That One Time My Beagle Betrayed My Accent Why a slobbery tennis ball became my Spanish teacher Ten years in the Dominican Republic have ironed
“Se me quedó el bolígrafo.” I blurted those five Spanish words the first time I sat at the cramped wooden desk of the Junta Central
I still remember the Tuesday my flip-flops squeaked across the lobby of la Universidad Autónoma de Santo Domingo. The humidity had already plastered my shirt
Three years ago, while chasing surfable swells from Río San Juan to Santa Marta, I realized that my Dominican residency renewal and my Colombian tourist
One steamy August morning, just before the afternoon aguacero that Medellín loves to throw at unsuspecting outsiders, I found myself stuck at a police checkpoint
El Sudor, una Guagua y la Revelación I still remember the first time I tried to impress a doña on the public guagua with my
From a Merengue Hangover to the Andes: How I Ended Up Comparing Desks Last Tuesday I woke up in Santo Domingo with the taste of
It happened on a misty Friday evening in Medellín’s Laureles district. I, James—an accidental Dominican veteran who drifted across the Caribbean a decade ago and
When the Ceiling Became a Waterfall I was halfway through reheating my sancocho when I heard the soft plip-plop that every tenant in Santo Domingo
Cómo me sumergí: My First Tank in Taganga I still remember kicking off my fins on Taganga’s tiny beach, sand sticking to the neoprene while