connection can’t exist in only one direction.

We need true, caring, loving friendship from everyone in our lives, not only with friends, but with partners, parents, children, siblings. A healthy, loving friendship is vital in every relationship, no matter the blood ties or titles.

We sometimes forget that we, too, need to be good and kind friends to the people in our lives: to our parents, our kids, our siblings, our partners, our friends. To be in each other’s lives is not enough; we must also be good to one another within them. Attentive. Kind. Present.

And yet, connection is not defined by titles, but by actions. At the heart of every meaningful relationship lies something simple, yet essential: friendship.

Relatives are not always synonymous with belonging. What matters isn’t the title someone holds in your life, or whether they share your DNA, but how they actually show up. It’s in the listening, the consistency, their remembering of you, their inclusion, the small acts of care. It’s in the effort to stand by you, not only in the happy occasions but also in the hard or heartbreaking ones.

Over time, it becomes very clear who is part of your true circle, not by words, but by presence. I’ve learned to gently redirect my energy toward those who show up, those who choose connection in their own way.

I’ve come to believe it’s important to give our time and energy primarily to those who also make some effort in return. I have relatives I never hear from, who don’t try to be present in my life, even when I’ve tried to be present in theirs. It feels like a one-way street. I’ve learned to take that for what it is, not with bitterness, but with clarity and grace, and to refocus my love and attention on the people who genuinely show up, whether they share my DNA or not.

It’s the shared effort that forms the fabric of a true community, the beautiful human web that holds us through everything, where we can feel loved, supported, seen, and heard.

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Waking up in Tuscany that first morning felt like stepping into heaven while carrying a quiet, unshakable sadness inside. I sobbed.

We had just arrived from California, three flights and a long drive. It should have felt like a joyful arrival. Instead, I found myself completely coming apart.

We surrendered to some much needed sleep deep in the heart of Chianti, in a farmhouse perched on a quintessentially Tuscan hill, wrapped in vineyards, olive groves, and cypress trees. At 3:00 a.m., I gave in to my restless wakefulness, and Mike lovingly updated me on current events, which I had been intentionally avoiding.

We live in a strange time, where so much power and money is handed to craven, selfish, cruel, and sociopathic narcissists across the board.

This is where the temptation comes in: to freeze, to wait, to say, I will live fully when this is over, when the world makes sense again, when things feel safe and sane and fair.

I try, as you probably know by now, to keep a deliberate distance from the constant churn of political noise and global turmoil. Not because I do not care, but because I care so much. Distance, for me, is a form of preservation. Still, every so often, I open the door and let reality settle in. That morning, it rushed in all at once.

It was not graceful. It was messy, heartbreaking grief. I cried, not the contained, quiet kind, but the kind that rises from somewhere deep beneath mindful thought, a flood of anger, disbelief, and chest aching sorrow for what is being broken. Not only in one country, but in the fragile threads that have always connected humanity across borders, cultures, and oceans as one human race. In that moment, it felt almost impossible to reconcile the beauty outside my window with the ugliness unfolding elsewhere.

And yet, this is exactly the paradox we are all living inside right now.

In those hours before dawn, I felt profound grief for our country, for the people already harmed, for our friends in Europe listening to careless, incendiary words directed at their home and their lives. Grief for the constant erosion of trust, truth, and basic decency.

The injustice, the lies, the violence, and the deliberate tearing down of international friendships all felt too overwhelming, too heavy, too relentless to withstand.

The first hint of light began to stretch over the Chianti hills. By the time the sky shifted from darkness to a soft pink, I had cried myself empty.

When the tears finally ran their course, I wiped my face, turned toward the faint sunlight beginning to seep through the window, and watched the Tuscan hills slowly reveal themselves in the early light. Vineyards, cypress trees, olive groves, all of it emerging from the darkness as if nothing in the world were wrong.

In that moment, the contrast was almost unbearable: unspeakable cruelty on one side of the world and here, on the other side, absolute stillness and beauty.

I talk about this often because I need the reminder as much as anyone. Life does not pause for us. It does not hold our days in storage for later, waiting for the wars to end, inflation to settle, the narcissists to lose their power, and humanity to collectively behave.

