Tag: The New York Times

50,000 Steps in a City Where the Sidewalk Never Ends

by adminin Featured Articles, Writing
THE New York Times
In Montevideo, Uruguay, the nearly 14-mile waterside promenade La Rambla serves as an outdoor living room for locals. It’s also a perfect antidote to visitors’ winter blues.
Photographs by Tali Kimelman
Photographs by Tali Kimelman
La Rambla draws Montevideanos to the shore of the Río de la Plata to bask in the sun of the Southern Hemisphere summer.

For a window into the soul of a city, take a stroll along the waterfront: Think of the Seine walkways in Paris, the Copacabana promenade in Rio or the Charles River Esplanade in Boston. Or the nearly 14-mile palm-fringed ribbon called La Rambla, in Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay.

One of the longest sidewalks in the world, La Rambla meanders along the shimmering estuary Río de la Plata, past beaches, wine bars and purple-blossomed jacaranda trees, statues and sculptures, soccer matches and friends engrossed in conversations over cups of yerba mate.

If you go in the summer — as the Northern Hemisphere shivers in the cold — you may find yourself part of a mass migration of locals toting folding chairs to the promenade, turning it into, essentially, the city’s outdoor living room.

People sitting along a stretch of curved sea wall above rocky waters. In the foreground, two men in black T-shirts are sitting on folding chairs. There is a white dog in one man’s lap. In the background, there is an old church and a line of high-rise buildings.
A section of La Rambla near the Old City. Locals bring folding chairs, pets and cups of mate to socialize along the promenade.

The promenade stitches together different pieces of Montevideo, a city of about 1.3 million, socially as well as geographically. On it, you’ll find Uruguayans from all social strata. It’s “the city’s thermometer,” as Natalia Jinchuk, a Montevideo native and author, described it to me.

With my own thermometer dipping and my imagination stoked, I planned an early-winter long weekend in Montevideo, a flower-speckled city that melds Old World and Modernist architecture, to boost my spirits with my own ramble on La Rambla.

A brightly lit amusement-park ride spins people sitting in chairs above the ground as the sun sets over the skyline of a city and the water next to it.
The amusement park at Parque Rodó.

On a balmy Friday morning, I set out on foot from my home base, the Palladium Business Hotel, at the edge of the fashionable Pocitos neighborhood, and headed toward Parque Rodó, an urban gem of a park a few miles west along La Rambla.

The red-and-white-striped promenade runs between a busy road and the Río de la Plata, a wide waterway separating Uruguay and Argentina. The path follows a roughly west-east axis, changing names as it winds from the Capurro neighborhood, northwest of the Old City to the high-end Carrasco area in the east. The most popular section runs from the Old City to Pocitos.

Sailboats moored on a glassy bay, their bare masts silhouetted against a partly cloudy pinkish sky.
The Yacht Club Uruguayo, near the Pocitos neighborhood.

Heading west on La Rambla, I saw sailboats bobbing outside the century-old Yacht Club Uruguayo. Women sat on a grassy knoll, their young children toddling about. Two friends on a bench appeared to be deep in conversation over bread and strawberries. A couple sipped a cup of maté, a caffeinated drink common in South America, from the same metal straw. Near a busy skateboard park, I passed some food trucks, including Soy Pepe el Rey de las Tortafritas (chuckle-inducing translation: I Am Pepe, the King of Fried Bread). At the Playa de los Pocitos, a handful of shirtless men played soccer on the sand. I stopped in front of a granite plaque to read “Sonnet to a Palm,” by the Uruguayan poet Juana de Ibarbourou, and was moved by its final stanza likening a palm tree to an eternal homeland.

A palm-tree-covered hillside is bathed in golden light beneath a blue sky. The bottom of the hill slopes into a small lake.
Parque Rodó includes a lake where you can rent a paddleboat.

Parque Rodó, the destination on that leg of my ramble, includes an amusement park, a lake where you can rent a paddleboat, a “castle” housing a small children’s library, the National Museum of the Visual Arts and a modest flea market. I happened upon a small plaza with benches ringing an octagonal water fountain; both bore tiles embellished with arabesque designs that reminded me of the Middle East. I rested on a bench, enjoying the feel of the tiles, hot beneath my bare legs, and thought of the winter winds howling back in the United States.

A broad five-story building built of warm, gray stone with two towers and a glassy top floor between them. There is a wide plaza in front, with geometric designs in red tiles.
The architecture of Montevideo ranges from Old World to Modernist, with many beautiful buildings lining La Rambla.

La Rambla strings together neighborhoods with distinct architectural styles as well as heritage sites and parks. With dozens of statues and other works of art, it is a tentative candidate for UNESCO’s list of World Heritage sites — its entry calls it “a veritable open-air gallery.”

Some have described La Rambla as a through line uniting the country’s past, present and future; the Uruguayan artist and writer Gustavo Remedi said the promenade ties together a city that “has a tendency to fall apart.” Marcello Figueredo, the author of the nonfiction book “Rambla,” which offers a detailed look at the waterfront walkway, told me the promenade was “both a limit and an escape,” a border between Montevideo and the rest of the world.

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Back on city streets, I headed toward the Pocitos neighborhood, wandering garden-like lanes rich with architectural details: the contrasting lines and curves of Art Deco, Venetian and oriel windows, and red roofs. I glimpsed hand-painted floor tiles and smelled caramelized sugar through the open doorway of Camomila, where I enjoyed a lemon tart and a cortado in a small, sun-dappled courtyard.

A bartender wearing a dark apron, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a dark brimmed hat is holding a small torch next to a tall, icy drink with mint and an orange slice on top.
The motto of Dalí, a bar in Pocitos whose name is inspired by the painter, is “There is nothing more surreal than reality.”
A woman holds a deck of tarot cards fanned out in one hand. The “El Diablo” card, which has a picture of a person holding a butterfly beneath two grasping hands, is on top of the deck.
The Dalí bar does one-card tarot readings using a replica of the deck created by Salvador Dalí.

