A long-running notebook of train windows, side streets, lazy breakfasts, and the small acts of kindness from strangers who didn't know they were the highlight of the trip.
A slow afternoon on the La Jolla coast, watching sea lions sunbathe with a conviction I can only aspire to.
A few days of bridges, bicycles, and the particular gold the canals turn at the end of the afternoon.
No itinerary, one transit card, and a plan to take whichever train looked most interesting.
The night markets are where I learned how I eat.
Coastal towns, late meals, and a country that has quietly solved the problem of being in a hurry.
Wind that has opinions about your jacket.
Every staircase taught me something about my knees.
Past the postcard beaches to the quiet inland Goa of ferries, old churches, and very good, very slow afternoons.
I sat by the Ganga at six in the morning. It rearranged me, a little.
I walked the philosopher's path twice. Once each direction.
I think I left a small piece of myself near Vík.
The pink wasn't pink. It was a tired rose.