A Knock on My Door It was a steamy Tuesday in Santo Domingo when Don Alberto, the portly building administrator, tapped on my metal apartment
La Primera Mordida: My First Run-In with a Cartagena Cart I still remember the exact hiss of the oil and the smell of achiote the
Ten years ago I was wedged in the back of a Santo Domingo carro público, sweating through a guayabera and juggling three plastic bags of
La Primera Vez Que Mis Zapatos Se Hundieron en el Lodo Pocos viajes me han dejado tan cubierto de barro —literal y lingüísticamente— como mi
When the Lights Flicker Off: My First Santo Domingo Blackout I was mid-sentence, explaining to my Dominican landlord why my blender smelled like it wanted
“¡Dale, James, rema duro!” The shout cut through the roar of the Atlantic as my instructor, a wiry Dominican named Wilson, encouraged me to paddle.
Ten years ago, fresh off the plane and still saying “no hablo mucho” with a sheepish grin, I found myself at the Jumbo in Santiago
I still remember the look on the driver’s face when I tried to ship a jar of homemade chinola-mango jam from Santo Domingo to Medellín.
My First Sip Amidst Wax Palms Ten years ago I stepped off a guagua in Constanza, Dominican Republic, clutching a Styrofoam cup of what locals
Sweat, Strings, and My First Bachata Request I was twenty-three, newly landed in Santo Domingo, and already dripping with the sticky Caribbean heat when the