We do not get those mornings back, the ones filled with mist and soft pink sunrises, when neighbors are clanking espresso cups in their kitchens and the bakers are sliding the first loaves into the oven.

What I felt that morning was not denial. Not avoidance. It was resolve.

A steady insistence to live. Fully. Deliberately. Without apology.

We cannot put our lives on hold while we wait for the world to turn right side up. That day may never arrive in the way we imagine it. If we surrender our days, our joy, our curiosity, our willingness to be amazed to the chaos and the cruelty, something vital in us begins to atrophy.

There are people in this world who thrive on domination and distraction, who feed on noise and outrage, who are experts at capturing our attention and keeping it as a kind of hostage. But we still have agency over where we place our gaze, how we spend our precious hours, and how we move through this one irreplaceable life.

If we surrender our one precious existence to the constant spectacle of cruelty, we are handing over exactly what they crave most: our attention, our energy, our joy. Even our life.

So we choose differently.

We travel. We gather around tables. We talk to strangers and discover that kindness has not disappeared.

In Tuscany, that choice looks like this: we drive the winding road through the Val d’Orcia, past olive groves and medieval hamlets, to visit a family run winery that has been caring for its vines for generations. We step into their cool stone cellar, where the air smells of oak, fermenting grapes, and time. We taste their Chianti Classico and listen as they tell us about this year’s harvest, the late rains, the risk, the relief.

We sit at a long table, set simply but beautifully with local pecorino, bruschetta drizzled with new olive oil, and tomatoes that were still on the vine only days ago. We raise our glasses together and toast to the quiet privilege of being alive.

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Last week in Mexico City, I found myself at a mezcal bar I hadn’t planned on visiting. It was one of those evenings that could have easily gone another way. I was tired after a restless night and a full day, and staying in would have been the easier choice. But something, curiosity, maybe, or just a quiet internal nudge, said: go.

So I went. And my husband, equally tired, graciously joined me.

What I thought would be a quick drink turned into a couple of slow, beautiful hours in a small, candlelit bar with the kindest service, little bowls of nuts, and even a bowl of fresh fruit set gently between us.

The mezcal was excellent and surprisingly inexpensive, with a thoughtful range from Oaxaca and beyond. It was just the two of us, alone but in a crowded bar, talking, savoring, lingering. Nothing extraordinary on paper, and yet it became one of those luminous moments that stays with you.

Simple. Unplanned. And somehow, magical.

It wasn’t really about the mezcal at all; it was about the unexpected magic of the experience we shared, romantic and memorable in the gentlest way.

That’s the thing about serendipity: it rarely arrives when we’re trying to manage every detail. It finds us when we’re open enough to let life meet us, and willing enough to meet it halfway, how something so unassuming can turn into something so deeply joyful.

The life we long for doesn’t begin out there. It begins within us.

And then, naturally and quietly, it ripples outward.

That night didn’t happen by accident alone. It began with a small choice: to go, to stay open, to say yes.

We create that ripple in how we care for ourselves, in the way we choose to live, in how we show up for others. It lives in the moments we loosen fear’s grip and let curiosity lead instead. And from there, something shifts. We become more available, to people, to connection, to the unexpected.

In a world that often feels heavy, resilience is no longer optional; it’s essential. But not the hardened kind. The kind that matters is gentle, gracious, steady—the kind woven from love, from friendship, from kindness. The kind that still leaves room for life to surprise us.

Because life will always offer both: the challenges we never asked for, and the ones we unknowingly create. And yet, in between, there are openings.

An invitation you didn’t expect.

A conversation that shifts the tone of your entire day.

Laughter that arrives out of nowhere.

An exchange that quietly turns into something meaningful.

A new friendship that feels like love at first sight, and for the rest of your life.

These are the moments that shape a life, the happy chances.

Not always the big milestones. Not the perfectly orchestrated plans. But the small, fleeting, beautifully unplanned experiences we almost said no to.

The way we live, what we savor, what we allow ourselves to feel, shapes the world around us more than we realize. It’s rarely about grand gestures. It’s a series of grace-filled choices.

