My refrigerator decided to go on strike last August, precisely when I had a half-case of Presidente beer chilling for a beach run to Boca
From Santo Domingo to Santa Fe de Antioquia: My First Mangostino Misstep I still remember the sweat rolling down my back the afternoon I landed
My first summer weekend in Medellín, I was feeling pretty slick. Ten years of Caribbean living had trained me to navigate Dominican banks, motoconcho haggling,
One humid Thursday night in Santo Domingo, while the neighbor’s rooster crowed at the completely unhelpful hour of 11 p.m., I opened my apartment door
“¡Profe, se acabó la tiza!” Ten nine-year-olds were shouting at me, a lanky gringo with a half-erased chalk mustache, the day I began volunteer teaching
El Punto de Partida: A Muddy Morning in Los Haitises The story begins with red mud clinging to my boots and a stubborn sprinkle of
Last August, after my fourth fill-up of Presidente beer and bachata at El Conde, I realized I had burned through half my housing budget for
El cafecito that almost clawed my ego My first week in Santo Domingo, a decade ago, I walked into “Garras y Tazas,” the island’s pioneer
How a Wobbly Wooden Chair Started My Obsession Ten years in the Dominican Republic will teach any gringo how to admire a beach chair, but
There I was, clutching a sweaty ticket that said turno 283 in a Medellín notaría, wondering whether the ceiling fans were actually pushing time backward.