'Not the seeds that I planted'
The cherry blossom trees have started blooming in London, which to me always feels like a kind of religious experience after winter. I consider cherry blossoms in the same category as the deep emerald green of a mallard duck’s neck, the always-pleasantly-surprising fact that citrus fruit is in season in winter, and the stop-you-in-your-tracks smell of a jasmine bush. In other words: Evidence that whatever serves as the organizing intelligence for the universe really wants us to stop and smell the proverbial roses.
But it also feels disorienting, because as the pink petals bloom, living in Britain feels so heavy and awful right now. Each day I spend an hour trying to understand what the actual fuck is going on with Brexit, in a kind of kafkaesque groundhog day that feels like it will never end—because it probably won’t! Then there’s the terror attacks and the plane crashes and all the rest.
I think it’s important to acknowledge sometimes, as one writer did recently, that it’s totally normal for all this to make you feel truly, viscerally shitty. I mostly counteract this by celebrating the tiny triumphs—a friend who deserves it being happy in their new relationship, a partner succeeding in their career, getting a nice email from a reader—but man, it’s been hard recently.
That said, my friend Philippa unwittingly reminded me of another mental way to counteract the madness. A few years ago Philippa bought a small farm from a sad old man outside Barcelona, and has been teaching herself the principles of sustainable agro-ecology as she grows her own food and tends the farm with her partner. Her Instagram is often full of the delights of this effort. A few weeks ago she posted about some tomato plants that had sprouted up all on their own, without any effort on her part: “The best tomatoes are the ones that just came up by themselves, not the seeds that I planted.”
As the people in charge of this country continue to monumentally fuck everything up with a commitment to madness that would honestly be impressive if it weren’t so destructive, there is some solace and maybe even instruction to be found in the things that will happen without any human intervention. At least for the short-term future, cherry blossoms will bloom, tomato plants will grow, the sun will come up—whether it’s a deal or no deal. It doesn’t give me hope, necessarily, but it’s something to perhaps shift my focus towards.
Things I wrote:
I frequently cover Airbnb, and over the past few months—as the company prepares for a rumored IPO—I have found myself wondering: What even is Airbnb anymore? I wrote a feature trying to answer that question.
Judging by the readership and responses to this, a lot of people agree that conflating romantic love/partnership with sleeping in the same bed as another person for the rest of your goddamn life is completely insane.
Please, if you’re going to ask me for advice on where to go for your vacation, read this first.
Tourist taxes to deter “low value, high impact” travelers are now a thing.
For Quartz’s 2050 project, I wrote about whether the future of housing may mean accepting that housing isn’t permanent.
On the merits of pursuing career greatness “behind the scenes".
One thing I really endorse: using some of your vacation time to complete life admin. It sounds depressing but it is totally effective.
In keeping with my obsession, I wrote an Obsession email about the business model of cruise ships.
I also did some radio talking! I went on Monocle Live radio to talk about what makes a good (and terrible) tourism slogan, and went on NPR to talk more about my favorite scam of 2019: Celery juice.
Things I read
I am enjoying The Cut’s Get that Money pop-up blog. Particularly this on why secretly rich people are more annoying than blatantly rich people and this with Aminatou Sow on being unapologetic about how you make money. [The Cut].
“We seem to believe, against all evidence, that nature is entirely benevolent.” [The Guardian]
I never pass up an opportunity to point out the insanity of wedding culture. [NYT]
The astonishing scam of American student loans. [BuzzFeed]
“It’s not resistance—it’s reporting.” A profile of New Yorker investigative reporter Jane Mayer, who gets way less attention than Ronan Farrow but has been doing it for way longer. [Elle]
“The best minds of my generation are thinking about how to make people click ads.” [Medium]
Things I listened to + watched
A conversation between two editors of the New Yorker: Tina Brown and David Remnick. I really feel like Brown doesn’t get enough credit for for hiring, like, every single great New Yorker byline (including Remnick) during her tenure. [TBD with Tina Brown]
I’m loving the “In Good Company” podcast which gets into the nitty gritty of how women have succeeded in their careers (and does the opposite of gloss over how things like family connections, privilege, and race all play a huge role). This episode with Reni Eddo Lodge should be sent to anyone who romanticizes being a successful author/freelancer. [In Good Company]
The Guardian on knife crime’s connection to poverty/austerity is a really great (and devastating) portrait of modern Britain. [Guardian]
This shed some light on a question I’ve long wondered: Why do American evangelical Christians have such strong support for Israel? [VICE]
Lifestyle endorsement
Buy a new mattress! I have been sleeping on second hand mattresses for the entirety of my twenties, so after listening to about 967 podcast ad spots, I finally bought a Casper mattress. Since then, my main thought has been: Why the hell did I wait so long? Sleep is important; get a good mattress. (No, this is not sponsored because I’m not an #influencer—but I am a card carrying millennial who now believes in the Casper hype).
Word soup:
“And everything seemed connected—the street’s sounds and Ray Charles’ voice and his piano and my daddy’s hand and my sister’s silhouette and the sounds and the light coming from the kitchen. It was as though we were a picture, trapped in time: this had been happening for hundreds of years, people sitting in a room, waiting for dinner, and listening to the blues.” "—From If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin.
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