Jason*, our Hugh-Grant-lookalike Airbnb host, was prone to wild sporadic fits of weeping. It was the kind of animal uncontrollable wailing that you often hear…
“Fuck Air BnB”. “Tourists go home”. Confronting messages sprayed across crumbling brick walls on the outskirts of Venice put a pit of guilt in my…
We were standing in the line at the konbini with our matcha ice-creams, now 30 minutes over our designated one-hour dinner break. “I don’t give…
