HeyJaredImpressions of an Expat
How I left America, and my adventures in Eastern Europe as a husband, father and artist.
Part of Impressions of an Expat. Follow the publication for all its platforms.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 12
- Latest publication
- Sep 28, 2026
- Audience
- Checking…
- Earliest in this view
- Jul 13, 2026
Latest issues
Kitchen sink dramas (opens the original)
Read excerpt
There is an album of songs written over the past few years that sits on a shelf. They are hard to play, and you need extra-good callouses on your left hand to pull them off. My callouses keep falling away, like round little rhino horns, exotic and rare, swirling down the drain while work eclipses most of life. There are worse problems to have. Those songs are not going anywhere, they are just on ice. Somehow, new ones arrived this year, flying in the windows that are perpetually flung open. Thes
selling air (opens the original)
Read excerpt
The humble Woolworth’s counter plays a pivotal role in American politics, namely race relations. Between the tuna melts and the scalding cups of ink black coffee, a handful of students in the 60s protested in a perfect act of peaceful resistance. Any person should be able to sit on any chair and order. Such a simple idea, but so late in the making. Well, not chairs but stools at Woolworth’s, but the point was made. Somehow, change did sluggishly begin.A small-town Woolworth’s counter played heav
the stolen pastel (opens the original)
Read excerpt
Lisbon unfolded, all cobblestones and fiercely hot sun, all garlic and pork chops and tiny sweet clams, the sidewalk more like a river of faces, windows displaying handmade gloves fit for a princess, a curious cast iron elevator out of a movie from the fifties. I ate myself silly and drank myself full on someone else’s dime - working on a big budget commercial, sleeping in the softest hotel bed. Each night ended with a trip to a little window with a one euro coin in my palm, where I got a shot o
And now there is thunder (opens the original)
Read excerpt
Sunday rolls in with blueberry pancakes, but my heart just isn’t in them. There is too much matsoni (a sort of Georgian yogurt) in the batter, and they are wet and sloppy, soaking up the butter and sticking to the pan. They are not fluffy, but they are only for me because N and V are still away visiting relatives - so I will eat them with strong coffee and the sacred bottle of maple syrup that is tucked way in the back of the fridge. The pancakes are a half-hearted gesture, a little sweet moment
the mayor of Barnovi street (opens the original)
Read excerpt
Barnovi street weaves through our little neighborhood - named after Vasil Barnovi, a Georgian writer from the last century. If this was Key West, it might be named Hemingway Street, or Faulkner Avenue in Mississippi. The sidewalk narrows in places, dotted with dog shit, interrupted by broken stairs, widening onto courtyards, sprawling towards public schools. There are slender little shops a few steps down from street level, cramped and dim-lit rabbit holes where you can get some shoes resoled, o
Publishing over time
Last 90 days. Choose a month to open its work.
Recurring subjects
Named in the text we hold. One piece can cover several.
Audience
No verified audience measurement yet.
About this data
Counts cover the work we have indexed. Tone needs enough text and a confident classification. Excerpts and episode notes are not full articles or transcripts.
Identity or attribution wrong? Suggest a correction.