The passengers deboard the late night Air China flight from Beijing onto the empty tarmac and walk languidly toward the terminal. Amidst the ant-like trail of humans, two westerners stand out: myself and a pale-skinned man in his mid-forties who towers above the Asians. With an odd familiarity, we briefly glance at each other. I wonder, as he must, if we are in Yanji for the same reason. This city
A single bubble escaped my right nostril, swimming in haste to the water’s surface, as if gasping. I closed my eyes. She was right, that synchronized swimmer I’d overheard in the locker room. “Sometimes we lay on the bottom of the pool. It’s actually relaxing.” I could’ve drifted off to sleep. My heartbeat, remarkably slow, was pounding everywhere. In my scalp. My temples. My eyeballs. My stomach. I even felt
I awoke to the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. My dad opened my door, gave his signature three knocks, and told me to get ready. It was my first day bowhunting. We departed at about 4:30 a.m. and drove to a spot near Divide, Colorado. I remember sitting in the truck, shaking from nervousness. I had never been in the woods in the dark before, which terrified me. At
The real me lives by the sea, With flying hair and sun kissed brow, I’d give anything to be there now. A wave can propel you forward, pass you by or capture you in its turbulence. This is true in life and in the ocean. Sometimes you make the choice and sometimes it’s the wave. That’s deep, very deep (small wave joke). In this particular instance, I made the choice,
In the heart of winter, I contemplate my winter’s heart. Frigid days bring sinking into slush puddles against the icy wind, starting the day with cold feet, jumping into a dark car only to join the cattle call of the highway. I have to refuse this heart. My heart is elsewhere. I am consumed by the memory of a rose. Take a rose petal in your hand. Stroke it. Lift
Fall set in soon after I arrived, and the colors of St. Petersburg had begun to change. I decided to walk the two miles to the Summer Gardens, built by Peter the Great in 1704 and lined with Italian sculptures from the 17th and 18th century. I left the hostel and merged onto the sidewalks of Revolution Street. I turned west onto the famed Nevskiy Prospekt, pausing near a man