On my way back to La Rambla, I stopped at a small secondhand store, 3B Bueno Bonito Barato (Good Cute Cheap). Though it was narrow and cluttered, I found some gems, including a pink bolero embroidered with jade vines and orange, yellow and blue flowers, a design that evoked the jacaranda blossoms piling up outside on the sidewalk like drifts of snow.

Just down the street, Dalí, a kitschy bar and tapas restaurant, caught my eye with the tagline “There is nothing more surreal than reality,” and everything inside flowed from that: When someone ordered the Jamaica cocktail, Bob Marley’s “Is This Love?” blasted from the speakers as a singing waitress delivered the red, yellow and green drink; everyone joined in, belting out the lyrics. The waitress also offered one-card tarot readings using a replica of the deck Salvador Dalí created. I drew the magician, which, she told me, signaled that if I believe in my own powers, I will manifest my dreams. And I thought I’d just stopped in for a drink.

A woman wearing flowered pants, a pink top, a gray bucket hat and a bright yellow fanny pack on the front walks with other people down a brick-paved street lined with coffee shops, stores and benches, where people relax and look at their phones.
The Old City of Montevideo, near the Port Market.

You can’t go far in Montevideo without smelling smoke from the city’s many steakhouses, or parrillas, grilling meat over wood fires. Much of that aroma comes from the Port Market, a maze of restaurants and bars in a hall with a wrought-iron roof made in Liverpool and shipped to Uruguay in the 1860s.

The market, wedged between La Rambla and the Old City, would be a seven-mile walk west from my hotel along the winding promenade, so when I set out on Saturday, I plotted a shortcut through city streets, with plans to rejoin the promenade at the market.

Three people are sitting at a bar where, in the background, sausages and other meats are being grilled.
Meat lovers converge on the Port Market, where they can eat grilled delicacies at parrillas, or steakhouses.

Near the city center, I was delighted to discover Uruguayans practicing their tango moves for an impromptu audience at Juan Pedro Fabini Square — named for the engineer who proposed La Rambla to the city in 1922. After passing a stone gateway to the Old City, I browsed tables displaying local art and handmade jewelry along the main pedestrian thoroughfare that connects the Old City and La Rambla.

Then I heard the sound of candombe, a style of Afro-Uruguayan music, coming from a side street. Men decked out in white and blue, and women wearing white turbans, appeared. The men banged drums, and the women swooshed their flowing white skirts back and forth to the rhythm. Candombe is ubiquitous during Montevideo’s carnival, which runs from January to March.

Eventually, I arrived at the Port Market, which Mr. Figueredo, the author of “Rambla,” calls a “smoke-filled temple.” Though meat is indeed god at the market, even vegetarians will feel a sense of awe. Diners sit elbow-to-elbow at bars that ring grills beneath ornate iron arches, the sun filtering in through skylights. In the cathedral-like space, it was hard to tell the difference between indoors and outdoors.

A wide, crescent-shaped beach lined with tall modern-looking buildings, most of which have large windows and balconies. People are lying on the sand and swimming among the low waves offshore.
Pocitos Beach with La Rambla in the background.

Having clocked more than 50,000 steps in two days, I decided to spend Sunday relaxing in the section of La Rambla alongside the well-heeled Punta Carretas area, which juts out into the Río de la Plata not far from the Old City.

At Baco Vino y Bistro, I tried crostini topped with local goat cheese alongside a glass of Uruguayan tannat, the country’s national wine. Dark red, rich with fruit, the wine packs a tannin-filled punch with each sip.

Back on La Rambla, I couldn’t resist checking out Artico, a cafeteria-style fast-seafood restaurant right along the shore packed with delicacies like quinoa with shrimp, Galician-style squid, and an inventive, savory pumpkin pionono filled with tuna, cream cheese, arugula, bell pepper, onion and black olives — all priced by weight.

A child in a yellow T-shirt kicks a soccer ball on a grassy field overlooking the water at sunset. Two people are sitting on folding chairs, while others are strolling and sitting in the grass nearby.
Enjoying the sunset in the Punta Carretas neighborhood. Soccer is one of the most popular ways to spend the long summer days along La Rambla.

La Rambla was in full swing: It was the weekend before Uruguay’s elections, and a celebratory mood prevailed. Music blared from beneath canopies, and supporters of politicians from all sides handed out the same thing to passers-by: the blue-and-white Uruguayan flag with a tiny sun in the corner. Cars honked as they passed; everyone waved and smiled.

Down on the beach, people played soccer and volleyball, vendors sold cotton candy and candied apples, and clumps of friends, many sitting in those ubiquitous folding chairs, passed around wine bottles. Laying a towel on the sand, I peeled off my dress to reveal a skimpy one-piece I’d bought in Pocitos, and claimed a prime spot in Montevideo’s outdoor living room.

A couple sits arm in arm, leaning back along a stone wall next to a bench and a column. They’re looking out over the blue water, which extends to the horizon.
Locals use La Rambla for sports, celebrations, socializing and, of course, for enjoying the view with loved ones.

To Really See Peru, Hop on (and Off) the Bus

by adminin Writing
THE New York Times
Most travelers fly between cities like Lima, Cuzco and Arequipa, but if you want to explore beaches, deserts and mountains at your own pace, try a hop-on, hop-off bus.
Photographs by Angela Ponce
Photographs by Tali Kimelman
The roughly decade-old Peru Hop bus service lets travelers choose a route and then decide how much time they want to spend at each stop along the way.

I was in a dune buggy perched atop a sandy ridge near the small oasis town of Huacachina, Peru, looking down a nearly 60-foot drop. As the driver gunned the engine, I began to question my decision to sign up for this tour.

Down we went. I closed my eyes and screamed, and then, as the dune buggy pitched upward and slowed, the scream became a laugh. I opened my eyes to find us stopped on top of another sandy ridge, this one with a breathtaking view: Before us, an ocean of beige ripples cast black shadows in their troughs.

The driver killed the engine and silence swaddled us. I climbed out of the buggy and plunked down on the soft, warm sand, as the sun eased down on the horizon.

To think I’d almost missed this.

