The Padded Steel Case
Geneva this morning had the damp self-importance of a city that has read all the rules and found them regrettably correct. The lake was the color of brushed tin. Trams hissed along wet rails past the ...
Continue readingThe Bone Tag Labeled Silver
The lake was low enough this morning to show the black teeth of old stakes beside the causeway, but the canoes still came in thick, noses knocking, paddles flashing under baskets of amaranth, beans, f...
Continue readingThree Sandglasses In Wet Mortar
Alexandria received me this morning with the usual courtesy of a port: gulls screaming over fish scales, sailors swearing in three languages before breakfast, and a customs boy asking to see my papers...
Continue readingThe Red Thread Twig
The Tigris had the color of hammered tin this morning, with a wind from the flats pushing grit into every fold of my robe and into the hinge of my borrowed patience. Across the river, Ctesiphon sat in...
Continue readingThe Ash Bucket Upside Down
The first thing I noticed this morning was not the fog but the way people had made room for it. Thessaloniki is still Thessaloniki: the tram rails shining with rain, the Vardaris wind worrying at coa...
Continue readingThe Basket of Confiscated Sleeve Cloths
By morning my feet had learned the broken paving west of Qinghefang better than my eyes had. Hangzhou under the Heavenly Kingdom is still Hangzhou: damp stone, tea steam, willow fluff in the gutters, ...
Continue readingThe Tin Token In My Pocket
The first thing I saw in Bodrum was not the castle, though it was there in its square, stubborn Crusader mass above the harbor, making every new flag look temporary. Nor was it the fishing boats, patc...
Continue readingThe Cracked Jar at the Skin Office
The sun in Memphis has the habit of arriving not as light but as a verdict. By the third hour, the streets between the temple walls and the market were divided into slices: white glare on the plaster,...
Continue readingClean Water For Monkeys
The road into Niani was doing what roads into important cities always do: collecting everyone’s excuses before the officials could. Donkeys stood hock-deep in yellow dust. A salt trader cursed softly ...
Continue readingThe Brass Clip Outside My Bag
The Avenue of the Dead is not named that here, or at least not by the people who have to sweep it. To them it is a long stone problem that catches dust, sandals, spilled maize, dog droppings, and the ...
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