The most devastating queer essay you'll read today: Intrepid lesbian New Yorker reporter Ariel Levy at 38 went alone to Ulaanbaatar when she was five months pregnant and five years married, and suddenly she was neither. She writes, "People were alarmed when I told them where I was going, but I was pleased with myself. I liked the idea of being the kind of woman who’d go to the Gobi Desert pregnant, just as, at twenty-two, I’d liked the idea of being the kind of girl who’d go to India by herself. And I liked the idea of telling my kid, “When you were inside me, we went to see the edge of the earth.”
Mixed with the inescapable foreboding are lighter details like a twelve-year expat consultant from Tennessee telling her, "You’re talking about an economy based on yak meat and goat hair." She goes to "an underground gay bar called 100 Per Cent—which could have been in Brooklyn, except that everyone in Mongolia still smoked indoors. I liked sitting in a booth in a dark room full of smoking, gay Mongolians, but my body was feeling strange."
Two pages later her happiness is shattered and she thinks, "this change in fortune was my fault. I had boarded a plane out of vanity and selfishness, and the dark Mongolian sky had punished me." Read it.