Spectator Life

Pulling up at Marblehead’s Harbor Light Inn, my oldest friend and I wasted no time securing two counter seats at the Tavern tucked inside. A Christmas tree twinkled incongruously as we planned the hallowed pilgrimage most travelers reserve for spooky season: the next day we’d make the twenty-minute drive to Salem, the scene of the infamous witch trials of 1692. Peeling ourselves away from this glorious little seaside B&B, replete with canopy beds and resplendent fireplaces, would be harder than expected. “Excuse the smell! We’ve been baking all day,” said general manager Carolyn as we caught a waft of banana bread.

The Maldives is an unusual country. It’s Asia’s smallest country, but also the world’s most geographically dispersed. It has Asia’s second smallest population, but is one of the world’s most densely populated. It was Buddhist for a millennium and a half, which is conspicuous in most of the country’s ruling institutions, early scriptures and even language, but you wouldn’t know it from the people; it’s almost 100 percent Muslim now, demographically and culturally, and has been since the last Buddhist king of Maldives, Dhovemi, converted in 1153 (or maybe it was 1193 — depends on who you ask).

“Wow.” My younger brother stopped still on the runway as we disembarked our plane at Innsbruck. In every direction, snow-capped mountains shot up to the sky. I found myself rubbing my eyes like a cartoon character, while he picked his jaw up off the floor. Delivering us across the border to Brunico, our cab driver felt moved to score the scene. “All this untz, untz, untz music, I can’t do! Phil Collins OK?” The Alps looming majestically on both sides of the road, “In The Air Tonight” blasting comically loud, the journey fast became a core family memory. It felt stupendous, exciting; like your first time seeing Manhattan sparkle in the distance from JFK. “This is the Brenner Pass... and now, Italy. Welcome in Italy!

Asked how best to get to know new cultures, travel luminary Anthony Bourdain once said: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” This series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, wherever I’ve washed up. Fast-paced, cacophonous, always surprising; if Mumbai is the hub of India’s creative scene, Soho House Mumbai is the home of its creative set. The eleven-story townhouse stands out in studiously hip Juhu, flanked by contemporary galleries, boutiques, fine-dining spots and a stretch of beach (though the water’s not for swimming).  Inside I was fascinated by 200 pieces of art, 85 percent of which is by artists based in India, or of Indian descent.

To this day, the exact origin of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871 is unknown. It may be easy to blame poor old Mrs. O’Leary, though the conspiracy-minded out there speculate that the blaze might have been a deliberately planned event orchestrated by powerful interests to reshape the city for profit and control. Whether or not these theories hold water, the fire offered a convenient opportunity to rebuild the city with stricter building codes and modern brick and steel structures that allowed the city’s elite to seize prime real estate, drive up property values and transform Chicago into a modern hub of wealth and innovation. It has taken all of 153 years, but the fire has crossed the South Branch of the Chicago River and reached West 35th Street.

On Monday afternoon as I sat in class at NYU studying the antisemitic policies of the Third Reich, the “Flood NYC for Palestine” protests descended upon Washington Square Park. This October 7, a year after the worst Jewish massacre since the Holocaust, hundreds of people had interrupted their afternoons to join a march in support of what’s euphemistically referred to as Palestinian “resistance by any means necessary.” To say “terrorism” would be unsubtle, you see. NYU students staged a planned “walk out” to join the “flood” on Monday.

"You have a big mountain to climb!" is not the sort of text you eagerly await from your girlfriend’s father. But Billy, a true Southern gent, meant no ambiguity. As dawn cracked the alarms sounded in our Airbnb and six of us bundled into the back of the Dodge. A cool mist hung in the valley as “Baba O’Riley (Teenage Wasteland)” started up on the radio and got the blood running. At 6:15 a.m. we entered the shadow of Emigrant Peak, which at 10,921 feet, commands Montana’s Paradise Valley. Emigrant owes its name to Thomas Curry, a pioneer who struck gold in a creek on the east side of the mountain in 1863.

Nozawa Onsen and Hakuba, my favorite ski resorts near Tokyo, are booking up fast. A trip to Japan guarantees novelty, not least if you book a ski trip. Underpinned by excellent food, surreal views, reliable snow cover, fantastically cheap prices and delightful onsen culture, it’s no wonder the country is increasingly popular with gaijin (non-Japanese). Australian, American and European powder hounds now fill the towns every year, but there are endless authentic experiences waiting in each charmingly idiosyncratic resort. A quick Google betrays that my favorites are already filling up for winter ’24/25. So here’s a run-down of what to expect, and where I’d recommend you book, subayaku.

The political pyrotechnics in Washington this summer have been so blinding as to blot out everything else happening in the national capital. The inside job that forced President Joe Biden out of his re-election campaign and the meteoric rise of Vice President Kamala Harris to be the Democratic nominee, all in the shadow of Donald Trump’s return to the national stage, have fascinated Washington like nothing since the Watergate scandal, exactly fifty years ago.  Yet even as Washingtonians focus on blood sport of politics, it is too easy to forget that the city is filled with far more edifying activities than the gladiatorial clashes in the political arena.

Minouche Shafik has reigned as president of Columbia University. Culture wars, like the kind involving actual armies, have casualties. Shafik is the fourth Ivy League president to step down in the last nine months. She was proceeded by Liz Magill at the University of Pennsylvania and Claudine Gay at Harvard. Magill and Gay were casualties of their hapless testimony before the House Education and Workforce Committee hearing on December 5 and, in Gay’s case, the subsequent revelations about her serial plagiarism. She was also proceeded by Martha Pollack, president of Cornell University, who hung up her mortar board in June, without an assist from the House committee but citing the “enormous, unexpected challenges” of having to deal with antisemitism and Islamophobia.

With my Customs Declaration Form in hand and Japanese customs handbook in my pocket, I touched down in Tokyo for the first time, from Mumbai. I was wearing flip flops in February, but feeling as ready as I ever would. “Don’t point your chopsticks.” “Never raise your voice.” “No talking on public transport.” “Try to arrive early.” “Take your garbage home with you.” “Meetings should not be canceled.” “Make sure you slurp your noodles.” “Jaywalking is punishable with up to three months in prison.” There was a lot to remember. I was determined not to follow the trodden path, to find spots nobody else had. Then I got off the train in central Tokyo.