There are trips that begin long before you leave.
This one started at home.
Closing the door that day was harder than I expected.
Not because of the distance,
but because of what I was leaving behind.
A ten-day-old baby.
A new life just beginning.
And Amaia, staying there, holding everything together while I stepped out.
The days leading up to the trip were intense.
Preparing a journey like this already takes time.
Doing it with a newborn at home makes everything heavier.
We had to ask for help.
My parents came to support us, so I could leave knowing things would be okay.
Even then, it didn’t feel easy.
There’s a kind of invisible weight in those moments.
You’re packing clothes, checking flights, planning logistics —
but what you’re really doing is preparing yourself to be somewhere else.
Mentally. Emotionally.
The list never ends.
The masterclass with film students.
Refreshing my English.
Preparing to speak, to explain, to represent the film.
Thinking about the Q&A.
About how to respond, how to be present, how to hold the space.
Then the practical side.
Transport.
The BART from the airport.
Getting to the apartment.
An eSIM to stay connected.
A city I’ve never been to.
I’ve traveled a lot.
But it doesn’t matter.
Every trip begins with the same feeling:
Trying to control everything before letting go.
By the time I packed my bag, I was exhausted.
Ten days of almost no sleep.
A body running on instinct.
And ahead of me, an 18-hour journey.
The night before, I asked Amaia if she could take care of everything with Xabi.
I needed to sleep.
Or at least try.
Somewhere over the ocean, something shifted.
I had planned to work.
To organize things.
To prepare more.
But my mind refused.
So I did something simple.
I watched films.
And for the first time in days, I stopped thinking.
New York had been different.
The film traveled without me.
It lived its World Premiere on its own.
In silence, from a distance.
San Francisco wouldn’t be like that.
This time, I would be there.
In the room.
In front of the audience.
Holding the presence of the film.
And that changes everything.
There’s a certain responsibility in becoming the face of something you created.
You start wondering what people will think.
What they will feel.
What they will see in it.
You look for answers in their faces before they even react.
But there’s also something grounding.
I know the work I’ve done.
I know why I made this film.
At some point, you realize:
it has already been judged first by yourself,
and then by the people who believed in it.
Still, the shift is real.
Just days ago, I was at home.
In a quiet, intimate space.
Learning how to be present with something as fragile as a newborn.
And suddenly, I’m stepping into a completely different world.
Conversations.
Networking.
Noise.
Energy.
It takes effort to switch.
You have to warm up again.
To reconnect socially.
To find your place in the room.
There are doubts too.
Will they understand the film?
Will they connect with its rhythm?
With its slowness?
Maybe not.
And that’s okay.
Not every film is meant to be understood in the same way.
Sometimes, it’s enough that it leaves something behind.
What I really wanted, deep down, was simple.
To sit in that cinema.
To watch the film with others.
To feel it again.
And to reach the ending.
That final moment.
The one that is no longer just part of the film,
but part of my life.
After New York, I knew I couldn’t miss this.
I needed to be there.
Not for the festival.
Not for the exposure.
But to experience it.
To see what happens when the film meets people.
Because at some point,
you have to stop imagining it.
And just be in the room.
