“6:45 a.m. in Portland, Maine is a weightless, in-between time. In the stillness, before the city shakes itself fully awake, there’s only the sour, bready scent of the breweries and occasionally, when the wind is right, the faint whiff of salt and sea.”
“3 p.m. in Requena is time to eat. Yes, you ate breakfast on the terrace four hours ago: peach wedges, watermelon triangles, crisp wafers of cucumber.”
“Dusk in the Rubʿ al Khali is stepping outside into air that feels the same as your body, like when you get used to pool water and forget you are wet.”
“6:15 p.m. on the Hill of the Skull, just south of Quillacollo, Bolivia, is when crowds of pilgrims finally disperse, and the distant jingle of the shaman’s bell now carries easily through the thin, Andean air.”
“9 a.m. on Tana Street is when a little boy climbs the ladder to the bronze bell of Adaikalanathar Lutheran Church, rising over its stained-glass glory.”