remember

I still remember the moment when I heard “Cien Años” for the first time. I can vividly recall the haunting aftertaste, the glorious specificity of the experience.

I had moved from Buenos Aires to Los Angeles, and somehow managed to make a living writing about Latin music. I‘d seen Los Tigres del Norte in concert, shared a lengthy conversation with Vicente Fernández outside the Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim, and spent months poring through the songbook of José Alfredo Jiménez. But listening to the 1953 recording of “Cien Años” by Mexican legend Pedro Infante was a game changer — an existential milestone that will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I was in my home office, researching a story about the golden era of Mexican music. “Cien Años” played on, the elusive contours of its melody floating in the afternoon air. Three minutes and 33 seconds later, when it ended, you could hear a pin drop. I sat still for a few minutes, transfixed. Then I played it again. And again. Ten, 15, 20 times in a row.

A composition by Rubén Fuentes and Alberto Cervantes, the song wasn’t just another lilting ranchera from the 1950s — that much was clear. On the contrary, it felt like an otherworldly manifestation from the gods above, as if a UFO had landed in the Mexican capital decades ago, and an advanced race of extraterrestrials left this artifact behind as some sort of exquisite offering — a reminder of everything that could be but wasn’t.

There‘s the matter of that sinuous electric guitar intro, halfway between tropical psychedelia and merry-go-round anthem. Then, the main melody: forlorn, hallucinogenic. Infante’s aristocratic delivery collides head on with the brutal indifference of the girl he will carry on loving for the rest of his embittered existence. His voice, so soft and fragile, could belong to both man and woman; the universal scar of romantic rejection.

Clearly there was a mystery attached to this evergreen standard that people got to see on the big screen in 1954, when Infante performed it in the film “Cuidado Con El Amor.” The song also reminded me of Schubert — maybe a page off “Winterreise,” the romantic song cycle composed in 1827.

Had I accidentally discovered a supernatural portal where time and space didn’t exist, one where random phenomena of blinding beauty could materialize on this plane without any logical explanation?

To figure out why “Cien Años” still resonates, I decided to consult with a few notable singer-songwriters.

First I thought of Spanish rock star and longtime Los Angeles resident Enrique Bunbury, who himself traffics in the diffuse territories of the ominous and esoteric. I sent him a rambling voice memo, trying to convey my bewilderment as best as I could. True to his character, he replied with a terse but eloquent text.

“I apologize for the delay in responding, as I was busy promoting my new album,” he wrote. “I have to agree that Pedro Infante’s version has an incredibly evocative air to it that is not common in rancheras. This may be related to the classical violin training of Rubén Fuentes, who was also an arranger. Alberto Cervantes, on the other hand, was a bolero guy. I imagine he contributed the intense Acapulco scent that emanates from this song. I’m so sorry that my ignorance on this subject will probably not be of great help in your inquiry.”

I marveled at Bunbury’s humility, but agreed with him that the mystery was far from solved.

Maybe a young Mexican singer could shed some illumination, I thought, before sending a somewhat incoherent email to Silvana Estrada. I was right to assume that the 29-year-old prodigy behind 2025’s “Vendrán Suaves Lluvias” — one of the most spiritually devastating albums of the decade, and the second best album of last year — would have something to say.

“This is one of the most gorgeous boleros in the Mexican repertoire,” Estrada replied.

“I always thought the Pedro Infante version was mind-boggling. There is something in the string arrangement that sounds a bit impressionistic to me, but also profoundly Mexican, with the trumpets doubling the violin lines. There’s also a sense of maximalism that sums up the old Mexico as a time of splendor. And when I think of this song, I think of something splendid.”

At least now I knew that I was not alone in my overwhelming passion for this strange little gem. But neither Bunbury nor Estrada had addressed the eerie supernatural vibe that emanates from the recording — the feeling that when “Cien Años” was recorded somewhere in Mexico City, Pedro and company connected with another dimension.

I was scheduled to interview Mexican American singer Lila Downs the following day, and I decided to bring this up at the end of our chat. She was sitting down in her stately Oaxaca home when we connected over Zoom, and smiled widely the moment I brought up my metaphysical query.

“I’ve experienced a similar feeling with other songs that I’ve performed,” she said. “It’s like they transport me to a más allá [a far beyond], a certain undefined something that doesn’t belong in my own era. ‘La Llorona,’ in fact, connects me to something that is not even human — a force that exists in the shape of waves. It’s the essence of the very mystery that music itself evokes in all of us.”

