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August 27, 12:40 a.m.
Tampa is a blur tonight, a smear of soft rain and humidity and downtown lights that have transformed an essentially modern and no-nonsense city into something much more mysterious and romantic.
Jack and I are staying in a terrific, high-ceilinged, one-story house in the Ybor City. The place was built as a shotgun shack, like so much else in the neighborhood. Ybor City was once a citadel of cigar rollers and cigar-box makers. The workers, mostly Cuban immigrants, became renowned for hiring readers to read to them from newspapers, novels, all sorts of great books, as they toiled.
Today the neighborhood is not wealthy but neat and quiet. We are warned to look out on certain blocks for crime, but there seems to be relatively little of it. A train line runs through the area, and at night you can hear a long, lonely freight train whistling and rumbling its way through to the docks. The rain and all the preparations for the convention have washed Ybor City back to its roots, at least for this night.
We tour local bars and restaurants, looking for Republicans. They are in short supply. At Samurai Blue—an excellent sushi joint—we just miss a table full of Michele Bachmann supporters, apparently regaling each other with tales of how much they did for the one-time frontrunner.
Rumors abound. Another cousin, from upstate New York—different side of the family—warns me against anarchist protesters, who he worries have filled eggs with acid to hurl at police. People in the city talk of Greyhound buses full of heavily armed people rolling through town. We actually pass a forlorn-looking group of local cops assigned to patrol Ybor City on foot and bicycle. They huddle together against the weather under the sidewalk galleries of local buildings, wearing light-brown uniforms that make them look like UPS delivery guys.
No anarchists, no acid. We can only hope the bike police make it home without a bad cold, and with some glimpse of the town melting around them, reverting to what it might have looked like a hundred years ago.
More from Kevin Baker:
Appreciation — June 26, 2014, 8:00 am
From Johnny Cash to “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad”
Flor Arely Sánchez had been in bed with a fever and pains throughout her body for three days when a July thunderstorm broke over the mountainside. She got nervous when bolts of light flashed in the sky. Lightning strikes the San Julián region of western El Salvador several times a year, and her neighbors fear storms more than they fear the march of diseases — first dengue, then chikungunya, now Zika. Flor worried about a lot of things, since she was pregnant.
Late in the afternoon, when the pains had somewhat eased, Flor thought she might go to a dammed-up bit of the river near her house to bathe. She is thirty-five and has lived in the same place all her life, where wrinkled hills are planted with corn, beans, and fruit trees. She took a towel and soap and walked out into the rain. Halfway to the river, the pains returned and overcame her. The next thing Flor remembers, she was in a room she didn’t recognize, unable to move. As she soon discovered, she was in a hospital, her ankle cuffed to the bed, and she was being investigated for abortion.
Amount of laundry an average American family of four washes in a year (in tons):
A study of female Finnish twins found that relative preference for masculine faces is largely heritable.
It was reported that visits from Buddhist priests could be purchased through Amazon in Japan, and the London Philharmonic Orchestra began streaming performances through virtual-reality headsets.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”