A winter solstice newsletter

Today is the official end of autumn in the Northern Hemisphere.

The sun hangs low in the sky and casts long shadows across a nearby church parking lot. On these shortest of days and longest of nights around the winter solstice, the faithful seem to congregate more frequently. In their crisp suits and colorful dresses, the parishioners exchange smiles and call out greetings over the slamming of car doors and the bleeping of key fobs. 

I survey the automobiles: the newest models of Mercedes, Audi, BMW, and Lexus sedans. This is an affluent community of believers. Soon, they will sit and stand and kneel together to celebrate the birth of a baby boy, a baby born among beasts over two thousand years ago, who would grow up to champion of the poor and downtrodden. His followers would live as communards, dwelling together and sharing their property. Continue reading…

A new newsletter posted

It’s Thanksgiving weekend, an annual American festival of absurd overindulgences and hyper-concentrated family time.

This late Autumn finds me back in Maine where I lived for fifteen years between 2002 and 2017. The crispness of the salty morning fog transports me back twenty years. I recall myself as a new mother and a freshly minted Ph.D. arriving on campus as a young assistant professor, suddenly transported from California to what seemed back then like the northernmost tundra of the contiguous United States.

I grew up in San Diego. Snow was only something you saw on TV or visited for a few hours around the winter holidays, either up in the nearby Julian mountains or at Sea World where they hauled it in refrigerated trucks and refreshed it with artificial precipitation machines. My parents, like the other locals with season passes, brought their kids to experience the sorry simulacra of sledding and snowball fights. I was one of those tweens wearing a bikini under my winter clothes so we could head straight to the beach after drinking our overpriced hot cocoa with little marshmallows in the faux Christmas village. Continue reading…

A new newsletter for the Autumnal Equinox!

September brings new beginnings.


It’s harvest season and the start of a new school year. Where I used to live in Maine, it’s when the “leaf peeping” tourists flood the state to spy the spectacular fall foliage. In Germany, Oktoberfest actually begins in this month, and in Japan the major national breweries (Kirin, Asahi, Suntory, and Sapporo) replace the light, effervescent beers of summer with their darker and heavier autumn ales. In Bulgaria, the 9th of September is either celebrated as the glorious launch of the country’s post-WWII socialist era or mourned as the commencement of its ignominious descent into totalitarian hell. It depends whom you ask and how drunk they are when you ask them. Read more here

A new newsletter...

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Travel is like a muscle; if you don’t flex it often enough, it atrophies

Because of COVID-19, I’ve been grounded since March 15, 2020, but I finally managed to haul myself onto a plane last week for a much-needed trip to Eastern Europe. As an ethnographer, my research requires fieldwork, which means talking to people in their own language and in their own country, trying to understand their dynamic worldviews from inside that amorphous and elusive thing that anthropologists used to call “culture.” While some of my more technologically savvy colleagues moved their scholarly research into digital realms during the pandemic, I’m old fashioned. For me there is no replacement for walking the streets of the city, eavesdropping on bits of dialogue as people go about their daily lives, or chatting for hours over coffee, wine, or rakija. 
 
After a delayed flight forced a missed connection, I spent nine hours in Munich airport delirious with sleeplessness before boarding the plane to Bulgaria. Read more…

A newsletter for the 4th of July

Independence Day


Today is the 4th of July and the skies around Philadelphia will light up with fireworks to celebrate what has largely become a midsummer holiday about barbeque and beer. Where I grew up in San Diego, I used to love to watch the pyrotechnics at Mission Bay or over the ocean on Pacific Beach. Now that I’m older I find myself less excited about the sometimes-overzealous displays of patriotism associated with this day, especially when the United States feels more like the Divided States of America.

Continue reading…

A new newsletter is out!

I’m having fun with my newsletter and sent out the most recent update today, inspired as I was by the cherry blossoms at Chanticleer.

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Now is only once...


The Chanticleer Pleasure Garden in Wayne, Pennsylvania opened for its 2021 season on March 31st. I’ve already gone four times in the last two weeks to experience the fleeting beauty of the cherry blossoms. Between 1993 and 1996, I lived for three years in Japan teaching English in middle and high schools through a special program organized and funded by the Ministry of Education, and I have fond memories of the Japanese cultural traditions surrounding the blooming of the sakura trees.

Because they blossom only for a few days each year, families, friends, and colleagues carefully plan special Hanami celebrations to mark the coming of spring. In late March or early April (depending where you live in the archipelago) millions of people share picnic blankets under the riotous explosions of pink, drinking sake or specially brewed cherry blossom season beer while reveling each other’s company. Even the gentlest of breezes produce flurries of petals that drift listlessly through the air and catch in your hair life fairy dust. Parks and public spaces burble with joyous voices.

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