People and open-sided vehicles amid sand dunes that extend toward the distant lights of a town and the setting sun.
The sand dunes near Huacachina, Peru.
A man sliding headfirst down a tan-colored sand dune. He is wearing a hat and a mask, and there is sand spraying up behind his feet.
Sandboarding is among the activities visitors can try in the dunes.
An open-sided dune buggy speeds along a flat, sandy area, kicking up a trail of sand as a red-and-white Peruvian flag flies from a flexible rod attached to the rear of the vehicle.
Dune buggy rides are one thrilling way to experience the desert around Huacachina.
A line of people and a dune buggy are silhouetted by the setting sun at the top of a darkened dune.
Watching the sunset from the top of a dune near Huacachina.

Just a few hours before, I had been sitting on a bus making its way south along the coast when a new friend, Dax, asked if I’d signed up for the dune buggies in Huacachina — our next stop. “Oh, no, I don’t do things like that,” I’d answered.

“Yeah, neither do I,” said Dax. “But I’ll do it if you do.”

When I was planning my trip to Peru last spring, I’d picked three cities, Lima, Arequipa and Cuzco, drawing a neat triangle of flights on the map. But there were two big problems with that itinerary: Flying would mean sudden shifts in elevation and possible altitude sickness, and I would miss everything between those cities.

Then I discovered Peru Hop, a roughly decade-old hop-on, hop-off bus service that offers flexible itineraries and dates, giving travelers the freedom to stay longer at any stop they want to explore further. It seemed perfect.

There are other, less expensive bus companies crisscrossing the country, including public routes where pickpockets are a risk. Peru Hop, however, offers recommended tours and accommodations, easily signed up for through the website, an app or even aboard the bus. Peru Hop also offers door-to-door pickup and drop-off in most places.

I chose the Full South to Cuzco line, which starts in coastal Lima and stops in Paracas, Huacachina, Nazca, Arequipa, Puno and Cuzco. While this line takes six days and five nights, I tacked on some extra time in a few places, making my trip two weeks long. I planned to start in Lima and end with the kaleidoscopic Red Valley and Rainbow Mountain, a hike that includes a brutal straight-to-the-top stretch at a lung-busting 16,000 feet above sea level.

A standard ticket on that line costs $219; I paid an extra $10 for the V.I.P. ticket, which offers a little more flexibility. Excursions cost extra, and most ranged from $19 for the dune buggy ride to $39 for Rainbow Mountain. I booked on the Peru Hop website well ahead and paid in U.S. dollars.

Along the way, I left space for serendipity. Because Peru Hop isn’t a traditional tour, you can play along or do your own thing. It turned out that this combination of structure and freedom opened doors for me to visit places and do things I never imagined.

A sandy beach with rolling waves. There is an ocher-colored cliff at the far side of the beach, and across the water, a brown landscape rises toward the sky.
Paracas National Reserve, south of Lima. The word paracas means “rain of sand” in Quechua, Peru’s most widely spoken Indigenous language.

The edge of the golden desert collides with the navy blue Pacific Ocean in the town of Paracas, which means “rain of sand” in Quechua, Peru’s most widely spoken Indigenous language. Strong winds, often topping 50 miles per hour, make Paracas popular with kitesurfers.

At Paracas National Reserve — where the salt-spiked sand glittered under my feet, lending the place a magical feeling — I stood on the edge of a cliff and experienced a gust so strong, I was certain I would be lifted off the ground.

“This is a landscape you record with your soul,” said one guide.

After a night at the simple but clean Peru Hop-recommended Hotel Residencial Los Frayles ($43), at dawn the next day, I joined two fellow Hopsters, Ernesto and Stephanie, a brother and sister from El Salvador, for a kayak tour of Paracas Bay. Pushing off from the shore, we paddled so close to a pair of dolphins that we saw drops of water spraying from their blowholes as they exhaled. Enchanted, we followed the dolphins for so long that we had to run to catch our scheduled boat tour to the Islas Ballestas.

A rocky sea arch with birds flying above it and dark blue water beneath.
The Islas Ballestas, about 10 miles offshore, are sometimes called the Poor Man’s Galápagos.
Two gray birds with bright red and orange beaks perch on a next amid moss-covered rocks.
The Islas Ballestas are home to a variety of wildlife, including many types of birds.
Two small gray, white and black penguins in a rocky outcropping.
Visitors to the Islas Ballestas can spot Humboldt penguins.
A sea lion rests atop some craggy rocks with its eyes closed and a peaceful look on its face.
Sea lions are some of the islands’ residents.

Sometimes called the Poor Man’s Galápagos, the Islas Ballestas offer a dizzying array of marine life but are far easier to reach, only about 10 miles off the coast. Even though choppy waters cut our tour disappointingly short, we glimpsed sea lions lounging on a wedge of rock, Humboldt penguins balanced on tiny ledges and colorful crabs skittering across islands of stone that rose straight out of the sea. We also saw the Paracas Candelabra, a mysterious geoglyph on a seaside hill, keeping silent watch over the waves and wind.

The candelabra whetted our appetites for its much larger cousins, the Nazca Lines, which we reached by bus after our dune buggy adventure in Huacachina, where I spent one night at the Hostal Curasi ($60). Its rooftop restaurant offered stunning views of the surrounding sand dunes.

A treeless brown hill rising above craggy cliffs. There is a giant three-pronged candelabra-like image etched into the hillside.
The Paracas Candelabra, a mysterious geoglyph etched into a seaside hill.

Many tourists fly over the Nazca Lines, etched on a coastal plain, to glimpse them from above. From the bus, I got a different view: As we passed the geoglyphs, I saw what appeared to be random tracks in the desert. They looked like the careless work of teenagers driving their cars on the beach rather than something deliberate. I was sure the signs announcing the Nazca Lines were mistaken.

But from the top of the observation tower, they popped into focus: a lizard, a tree and outstretched hands that reminded me of a leaping frog. I envisioned ancient people moving through this vast, arid landscape, working toward a collective vision of how the lines would appear from above. The feat seemed even more astounding after I had traversed the same miles aboard the bus.

A vast lake with patches of golden reeds surrounded by low, brown, mostly treeless mountains, under a partly cloudy sky.
Lake Titicaca near Puno, Peru. The lake, at roughly 12,500 feet in elevation, is home to floating islands built of reeds by the Uros people, who believe it is the birthplace of the sun. (Getty)

In Puno, on the shores of roughly 12,500-foot-high Lake Titicaca, I strayed from the Peru Hop itinerary because it didn’t offer an overnight option on the water. I felt I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to stay on one of the floating reed islands built by the Indigenous Uros people, who believe the lake to be the birthplace of the sun.

Once my Airbnb host had docked and let me into the one-room house I’d booked for the night ($137), I snuggled up under thick blankets in a king-size bed and peered out a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows toward the water. Gray clouds so heavy they reminded me of granite lumbered onto the lake. A thick bolt of lightning connected sky and shore, and soon, rivulets of water were streaking the windows. The reed island rocked ever so gently, and the steady beat of raindrops on the tin roof lulled me to sleep.

The next night, I began the last stretch of my journey — boarding an overnight bus to Cuzco, where the gorgeous Tierra Viva Hotel ($105 a night) would be my home base as I prepared for my most challenging adventure, Rainbow Mountain, on a tour I had booked through Peru Hop.

The cold minivan that ferried a dozen other tourists and me to Rainbow Mountain set out from Cuzco at 3:30 a.m., bouncing along the cobblestone streets. Soon, we were in the countryside, where the morning fog made it seem as if we were driving through the sky. And then we were racing along a wisp of a dirt road carved into the side of a mountain, Andean huayno music blasting from the speakers as we jostled along the edge of a terrifying drop-off.

Once we had reached the Rainbow Mountain parking lot, which sits at an elevation of roughly 15,000 feet, our guide urged us to try a two-minute test hike on a gentle incline. When we regrouped, some of us were already winded. The guide explained that the peak was about a mile and a half away and that, at this altitude, it usually took people about 45 minutes to reach the top.

If we were struggling now, our guide warned, it was just going to get worse. Anyone concerned about making it to the top, or who wanted to conserve energy for the hike to nearby Red Valley, could pay 15 soles, about $4, to take a motorbike or ride a horse most of the way up. Neither option would take us all the way. Eventually, we’d have to walk.

Starting on horseback, I discovered you don’t actually climb Rainbow Mountain. You ascend a sandy path on an adjacent mountain so you can get a look at the colorful stripes. After dismounting, I began the final stretch to the summit, and Rainbow Mountain rose before me, one stripe at a time, looking like some divine entity had carefully painted neat bands of color on an enormous canvas and then laid the whole thing across the mountain, blanketing the rock with burgundy, yellow, teal and purple.

At the summit, I snapped some photos and then, dizzy from the lack of oxygen, descended. At the bottom, I handed my guide an extra 20 soles for access to the trail that led to Red Valley, and then veered off to begin the approximately half-mile hike, this time along a footpath so narrow I was certain I would tumble off and roll down the sandy slope.

Unlike Rainbow Mountain, Red Valley doesn’t appear little by little on the horizon. There’s no sense of where you’re going and when you will get there. Closer to the sun than I’d ever been, its rays beating down on me, I stopped for a moment and tried to figure out how much farther I had to go. My legs shook.

Just when I was about ready to give up, I reached the crest, and suddenly a blanket of vermilion appeared, the color made sharper by the olive green grass serpentining through the lowest point of the valley. Beyond that, there was nothing: no roads, no houses, no people. Just buckles of brown mountains, white clouds and the blue, blue sky.

I thought back to that guide’s wise words back in Paracas. This was definitely a landscape you record with your soul.

A golden disk of sun suspended over a hazy landscape of brown earth folded into mountains and dunes.
Sunset over the desert near Huacachina, a place the writer might never have visited if she had crisscrossed Peru by airplane instead of on a bus.

Finding a Way Back to ‘Perfect Beach’

by adminin Writing
THE New York Times
On the spectacular northern coast of Puerto Rico, a writer’s favorite stretch of golden sand beckoned, but getting there legally would take some creativity.
Photographs by Sebastian Castrodad
Photographs by Tali Kimelman
“Perfect Beach,” listed as Punta Caracoles Beach on some maps, near Islote, P.R.

On the northern coast of Puerto Rico — about an hour’s drive west of San Juan, off a wisp of a road threaded through dense green foliage — there exists a long, empty beach that has haunted my dreams for years. On Google Maps, it appears as Punta Caracoles Beach, but I have always thought of it as Perfect Beach.

Hidden from Route 681 by an impenetrable wall of palm trees, sea grapes and snake plants, the half-mile stretch of golden sand near the tiny outpost of Islote is tucked between a graceful bend in the shore and a rocky outcropping. A few houses anchor its far eastern end. The ocean is a visceral blue.

I used to spend hours there, immersing myself in the water, emerging to plop down in the coarse, shelly sand, exhausted, satisfied, letting the sun warm my bare skin.

At least, this is the beach as I remember it. Two decades ago, I had easy access to the place via the summer home of my first husband’s Puerto Rican family. Then we divorced, and later the family sold the land to a fellow from the U.S. mainland. Now, the beach beckons from the other side of a stranger’s private property.

I traveled to Puerto Rico in late May with the singular goal of finding a way back onto that beach (not to be confused with the popular Caracoles Beach, a few miles down the road). I recruited my ex-husband’s cousin Joaquín, a native Puerto Rican who had spent much of his youth on that beach. Together, we set out from San Juan on a sunny Friday afternoon with Perfect Beach — or another stretch of sand that could compare — in our sights.

A turquoise bay surrounded by cliffs on a rocky point of land that juts into the ocean.
A view from the rocky outcropping locals call La Vaca.

Route 681 winds along some of the island’s most spectacular shoreline and, for that reason, is popular with bicyclists and motorcyclists. The road is also lined with restaurants and bars. On the weekends, it’s not uncommon to see party buses making their way along the road.

When we arrived in Islote, dense foliage along the highway complicated our effort to pick out the family’s old lot. But eventually, Joaquín slowed and nosed the car into a dirt driveway that was barricaded by orange netting. A sign in Spanish warned us not to trespass. In Puerto Rico, legally speaking, there are no such thing as private beaches — but you can’t cross private property to reach the sand.

We got back in the car and Joaquín drove slowly, waving a tailgater past. And then I spied a break — a three-foot-wide path running between two fences. “There!” I shouted. “Stop!” and he pulled over on the narrow, grassy shoulder. I jumped out and barreled through the gap, Joaquín trailing me, a soft cooler full of beer dangling from his shoulder.

We emerged on the wrong side of the point locals call La Vaca, or the Cow — a 30-foot-high rocky outcropping that juts into the ocean, at the western end of Perfect Beach. From the east, the slope is gentle, and with proper shoes, you can cross its black spikes, which locals say were formed as the ocean lapped at cooling lava. But from this side, it’s too steep to get a foothold.

We spent a moment enjoying this beach, which was studded with otherworldly round boulders of dead coral, bleached white by the sun. But it was no match for Perfect Beach.

A clear, semicircular pool is mostly surrounded by a sandy beach but on one side faces the blue ocean. A rocky barrier protects the pool from the waves that are crashing against the rocks nearby.
La Poza del Obispo, or the Bishop’s Pool, is a semicircular area protected by a rock formation, creating a calm, clear inlet that is perfect for floating.

Stymied for now, we decided to explore some other local beaches, like La Poza del Obispo (the Bishop’s Pool), reportedly named in honor of a Puerto Rican cleric who had survived a shipwreck.

Because the island’s north shore faces the open Atlantic, the water along it is usually rough. But, at La Poza, a natural rock formation serves as a barrier, creating a small and almost perfectly round inlet with a crystal clear pool that is perfect for floating. The ocean crashing on the rocks lends the water a gentle sway, like being rocked to sleep, and puts on a show, too: When large waves burst on the barrier, sending 20- and 30-foot plumes of spray into the air, bathers ooh, aah and laugh together.

Times travel coverage. When our writers review a destination, they do not accept free or discounted services or, in most cases, reveal that they work for The Times. We want their experience to be what you can expect.

Here’s more on our standards and practices.

After La Poza, we headed back east, passing the popular Caza y Pesca (Hunting and Fishing) Beach — so named for the fishermen who once gathered there. As we drove with the windows down, the irresistible smell of a small shore-front restaurant persuaded us to pull over for dinner.

The eatery, called Arrecife 681, was one of the many that had opened up along Route 681 and in the surrounding communities after Hurricane Maria in 2017. Islote is a microcosm of Puerto Rico, whose food scene has blossomed since the devastation of the storm, perhaps as an outgrowth of islanders’ efforts to achieve greater food sovereignty from the mainland.

A beachside table is set with a tray containing a pile of taro chips and a paper bowl of chopped octopus salad with a lemon wedge; a paper box containing a stuffed, fried egg roll on a blue tray; and a tall mojito in a blue-rimmed glass with a strawberry and a flower on top and a red-and-white straw.
Arrecife 681, one of many restaurants that have opened along Route 681 since Hurricane Maria in 2017, offers specialities like, clockwise from top left, taro chips; passion fruit mojitos; beef, plantain and cheese egg rolls; and octopus ceviche.
A translucent green-blue bay in front of a rocky point that slopes down into the water. There is a hole in the point through which you can see the ocean and the horizon.
Cliffs surrounding La Cueva del Indio, a cave famous for its pre-Columbian petroglyphs made by the Taíno, Puerto Rico’s Indigenous people.

We sat on the patio, the beach just a short drop down the dunes, and ordered two appetizers: octopus ceviche, served with taro chips, and egg rolls stuffed with beef, cheese and ripe plantain. The drink menu offered a variety of delicious mojitos — including passion fruit and tamarind.

By the time we got our main dish — green pigeon pea risotto with chicken sausage and sweet plantains topped with pork chunks — we were too full to eat. We leaned back on the bench and picked at the delicious food, groaning with each bite. From the patio, to the east of La Vaca, everything looked exactly as it did from the old beach house: the sunset with that familiar hump protruding into the ocean. The wind was blowing just as it did there, too. We’re so close, I thought.

I’d picked a rustic Airbnb ($100 a night) on the sole basis that it was as close as I could get to the old beach house. Early the next morning, I set out to run, alone, to Perfect Beach. I saw La Vaca on the horizon and, as I recognized Arrecife, the restaurant from the night before, ahead of me, I knew I was almost there. But the shoreline became impossibly rocky, and I had to turn back.

A turquoise bay surrounded by rugged beige cliffs. At the end of the bay, there is a cave that leads into one of the rocks, and above that cave, two people are standing with their hands on their hips, looking at the view.
At La Cueva del Indio, visitors can listen to waves echo off the rocks, take in stunning views of the water, and watch birds soar, dive and swoop.

After my run, we headed to La Cueva del Indio, right next door to my Airbnb. The cave, famous for its pre-Columbian petroglyphs made by the Taíno, the island’s Indigenous people, is surrounded by soaring cliffs that offer a stunning view of the cobalt water below. We sat on the edge of a cliff, listening to the waves echo off the rocks, watching swallow-tailed birds soar, dive and swoop.

Back on the road, I spied a tiny, black food truck with a flat tire. The sign was simple: La Herencia. Again, my nose implored us to stop, and the results were piping-hot pastelillos, fried turnovers with a small ball of filling, the dough extending out so far and so flat that they reminded me of angel wings. We tried the shrimp and a garlicky tomato filling that was surprisingly but pleasantly sweet. Joaquín tried an unusual pairing: an octopus-filled pastelillo and banana peppers. Breaking off big chunks of the edges, we declared the crispy dough the best we’d ever had. (La Herencia is currently closed but its owners aim to reopen soon.)

From there, I could see La Vaca. And again, we were on the correct side to make it to Perfect Beach. After finishing our pastelillos, we tried to walk there, but again, it was too rocky, and we returned to the car, defeated.

