Photo: Luis García, CC BY-SA 3.0 ES, via Wikimedia Commons The square in Lavapiés quarter is a true crossroad, a slippery one, as a matter of fact. It’s a plaza that slides down or up, always depending on your point of view. It’s neither flat nor...
We enter a palace room for a second time, the one where stags holdsome of my ancestors’ names. So many mouths, some little flies. Camera catch the pitch of my smug.You try not to spout. My wet crest. The stags on a ceiling of gilded pens. So a lens under my chin makes...
On our last day in Lisbon, he wanted to find an Irish bar so that we could go and watch some rugby match that was on, but we were supposed to be learning to communicate, and like the therapist said, he was supposed to be listening to me and also hearing me. So when I...
honestly? the thing is, it’s noteven nice here. I love it herebut it’s not nice – it’s distinctive.and I think if I’m honestthat I averaged happierin london and happier in torontoand much happier alsoin new york up therewatching manhattan...
We stopped at a hot pot called Guðrúnarlaug in Dalabyggð in Western Iceland. I can’t remember the time of day. In the summer months there were twenty-four hours of sunlight. The hot pot was a burning pool on a hilltop circled by stone. A tiny house for changing rested...
