Madrid is a superb vacation destination, but we aren't on vacation. This is our lives now.
Today marks the 60th anniversary of the publication of Kerouac's most famous literary work.
Last days are never as profound as they appear on television.
It was only my second of three days in England, and here I was, after having frantically raced to the bathroom, aggressively puking into my friend’s toilet.
Home is a base, a starting point, a fixture to which I latch a tether, however temporarily. Like a climber reaching for the next anchor point, I’m always searching for somewhere new to fasten a hold.
No matter how many books read, how many websites visited, how many personal accounts accumulated, when it comes down to make the actual move, my arms remain outstretched in a darkened room.
The institution of marriage is simultaneously a business arrangement and a romantic bond, a facilitator of families and a symbolic gesture. In all its iterations, though, marriage remains a blind leap into the future, the unknown.
It was an ugly, brown polyester gas station attendant’s jacket, made all the more unsightly by large rips, frayed edges, and a phalanx of safety pins. I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen.