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
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
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,
“¡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
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 Punto de Partida: A Muddy Morning in Los Haitises The story begins with red mud clinging to my boots and a stubborn sprinkle of
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.