In the bungalow by the beach, I try to appreciate the Victorian wallpaper.
In the coffee shop, I am thought to be Mexican.
In Chicago, I reject my companion’s dining choices.
In Davao, I purchase tokens for a five-minute shower.
In the allegedly ghost-ridden hallway, I call into question the sparseness of my wardrobe.
In the elevator, I am pressured by the clerk to hyphenate.
In the ballet studio, I am seized by an uncharacteristic confusion over left and right.
In the arctic conference room, I am too embarrassed to say no to a manicure.
In Cubao, I take off my heels and slip into flats.
In Bellagio, I weep over an unpresentable pincushion made for sewing class.
In the library, I admire a strongly worded memo.
In Rome, I eat a macaroon.
In Boracay, I procrastinate.
In New York City, I attempt to mimic an old roommate’s unidentifiable accent.
In my childhood bedroom, I spend an inordinate amount of time around copy machines.
In Bangkok, I take my lunch with a bottle of cerveza.
In Venice, I admit to my unforgivable condescension.
In the supermarket, I am annoyed by the display of privilege in texts about travel.
In the balcony, I indulge in the delusion of a miniature herb garden.
In Sendai, I hunt in sequence, from PN to PQ to PR.
In the government office, I judge the painting on the wall.
In Palawan, I am asked to produce too many identification cards to have my money changed.
In the rickety cable car, I learn to make a rosary, a macramé belt, and a hand-sewn apron.
In Tokyo, I excuse myself from the exasperating religious debate over dinner.
In Singapore, I distract myself by painting flowers on a handkerchief.
In Dumaguete, I doze during a mellow card game.
In church, I lose a coat.
In Baguio, I am unfazed by the transport strike.
In the taxi, I am mistaken for the writing resident’s companion.
In the hole in the wall, I read the signs.
In Bali, I am addressed in Chinese.
In Paris, I am intrigued by the red telephone.
In Binondo, I wear my interlocutor’s sunglasses.
In Cleveland, I apologize for the errors on the form.
In the clinic, I am thrilled to spot an actor whose movies I abhor.
In Antipolo, I write the incriminating postcard.
In Manila, I affectionately decline phone sex at two in the morning.
In my office, I am asked an unnerving question.
In Mandaluyong, I peel an apple with a Swiss knife.
In the cheap hotel, I am told to keep my voice down.
In the waiting room, I calculate the costs of moving to a bigger apartment.
In Pittsburgh, I watch a poodle sashay toward an ice cream shop.
In the theater, I smile at the child drooling in its stroller.
In Florence, I adopt a cat.
In Makati, I despair over the malfunctioning keycard.
In the computer room, I comfort myself in the aisle devoted to cleaning agents.
In Los Baños, I am hungry after making out.
In Brisbane, I think of Cubao in June.
In Amsterdam, I am envious of the protagonist’s impeccable posture.
In Los Angeles, I am amused by my catastrophic pirouettes.