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The wee baby Oscar is to be baptized this week. Such is why I’ve returned to the Bay Area: My nephew is to be marked with the water, marked as Catholic, indelibly—the tracking chip implanted, the guilt ineluctable, welcome to the fold, little homie, hair shirt to follow. The celebration is later this week, but I’m at my parents’ apartment now. There is playoff hockey on the flatscreen, fine and large.
The 2017 election promises to be the most disruptive presidential contest in France in decades. For the first time since 1962, when the direct election of the president was introduced, there is a good chance that neither the Socialist Party (PS) nor the right-wing Republicans (LR, successor to Charles de Gaulle’s Union pour la nouvelle République) will advance a candidate to the second round.
Our great cities are characterized by “horrifying inequality.” Ordinary people are “constantly at risk of being wiped out by [an] innumerable profusion of cars, which carry in total comfort men worth infinitely less than those they splash and threaten to destroy.” Thousands are “forced to breathe the poisoned air” of our neighborhoods.
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