The Panama Papers are less about rich vs. poor, haves vs. have-nots, and more about all-in-this-together vs. every-man-for-himself.
To co-founder Joe Gebbia, what Airbnb is actually selling is a kind of antidote to a peculiar sense of 20th century alienation.
The premise of Sleep No More sounded nonsensical, like rantings born of a fever dream, but it was intriguing enough that I bought a ticket. And several weeks later, I waited in a thunderstorm for what would be one of the most phenomenal artistic experiences in my life.
FROM THE ARCHIVE: My airflow was cut off, my eyes began to bulge and water, my cheeks turned redder than tomatoes at harvest time, and it dawned on me that I was actually on the verge of passing out. Or was I about to suffer a far worse fate?
It’s the most innocent doorstep in Canada. A line of senior citizens—eager as children at Disneyland—peer across manicured lawns and hold up shaky iPads to photograph the sweet and sunny house from Anne of Green Gables.
FROM THE ARCHIVE: Just hours after arriving in Rome I am already perched at my favorite haunt, Caffe Sant Eustacchio. Located beside the church of the same name, the café serves a special variation on espresso called a Gran Caffe, and it’s worth the extra money they ask. From my table I watch two phantoms trotting casually across the square, looking just as they did in the flesh two years before.
To enter the Explorers Club’s Jacobean manor–style home on Manhattan’s Upper East Side is to experience a close encounter of the uncommon kind. From the interior’s dark-mahogany panelling to an unmistakable whiff of old money, it’s easy to imagine that fictional Phileas Fogg should appear, outbound on his 80-day trip around the world.
When I was young, I went to Rome. On the last night of the trip, with an early departure the next morning, my friends and I thought it would be an excellent idea to buy a few bottles of wine and drink them outside the Colosseum.
There were then two glowing screens atop my desk; three, if you count my yappy little phone. I was a magazine editor at the time—or, as we now say, a “content creator.” Yet I spent my days not so much creating content as reacting to it.