Naples, Italy. May, 1988

The first time I visited Naples, I’d arrived on an overnight train from Zurich where a Swiss friend had warned me not to wear my watch or carry my camera on the streets. That drivers didn’t obey traffic lights. That the city was going to be a shock after the precise and disciplined behavior in Switzerland. He was right, and I loved it. Crossing six lanes of traffic that paid no attention to red lights became somewhat of a game. There was a happy chaos in the markets, on the streets. People smiled and enjoyed life. I came upon a street fair, also chaotic, and bought a porchetta sandwich on which I promptly chipped a tooth. Oh, well. Years later, when Nick and I arrived there for his Great Italian Desserts research, we sought out a pastry shop that made sanguinaccio, a pudding whose principal ingredient was pig’s blood. We misread the map and wound up on a backstreet in Spaccanapoli, a very poor section that was as fascinating as it was intimidating (alleyways of cavelike homes open to the street with only dining tables and huge TV sets.) And, after a great lunch, we found a (relatively) quiet square where one napolitano had kindly scrawled this omaggio in advance of my return.

Los Angeles. November, 2005

Back in the days when the economy (and the honorable, hands-off management crew then in place) encouraged such things, our creative team at Bose, where I worked for some eight-plus years, would create billboards to announce new products. Mostly for placement in warm-weather locations, like this one on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. Mike, the best designer I have ever had the pleasure of working with, and I would then travel to check out their locations and decide how best to use the space. And then we’d sometimes return later to inspect the installation and relative effectiveness. As you can see, even in a city like LA, plastered with more billboards per capita than anywhere else on Earth, Mike’s design pops (as clients were fond of requesting.) So how could I resist a jumping picture in front of it? Later we’d heard that Dr. Bose had seen this billboard on a trip to LA and had complained that the palm trees got in the way. Just saying.

Kadiköy, Istanbul. June, 2007

I am fortunate to live in a town with a sizable Armenian community, assuring that the local markets are well stocked with the Middle Eastern ingredients I rely on for so much of my cooking. For example, each of the five such stores within blocks of my home carry at least a half dozen different types of feta, my current favorite being the creamy and less salty French style. And olives! I have stopped counting these days and go straight to the Moroccan oil-cured black olives that I love. (A Lebanese man in my nearest store once stopped me and said, “We eat those for breakfast.” Now I do, too.) But the rich roster of olive types near my home is nothing compared to the varieties that were available in the open market here on the Asian side of Istanbul. Zeytin means olive in Turkish, and just look at some of these beauties. Dried, cured in salt, cured in oil, black, purple, green, large and small from all over the country and beyond. Just imagine the breakfasts.

Watertown, MA. October, 2016

All made from paper and paint by the delightful and whimsical artist Pier Gustafson. This stack of luggage was on view at his show at Room23Spring gallery.

Springfield, NJ. September, 2010

Meet Emma. My new niece. My dog-loving brother Brien has been wanting a purebred German Shepherd puppy for a long time, and now he has his beauty. Look at the size of those paws at 10 weeks! I couldn’t wait to head down to the Garden State to meet her. Brien is so good with dogs, taking the time to bond, to train. He told me that the first night he brought her home and fenced off the kitchen as her space, he slept in there with her and woke up with her nestled on his stomach. Growing up, we had a dog, and it was always understood that she was Brien’s. And as long as my travels prevent me from adopting a dog (yet), I’m so happy to have my niece to play with. (I sent this photo to my friend Gail, a writer who loves dogs, and she wrote back, “OHMYGOD! Can I have her?” Brien was pleased that this Pulitzer Prize-winner has given Emma her seal of approval, even her wondering if the puppy’s real name might be Emma Gail. I think that can be arranged.)

Lisbon. October, 2009

When I first arrived in Lisbon, I had no idea. Yes, I knew to look for pastéis de nata, the fabled custard tarts baked in a kind of puff-pastry shell. And I knew where to look for them, too. I was aware of Portugal’s tradition of egg-yolk sweets, many originally made in convents from the yolks left over after the whites had been used to (depending on which story you believe) clarify local wines or starch the nuns’ habits. But I was unprepared for the variety of baked and fried sweet pastries that would delight me as I strolled by countless pastry shops each day. Here, a window of the Casa Brasileira on Lisbon’s busy pedestrian Rua Augusta. Every day, new selections would appear, allowing me to try something different at each passing. Like these beauties, Lisbon’s interpretation of sugar-coated, deep-fried beignets. Mmmm-mmm. They certainly did live up to their name: dreams.

Tucson. May, 2005

Each time I visit Tucson, my soul opens. Is it because I’m back in the realm of conversational magic with my friend Simon, who always urges me to release stress and embrace the paths that avoid spirit-sapping corporate pitfalls? Or because people there take their time, seeming to amble from one task to the next (rather than to dash frantically as those of us in the Northeast seem to do most often)? Or that the weather encourages a shoulder-dropping relaxation, a nonchalance that comes with the territory? All of these and more? There’s a freedom that pervades things there. A freedom to do what you want when you want. And to be what you want to be. (One example: I’ve met several people who, I later learned, started out their lives with gender identities different from the ones they have now.) People take time for coffee and conversation. I don’t see as many people constantly checking their phones, their emails, their texts. Independence. It’s as if one is embracing a spiritual detox. The light, the landscape, the sky.