¡Viva Colombia!

December 30th, 2009

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Ahh, Colombia: What a tease you are, with your buttery arepas, standstill forests, whitewashed villages, and fun-loving rhythms. This was the first trip in a long while from which I returned to think, 10 days was not nearly enough. Bogotá, Cartagena, I love you, but I already have a list of more off-the-beaten-path places I want to visit la proxima vez in Colombia. In the meantime, I can relive the delicious awesomeness of this trip via photographic documentation, with the latest album to join my website. Go there directly here.

Also new to my site are some food and beer stories, including a write-up of Queens’s newest beer garden for Draft magazine and a roundup of favorite cheap eats in NYC’s East Village; a recent piece for the New York Times on the budding art scene of New London, Conn.; and a contribution to Men’s Journal on surfing in Nicaragua. Given the poor economy, this year has been pretty, pretty, pretty (cue Larry David impersonation) good work-wise for Scott and me, and it ends on a high note with last Monday’s NYTimes.com “Lens” blog, which recognized Scott’s volcano-boarding photo from Nicaragua as “among the best” travel images of the year (his is no. 16 of the slideshow).
Here’s to a marvelous, adventurous, inspiring 2010!

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On the Day of the Dead

November 4th, 2009

In honor of CJR’s anniversary and Mexico’s Día de los Muertos holiday (Nov. 2), I am posting a story I wrote a few years ago about a special Day of the Dead experience, which came in Oaxaca courtesy of a generous Mexican family who spontaneously invited Scott and me to partake in their graveyard “festivities.” Laughter, tears, tamales, and surprise chicken feet ensue.

Visuals for the Day of the Dead are incredible, but—believe it or not—all of my photos back then were taken on film and slides. Please visit Scott’s gorgeous Day of the Dead gallery here.

From my perch on a wooden bench outside the corner store, I take in the busy scene.

Children with painted faces dash by. Families with wheelbarrows laden with flowers and tapered candles lumber up the road. Food vendors line the dusty path as far as I can see—an exciting array of cheap dinner prospects here in Oaxaca, a city in southern Mexico celebrated for its rich cuisine.

For now, however, I greet my husband, Scott, as he returns from the store with two cold beers. While we sip these on the bench, a middle-aged man emerges from the same store with a bag full of beer. In Spanish, Scott teases him about the purchase: “Those all for you, or are you going to a party?”

The man guffaws, introduces himself as Rafael, and asks to join us in our people-watching. He owns one of the many jewelry stores we’d seen in the city’s commercial district, and is cheerfully chatty. After offering us each another beer, he invites us to accompany him to the “party” he is en route to, a family gathering where there would be food and drink—just up the road at the graves of his brother and father.

***

In the U.S., cemeteries are cold, gray places. You may bring flowers to a loved one’s grave, but probably not a bottle of booze. You certainly wouldn’t expect to find a Ferris wheel, clusters of giggling children, or live music.

But in Mexico, that’s exactly what you might see in cemeteries during El Día de los Muertos, or the Day of the Dead. The official “day” is November 2, but the festivities begin the night of October 31, which is when we met Rafael and the carnival-like atmosphere of a local cemetery, or panteón.

The holiday dates back centuries to the indigenous population of Mexico, who believed that the deceased could return to their homes or families for a visit once a year. To them, death was something to embrace rather than fear; it was not the end of a life, but the same life’s continuation in a parallel world.

Over the years, of course, the Day of the Dead has had to adapt to its country, most notably to the Spanish conquest, the ensuing infiltration of Catholicism, even Halloween’s candied influence. Yet despite their common belief in a Christian heaven, modern Mexicans still sit for hours, sometimes overnight, at their loved ones’ graves during the Day of the Dead to accompany their spirits for the night.

Among the rituals the holiday has preserved over the years are the elaborate preparations used to “welcome home” the deceased. Throughout October, countless fields of gleaming marigolds are harvested from the countryside and sold in city markets; the golden flowers are traditionally believed to help guide spirits back into this world. Markets fill with morditos, little gifts for the dead like chocolate skulls and coffins.

Over a century ago, the artist José Guadalupe Posada created calaveras—whimsical skeletons engaged in everyday activities like cooking or dancing—in order to satirize social figures; today, jovial skeletons continue to mock death this time of year from the shelves of markets and museums alike.