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Doesn’t the world feel very different nowadays? After two decades of wandering from country to country, these past six years have felt uniquely intense and uncertain, shaped by a global pandemic, the rise of AI, and a shifting geopolitical landscape. Yet, amidst all this, it feels more important than ever to return to our inner strength and optimism, the part that remembers how to love, hope, move with grace, and adapt.

Change is inevitable. Sometimes we see it coming and welcome it in with an open heart. Other times, it arrives uninvited and abruptly rearranges everything we thought was steady.

We cannot, and should not, resist every change. What we can do is look for the good held within it, even when it feels as if our world is coming apart all around us. We may not be able to control what happens in the world, but we can shape our response, notice the small streaks of light, and keep choosing love over bitterness, hope over despair, and meaning right where we stand.

So much happens in the world every day and none of us can possibly keep up with it all. For our own well-being, we shouldn’t try.

What we can do is thoughtfully notice how these shifts touch our own lives and our communities, not to sink into fear or self-pity, but to choose a more intentional, grounded way of living. It’s important to renew our commitment to move through the world with greater kindness, gentleness, and compassion for one another.

Learning to choose grace in an uncertain, changing world means letting the turbulence around us draw out a kinder, wiser, more loving response from within. It can also mean finding the courage to step away from places, habits, and even relationships that no longer honor our values or the truer self we are being called to grow into. Here, grace matters deeply: in how gently we release what is no longer aligned, and how tenderly we hold the memory of what once was, trusting that in the space we clear, new joys will arrive that we cannot yet imagine.

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“There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature.”

— Jane Austen in Northanger Abbey

In a recent Gastronomad Experience Journal, I shared how deeply I feel and how wholeheartedly I give my love, without reserve or hesitation. Soon after, I came across this quote, and it felt like a revelation and a homecoming. It resonated so profoundly that it was as if I had been born to grow into it and embody it, because Austen’s understanding of friendship, devotion, and sincerity has always truly called to me.

I’ve come to embrace that part of my calling is to give and spread love abundantly and without boundaries. Loving wholeheartedly is a practice I sprinkle into everything I do, both in my personal life and in my work. It fills me with profound joy to love people and help them feel loved, seen, and heard; that warm feeling of “I’m so glad you’re here,” offered with complete and genuine sincerity. Fair warning: if you wander into my realm, you may be loved, and not by halves.

The Art of Serendipity is yet another way I hope to share love and joy, and to help you nurture your own relationship with serendipity so you can keep discovering bountiful happy chances along this winding path we call life.

Thank you for being here once again, reading this second issue of The Art of Serendipity. I appreciate your presence and support more than you know. I am especially grateful to those of you who have chosen to show your trust and heartfelt support with a paid subscription; your generosity, kindness, and thoughtfulness mean more to me than I can truly say. Thank you so much.

When Life Leaves Little Clues

Some of the most beautiful moments in life arrive unexpectedly; they sneak in quietly rather than announce themselves. Sometimes they’re hiding on the pages of a book, in a line that stops you mid-sentence, a scene in a movie you have to replay, a landscape that feels strangely familiar, a dream you just cannot shake. These small details sometimes line up so gracefully that they feel like little miracles, as though it were all meant to be.

In this issue of The Art of Serendipity, I’m reflecting on Jane Austen and the Cotswolds, and how certain people and places can make us feel as though our deepest loves and longings are anything but random. Perhaps the energy and care we pour into what we cherish, over years of quiet longing, help bring it into being, revealing themselves as almost deliberate happy “accidents” our hearts have been waiting for all along.

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This humble, lovingly written newsletter has been living deep in my heart for a long time, and I’m finally ready to share it with you. It is a gentle space where I’ll write about the things that matter most to me, and that I believe we are called to intentionally cultivate to make life more meaningful: awe, wonder, beauty, purpose, community, and the unexpected magic that appears when we say yes to life, even when our fears whisper otherwise.

My hope is that you’ll find it uplifting, honest, and inspiring, a quiet companion for your own journey. And if it resonates with you, I would be deeply grateful for your support. Subscriptions are $5 per month or $30 per year, and every bit of support helps me keep creating with intention and love.

I don’t want to explain too much, because part of its spirit is discovery and happy chances. I’d rather invite you to read, linger, and feel it for yourself. My nomadic life, our life as gastronomads, has given me a unique vantage point on the world. Moving from place to place, living deeply, slowing down to appreciate even when life moves quickly, and choosing to be mindful in each new home has taught me that serendipity is not just luck; it is a way of looking at life.