Then it hit me: “Arrecife — the restaurant!” I said. “Let’s park there, grab drinks and then drop down off the patio onto the beach.”

When we arrived at Arrecife, I headed straight to the bar, where I ordered a drink to go. I chose the Lilin: vodka, Prosecco, St-Germain elderflower liqueur and passion fruit liqueur, topped off with passion fruit juice.

Plastic cup in hand, I made a beeline for the corner of the patio as Joaquín asked if it was OK to go down to the beach from the restaurant. “Of course,” an employee with the official air of a manager responded, and Joaquín followed.

A sandy beach covered with bits of wood and leaves and framed by leafy trees and plants. Beyond the beach, the wide, blue ocean extends all the way to the horizon
“Perfect Beach,” which lies on the other side of a strip of private land, can be reached with a little creativity — and some help from a nearby restaurant.

After a short walk, we passed the last house anchoring the eastern tip of the beach. And then a familiar feeling came over me: The place was exactly as I remembered it. We were alone as far as the eye could see. I peeled off my clothes and raced to the water.

The ocean floor fell away steeply just a few steps in. I ducked under the huge waves rolling toward me and swam out beyond the breakers. I flipped onto my back, letting my body rise. Cradled by warm saltwater, I looked toward the shore and saw nothing but palm trees and sea grapes. The outside world no longer existed. There was only this beach, this moment, and it was perfect — exactly as it had remained, all these years, in my dreams.

Most of the accommodations in the area of Islote and along Route 681 mirror the beaches: rustic. Airbnbs are a good option.

Where to stay:

  • Salitre Meson Costero, an upscale seafood restaurant on the water near Punta Caracoles, offers a beachside villa — great for groups — with a stunning view and a private pool ($1,395 a night for a 10-room, seven-and-a-half-bath villa that can accommodate 16 guests, on Airbnb).
  • The high-end Nest Puerto Rico, also good for groups, has options near Caza y Pesca Beach ($500 a night for a four-bedroom villa that can accommodate 10) and oceanside in Arecibo (also $500 a night for a four-bedroom villa that can house up to 10).
  • Greta Beach Box, in Islote, is a shipping container, just steps from the beach, that has been converted into a luxurious cabin with a private, heated pool ($151 a night for two rooms that can sleep four guests).
  • DK Backyard, another converted shipping container on Airbnb, offers a simple space (with a hammock on the porch) and is just a short walk from the beach in Islote ($174 a night for one bedroom with a double bed).

Where to eat:

  • David Sandwich, along Route 681 has been an Islote institution for decades, serving up tasty roasted-pork sandwiches and more ($4 to $9).
  • El Nuevo Guayabo, another Islote mainstay along Route 681, offers empanadas stuffed with cetí, a tiny immature fish found in the Arecibo area ($5).
  • Bocata Smokehouse, a delicious barbecue joint, features ocean breezes and views and occasional live music (entrees $9 to $28).
  • La Distillera, one of the places that have sprung up since Hurricane Maria, offers small plates that meld traditional ingredients with whimsical touches — like pastry pockets stuffed with short rib and Manchego and served with mango chimichurri. The innovative drinks are phenomenal: For example, the Olivia is made of olive-oil-infused gin, Licor 43 (a sweet liqueur from Spain), lime and honey syrup. (The menu changes weekly. Food from about $12 to $20; cocktails $8 to $12.)
  • DPicar681, a food truck, serves delightful cod fritters ($2) — thin and crisp but chewy, with a distinctive oregano flavor.
  • El Kiosquito del Norte, a roadside stand, tempts travelers and locals with freshly made stuffed crab fritters and moist, flavorful plantain rolls filled with ground beef ($3.50).

Who Gets to Wear G-Strings Now?

by adminin Featured Articles, Writing
THE New York Times
More women are adopting the “less is more” philosophy.

Codi Maher noticed that bikini bottoms were shrinking a few years ago. “First it was cheeky cut, then Brazilian,” said Ms. Maher, a 30-year-old real estate agent in Palm Beach Gardens, Fla. As the fabric covering women’s derrières disappeared, she started thinking about getting a thong swimsuit of her own: “I was just like, everyone’s wearing them, screw it, I don’t care.”

Her sister, Cassidy, 24, said she started wearing thong bikinis a year or two ago because she believed the cut made her “butt look a little better.” She also likes the lack of tan lines, a sentiment repeated by numerous women. “Sometimes I feel uncomfortable,” Cassidy said. “But I’m starting to feel more confident seeing other women wearing them.”

Some attribute the latest surge of G-strings and thongs to celebrities who wear the swimwear style, including Emily Ratajkowski, Kim Kardashian, Kendall Jenner and Kate Hudson. “The thongkini is Hollywood’s swimsuit of choice,” Popsugar declared. “Anticipate lots of thong, string and cheeky cuts,” Rolling Stone wrote.

Though the terms are often used interchangeably, G-strings and thongs are different. G-strings have a thin strap running between the buttocks, connected to the waistband. A thong, while still offering the T-back look, has a triangle of fabric at the top, covering the space between the buttocks and the lower back. Another category called Brazilian bottoms offers more coverage than thongs; these are skimpy and high-cut, elongating the leg and exposing most of the buttocks. But all of these variations point to one thing: Skin is in.

Major retailers, including Victoria’s Secret and Billabong, are offering G-string and thong swimsuits as part of their 2023 swimwear collections.

While the thong has ancient origins — and iterations of the garment have popped up around the globe — the style first appeared in public in the United States in 1939 ahead of the New York World’s Fair, after the city’s mayor, Fiorello La Guardia, mandated that showgirls perform covered rather than completely naked (as was both common and contentious at fairs in this period). The 1939 mandate was part of the mayor’s larger war against displays of “filth and lewdness”: In 1937, Mr. La Guardia backed a citywide ban on 14 burlesque theaters that led to police closures of such striptease clubs for the first time in the city’s history. The ban was contested and quickly made its way to the New York Supreme Court, where lawyers for the burlesque clubs tried unsuccessfully to force the city to reissue their licenses.

