New Jersey

Oh, I was looking for Julia,” the elderly blonde lady announced, clearly scanning the crowd for a woman. And poof—there I was. “Sorry, that’s why I didn’t respond immediately.”

“No worries,” I said, “happens all the time. Nobody here knows how to pronounce my name anyway. That’s why I just go by ‘Joe’ when I order coffee. Or, really, anything that requires a barista to yell a name that vaguely resembles mine.”

Officially, my name is Frysian—an ode to my grandmother, or Beppe, Aafje, who hailed from Friesland, that small yet mighty province in the Netherlands. Friesland is where the cows are majestic, the ice skaters are faster than your internet connection, and the language is closer to Danish than Dutch—because, you know, marauding Danish Vikings did a little “rebranding” back in the day. I’m 25% Frisian by blood but exactly 1% fluent in the language.

Now, fast-forward to my arrival in New Jersey, where I find myself in an Uber, chatting with my driver, Ana. She has a thick Slavic accent, so naturally, I ask, “Where are you from?”

“Brazil,” she replies.

Darn. Once again, I have successfully mistaken Portuguese for a Slavic language. My linguistic detective skills remain questionable at best. I confess my mistake, and Ana laughs. Turns out, she comes from a family of doctors—father’s a doctor, uncle’s a doctor, brothers are doctors—but she? Nope. She wanted to see the world, so she moved to the U.S. and never looked back (except once a year when she visits home).

Ana’s accent remains delightfully thick despite years in the States. It reminds me of my late mother-in-law, who moved from Germany and spoke English for 70+ years… but still sounded like she had arrived fresh off the boat yesterday. I miss her dearly.

Then Ana gets excited. “You’re from Holland? My grandmother was Dutch too!”

“Aha!” I exclaim. “That explains the blonde hair and blue eyes!”

She nods. Apparently, there was a significant Dutch colony where she grew up in Rio. Her grandmother moved to Brazil at the age of five, but Ana barely remembers any Dutch words.

Speaking of Rio, I was there not too long ago. Beautiful city, but our first hotel? Let’s just say it was a hard pass. The door had clearly been broken into one too many times, there was no safe (which is literally the first thing I look for), and, in the grand finale, the toilet exploded, unleashing a Category 5 sewage tsunami. That was the moment I decided to abandon my budget-conscious ways and book the most expensive hotel near Ipanema Beach. Best. Decision. Ever.

Back in New Jersey, Ana drops me off in New Brunswick—a town with a solidly “previous-century” aesthetic but a promising facelift in progress. The silver lining? A proper Irish pub across from my hotel and a local ramen place that’s nothing short of life-changing.

And that’s where I ring in the Year of the Snake. So shed the old, folks—it’s time for something new!

New beginnings come in all shapes and sizes—sometimes it’s as small as changing your name at the coffee counter, and sometimes it’s as big as moving across the world, like Ana and I did. There’s something exhilarating about starting fresh in a new place, where nobody knows your name (or, more importantly, how to mispronounce it). A blank slate, a new adventure, and the chance to reinvent yourself—whether that means embracing a new culture, chasing a new dream, or just making sure your next hotel has a functioning toilet.