Summer Postcards 2011
The prevailing lyrical literature on home, from Bruce Springsteen to Skylar Gray, supports the idea that home is where you grew up, or where the people you love live.
Fear of being cheated, hunger for new business, obsession with adding unique value, and the satisfaction of loyal teamwork—highly chaotic and unstructured, this has been my summer as an entrepreneur-in-training.
Surrounded by three teenagers and my fellow counselor, Walter, I imagined that this was how a bank robber must feel in the moments before he raises a gun and demands all the money.
I kept looking for something that would make this last scene memorable, but I turned away frustrated.
I promised my friends and parents that I would only go to the favelas, or illegal and informal settlements, that were “pacificado.” However, the trip to the slum of Vidigal gave me a much better look into the real state of most of Rio de Janeiro’s favelas.
Watergate is one of Berlin’s bigger electro clubs, and is harder to get into than most venues in a city known for its democratic nightlife—where you’re encouraged to dress down, where it’s more of an asset to be a gay man than a pretty girl, and where a polo shirt screams dickhead and/or tourist in popular conception.
Through his actions, the father sent a clear message: as far as he was concerned, the prospect of his daughter smoking raised no problems. He was, from the standpoint of an onlooker, in a sense priming a child for when she’d actually be able to smoke.
At a time of bitter debt talks and cries of a failed recovery, Detroit and other parts of Michigan are showing signs of hope.
But the Old Continent seems happy to put up with a whole other level of cliché and kitsch—even the earnestly blasé scenesters hardly put up a fight—and suddenly I’m wishing I didn’t speak such good English, because how much fun would it be to sing along to Eurovision with neither irony nor shame?
As a food aficionado, I had often dreamed of being a food critic for a major newspaper. My dream became a reality when I interned as a reporter for Chosun Ilbo, the largest daily newspaper in South Korea.
To me, these expenses were more than a waste of money—they were conspicuous consumption, evidence of a misplaced value on extravagance. But, I wondered, couldn’t my roommate level the same criticism at me, with my habitual venti chai lattes?
I can’t resist looking at the gun, its barrel hovering no more than six feet in front of me. The idea of bullets traveling near Mach 3 and fragmenting in my torso suddenly puts burst eardrums at the bottom of my list of worries.
As I write these words, there is a strong likelihood that the violence will repeat itself this Tuesday evening, despite police efforts to the contrary. It’s not an exaggeration to say that riots have engulfed the city.