The scene of the crime I had narrowly avoided massacring a dozen newly hatched chicks in a box, whose chirping had accompanied us up from Qax. Stumbling backwards as the rusted-out Soviet-era bus corkscrewed us deeper into the Caucasus, I instead tumbled into the lap of heavily mustached Georgian-speaking shepherd. He didn’t smile… Writing in…
Writing in the local paper. Local issues with a global take. I never translate literally and the editor trims at will to make it fit. Here’s my version, then theirs. I had always imagined that we had done something terribly wrong, something so unpardonable that we were now suffering the consequences of this unnamed act. Something must have…
19.56, I made it! 2 Metro changes…dash through the palpable late August heat in Madrid, an anxious wait on a light rail platform only to find the next train is an express that doesn’t stop where I do. Add to that the criminal removal of beer from the vending machines on the platforms, 3 broken…
Bus trips returning home sometimes seem like the longest on earth. 37 hour South American odysseys pass by in the blink of an eye when you compare them with a milk run that turns your 300km return home journey into a 5 hour trial. There is something anticlimactic about coming home, the route is familiar…