Joanna Zelman is the executive editor of The Dodo.
She previously was a front page editor and green editor for The Huffington Post.
She has written travel pieces from regions including the Himalayas, Patagonia, the Great Barrier Reef and Easter Island. Past interview subjects include former Maldives president Mohamed Nasheed, actor Mark Ruffalo, anthropologist Jane Goodall, activist Paul Watson and actor Betty White.
Joanna is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she was a Public Service Scholar and received a B.A. in International Studies while participating in the Writing for Screen and Stage program. She wrote and directed the play "Uncle Morty's Funeral" on a New York City stage. In Los Angeles, she worked for Jim Lampley's Atticus Entertainment, under a first-look deal with HBO.
Some regard America as an immature brute unwilling to pry his fingers off deadly toys, drunk on a wealthy gun lobby's stale elixir mislabeled as American pride.
It'd be swell if we could all have law degrees without studying and find love without awkward dates and pet kangaroos without biking down highways over glass.
A ray of sun broke through the water's surface to reveal scratches on some jellyfish, silver lightning bolts running down their sides. The prettiest of all were the ones that bore scars.
There exists a world where we define ourselves with car models, business cards and clothing labels. There is also a fleeting world where, among our dearest strangers, we have brief moments of clarity.
I forgot about my sweat, his smell and the empanadas. I held such a connection with this man, I couldn't believe others weren't just in the same room but were doing it too.
You tricked your hands but not your gut. It is here, deep in your belly, that Loneliness sets up shop, shakes out a blanket on the futon, makes a key copy and settles in.
I was dodging stray dogs in colorful coats, faltering at every 800 peso deep-fried cheese-jammed empanada stand, hair frizzing from the sweat bursting through previously uncharted scalp pores.
The water is so clear that when swimming, I can see the chips in my toenail polish. And the stone statues are so grand that upon first sight, all I can utter is "Holy sh*t."
Knowing that others are awake selling hammers, delivering Chinese food, running on treadmills and painting toenails under 3 a.m. stars buried by light pollution helps me sleep at night.
I don't remember the Eiffel Tower. I know I wore a black jacket, which I later lost. I have seen Ghana's slave castles and Spain's Gaudí museum, but I don't remember much of those either.
I darted to the right when they darted to the right away from a rickshaw, paused when they paused for a bus, squeezed when they squeezed between a cart and car, and finally broke from my human shield.
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