It's 4 p.m. on a Thursday in Valencia, and a suffocating typhoon of pressure is mercilessly beating down upon my battered body, swallowing it whole and not spitting it out until my soul has been completely sucked out and chucked into the Mediterranean. I leave for Paris in T-minus one hour, but I must first write this column, lest I suffer the unspeakable punishment administered by the bloodthirsty Life section editors after a late submission (a frown). More than that, though, I have to pee like a racehorse, and my Spanish mother, Charo, is taking a much-needed smoke break in the bathroom.
Read More
‘They looked at me like I had murdered someone:’ The “walk of shame” at U.Va.
By Adair Reid | 20 hours agoA tongue-in-cheek phrase, the “walk of shame” infamously refers to the trek home from a one-night stand, where walkers are typically visibly disheveled.
Dishes sing at Lampo Neapolitan Pizzeria
By Sam Saks | 2 days agoLampo uses the proper “00” flour, serves pizza unsliced and even imported a wood-burning pizza oven that had to be lowered into the restaurant from above.
Marathoners at the University: A quarter-life crisis, or a new way of life?
By Adair Reid | 3 days agoSome online discourse has characterized the spike in young people running marathons as a new "quarter-life crisis."
