One month. Every major city. Three interlocking voices: gonzo, historical, and the flâneur’s particular kind of attention.
“Sometimes six or seven whiskeys leave you feeling loose around the edges. More than a few of those whiskeys had sand in them. Sure, I was in Egypt, but nowhere near the desert. I was hanging off a jagged chair in a haggard bar in the center of Alexandria. What the fuck am I drinking whiskey and sand for on a Tuesday at 11:30am?”