For me, being a gastronomad is more than a lifestyle. It’s a philosophy and an approach to travel, and to living authentically and tenderly everywhere. It means seeking the soul of a place instead of its postcard version, saying yes to shared tables and long conversations, noticing the small, beautiful details most people rush past. It means trusting the unknown enough to let surprise, connection, and joy find us.

The Gastronomad Experience was born from this same spirit: a secret itinerary, surprises at every turn, and a week woven with delight and enchantment. Here, in The Art of Serendipity, I’ll explore that inner journey, the mindset, the heart, and the quiet courage it takes to live this way, wherever you are in the world.

Thank you for being here. I would be so grateful if you’d take a look around, consider signing up, and let me know what you think. Your comments, reflections, and suggestions mean more to me than I can say. (If you’re getting this in your email inbox, please reach out by replying to the email. If you’re on the web version, please leave a comment at bottom.)

The Beauty and Ache of Change

The world is always changing, and so are we, day by day, season by season, shifting physically, mentally, and emotionally. With every passing day, our bodies, minds, and hearts are quietly evolving, inviting us to pause and look a little more closely at who we are and who we’re becoming. When we remember this, our vision softens and sharpens at once. We begin to see ourselves and the world around us with greater tenderness and appreciation: the places we love, the people we cherish, and the community of personal and professional relationships that make life feel deeply meaningful.

In the most recent issue of one of my other newsletter, the Gastronomad Experience Journal, I wrote about returning to familiar places and feeling that bittersweet tension between what once was and what now is. Every return reveals something new, sometimes inspiring, sometimes heartbreaking. The evolution of places I’ve loved for decades often carries a quiet ache. That sense that the spirit of a place, its soul, is slowly fading into memory. And worst, how those memories will eventually be forgotten.

Something stirs deep inside me in those moments. I feel overwhelming gratitude to simply be there, fully present, while also longing for the version of the place that lives only in my heart now. The history I once walked through begins to feel like a story I’m trying not to forget, even as a place writes a new chapter in front of my eyes.

The honesty to walk away

One of the clearest and most personal examples of this tension for me has been Pujol in Mexico City. For more than two decades, Pujol has been one of the most influential restaurants in contemporary Mexican gastronomy, founded and led by chef and restaurateur Enrique Olvera, a Culinary Institute of America-trained chef whose work helped bring Mexican cuisine onto the global fine-dining map.

In recent years, Pujol has consistently appeared on The World’s 50 Best Restaurants list, ranked as high as the top 5 in the past, and most recently listed at No. 33 in 2024, as well as No. 24 on Latin America’s 50 Best Restaurants 2024. In 2024, when the Michelin Guide launched in Mexico for the first time, Pujol was awarded two Michelin stars, tying for the highest rating in the country and affirming its status as a global destination restaurant.

For more than a decade, we’ve visited Pujol both personally and with our Gastronomad guests, and for a long time it felt like an essential chapter in our Mexico City story. It wasn’t just “another stop” on the itinerary; it embodied, for us, a moment when Mexican cuisine stepped into a new light, with elegance, creativity, and deep respect for its roots.

But sometimes, love and loyalty also ask us to be honest enough to walk away. Recently, I reached a point where I could no longer ignore how much the experience had changed for us. Over our last visits, the execution of the food no longer reflected the standards and magic we remembered: the depth of flavor, the balance on the plate, and that sense of harmony between what was promised and what was actually experienced at the table.

This realization did not come lightly. It followed many attempts to make things work and a sincere desire to keep this restaurant as one of the highlights we share with our guests. I feel deep gratitude for the generosity, time, and support we’ve received there over the years, and for the warmth and professionalism of the people who have welcomed us. My affection and appreciation for them remain very real.

Yet, for the sake of consistency and integrity in what we offer, I had to acknowledge that I can no longer, in good conscience, present it as a cornerstone of our Experience. We don’t choose places because they are famous, acclaimed, or photogenic; we choose them because they show their heart and soul through their food, because every dish, every detail, feels like an honest expression of care, craft, and joy. When that alignment is lost, it’s our responsibility to notice and to act accordingly, both for our guests and for the story we are telling about a city’s true culinary spirit.

