Lush Stores Gaza: When Bubble Bars Meet Border Barriers By Dave’s Far-Flung Correspondent, filing from somewhere with better Wi-Fi than Gaza The first thing you notice is the incongruity: a Lush store—yes, the British purveyor of bath bombs that smell like a fruit salad having an existential crisis—reportedly wants to open in Gaza City. Not…
Blue Jays vs Reds: A Global Tragedy Painted in Feathers and Box Scores By Dave’s Foreign Correspondent, still wearing yesterday’s cynicism GENEVA — While the world’s finance ministers argue over digital-tax commas in Swiss conference suites, and while a forgotten war reruns its greatest hits on another continent, two North American bird-themed baseball clubs have…
Musetti: A Global Love Affair With a Twelve-Cent Doughnut Hole By Dave’s Locker Foreign Desk PARIS—Somewhere between the Seine and the last functioning traffic light in Naples, the planet has quietly agreed that the pinnacle of human ingenuity is a sugar-dusted sphere of fried dough the size of a golf ball. Italians call it musetti;…
Twitter Down: Planet Earth Holds Breath, Discovers Oxygen Still Works By Our Man in the Ether When the blue bird finally keeled over at 03:47 UTC, the silence was so complete you could almost hear the world’s influencers hyperventilating into ring lights. From Lagos to Lisbon, Seoul to São Paulo, the sudden absence of 280-character…
How Much Is a Powerball Ticket? The $2 Passport to Pan-Global Delusion By Our Man in the Departure Lounge The short, almost insultingly straightforward answer is: two dollars, give or take a state-tax rounding error. That’s it—less than a flat white in Melbourne, cheaper than a single ride on the London Tube, and markedly less…
Where to Buy Powerball Tickets: A Globe-Trotting Guide to the World’s Most Expensive Daydream By Dave’s Foreign Correspondent, Still Jet-Lagged and Morally Ambiguous NEW YORK – If you’ve glanced at the headlines lately, you’ll know the Powerball jackpot has swollen to a sum that would make a small nation blush—roughly the GDP of Iceland, minus…
Countdown: Season 2 – When the World Holds Its Breath, Again By Dave’s Locker Foreign Desk Geneva—If you listen very carefully above the hum of espresso machines in the Palais des Nations canteen, you can hear it: the low, collective murmur of diplomats rehearsing the phrase “red line” in sixteen languages. Countdown: Season 2 has…
Beyond the Gates: How the World’s VIP Rope Became a Geopolitical Fault Line By Our Correspondent, Somewhere Over the Pacific, Seat 47B For centuries, “beyond the gates” meant pasture land, graveyards, or the occasional dragon. Today it’s where the planet’s real decisions are made: the velvet-roped lounges of Davos, the blast-proof checkpoints of COP summits,…
From the vantage point of a press perch that smells faintly of disinfectant and broken dreams—Wimbledon’s media bunker, where hope goes to die and biscuits go stale—Katie Boulter has become an unlikely geopolitical weather vane. The 27-year-old from Leicestershire, currently charted somewhere between “British darling” and “late-stage wildcard,” is not merely swinging a graphite wand…
After a week in which global headlines ping-ponged between genocidal drones, collapsing democracies, and whatever new cryptocurrency Jesus was minting this month, the name Jasveen Sangha arrived on the world’s front pages like a polite cough at the end of a bar fight. Most readers outside California first encountered her in the grainy federal mugshot:…
Jeff Driskel and the Curious Case of the Disposable Quarterback By Our Man in the Cheap Seats, somewhere over the North Atlantic If the American experiment in late-stage capitalism had a mascot, it might well be Jeff Driskel—an itinerant quarterback whose career arc resembles a Ryanair flight plan: cheap, indirect, and perpetually delayed. The 31-year-old…
The Ballad of Streameast: How One More Ghost Ship Sank in the Endless Ocean of Piracy By Dave’s Foreign Desk, somewhere between a cheap hotel minibar and whatever counts as “international waters” these days PARIS—If you listen carefully at 3 a.m. along the Seine, you can almost hear the collective sigh of a million insomniac…
