Out spilled the hoards of resort tourists, sun hats flapping and flying away as they stepped onto the windy boardwalk, freshly-applied sunscreen streaked across their skin, money strapped to their bellies beneath their sweat-stained shirts in an expensive-looking apparatus.
But take a step closer to the men under those wigs, salesmen armed with red plastic binders and smartphones, welcoming you to Vienna with breath rolling in cigarette stench, touting the latest “authentic” musical rip-off, and the illusion quickly fades: welcome to Vienna.
I questioned whether or not we were in a movie, in which I wondered whether the festival was real, whether Pont-à-Celles was real, whether we were real, whether the day had slipped from one dimension of time and space to another without our realizing it
They were all immaculately dressed in H’mong traditional garb, and the intricate pattens on their shirts and pants and the bright colors that flowed across their limbs seemed to move of their own accord in the darkness.
Le Pin had about ten jeunes between the ages of fourteen and twenty who all gathered at la place—which was nothing more than a bench under a roof—to smoke cigarettes, play cards, and talk. And the first time I met them was overwhelming
How do I feel about Marseille? The Mediterranean city has been a crossroads of immigration and trade since its founding by the Phoenicians in 600 B.C.E. This alone means I feel affection for it, but there are many more reasons.
Volkshotel is more than just a place for Amsterdam’s weekend tourists to rest their heads between canal tours and loitering in the red light district. It’s a creative hub shared by Amsterdam’s artists and freelancers.