So, with a heavy heart, I chose to cancel our upcoming reservation at Pujol for the upcoming Mexico City Gastronomad Experience, and step away, at least for now. This decision isn’t about blame; it’s about staying true to our guests and the values that guide every Gastronomad Experience. I sincerely hope this beloved restaurant will find its way back to what matters most: exquisitely and expertly prepared food, in harmony with heartfelt hospitality, creating a truly extraordinary, joyful, and memorable dining experience. If and when that moment comes, I will be happy, genuinely happy, to return and celebrate that beautiful renewal.

A joyful week in Mexico City

Since my last Gastronomad Journal (one of my other newsletters) published just two weeks ago, life here in Mexico City has been filled with joy. We hosted a beautiful group of warm-hearted Gastronomads for the Mexico City Experience, and the week unfolded with more laughter, connection, and wonder than I had even imagined. If you’ve read our stories about Mexico City’s exceptional cuisine and vibrant markets, you know how much we adore this city’s generous spirit and culinary brilliance, and this Mexico City Gastronomad Experience was a living, breathing expression of that love.

Just before our guests arrived, news broke of a cartel leader killed by the government, an event that sparked understandable concern from loved ones far away. Our phones lit up with messages, calls, and emails asking if we were safe. Yet here, in the heart of Mexico City, in the historic center, Condesa, Roma, Juárez, Reforma, and Polanco, life went on with its usual rhythm, watched over carefully by police and security that keep locals and visitors safe. Our guests were thoughtful, gracious, and level-headed, and together we spent the week savoring extraordinary meals, heartfelt conversations, and the sense of community that lies at the heart of every Gastronomad Experience.

A night of music and joy

On Sunday, after our Mexico City Gastronomad  Experience concluded, we checked into a hotel overlooking the Zócalo. From the restaurant on the rooftop terrace, we watched Shakira’s free concert unfold below, a sea of nearly 400,000 souls who had started gathering the night before the music began, filling the square with anticipation and joy. We chose not to dive into the crowd, but from above we could feel the pulse of that shared happiness, the singing, the lights, the collective heartbeat of a city celebrating together.

It was spectacular, the kind of night I know will be remembered in Mexico City for many years to come. Moments like this, just like the long-table gatherings and shared meals we describe on gastronomad.net, remind me why we do what we do as gastronomads. They are living proof that even in a world full of uncertainty, joy is still possible, connection is still possible, and beauty is still possible, often in the most unexpected and serendipitous ways.

In The Art of Serendipity, these are the kinds of moments I love to explore: the ones that arrive as a gift, unplanned yet somehow exactly the happy chances the heart needed, inviting us to keep saying yes to life.

Headlines and the human heart

And then, almost in the same breath, came the news that the United States is now at war with Iran. I don’t pretend to understand the full complexity of it; if anything, I feel more caution than certainty, and what rises most in me is sadness and concern for the human beings whose lives will be forever changed. Yet even this heartbreak echoes something I’ve shared many times in our stories on gastronomad.net: our most important role as human beings is to pursue a life of meaning, fulfilling purpose, and genuine happiness while still honoring the greater good.

We cannot control governments, wars, or the sweeping forces of history. What we can do, and what I believe we are quietly called to do, is live as kindly, lovingly, and courageously as we can, right where we are. This is the spirit that has guided The Gastronomad Experience from the beginning, and that also lives at the heart of The Art of Serendipity: gathering around tables, nurturing community, and reflecting the kind of world we wish to see, one shared meal, one small act of goodness, one open-hearted day at a time.

Becoming a gentle force for good

So we start close to home. We care for ourselves and those we love. We extend that care to the people whose paths cross ours, friends, acquaintances, colleagues, strangers we may only meet once. We practice being good, kind, compassionate, and forgiving, trusting that even when we don’t see the ripple effects, they are moving outward into the world in ways we can’t imagine.​

Life is too precious to do anything less. Time never waits. The moment to live fully, with joy, integrity, and love, is always now.

With grace, joy, integrity, gratitude and love,

Amira

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