Anyone who loved Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books knows by now that like so much else from our childhood, those books, and that liking, have suffered a sea change. Propaganda for an America that never actually existed in the first place, it’s hard now to read the Little House books in the spirit inContinue reading “Old Chestnuts”
At ten in the morning, when I walk to Spanish class, Madrid is just waking up (it’ll continue this leisurely process until about 9 p.m.). Porteros y porteras pensively mop the sidewalks in front of their buildings, even if it’s cloudy and the skies might crack open in a few hours. At ten, the cafesContinue reading “The Realm of Magic”
El Parque del Buen Retiro, Madrid’s most gracious park, is Europe with a capitol E, as you’d expect it to be: stately with monuments and gridded promenades, clotted with tourists and buskers. El Retiro is a Madrid must-see, as vouchsafed by the guidebooks. Peacocks stalk its southeast quadrant; confectionary fin de siecle apartment buildings overlookContinue reading “Hide and Seek”
The past week has felt like an excruciatingly slow version of a choose-your-own adventure, from a Montaña Rusa — aka a “Russian Mountain,” aka a rollercoaster — to a fugue state to interminable to a nail-biter to the twilight zone. Last Wednesday through Saturday we watched more CNN than we had in the past yearContinue reading “Now What?”
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I used to write in Atlanta; now I write in Madrid.
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