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Time to slay your own dragons, ladies.

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My first kiss was an unwanted one. I was seven years old when a boy named David pushed me up against the wall outside our apartment building. Forcing his mouth on mine, his breath, hot and fusty, something sickly sweet like apple juice and milk gone sour in his gut that made me squirm. I don’t remember seeing him as I ran with my brother and the other neighborhood kids through the empty lot next door, scrabbling over the toppled trees, slick with moss, tripping over the bramble of twigs and woodsy decay, but he must have been there, his knees as scratched and muddied as ours, before he caught up with me in the driveway that ran alongside and behind the apartment building. 
As usual I’d tagged along in my older brother’s shadow. Tag, hide and seek, cowboys and indians, the games kids used to play. Outdoors, up and down the streets, no watchful mommies on red alert. Ignoring our mothers’ warnings—don’t go into the woods, don’t go into the woods—we went into the woods, woods that in fact …

Travel: Other Places


Beach Music From San Juan to Santa Monica

Turkish Delight  Izmir, Turkey 


Surfing Lessons   San Juan Puerto Rico

London Blues   Travels with my sister

By the Bay, Barely   On going topless in France

5 Ways to Feel like Youre in France  When you’re franc-less

The first time I saw Paris  Paris when it drizzles

The Height of Hubris  The top of Notre Dame

Storming the Bastille   Paris in the summer of 89

Pretty French Postcards  From Paris to Bandol

The Price of Potatoes  Bandol

Sous le soleil  Bandol

The Walk   About a boy in Bandol [the beginning]

The Kiss   About a boy in Bandol [the middle]

Garlic & Gauloises   About a boy in Bandol [the end]


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