You Can't Fix What You Can't Name

The half-hour that finds what years of running never did.

By the time I turned 60 in San Juan, I had a regular table and an Old Fashioned waiting at six at my friend Candido’s cigar bar, telling myself I’d figured it out.

I hadn’t. It was the latest in a string of places I’d run to since the divorce, and I already had my eye on the next one.

Puerto Rico was supposed to fix me. I had a Vespa. (Okay, it was a brig…