Colombian Poetry Readings: How to Introduce Yourself on Open-Mic
That Night in Laureles When My Name Turned Into a Metaphor Ten years of Caribbean sun have bronzed more than my skin. They’ve toasted my accent, too
That Night in Laureles When My Name Turned Into a Metaphor Ten years of Caribbean sun have bronzed more than my skin. They’ve toasted my accent, too
I still remember the first time my tripod clicked open on the cobblestones of Cartagena’s Plaza de los Coches. The golden hour had just dissolved in
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. He lifted t
Three years ago I was halfway up the fog-soaked switchbacks of Cerro Quitasol, outside Medellín, when the right shoulder strap on my trusty hiking ba
From Santo Domingo to the Sierra Nevada: My First “¿Qué tan duro es?” Moment Ten years of calling the Dominican Republic home have gifted me a l