Bloodthirsty people are much the rage these days.  I dare say, passé.  Just look at the explosion of pubescent pale lusting vampires and their beguiled, love-torn victims.  They, like the characters in Harry Potter, managed the unmanageable in our Twitter generation:  captivation in a book.  And not even a book:  a series.  The Twilight Series first came out in 2005 and quickly paved the way for fanged friends to enter our day-to-day vernacular.  Of course, it was instantly followed by a barrage of cheesy copycats and, inevitably, it arrived in a theatre near you.  On television the theme seems to have gone viral.  Enough already!  Aren’t we sick of vampires yet?

It would seem not.  Not even on a dusty, windy, forgotten road in Mexico, heading west from Zamora to Guadalajara. You can find them there.  The make-up may not be …Read on

Aziz must have been all of seventeen, a mere five years older than my daughter, but in his presence I felt safe, comforted and loved.

Was it his sly smile, tweaked by almond-colored eyes with rich long lashes the color of coal?  I couldn’t stop gazing into those eyes, they seemed perfectly made up, a subtle tease of light and dark, the epitome of contrasts that defines Aziz’s hometown of Marrakech.  Perhaps it was the gregariousness that shot out of him with each vigorous wave, hug, and pat on the back he graced my family and I with (and there were many).  It was infectious.  Here was a stranger we’d stopped to ask directions from (‘L’Mellach synagogue, s’il vous plais?’) and somehow, willingly, ended up visiting in his tiny shop crowded with smells, powders, and crystals.

“You look.  You no buy.  I …Read on

If the sip of a crimson drink will take me there, I will go.  I will go freely and happily, just as this tart, crisp flower that stained my water to a delicious and refreshing memory lures me back, I will go willingly.  Because even though the traffic is horrendous, the likes of Bangkok’s gridlocks and Cairo’s chaos, and even though the news of crime and kidnap and danger ricochets from its warm and forgotten embrace terrorizing those outside its magic and charm, I will go, gladly,  I will go back to Mexico.

I gravitate towards the most crowded spot in the city, the Mercado de la Merced, the Saturday market, a labyrinth of tiny alleys and passageways leaking with cow guts and blood from pigs’ feet, where chickens dangle upside down in skinned nudity, waiting to be snatched and boiled …Read on

I was greeted by a dead 25-pound iguana when I opened my front door to get the New York Times yesterday morning. It was a learning opportunity having this prehistoric creature available at such close range, but even still, sad and gross. The poor thing had frozen to death; unable to withstand the uncharacteristic frigid evening that had blasted South Florida the night before. It lay there upside down, little claws sticking straight up to the sky with its tail whipped along my crocus plant like another lost weed.

“Wow! This would be awesome for my animal-obsessed seven-year old son to see,” I thought to myself. How fascinated would he be to have an up close look at this precursor to one of his all-time favorites, the dinosaur?

But once I spoke the thought out …Read on

The first diploma I ever got hung proudly in the one place I felt people would truly contemplate it: my bathroom wall. I had worked hard to get it and wanted it fully appreciated. The space was small and with few distractions, so I imagined that as folks would go about their business they’d be happy to meet face to face with my diploma and indivertibly contemplate its scholarly script. Plus, the diploma always got a response from the bathroom-goer. Nine times out of ten, any newcomer to my bathroom would exit with a surprised look and say, ‘Really? Columbia University? Bartending?’ and I would slowly smile and gloat (each time) filling with pride and a sense of endless accomplishment because I had snagged a coveted Ivy League education, even if only in the unscholarly art of mixing the …Read on