The Road Diaries

by Kevin Carrel Footer Subscribe

Guitarreada

In Paris, anything interesting happens up five flights of curling stairs with no elevator. You go through a street door that is built to withstand the next French Revolution and then you climb those five flights of stairs. I have been in Paris three weeks now, but I...

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Tango Did Not Die

by Kevin Carrel Footer When I arrived in Argentina in the early 1990s, all the tango dancers were septuagenarians. Or so it seemed. They were grandparents and pensioners and widowers. They had aches and pains and afternoons free. I remember going to a milonga at Salon...

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Yvette’s Bed

What I remember most about Yvette is her bed vast like a football field. It filled a room which otherwise lacked furnishings. Dark and always shuttered against the day like the haunt of a vampire, the room was surprisingly sterile. It held nothing but that endless bed...

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Lost Boy

I have always been drawn to compasses. As a child I loved studying the art of navigation by compass in books. Later, in the mountains, I became skilled with one and never once got lost. Indeed, for several years I was part of a mountain rescue unit; we were the people they called when you went out for a day hike in Yosemite and never returned. I still have my compass from those days; I keep it in a drawer in the city.
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