The last time we had been in this part of Europe together was 23 years before, when we arrived in Italy as stateless refugees.
It started in the summer of 2008. The Multnomah County library in Portland, Ore., wanted me to return its Russian translation of Stephen Hunter’s thriller “Dirty White Boys.”
“Fifth Sunday in a row,” the ski instructor in the blue staff jacket said, shaking his head and pointing at the fine powder descending peaceably all around us. “There’s 90 inches of snow at the top of that mountain.”
The mayor of a drill-town in Texas tries to persuade an economically battered corner of upstate New York with recently discovered gas reserves to stay away from drilling.
After World War II, when my grandfather returned to Minsk, the capital of Soviet Belarus, his parents suggested he become an electrician. He refused and became a barber instead. “I wanted to work in a clean smock, not a dirty one,” he said. (Barbers in the Soviet Union wore smocks.)
Can a cat teach a self-absorbed guy about parenthood?
The son of an American film icon heads back to his father’s Siberia.
On 9/11 and during Hurricane Katrina, I had felt the empathy of a guest in America. Then I was assigned to edit the Senate’s official report on Katrina.
A dispatch from Iraqi Kurdistan six months after the American invasion, after being smuggled across the Turkish-Iraqi border. America was cozying up to some strange bedfellows.