I took a picture and captioned it, “This is what transnational loneliness looks like.”
We made a list of all the things we didn’t know: when was the Bronze Age, and what’s steel made of, anyway?
Mile by mile, cookie by cookie, escaping the holidays
A Kenyan writer moves to Colombia and struggles to learn Spanish
An airport that lets you enter the United States before you geographically enter the United States.
For a split second I had constructed a little narrative that Paul Manafort was here, trying to rebuild his life working in hospitality in eastern China.
The span of America between DC and New York is so strange to me and I can’t figure out how to articulate the feeling.
It feels like a developer aimed to fit maybe just one more Holiday Inn amongst a row of already cramped budget hotels for a stretch of 225 miles.
There are very few forms of entertainment—no theaters or playhouses like I read about in other countries—and those that exist are not affordable.
It mimics the interior of a Spanish colonial mission church constructed with wood, straw, mud, and forced labor.