Last August, on the sticky, mango-sweet morning after landing in Bogotá, I discovered that my fine-tuned Dominican survival instincts did not automatically unlock the mysteries
I still laugh when I remember my first attempt at serious small talk with a Dominican lawyer in Bávaro. I had rehearsed what I thought
From Sweaty Queue to Air-Conditioned Click: My Accidental Discovery Ten years ago, freshly moved from Santo Domingo and still mangling my subjunctive, I waited three
Getting Happily Lost: My First Sunset Inside the Walls I still remember the lavender dusk that settled over Cartagena the first time I arrived from
Dawn on Avenida Independencia The first time I tried to order breakfast in Santo Domingo, I was twenty-three, sunburned, and overconfident in my high-school Spanish.
From Motoconchos to Metrocables: My First Ride Ten years of dodging Santo Domingo’s motoconchos trained me to keep my elbows in and my nerves steady,
Ten years ago I stepped off a plane, still clutching a pocket phrasebook, and into the unruly embrace of Santo Domingo’s Avenida 27 de Febrero
Ten years ago, when I first landed in Puerto Plata armed with nothing but a frayed backpack and high-school Spanish, I thought flicking a light
I learned what “estrato” meant in Bogotá at 8 a.m. on a Tuesday when the realtor asked, “¿Está bien el estrato cuatro para ti o
On my second week in Santo Domingo—ten years and countless tostones ago—I walked into a bank wearing beach sandals and optimism. I’d come for a