Oaxaca is renowned for its artisans, and the Day of the Dead provides occasion for exceptional creativity. Images of death are everywhere, so wonderfully rendered that they quickly grow on you. The calaveras are particularly charming: Life-size and papier-mâché, they take over the courtyards of the Casa de las Artesanías de Oaxaca store, mischievously engaged in getting married, playing music, and making tortillas; stretchy and wiry, they dangle from the arms of old women in the zócalo, priced at $1 apiece; hand-carved and stoic, they are sold alongside paintings of skulls at outdoor art markets.

Dazzling handmade altars designed to honor and welcome the dead spring up around town in bright bursts of color. Lovingly decorated with marigold arches, magenta coxcomb flowers, candles, photos, stacks of tortillas, cups of hot atole or bottles of tequila—whatever the deceased’s beverage of choice might have been—these altars are prominently displayed in restaurants and public plazas, and are glimpsed through open doorways and windows in every home.

***

At the Panteón Xoxocotlan, a.k.a. Xoxo (“ho-ho”), we pick our way around the graves, careful not to tread on any of them. It is a challenge, because while most graves are concrete, coffin-shaped tombstones, some are no more than mounds of dirt and a small cross.

The level of activity is baffling. Whole families are sprawled on blankets and in plastic chairs around each grave, diligently cleaning them before piling on candles and flowers, often in artistic religious designs. An old man sells pastel orbs of cotton candy. Costumed children run over to us with upturned palms and plastic pumpkins. “Halloween?” they ask hopefully.

Rafael’s family is split between two graves—that of his father, deceased two years, and his brother, deceased nine years—and both are adorned in the typical fashion. We join Rafael’s brother, sister-in-law, and their children at his father’s grave, around which two metal benches and a tin roof with an electric light have conveniently been built so the family can gather comfortably, rain or shine.

The air is heavy with copal incense and flowers. I practice my Spanish with Alberto, Rafael’s precocious 10-year-old nephew, who wears a Grateful Dead T-shirt without knowing who they are. Behind us, another family works to secure a Halloween-esque string of paper skeletons around their own tin roof.

Rafael keeps passing out cans of beer. The merry atmosphere is intoxicating—literally and emotively—but I am keenly aware of the fact that we are hanging out in a graveyard. Nobody is even talking about the dead; our hosts are more interested in asking us questions. Aren’t we supposed to be remembering them?

“We remember by being here. We come here to be with each other and to be with my father and brother in a spiritual way,” Rafael informs me.

But isn’t it sad?

“It’s sad, but it’s good to be here,” he says. “We are making new memories together, as a family.” He smiles, and I know that we are included in that group, for the night anyway.

The matriarch of the family joins us from her son’s grave, and Rafael’s sister arrives with—bless her soul— a big bucket of delicious homemade tamales. They insist on serving the guests first. Carefully wrapped in cornhusk, the steaming cornmeal inside is laced with shredded chicken and the region’s famous chocolate mole sauce. Scott receives a present in his: a whole chicken foot. “The best part!” Rafael exclaims, reaching for it.

Although we’d chosen to visit a cemetery outside of the city center, we are definitely not the only foreigners in Oaxaca, or Xoxo for that matter, this popular time of year. As the night wears on, a parade of tourists passes by our spot, asking to photograph the family’s grave. They probably don’t want the gringos in the picture, but we stay put with our adopted family and smile for the cameras, in honor of new memories.

***

Despite our lighthearted graveyard experience, death isn’t, of course, all silly skeletons and pretty remembrances for the people of Mexico. Two days later, during an afternoon mass for the dead in the same cemetery, many tears are shed. In the middle of it, a strange and sudden shift comes over the sunny day: Dark clouds seize the sky; a strong gust blows dust from the street into our eyes. The rain falls hard and fast, without warning.

We seek shelter at Rafael’s father’s grave, huddling for dry warmth under the flimsy tin roof, and little Alberto tries to give me the T-shirt off his back to ease my chills. A short distance away, a burial begins. Exposed to the elements and their own worst fears, the bereaved family surrenders to the rain. Through the rushing downpour, I hear the moans and sobs of raw grief.

