Have we got a case for you, counselor. See, there’s this company; three shifts, so there’s always people around. But our boy don‘t know that. Part of the place is under construction; he grabs a ladder and goes up on the roof. He takes 5 big buckets of roofing glue and throws them down this hole to the second floor, just to watch how pretty it looks spreading all over the floor, I guess.
Read MoreThe morning of the day after I arrive, my mother wakes me up and takes me to see the wild purplish-blue irises that grow in the wet places in the woods. She’s wearing formless green work pants and a cream shirt, the same kind of uniform she’s worn since I was a child.
Read MoreGaby and I walk the sidewalks of this suburban city, once a small town surrounded by farms, now a bedroom community of Chicago, bristling with strip malls, Starbucks, McMansions and a gigantic Lifetime Fitness. And yet, something remains of the rural landscape: large stands of mature oaks and maples, creeks that feed the DuPage River…
Read MoreMorning in my old neighborhood in Mexico City; and tamales still steam in large, shiny metal containers that look like new garbage cans. A man in a navy blue jumpsuit cuts oranges and soaks carrots, beets and celery to make juice. For a few extra pesos, he will toss in a raw egg, guaranteed to cure a hangover.
Read MoreWhen I drive alone from St. Paul to my native Lake of the Woods, I call my mother from Kelliher or Waskish. “O.K.,” I say, “I’m heading into The Bog.” Which means that if I haven’t arrived within two hours, she’ll call the sheriff and have him drive south from Baudette down Highway 72, just to make sure I haven’t been sucked up into the mysterious depths of The Bog…
Read MoreGaby and I walk the sidewalks of this suburban city, once a small town surrounded by farms, now a bedroom community of Chicago, bristling with strip malls, Starbucks, McMansions and a gigantic Lifetime Fitness. And yet, something remains of the rural landscape: large stands of mature oaks and maples, creeks that feed the DuPage River…
Read MoreMexico City lingers on me: the dust on my dress, the grit in my hair, the spring in my step–the ache in my heart. That feeling of taking the City, walking its streets, riding its buses. More tortilla and lime and aguacate than I can eat. Flan de coco, cocoanut flan, at Bellinghausen’s, the restaurant founded by Germans during the Mexican Revolution of 1910.
Read MoreAt 10:30 PM, the twilight in this place on the northern edge of the United States has finally slipped into darkness. A cool wind chased away the humidity and–for now at least–the mosquitoes. No other night sounds yet. Later perhaps, an owl, a whippoorwill or the deer that sidle into the clearing to graze, long-legged and graceful as ballerinas.
Read MoreIn the crowded but cozy Cafe Buenos Dias–Good Morning Cafe–customers in warm sweaters and jackets sip the best coffee in town, breakfast on eggs, beans, salsa, tortillas, fresh fruit and juice and chatter in Spanish, English and French. We sit inside on well-worn leather chairs. Others remain in the patio, warmed by tall heat lamps.
Read MoreIt’s been more than 26 years since I tried my first case, but one thing never changes: the adrenaline drop afterwards. When I was a brand new public defender, the first thing I’d do after my jury went out to deliberate is head to my favorite cafe to have a triple (yes, a triple) espresso and something chocolate. Thus fortified, I could ride out the high for a long time.
Read MoreWe are all tuned to our phones, our iPads, our TVs–maybe even our radios–in advance of the Big Storm headed our way. Snow from Canada, rain from the south, all of it colliding right above our martyred Minnesota. The meteorologist says, “There’s a big swirl up there…” And we shiver.
Read MoreHere in Granada, home of the Alhambra and poet Federico García Lorca, people in January (as our host, Concha says) dress like onions, i.e., in layers. Everyone wears a winter coat, hat, gloves and boots.
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