The Walrus
Last summer, I sat outside the iconic Parisian bookstore Shakespeare and Company and reached for my backpack. Across from me was the Notre-Dame Cathedral, her restoration nearly complete, and I wanted to capture the moment. While I pulled out paints, brushes, mini-palette, and sketchbook, my husband and son occupied themselves reading. They were growing accustomed to these painting interludes—even if I wasn’t. The fact that I owned and used art supplies still seemed preposterous. But travel had changed me. It has a way of doing that.
The first time this happened, I was ten, moving cross-country with my family in a refurbished school bus. I had already planned to become an author, and for years, I had filled spiral notebooks with slow, deliberate cursive. But somewhere between New Hampshire and Arizona, I started scribbling with a sudden mysterious fervour, my pencil tearing wildly across the pages.
(This article is not available online)
Going: New Orleans, The Southern US City Where Jazz Was Born
Parents: I Grew Up in a Haunted House—Here’s What I Tell My Child About Ghosts
AFAR: Seoul Food
Off Assignment, Letter to a Stranger: “To the Shopkeeper in Fez”
The Bold Italic: “Working Three Jobs Nearly Killed Me”
AirBnB Magazine: “So I Slept in a ...Cave”
AAA Westways Magazine: “Korean Encore”
AFAR.com: “Everything You Need to Know About Jazz Fest”
AFAR.com: “Get Beyond the Beads: The 101 on Mardi Gras Throws”
AFAR.com: “The Art of Eating Crawfish in New Orleans”
AFAR.com: “Find New Orleans’s Soul at These 6 Mini-Museums”
Ms. Magazine: “Politics is on the Menu at Hell’s Backbone Grill”
AirBnB Magazine: “New Orleans for the Celebratory”
Off Assignment, Letter to a Stranger: “To the one who was supposed to get away”
Off Assignment, Letter to a Stranger: “To Old Johnny”
Viator: “Coming Full Circle”
World Hum: “How Korean Karaoke Changed my Life”
Independent Bookstore Day’s anthology: “My Lesson from Hell”
I wasn’t willing to settle for less than kismet. But chasing a romantic illusion nearly kept me from finding love. -- The night I agreed to try online dating, I told my roommate Meghan I hoped I wouldn’t meet anyone because that wasn’t the kind of story . . .
We are at the dinner table when my young son asks, “The day after a lot of tomorrows, will we build a treehouse?” I want to scoop him in my arms, this boy so eager and fresh, so tall his forehead meets my shoulder. If I could, I would lift his body above . . .
I still clearly remember my first meal in South Korea. I had just arrived in the country, fresh out of college and ready to begin a job teaching English. My new boss had whisked me from the airport to a barbecue restaurant, where I’d watched in panic as . . .
. . .