Forboding creeps into my heart as the bus nears Copacabaña border crossing. I'm taking a gamble. All the other passengers are European, because Americans are supposed to get visas before entering Bolivia with a two-way plane ticket, but I'm relying on the schmoozing powers that have so magically transported me across many frontiers.
Jack's Cafe may sit on Cuzco's most touristy corner but truly deserves its long line of travelers spilling out into the street.
The Inca-berry-slathered alpaca filet on my plate and the narcotic coca leaves in my teacup can only mean one thing: I'm in Cusco.
Nirvana is to be experienced rather than defined, except to say that the airport in Lima is its exact opposite.
Interjet flight 2890 to Lima isn't packed with bookish lesbian hikers like the plane from Missoula to Salt Lake was or prudish mormon elders like the plane from there to Mexico was.
Readers who've been breathlessly awaiting the revelation of the first location of my global vacation can now breathe deeply from the fresh air on Montana's Lake McDonald.
Enough hibernation already!Humanity is doomed to vacillate between distress and boredom, as the German philosopher Schopenhauer said.
A big greedy insurance company very recently conspired to find out what career makes people the happiest, so they could provide more insurance to long-living happy folks rather than short-lived sad folks.
The prestigious Eclectica Magazine is publishing dual anthologies of what they consider the best fiction and nonfiction writing from the last twenty years.
Goat milk caramel and strawberries with whipped cream are common confections in Guanajuato. Yet, I’m introduced to these ordinary sweet things by an extraordinary sweet thing: a brown sugar and exotic dancer named Clementine.
After dreams of making beautiful music with Lila Downs, I awake under a desert sunrise. Hit the road home to my ranch.
While moving this week into a new house in the verdant rainforest that encircles my university above the Oaxacan coast, your author stumbled upon notes scribbled at the desert ranch I inhabited for two years before coming here.
This magazine has already provided snapshots of the tiny tip of the huge iceberg that is the lifelong ideological and moral bancruptcy of Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton.
The next morning, I’m driven to the small town of Coxcatlan by a new friend named Lily. She’s not exactly hard on the eyes.
I spend all morning at the Museum of the Tehuacan Valley. This shrine to the history of corn is located in the former Convent of Carmen, where I stroll happily from exhibit to exhibit in a geek’s paradise. Today, the Tehuacan Valley is a dusty nook between the states of Puebla, Veracruz, and Oaxaca.
Outside the bus window is a deceitful desert. Hot dry air and dusty bone-colored land totally conceal a vast subterranean river network draining the ice melt from Mount Pico de Orizaba.
Trudging across the snow by the dim light of a headlamp, I can barely make out the shapely Mexican hips that serve as my guiding stars.
Last week publishers, copyright experts and other supporters filed amicus briefs petitioning the Supreme Court to hear the copyright-infringement case against Google brought by the Authors Guild.
Our bodies are a lifelong construction project. The food we eat is the raw material and the exercise we do is the building process.
Previous articles in this ongoing series referred to the life wisdom of the Olmecs, who were the earliest known civilization in the Americas.