I licked my lips, salty from sweat, and entered the earth’s embrace: The dirt crumbled and my body pressed into the rock as I fit my limbs and fingers precisely into the grooves of the mountain.
Like twenty-first century John Wayne movies, the casinos become difficult not to gawp in, especially when you’re surrounded by card playing real-life cowboys.
At Treehouse, Josiphet welcomed us in the morning with a warm smile and showed us all the rooms in the building, which was inspired by Spanish Catalan architect Gaudi. Pieces of bright, colorful glass were cemented into the white walls, which had been designed to spiral up in large curves, following the staircase up the maze-like tower.
My scalp was moist, my back was sticky, and a slippy layer of sweat covered all of my extremities, so going to sleep at night felt like laying down in a salty puddle, with two other cyclists bathing in their own grease, just inches away.
Though the surrounding neighborhood is near-deserted, near-post-apocalyptic, the port is teeming with hatted and fanny-packed tourists.
“Only Toyotas at the last rest stop, and a Toyota in front of us—do you see? All Kenyans drive Toyotas. I do not know why; it must be one of our Kenyan mysteries,” he concludes cheekily.
But take a step closer to the men under those wigs, salesmen armed with red plastic binders and smartphones, welcoming you to Vienna with breath rolling in cigarette stench, touting the latest “authentic” musical rip-off, and the illusion quickly fades: welcome to Vienna.
I questioned whether or not we were in a movie, in which I wondered whether the festival was real, whether Pont-à-Celles was real, whether we were real, whether the day had slipped from one dimension of time and space to another without our realizing it
Let this serve as a sort of guide for those who undertake the late night quest for booty in the city of Istanbul
They were all immaculately dressed in H’mong traditional garb, and the intricate pattens on their shirts and pants and the bright colors that flowed across their limbs seemed to move of their own accord in the darkness.
We lunge through the open space ahead of us, and feel the Canyon’s abyss in our stomachs each time we veer closer to the edge.
My introduction to London did not begin with Big Ben, or Piccadilly Circus, or even the Houses of Parliament. It began with you.
We’d barely taken ten steps on the path before we spotted our first bird, and one of the rarest: a Takehe
The emotional dimension of flamenco I understood instinctively even as a child, but neither its technique nor its complex rhythms have ever come easily to me
Then of course we took to the jungle-lined paradise of Tayrona, splashed in the sea and screamed, “We’re here, we’re here, COLOMBIAAAAAA,” out of giddy gratitude
Le Pin had about ten jeunes between the ages of fourteen and twenty who all gathered at la place—which was nothing more than a bench under a roof—to smoke cigarettes, play cards, and talk. And the first time I met them was overwhelming
The bus’s taillights suddenly lit the area with a morbid red glow as its engine revved and the driver steered it out of sight. I was alone
Someone once told me that talking about the weather is what you do when you have nothing else to talk about...I was being goaded into conversation
You love this city but fear it. You've seen enough glimpses of its dark, scaly underbelly through its gossamer feathers that you know there's still much to be afraid of