Decades later, on the West Coast, another legal strike against displays of flesh spurred swimwear innovation: In 1974, when the Los Angeles City Council banned public nudity, the Austrian American designer Rudi Gernreich responded by inventing the thong bikini.

“The thong is my response to a contradiction in our society: Nudity is here; lots of people want to swim and sun themselves in the nude; also lots of people are still offended by public nudity,” Mr. Gernreich said in a manifesto in the 1970s, citing, according to Vogue, “Brazilian swimwear, sumo wrestlers’ mawashis and thong sandals as references” for the style.

The same conflict Mr. Gernreich identified would eventually propel the G-string all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court.

The court ruled on G-strings in the case of Barnes v. Glen Theatre Inc. in 1991 and in City of Erie v. Pap’s A.M. in 2000. In both cases, exotic dancers who wanted to completely strip down argued that laws requiring them to wear G-strings infringed on their First Amendment rights. But the justices upheld the legislative requirements, in rulings that are “widely derided as failures in terms of First Amendment reasoning,” according to Amy Adler, a law professor at New York University.

The court deemed female nudity a threat to social order and upheld the G-string as a “solution to crime, disease and mayhem,” Ms. Adler said. The garment is all about dualities — a thing of “fantasy and dread,” she said, at once pointing to and hiding a woman’s sexuality.

In recent years, a number of North Carolina municipalities have loosened restrictions and enforcement of nudity laws to accommodate an increase in scantily clad beachgoers. (Thus far, municipalities in South Carolina have declined to follow suit, despite calls to get rid of the thong law.)

For now, the legal wrangling over thongkinis seems confined to the Carolinas. Thong bikinis are legal in most parts of the United States, but laws vary by city and county. In Florida, for example, thong swimwear is prohibited in state parks, including some portions of the state’s beaches.

Regardless of the legality, many women say the cut helps them make peace with their bodies. In the past, skimpy swimwear was often considered the province of women with conventionally “perfect” bodies, but today, G-string, thong and other barely there bottoms are embraced by women of all shapes and sizes.

Nikki Sutton, a paralegal from Atlanta with two kids, explained that she ordered a white thong bikini ahead of a trip to Puerto Rico because she wanted to “feel sexy for a second.” Though she had recently gained 15 pounds, she said, she decided to rock the thong anyway because it would push her outside her comfort zone and force her to be “completely content” with her body exactly as it was, “with every piece of what I have going on — inches, weight, the whole thing.”

“That’s what a thong does to me,” she said. “It’s empowering and it forces me to feel a little more comfortable in my skin. I have to walk with a certain level of confidence, whether I feel that way or not.”

Ms. Sutton said she hoped that her flaunting what she sees as her imperfect body in public would encourage other women to be comfortable in their own bodies, no matter their shapes or sizes.

Wearing a G-string is “liberating,” said Laura DiBiase, a 32-year-old college counselor from Los Angeles, because it symbolizes “taking ownership of your body.” Ms. DiBiase said her adoption of the style was tied to her personal fitness journey: As she started hitting the gym more, she became more confident and started wearing G-string bikinis, which in turn enhanced her confidence.

But some see the style as a double-edged sword.

“There are certain bodies that are just marginalized — fat bodies, older bodies, bodies with visible disabilities,” said Celine Leboeuf, an assistant professor of philosophy at Florida International University. “There can be something liberating about claiming those clothes that people say you shouldn’t be wearing because of your body. But then you fall onto the other edge of self-objectification.”

Mari Heredia, a 49-year-old medical technician from Boynton Beach, Fla., said she wears a thong swimsuit because “I need to tan my booty.”

The last time she wore one, she added, was 20 years ago, on holiday in Cancún. Reflecting on her body today, she said: “I’m fat, but guess what? I have two kids. This is my natural body.”

Five women wearing bikini tops and thong, G-string or Brazilian bottoms pose on a beach, smiling and raising their arms.

Today, G-string, thong and other barely there bottoms are embraced by women of all shapes and sizes.
(Photo: Melody Timothee for The New York Times)

Why Did I Spend My Last Birthday Alone in Alaska? Ask My Astrologer.

by adminin Writing
THE NEW YORK TIMES
Some people believe that where you are during your “solar return,” an annual event linked to the sun, can change your destiny. For one writer, it was worth a try.

I’m deep in an Alaskan forest halfway through an 8K race when I find myself alone. Above me, 100-foot spruces bend and bellow, set upon by wind so loud I mistake it for an airplane. Below me, a slushy, icy mess of a trail.

Ahead of me — no one.

It’s a drizzly November morning. My clothes are wet with rain and my fingers and toes hurt from the cold. I look down at my black running shoes, willing them to move faster. They don’t.

I can no longer see the two women I followed for the first half of the run, and I imagine the gap widening. Then I picture myself on a map: a speck some 4,000 miles away from my home in South Florida. I see my 7-year-old daughter’s chubby cheeks and dirty blond curls, my 5-year-old son with his thumb in his mouth.

“I’m going to die here, alone,” I think. In the past, I never had thoughts like this. I was all swagger: Back when I lived in Jerusalem, I ran on isolated trails in the forest almost every afternoon. But since filing for divorce in August, I’ve become fearful of being alone. And being in Alaska — with its vastness, the way it dangles, lonely, at the edge of the continent — has only magnified those feelings.

I try to catch up with the women, but I’m tapped out, No. 12 in a field of a dozen. I worry: What if everyone finishes and goes home? I don’t have my phone; there will be no way for me to call for help.

And then I ask myself: Why did I come all the way to Alaska on the advice of a total stranger, to chase something I’m not even sure I believe in — an astrological event called a solar return?

Tilting the stars in your favor

A solar return takes place at the moment when the sun returns to exactly the same location in the sky where it was at the time of your birth, explained Julia Mihas, a San Francisco-based astrologer. This usually takes place every year on or near your birthday.

The thinking behind solar return trips is that just as the place where you’re born has an impact on your birth chart — which supposedly reveals major themes in your life story — so can the place where you spend your solar return affect the year ahead. In essence, an astrologer, using your yearly chart, searches for the place where the stars will be most auspicious at the moment of your solar return, and then you travel to that location. It’s like hacking your horoscope.

