In Antigua

    "In Antigua I am famous. I am bathed in jasmine

    and pressed with warm stones."

    -Carnival Cruise ad in the New Yorker

    In Albuquerque， on the other hand， I am infamous； children

    throw stones and the elderly whisper behind their hands.

    In Juneau， I am glacial， a cool blue where anyone can bathe

    for a price. In Rio I am neither exalted nor defamed； I walk

    the streets and nothing makes sense， voices garbled， something

    about electricity， something about peonies and cheap wool.

    In Prague I am as fabulous as Napoleon and everyone

    knows it. They give me a horse and I tell them this horse

    will be buried with me， I tell them I will call the horse either

    Andromeda or Murphy and all applaud wildly. In Montreal

    I am paler than I am in Toronto. In Istanbul I trip over cracks

    in the sidewalk and no one rushes to take my elbow， to say

    Miss or brew strong tea for a poultice. In Sydney they talk

    about my arrival for days. I sit outside the opera house

    waiting for miracles， and when none occur in a fortnight

    it's Ecuador， where the old gods include the small scythes

    of my fingernails in their rituals and I learn that anything

    can ferment， given opportunity， given terra cotta. In Paris

    I'm up all night. Off the Gold Coast， I marry a reverend

    who swears that pelicans are god's birds and numbers them

    fervently， meanwhile whistling. Near Bucharest I go all

    invisible， also clammy， also way more earnest than I ever was

    in Memphis. For three Sundays I wander skinny side streets

    saying amphora， amphora.