We waited to cross and watched the bikes roll by and the people walk past; listened as the city hummed its mechanical hymn. Every corner we turned cut to a new scene; every street a new prose. It was cinematic poetry, and no poet could direct a better dream than this.
Where do you want to go, he asked when we arrived in Lyon, and I said “up there,” up on Croix Rousse. We climbed stairs and zigzagged our way up sloped streets. The city climbed, too, clinging to the hills and pouring into pocket parks and winding roads. This city feels old and loved, I
These vignettes of an analog world have an ineluctable charm. This is a neighborhood from a different era and empire; from a foregone manner of city planning. The flickering gas lamps illuminate the cobblestone walkways and narrow streets; cast a warm glow beneath the balconies adorned with ornament and extravagance. The sense of place here
Here’s to a century of memories in this catalog house whose timber was erected by a family from Norway by way of Wisconsin setting their foundation on this scenic crest of Tacoma for the price of $1,000. What was it like here perched above a booming industry town, steps away from the McKinley streetcar, on
AN ODE TO MY HOUSE Read More »
I recently gave away my chair after it cracked, and I think a little part of me cracked, too. I remember buying it when I went thrifting for furniture shortly after moving to Seattle and finding a new place. I didn’t own any furniture, nor did I have many belongings with me. I felt weary