Unraveling history's alternate timelines
I arrived between Sippar and Kish in the usual Akkadian way: by following a road that is more suggestion than surface, past ditches that smell of wet clay and warm bitumen, until a gate guard decides ...
Continue readingI came into Pune the way most things arrive here: pushed along by heat, habit, and someone else’s schedule. The road from the outskirts into the town was a strip of hard-packed dust edged with thorn a...
Continue readingStone wakes up earlier than people here. By the time the first ox-carts start grumbling along the causeway, the laterite blocks are already warm on the sun-facing edges, and the lotus finials on the t...
Continue readingThe harbor looks like it has studied the same maps as I have: low slate sky pressed down like a lid, grey water chopped into small, angry squares, and foreign observers on the heights lifting binocula...
Continue readingThe siren began, as it has every evening since I arrived near Dezful, with the weary confidence of something that knows no one can argue it into silence. The sound slid across the flat fields and into...
Continue readingThe first thing you learn in the Panjshir in 1984 is that the valley has its own acoustics for fear. A single rifle crack doesn’t sound like one shot; it hops ridge to ridge, repeats itself, and then ...
Continue readingI stepped off the tram from Cornavin with the same small jolt I always get when a city is familiar but my body insists it isn’t. The rails squealed at the vineyard bend, right on schedule, like a viol...
Continue readingThe first thing I did after stepping into Batavia was what I always do: pretend I belonged. It helps to look tired in a port city. Everyone is tired here—tired from heat that feels like a wet cloth he...
Continue readingThe first thing Cape Town does in September is remind you that spring is a rumor told by people who don’t live near oceans. The air off the docks has that wet bite that finds the thin spots in your ja...
Continue readingI came up from the river road while the last of the night still clung to the low ground like spilled ink. The Morava below the hillfort looked cut from black cloth, with a thin seam of gray where dawn...
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