I’m back in ‘Merica for a spell and what a strange place. I took my time getting here. When I arrived in Pasadena to stay the night at a friend’s house, wild green parrots were flying overhead–the raucous descendants of a pair that had been released in the city decades ago. As the tropical birds flew across the silhouettes of transplanted palm trees, I thought about how few of us stay in our place these days–not even the filial-minded Chinese.

During a 13-hour layover in Seoul, I dropped by Changdeokgung Palace and became obsessed with these morphic, almost abstract figures above the palace eaves. It was a clear September day, and after Bangkok the city felt like a wilderness retreat. I was no longer living between two open jackhammer-happy construction pits. The Koreans spoke to one another in subdued, melodious tones. Seoul, Thank God, was already constructed.

The one thing I bought in Seoul is this soft straw hat. I love the way the sun filters through its floppy eaves. The hat is both a concrete and amorphous roof for the head.

An Italian bike, Bangkok-minimart plastic shoes, a Chinese tattoo inked in New Orleans. We’re all mixed up these days and filled with the nonsensical squawks of parrots, political chatter. I’m beginning to agree with Hemingway in that there are many words I cannot stand to hear, and finally only the names of places have dignity.

Bangkok, Seoul, Pasadena, Idaho, Bianchi, Dodge Dart, Bethany.

Photographs by Bethany Walter

bike: Bianchi; car: Dodge Dart; cargo pants: Paige; cotton shirt: American Apparel; straw hat: somewhere in Seoul at the base of the mountains; plastic shoes: Jelly Bunny; wood-bead bracelets: a gift from a child at Angkor Wat