But for the first night of El Día de los Muertos, it was okay to leave the vulnerability behind and celebrate the dead, among old family and new friends. When Rafael offers to drive us home late that night, we hesitate, knowing he’d put back a few beers. His whole family assures us that he’s fine to drive the short distance to our guesthouse; several hours and many tamales have passed since our arrival. We aren’t sure if it’s even possible to catch a taxi back to town at that hour, so we relent.

In the front seat of his pickup truck, for good measure, I secure a seatbelt around Scott and myself, much to Rafael’s amusement. He drives slowly and on back roads, where we hardly even glimpse another vehicle. “See? I’m a good driver,” he insists.

Did I feel at risk? Not at all. But giggling at his repeated assurances, I can’t help but fancy myself in the Mexican way, laughing ever so softly in the face of death.

***
Go back to my website here.

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Northwest additions

October 13th, 2009

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Check out my website for two new pieces about our recent trip to Vancouver. The first is about my experience eating my way around British Columbia — a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it! — and the second is a roundup of what to see and do in Vancouver pre-Winter Games, highlighting the new hotels, restaurants, and transport options that have already opened in Olympic anticipation. Also online? Some 200 photos I took of the region in all its sunshiney, savory, summery glory — including the four pics above.

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On breaking up with Brooklyn

September 9th, 2009

Last week marked the one-year anniversary of the purchase of our apartment (well, technically we bought about 20% of it so far). It also marked the end of our first year in the big bad borough of Queens, following nearly a decade in Brooklyn. Though we moved just nine miles away, it was a pretty big deal for us; we both love Brooklyn dearly despite it’s ever-increasing hipster gentrification (hence the real estate prices in our ‘hood that sent us packing). I’m happy to report that we’re still enjoying our ongoing exploration of Queens, its transporting am-I-in-America ambience, and its delicious cheap eats; still loving our oasis of an apartment in the borough’s crazy ethnic heart; and still appreciating the shorter work commutes and those extra 400 square feet (which we’ve certainly “warmed,” above).

Due to a glitch in the subway system, Brooklyn is less connected than it should be to Queens, so I’ve only visited my old stomping grounds a handful of times this year. It’s probably for the best: Out of sight, out of mind has always worked well for me when it comes to moving on. I’m reminded of a letter I wrote to Brooklyn last year, a “Dear John” note of sorts that I scrawled on the subway in my last days of riding the Brooklyn-bound F. I thought of it a few weeks ago while visiting friends in Brooklyn Heights, when I confirmed that that ‘hood is, in fact, just as handsome as I remember it. Sigh.

Breaking up is never easy…but it’s nothing a couple of streetside tamales won’t cure.

Dear B,

I’m sorry things have to end this way.

Eight years. It was eight years ago that I fell for you, after being introduced by a mutual friend. I remember our first night together: We were in Park Slope; you were so quiet, unassuming. During our courtship, you impressed me with your wit, a laid-back charm that quickly turned magnetic, at least for me. Before I knew it, I’d moved in with you. Do you know that I’ve never been so quick to shack up? Somehow, it felt right to me—instinctive, even.

My family, not knowing you, was skeptical at first. I suspect they felt intimidated. You had, after all, rather suddenly become this important presence in my life—and they’re from Jersey. They didn’t get it. But it only took a few visits with you, and they caught on: They too glimpsed your riches and wanted to know more.

We’ve had quite a good run together. So many late nights, parties, concerts, visitors. We waited tables together, studied Spanish and salsa dancing, took up boxing and yoga. We’ve forged friendships I’ll continue to cherish. We’ve survived parking disasters, rodent infestations, and vicious hangovers. On September 11, 2001, it was to you that I fled; you were my refuge and haven. And I’m forever grateful to you for that.

Wow, now I’m really getting sentimental. I will miss you, of course. I’ll miss your expansiveness, your multifaceted talents and treasures, your tranquility and fun-loving quirkiness. Your breathtaking beauty on a snowy winter’s day. Your delicious scent of freshly baked bread. Our history together.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: It’s not you, it’s me.

I’m at a crossroads, you see. I am yearning for the unfamiliar, for a creative jumpstart. Wouldn’t you agree that things have gotten a bit stagnant, a bit same-old, same-old, between us? Our apartment seems to be shrinking; we’re outgrowing each other. This has happened before. But then we moved to Cobble Hill and fell in love all over again.

