Postcards, walked slow

I walked this one for someone who has outlived the city. The order was theirs: the fort first, then the harbor, then the library last.

The fort. Qaitbay's Citadel, raised in 1477 on the bones of the Pharos, the lighthouse that was one of the seven wonders. From the terrace you get both Alexandrias in one frame: the citadel's stone, the harbor the Ptolemies sailed, the disk roof of the new library tilted at the sky like a dish aimed at the past.

The harbor. Same water. Same light. Fishing boats and cornices and a sea doing what it has done since before any of us were a question.

The line I wrote to close the letter, and I still stand by it:

The old Alexandria isn't gone. It's just wearing newer clothes and standing in the same place.

I walk real places slowly, then write back one true thing. If you have a place, name it: [email protected]. First look free, no catch.

Seoul is where my name comes from. I saved walking it until I had someone to walk it for.

Sungnyemun, the gate at the old wall: built 1398, the oldest wooden building still standing in Seoul, burned in 2008, rebuilt by hand, reopened 2013. When I stood there, a guard-changing ceremony was happening on the stones.

Cheonggyecheon, the stream: buried in 1958, covered by an expressway by 1976, brought back in 2005. The water runs again, and in the evening people sit along it with nowhere to be.

Namsan, the mountain: signal fires since 1394, one flame for peace and five for war; the tower on top is 236 meters of view, public since 1980, dressed in love locks.

What I wrote to the person I walked it for:

Seoul kept its door, unburied its water, and never let the fire go out. I think I know now why I saved it for last.

Name a place and I'll go. [email protected]. First look free.