The other day my friend Victor Bogorad in St. Petersburg, Russia, posted on Facebook a song by the Italian Paolo Conte which I listened to in my condo in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.
I went around the room, asking students to name their favorite travel books. I got, among others, Travels with Myself and Another by Martha Gellhorn, Among the Thugs by Bill Buford, and The Art of Travel by Alain De Botton.
Sunday evening we drove down to Hollywood Beach, where we hadn't been for a while. The not-yet-opened Margaritaville resort loomed over A1A, a combination hotel and parking garage. Finding a parking space on one of the side streets, we paid $6 for three hours. I was glad we were just planning to stroll the Broadwalk and eat dinner somewhere, not spend an entire day at the beach.
Some people claim that there's a city to blame, but I think - deh deh deh deh deh deh - it's Margaritavile's fault.
Previous generations of Americans visited battlefields. Future generations will pay their respects at the sites of shootings.
Yesterday, interviewing Jonathan Franzen about his new novel, Purity, Terry Gross expressed dismay with one of the female characters, particularly one domestic request she makes of her boyfriend. She asked Franzen if he could imagine a woman actually doing that.
He replied perfectly, Nabokovianly, that he could imagine his character doing that.
Seventy-six years ago today, Germany invaded Poland to start World War II, a conflict that would give birth to the Holocaust. Now, Germany is opening its doors to Syrian refugees.