Back in the paleotechnic dawn of the 21st century, my mother’s request was understandable. “Just call me once a week to let me know you’re alive,” she said, as I wandered off across… Continue reading
She wakes to a beautiful, clear November morning in 1976. She gets up, dresses, and has breakfast with a few nice elderly people. She has a couple errands, so takes her purse and… Continue reading
That last post about Tarifa came from an old journal, a paragraph not relevant enough to include in my book, but I enjoyed giving it a little life somewhere else. Another such moment… Continue reading
If Spain were a big, worrisomely lumpy breast, then Tarifa would be the downward-sagging nipple, poking across the Strait of Gibraltar at my goal for the day: Morocco. But Tarifa was also the… Continue reading
The coarse wool of my djellaba was scratchier than the sand blowing against my bare legs. Maybe the other way around. One does not customarily wear shorts in the desert, but I welcomed… Continue reading
I got a little down about this election. It struck me as depressing that people voted for the party of economic exploitation, the billionaire 1% who feed on the blood of the workers… Continue reading
“There’s an election on Friday, so we’re leaving the country Thursday night, and will come back Sunday, if there’s no rioting or murdering going on. Make sure you do all your grocery shopping… Continue reading
Granted, I have no children. This places me solidly in the spectator box when it comes to child-rearing, but I noticed a pattern when asking friends if they would be giving out candy… Continue reading
I got The Haircut again. In Nicaragua, Morocco, and Myanmar I liked it, described it as “Much lighter, now I won’t sweat so much” and “my tiny shampoo bottle will last longer.”… Continue reading
Congratulations, my friends. We survived another one. In that last post, I said something about the sun waiting in line for its macchiato on Mercury. Luckily for all of us, I was just… Continue reading
Those gross little white things that you spit up from the back of your throat from time to time, the squishy stinky ones you hide and forget? Those are called tonsiloliths. If you… Continue reading
