A shortcut through the savanna.

Look at that road, folks. It's not one of those perfect highways we have here; it's a dirt road, with its massive potholes and those puddles left over from the last downpour. You know you have to drive carefully, dodging the ruts so you don't damage the front suspension, while you're idling the car. And up ahead, the owners of the road: those white calves and that dairy cow that look at you with enviable peace, as if to say: "Hey, buddy, slow down a bit, the rush's left in the city."

I close my eyes for a second and I swear I can smell the "wet earth," that petrichor aroma that only the plains drizzle stirs when it kisses the dry dust. I hear the birds singing, the crunch of dry straw along the sides of the road, and that immense silence broken only by the distant lowing of a breeding bull.

That overcast sky, with its battling gray and white clouds, tells me that at any moment the downpour could break loose again. But it doesn't matter, because I'm in my vehicle, rolling along, feeling that the plains are endless. How wonderful it is to see those leafy trees in the distance, surely a saman or a carocaro casting that blessed shade at midday.

I feel like shouting from here: “Giddy-up, cattle!”, and getting out to scare them off so I can continue on my way, maybe towards a farm where a strong coffee or a nice cold sugarcane juice awaits me.

I open my eyes and I'm still in Canada. The coffee in my cup is lukewarm, but my heart is still racing, pounding with a feeling that isn't sadness, but pure pride. That photo is more than just a landscape to me; it's a piece of life that reminds me that even though my feet are in the snow, my soul will always be walking in sandals along those dirt roads of my Venezuela.