Uh-oh. I’ve got eight minutes to make a post.
Here I am, a canned highball in hand, walking home through the cold, damp night. Not too long ago I was riding in the back of a car with three elderly students of mine. Somehow, in ways I can’t quite explain, it was like being in a Steve Buschemi film. It was the nearest thing I’ve been to being high in a long, long time, the detached observer in the back seat, wondering where he is and how he fits into all of this. That’s life abroad, sometimes. Life as an outsider.