The solution’s not so easy this time. I’m craving a real change; skipping a few blocks over and trying a new coffee shop isn’t going to cut it. Besides, you’ve gotten too expensive.

Not to mention popular. In these last eight years, you’ve really embraced yourself, and people have noticed: They hear you spoken of with reverence; they nod their heads knowingly. They believe the hype now—and they should. In fact, I could argue that you’ve changed: You’re getting too big. Weren’t you profiled in Travel + Leisure, for chrissakes?

But the truth is, you’re fine just the way you are. It’s simply time for me to move on and discover a new talent elsewhere. Somewhere a little less hip, a little more raw. I want edge, authenticity, exoticism…and a cheap mortgage.

I suppose it’s best you hear it from me first: I’m moving to Queens.

Don’t freak out! You have to know how different you are. I’m not saying either one of you is better—just different. And if it’s okay, I’d like to keep in touch with you, to see you every now and then. When we’re both ready, of course.

Perhaps we’ll be reunited one day for good. But for now, this is the right thing for us both. Think you’ll be sad and depressed without me around? Fuhgeddaboutit. Your star is burning bright, baby, and it’s only getting brighter.

Best wishes,

Laura

***

Go back to my website here.

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Updates, updates

August 20th, 2009

Between trips to Vancouver and Cape Cod, and it being SUMMER, I’ve been lagging in the update department. Finally, I added (and by that I mean “Scott added” — I am still clueless about DreamWeaver) the latest NYmag.com travel article I wrote — about Granada, Nicaragua, based on my trip there in February — as well as an advertorial I recently did for Martha Stewart Living magazine. I’ve been writing a bunch of those lately, so more of that to come. Also up next are a few Vancouver-area travel/food articles, plus pieces on Nicaragua’s surf scene and Long Island City’s newest beer garden.

And this is old news, but for some reason I never posted about it here: Shortly after my New York Times article on volcano boarding came out last April, New York Magazine gave it a shout-out in its “Approval Matrix,” which runs on their back page every week. Look for Scott’s photo near “Brilliant” and (slightly!) “Lowbrow.” Hey, I’ll take it!

***

Go back to my website here.

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Biking + Beer in Madison, WI

July 17th, 2009

I finally updated my website to include a pdf of the biking and beer in Madison story, with photos by Scott, which ran in the March/April 2009 issue of Draft magazine. It was my first visit to Scott’s alma mater city, and I was pretty impressed by the regional beer scene out there…even more so because it’s a uni town. Those college kids don’t even know how good they have it! They can skip out on the Natty Light and enjoy craft brews by Leinenkugel, New Glarus, BluCreek, and Capital Brewery instead (although Scott assures me they still drink crap beer at parties anyway). In any case, I have no idea how anybody gets any schoolwork done in such a beer- and bar-centric city.

I’m soon to embark on a similarly brewtastic trip next week to Vancouver and Victoria, BC — another region with some excellent craft beers, not to mention insane scenery, outdoor adventures galore, and a serious dining scene. Let’s hope my broken toes don’t slow me down too much!

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On New York moments

July 3rd, 2009

My friends and I sometimes talk about what I call “New York moments” — fabulous experiences that are by definition short-lived, in which the universe is aligned, the scene is set, the sequence of events pinch-me perfect, and you can only be, are meant to be, in this fair city of ours. Not that this feeling can’t happen elsewhere, but you’d have to change the name, wouldn’t you?

It boils down to this: New York can be a magical place. And when one of these moments comes along, the best you can do is embrace it, because it won’t last long. This week I found a short tribute I wrote last year about one of my favorite New York moments; it was buried in my Gmail “drafts” section. I think I wrote it at work one day just so I wouldn’t forget it. Here it is:

When we rented the rowboats, the day was sunny, hot, and humid — a perfect Saturday in June for 10 boatloads of friends to stage an informal race and picnic on Central Park’s lake.

It was a springtime tradition among this group, five years running. But shortly after the race was won (by cheating), the bread and cheese eaten, and the Cuba libres mixed (sorry, police!), the sky grew silvery with clouds and fog. Relishing what we thought was a momentary respite from the scalding sun, we opened more wine. Then when the drizzle began, we toasted the summery shower, sure we’d soon be sweating again. Fifteen minutes later, however, the clouds began to grumble and flash. Our friends started to paddle off, one by one.

