There’s this tiny windmill statue on my bookcase, a tacky tourist replica of Cervantes’ inspiration for Don Quixote’s adventures. It’s placed there, in the front of my living room where I’m forced to look at it every day, with careful intention. At age 16, I scribbled a list of mostly dumb life goals on the pages of a brown journal. In pencil it said “travel alone in a country where you don’t...
Seven months ago, we consumed exactly one glass of champagne at 2 a.m., when someone finally thought to look at the time. In the traditional way, we’d again missed the countdown to the New Year. An hour later, we packed the three of us – my two best friends from middle school and I – an elderly Rottweiler, a thermos of coffee, and four sleeping bags into an orange hatchback and drove to the beach...