Writer | Editor | Photographer
NEAR the beginning of “Moby-Dick,” Ishmael explains why he decided to set sail from Nantucket: “There was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island.”
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WANDERING through the riotous, labyrinthine stalls of Bangkok’s Chatuchak Market has given you an appetite. For hours, you’ve been pressing between crowds of local women haggling over mangoes, melons, and rank-smelling durian fruit; karaoke-CD hawkers wailing into staticky microphones; and bamboo cages full of fighting cocks and fluffy barking puppies.
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THERE are bats hanging over my bed.
I discover them the morning I arrive at Shompole, when I’m escorted to my private sleeping loggia, which can’t quite be called a room because it has no walls.
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EMPTY, snow-covered tundra stretches for hundreds of miles in every direction. An icy wind is blowing; a thickly batted quilt of cloud covers the sky.
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