Downs pointed out an important detail: that “Cien Años” could not have emerged from any country other than Mexico.

“Our subconscious is loaded with the spirit of the ancestors,” she added. “There is a deep connection with the cosmos in Mexico. I’ve seen it in anthropology books; this vision of art as a healing agent that facilitates spiritual growth.”

I was finally ready to put the matter aside, when I spoke to Gepe. The Chilean singer-songwriter has crafted many tracks that have a timeless, soulful quality to them. “Desastre,” a lovely tune released in 2024, feels almost as unearthly to me as “Cien Años.”

I asked him to listen to the song.

“That intro is definitely striking,” he told me in the first of many voice memos. “It has a psychedelic tinge that didn’t really exist in the 1950s. It reminds me of someone like Peter Drake and his slide guitar playing, which had more of a Hawaiian sound. I think it’s beautiful that such a short intro can leave you with more questions than answers. That’s part of the magic, isn’t it?”

Gepe made an astute observation: that my life-changing experience with “Cien Años” was not due to a single factor. It was a layered, complex combination of different details.

“You have this incredible, hypersensitive performance by Pedro, coupled with a timeless arrangement which was definitely ahead of its time,” he explained. “The cinematic, almost Hawaiian touch on the guitar, but also a strong affinity to the bolero aesthetic — there’s a subtle softness in the maracas, so that the voice can grow and shine with so much sweetness.”

And then, he told me the one thing that brought it all together.

“It’s funny, because you keep saying that this song sounds like it landed from another world, but there’s a stark contradiction in that statement,” he said. “Pedro’s delivery is so marvelous and sensitive, that it goes beyond male or female — it sums up the human experience in all its subtlety and aching beauty. I think what happened here was that the composers, arrangers, musicians and Pedro got together in a studio and created something so immense and luminous that it ended up transcending its own sense of time.”

Renowned turtle conservationist Mona Khalil had been wounded in an Israeli attack in southern Lebanon.

Mourners have gathered in Beirut to pay their respects to a much-loved Lebanese conservationist who died from wounds caused by an Israeli strike on her home on the country’s southern coast.

Mona Khalil, 77, who spent more than two decades protecting sea turtles along Lebanon’s coastline, was critically injured in the attack in the village of al-Mansouri in Tyre province on June 4 and succumbed to her wounds more than two weeks later, on Friday.

News of her death triggered an outpouring of grief among environmentalists and those who volunteered and worked with her over the years, many of whom gathered in Beirut on Sunday.

The Orange House Project, which Khalil helped build into a small conservation hub and ecotourism site in al-Mansouri, became a refuge for endangered loggerhead and green sea turtles and a training ground for volunteers documenting nesting activity along the coast.

Khalil was born in Lagos, Nigeria, in 1949. She held Dutch as well as Lebanese citizenship, having lived in the Netherlands before returning to Lebanon and settling in what had once been her grandmother’s home – the building that would later become known as the Orange House.

At the heart of Khalil’s work was a narrow stretch of coastline, al-Mansouri beach, where a fleeting encounter with a turtle that had emerged from the ocean to lay its eggs in 1999 propelled her on a lifelong journey devoted to animals.

Each nesting season, Khalil and volunteers would patrol the beach at night, marking fresh tracks in the sand and carefully relocating vulnerable nests away from human activity and coastal light pollution.

Journalist and environmental activist Fadia Jomaa first met Khalil in 2016 while researching sea turtles in Lebanon and then decided to volunteer with her project.

During the previous war between Israel and the Lebanese armed group Hezbollah in 2024, Khalil initially refused to leave al-Mansouri beach, Jomaa said. The Lebanese army ultimately persuaded her to evacuate for her safety.

“She was the last one to leave the area,” Jomaa noted.

“She had an awful time in Beirut,” the journalist said, adding that Khalil longed to return to the south, to the Orange House and the beach she had spent years protecting.

“She used to say, ‘My soul will stay here,’” Jomaa said, recalling conversations in which Khalil would point to an olive tree or a small hill overlooking al-Mansouri beach. “She used to say, ‘This is where you will bury me.’”

Where Khalil will ultimately be buried remains uncertain and is tied to the security situation in the area, Jomaa said.