Two boats stayed behind, holding the day’s six most stubborn participants. We didn’t want the afternoon party to end. Someone spotted a bridge in the distance — not the pretty cast-iron Bow Bridge that spans the lake, but another one, at the water’s far edge. It was made of stone and looked deep, like a tunnel to nowhere.

Through the drizzle, we paddled over to check it out, one boat towing the other by a jump rope, just for fun. Concerns were voiced that we’d find the small, dark tunnel overrun with mosquitoes, or dead bodies. But we only found the edge of the marshy, muddy lake as it lapped against a plastic orange fence. Beyond that, the greenery of Central Park sprawled, growing darker and wetter by the minute.

Finding no offensive smells or obvious dangers, we tried to anchor ourselves in the shelter — a difficult task, until we realized the water near the back of the tunnel was sludgy enough to hold us in place. So we got comfy, and took stock of our party-ready belongings: some chips, some cherries, two bottles of wine, a bit of rum, an iPod and music dock.

Drinks were prepared, and the party soon grew: A young African-American family paddled through the rain toward us. They were from Jamaica, Queens, a young couple and their life-jacket-bedecked son, about 6 years old. They were immediately followed by a twentysomething couple from the Upper West Side, with a mini-Chihuahua stowaway, and then a couple from Italy, in town for three-month-long internships. Suddenly feeling like the tunnel welcome committee, we made introductions and passed around drinks.

Our day had taken an unexpected turn. We were a group of strangers — 13 of us now, plus a dog — brought together by a string of peculiar circumstances, causing the trajectories of our individual lives to briefly intersect. It was like we’d all gotten stuck together in an elevator or stranded on a desert island…only here, we didn’t wish to be rescued. We merely wished for some more wine.

From the tunnel, we watched the violent storm, enthralled by the mighty downpour and deafening bursts of thunder. With Miriam Makeba’s big voice soaring through the iPod dock, bouncing off the close stone walls, we laughed thinking of our friends who’d rushed to get off the lake — surely they were soaked by now, running for cover in the park, dodging trees felled by lightning. We were the smart ones: dry, safe, drunk, and silly. (It didn’t occur to us that if lightning had struck the lake, our mostly metallic boats would likely have proved, um, problematic.)

The family from Jamaica took off first, making a row for it at the first sign of a die-down. But the rain was unrelenting. A sole paddler sought shelter next, but instead of joining our party, he made precise little paddles that kept him afloat at the tunnel’s lip, just within the dry zone. When we later saw him out on the lake, he told us that he came out to row every weekend, and brought his own, better oars. Surely he thought we were amateurs. Which, of course, we were.

After a good hour and a half in the tunnel, I began thinking I wouldn’t mind if we spent the rest of our night there — it was only 5pm, after all. But soon we ran out of drinks, and had to pee, and the boat rental people were out looking for us. So when the sun began to filter through the trees once again, the anonymous paddler, and then our newfound friends, took their leave. Our spontaneous party was breaking up, the magic dissipating with the dying rain. The moment had passed. With reluctance, we too paddled back out into the dripping New York afternoon. But we remained buoyed by our shared secrets: an unexpected hiding place, a happy encounter with strangers, the knowledge of how fleeting it is.

Go back to my website here.

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Le foto di Italia

June 20th, 2009

After hours of resizing, organizing, and captioning, I’ve finally put up photos from our trip to Italy here. I should add “drooling” to that list, because despite the often low lighting of restaurants (I always forget to bring my little Gorillapod out to dinner with me), I was compelled to shoot nearly every meal I devoured — and who could blame me? Emilia-Romagna is one of the world’s great food regions. At least with these pictures, I can wistfully recall every bite of nutty Parmigiano, sweet aceto balsamico, buttery prosciutto di Parma, hearty tagliatelle, creamy sage-and-butter-drenched tortelloni, fluffy gelato…

Sigh. Is it time for dinner yet?

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On famiglia, here and there

May 19th, 2009

Right now, in the small northern Italian town of Cavezzo, there is a crumbling brick house, sandwiched between two modern homes, that contains a small but hefty bit of my family history. It was in that house that my grandmother’s mother, Nerina, grew up with her sister Maria and a couple of brothers; it was that house from which she fled to move to America with a man named Roberto, against the will of her family. Nerina relocated to Jersey City, where my grandmother was born in 1915. Her actions would determine the future course of my family as I know it, in the good old state of New Jersey.

