Step away from a marathon art party to join my brother at a well-lighted ATM. It's actually more of a slot machine, with a deck of old cards stashed where the deposit envelopes should be. As he locks in a solid win, I wander past a storefront that has been rented to promote a forthcoming novel by a Salvadoran writer. I pay it the highest tribute I can muster at that moment: urine.

The only passenger in a silent jet that must circle around the block hundreds of times to burn off fuel before it lands. On each circuit we pass through the breezeway of a white mansion where a conference is underway. I have been invited to speak.

Sitting on a top bunk listening to the desert stories of a group of travelers who seem to know one another. I stay silent for lack of context. During a lull, I finally squeeze out a question about the terms of engagement in this group. And the red-haired leader, a married woman just a few years older than me, climbs on top of me so that her hair brushes my lips. Our eyes locked, she tells the group to take a short break.

An exhaustive self-inventory, muttered into the eternal dictaphone.

Man leaps down from the balcony of the theater, climbs over rows and rows of occupied seats, to bring an accusation to the stage. But the ceremony is already breaking up. Repeat.

After a harrowing walk on the seaside hills, I don't want to venture out again, even in the armored terrain vehicle. But someone has to go foraging for provisions. The next morning I want to play keys with the full summer camp band. But to truly feel rhythm, I'm told by Bjorn, I must learn to breastfeed a child—or at least a piglet. Convinced I'm working at a disadvantage, I resolve to suck an egg—or at least a kiwi.

Perched on the roof of our barn, working through a twelve-course tasting menu, slightly worried about the fall, while the chef's children deliberately perch on the gutter and slip themselves down.