In Bari a woman apologized for her age. In Paris a man told me his age and then immediately said sorry, as though the number itself required forgiveness. He was forty nine, fluent in three languages, had lived a life full enough to fill the bookshelves I went straight for when I walked into his apartment. And he apologized. I don't understand this. I have had white hair since I was twenty one. I have wrinkles now. I wore a wrap dress in Italy that fit way too close and showed

There is a pot in my bedroom. A twenty dollar drip brew situation that has never once let me down. Ok, maybe once, we've worked past that. I keep good coffee in it because I am not an animal Italian most days but any well roasted coffee will do. I never leave stale water in the reservoir because we have standards even on the bad days. The first thing I do when I come home, from anywhere that required something of me, is make coffee. Not unpack. Not check messages. Not do the

New routines, navigating old and new languages, and deciding on art school. Looks like i have some new routines, although very unintentional

It's 2am and I lay in bed wide awake but exhausted and having to get up in 2 hrs. It is always the same thing on the first day shift back

I started writing this blog two days ago. I grabbed my coffee got half way through it and then started feeling sick...

This morning I feel like working on the book: The train pulled into the station with a grinding halt. I had to hold on tightly to the rail