Life, meanwhile, went on in Italy. About 45 minutes north of the ancient city of Modena, Maria (my great-grandmother’s sister) spawned Primo Calanca, a renowned cyclist in his country, who in turn produced Vanni, a well-regarded photographer in Modena province and beyond. Vanni continued his father’s advertising business in the town of Mirandola; 40 years ago, his wife Graziella gave birth to Elena.

As part of the third generation in America, I didn’t know much about these people. When I was young, I’d always flip through the calendars Vanni sent my grandmother from Italy, filled with images he shot, but I never really understood his relation to our family. Later, I learned that Elena and my grandma exchanged letters every Christmas, sometimes in English, sometimes in Italian. But somehow the whos, whats, and whens of the old country were never much relevant to me.

Except, of course, they are. In the simplified family tree of my life, Elena and I (and my sisters and first cousins) occupy a similar position; our great-grandmothers were sisters. On one side of our respective families, we’re descended from the exact same people. It’s so simple I almost missed it. Especially now, in this age of reconnection with every person you ever attended high school with, why didn’t I know this person?

Besides, my grandmother recently turned 94, and I figured it was time I got to know her better.

So I grilled Grandma for details, and instead of Rome, Venice, and Florence, Scott and I packed up for Modena, Bologna, and Parma (those last two for gastronomic reasons, really). We met Elena at the end of our trip, and stayed the night at her cute apartment in the heart of Mirandola, a pretty, quaint little town noted for its 14th century castle. I was, of course, welcomed like family. Our meeting felt easy and natural, despite the language barrier — and thankfully Elena has studied enough English to bridge the gap. We quickly ascertained that we both love red (and especially red couches), photography, and the name Sofia. (Alas, she does not drink coffee or wine — odd for an Italian, perhaps, but also a relative of mine!)

Scott thinks we have the same big eyes, but I saw more of a physical resemblance to (a younger) me in her second child, Sofia, a blonde 6-year-old bundle of energy who’s taking gymnastics lessons. Matilde, the oldest child at 8, prefers dance class, and delighted in practicing the few words of English she knew. Both girls were total camera hams (see photo above), not unlike the Siciliano sisters!

The youngest child, 4-year-old Gian Giacamo, or Gian G for short, was shy that first night — or maybe just tired, as he fell asleep at the table during dinner. But the next day he requested to skip kindergarten to hang out with us (according to his mom), and we glimpsed the same smiley, sweet-natured temperament that emanates so strongly from his father, Elena’s husband Gian Luigi.

We enjoyed two unbelievable meals with this family in Mirandola, showed them photos of their American relatives (via Facebook, naturally), slept in the girls’ pink twin beds, and visited the old brick house, where this shared chapter of our lives began. We’d arrived with a few small NYC souvenirs for the family and left with our arms full of autographed photo books from Vanni, hand-drawn cards and pictures from the girls, local Lambrusco wine from Elena, and lots of video footage for my grandmother, who never visited this part of Italy. Though lighthearted and fun, the visit seemed simultaneously momentous: By knowing each other, Elena and I bring together two branches of our family tree that were destined to grow apart. And by keeping in contact, we can guarantee that those branches will remain entwined, or at least in proximity to each other, through future generations.

Family lineage is a precious thing, and harder to trace for us third- and fourth-generation Americans. How fortunate I am to have bits of mine so readily accessible via living, breathing relatives. All I had to do was ask.

***

Go back to my website here.

Posted in TRAVEL, family | 2 Comments »

On recent partnerships

April 20th, 2009

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I have some updating of my website to do, because this weekend marked my first travel article for The New York Times, about volcano boarding in Nicaragua. Definitely a fun and unusual first assignment from them, made even more exciting because Scott took all the photos (that’s him coming down the volcano on the left, above). Speaking of which, another update to my site will be the story I did last year on biking for regional craft beers in Madison, Wisconsin–it just came out in the March/April issue of Draft, and again, Scott was the photog. Let’s hope this working partnership of ours continues to grow!

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¡Viva Colombia!

On the Day of the Dead

Northwest additions

On breaking up with Brooklyn

Updates, updates

Biking + Beer in Madison, WI

On New York moments

Le foto di Italia

On famiglia, here and there

On recent partnerships

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