Going back to a book is like returning to the cities we believe to be our own, but which, in reality, we've forgotten and been forgotten by.
This year has been quite a whirlwind, honestly. I went to three different continents! (For some that's nothing, but it's a lot for me!) I do sort of wish I had spent more time exploring Spain, because I was living there and there are sooo many "must-sees" that I never went to. I also wish …
I distinctly remember connecting to this line in The Great Gatsby, but it's really just an excuse for the basic af fall photos. Don't worry, no pumpkin spice lattes.
Some love letters as novelty wears off and culture shock sets in. (Inspired by that very good Netflix movie that you should definitely watch.)
I wonder why a little.
When does a story go from fact to fiction? From recollection to memory to myth?
My Valentine's Day special advocating for early (and age-appropriate) sex ed. How romantic, right?!
An ode to the time of year where there are few odes. The upside of the low season.
How can we rank bookstores? By aesthetics? Coziness? Selection? Notoriety? The cuteness and cuddliness of the live-in cats?
Hipster cafés, cheap vodka, functional public transport. How do I miss thee? Let me count the ways.