This is the Tower of Toghrul, in Rey, Northern Iran, circa 1860s.
Since summer ended, my arms have grown weaker, I’ve eaten more pasta, and I lost my grandmother. I didn’t lose her, she left, saying “dying isn’t fun at all.” In her lucid moments she said she had to go back to dreaming her “very busy dreams.”
I took this the summer after I met Sam, in a bistro bathroom. He flew to California to meet me and my dad. On the last night of the visit we drank whiskey on the porch while picking tangerines. Sam’s good with dads.
I took this on my first visit to Oaxaca. I love this city and specifically its barbershops. Nobody is ever cutting hair.
I took this in Chengdu, a week after my dad married his third wife. I wore a cardboardy Carhartt jacket every day, often indoors, too. I’m used to the american tradition of heating and AC on demand. My toes were numb in Chengdu.
I took this during my first month in Buenos Aires, before I was familiar with the bus routes and facturas. Facturas are bakery pastries: phyllo dough, dulce de leche, powdered sugar, medialunas-half-moons-crescents-croissants, glazes, buns, custards, crusts, crackles. I ate one hundred before I left.