These trips, known as aimed solar returns, or A.S.R.s, are central to an approach called active astrology, which holds that you can intervene in your fate.

Let me confess that I’m a little woo-woo. I recently bought a small piece of Libyan desert glass — which is supposed to work with chakras or vibrations or whatever — and hung it over my desk. But solar return trips — which I’d heard about from a friend — seemed out there; I considered one only after my marriage fell apart. That friend connected me to Katia Novikova, a Ukrainian astrologer who lives in Rome.

When Ms. Novikova, a pianist by training, took up astrology in 1995, she immediately began searching for a way to exercise control over the stars. A few years later, she discovered active astrology. Ms. Novikova’s first foray into solar return trips came in 2011, after she did her chart for the year ahead and foresaw her own death. She recalled with a laugh how she used a combination of software and her extensive knowledge of astrology to find a solar return destination — Barcelona — where her stars offered a better outcome: “Instead of dying, I changed it for health, for art and for money. It was simple.”

The trip was also easy — an inexpensive flight from Rome.

Upon returning, Ms. Novikova landed a regular gig as a pianist, and requests for private lessons poured in as well.

So not only did Ms. Novikova continue doing A.S.R.s, she also offered free readings to friends. When word spread and strangers began inquiring about readings, Ms. Novikova started charging.

One of those strangers who found Ms. Novikova is the television writer Safia M. Dirie, who asked not to give her age.

On Ms. Novikova’s advice, Ms. Dirie, who lives in Los Angeles, made her first solar return trip in 2016 to the Cook Islands, a small South Pacific nation, looking to change her luck in love. Less than a year later, she met the man who is now her husband.

The next year, Ms. Novikova sent Ms. Dirie to a tiny town called Swink, population 667, on the southeastern plains of Colorado. Because there were no hotels in Swink and her solar return was taking place in the middle of the night, Ms. Dirie and a friend white-knuckled it from Colorado Springs, a couple of hours away. In the dark, amid a tornado warning, tumbleweeds kept rolling out in front of the car and she kept slamming on the brakes, thinking they were deer.

When Ms. Dirie and her friend arrived in Swink, they found it pitch black, the power knocked out by the storm. They parked in front of a random house until her 2:08 a.m. solar return passed. Then the two “went over to the next town and got a piece of pie at an all-night diner.”

Ms. Dirie, who likened her own solar return trips to pilgrimages, said that A.S.R.s are “pretty popular” in her Los Angeles circle, but solar return trips aren’t a national travel trend, according to the half-dozen travel advisers I spoke with.

Like a travel adviser, Ms. Novikova tries to understand what motivates a client. After I contacted her via email — just a month after I’d filed for divorce — and paid 100 euros, about $110, she had me answer questions about my hopes for the coming year. Then she did her magic and we got on a Whatsapp video chat to discuss the results.

Ms. Novikova started with the chart for my previous birthday. “Miserable,” she said. It was all there — the rise in expenses, the unwanted move to a cramped apartment, the endless arguments with my husband.

My forecast for 2023 would be best, Ms. Novikova said, if I went to Prince Rupert, British Columbia, at 5:12 a.m. local time on Nov. 13. I Googled the place: Beautiful but remote; the logistics were daunting.

Second: Juneau, Alaska. My stomach turned. Far away. Cold. A dark, foreboding landscape that could swallow me up. There’s the Alaska triangle, a vast area of wilderness bounded by the cities of Juneau, Anchorage and Utqiagvik (formerly Barrow), where many people have gone missing. The state is also surprisingly dangerous, with one of the highest violent crime rates in the country.

No, thanks.

Third place: Brazil. Yes! Sun, beaches, great food. But Ms. Novikova frowned. “There are some things I don’t like in this horoscope,” she said. And that was that.

We settled on Juneau, and Ms. Novikova gave me a detailed forecast for the year based on that destination. Not only would I look good physically, I’d have more professional visibility. I’d have luck selling my new book. Ms. Novikova said she saw an editor and a university.

Oh, and love. A dream job, too.

Because it was the off-season in Alaska, I found a round-trip ticket from Palm Beach to Juneau for under $500 and a reasonable rate — $100 a night — for a room at the historic Alaskan Hotel, which is reportedly haunted. If I’m dabbling in the woo-woo, I figured, I might as well go all out.

Then I looked for a run, a great way to get a workout and a different view of a place from that of most tourists. I was in luck — the Juneau Trail and Road Runners’ Veterans Day 8K would take place the day before my solar return.

Arriving in downtown Juneau a few days early, I worked remotely and explored what little was open in the off-season. At the Rookery Cafe, I enjoyed spiced avocado toast, and at the Alaska Native-owned Sacred Grounds Café, I had a delicious but stomachache-inducing reindeer sausage. I found excellent beer and phenomenal charred carrot hummus at Devil’s Club Brewing Company. And Amalga Distillery offered spruce tip gin and a smooth, sippable whiskey.

I settled into a routine — working, running, eating — and two days in, I didn’t need Google maps anymore.

On the day of the race, I took a bus to a parking lot 10 miles outside town. As a small group of runners gathered, I asked two women if they minded me tagging along. But they were younger, leaner and fitter and they were dressed appropriately — one had snow grips attached to her shoes — and I lost the women midway through the run.

Alone in the woods, despairing, I heard someone push through the trees and step onto the trail. Before me was a man I didn’t recognize. He was dressed like a runner, but I didn’t see the yellow bib all the racers wore. He fell into step beside me, explaining that he had stopped to go to the bathroom and decided to wait for me.

Before, I was scared to be out here alone; now, I was frightened by this stranger’s sudden appearance. Trying to push my fear aside, I made small talk. We arrived at a fork in the snowy trail and, because the race was so informal, not all of the course was marked. Both directions were equally covered with slushy footprints and, without anything or anyone to guide us, we puzzled over which way to go.

“Right,” he said.

“Are you sure?” I asked, worried that he was trying to lead me deeper into the woods.

But separating would have been equally dangerous, so I followed him. And then, suddenly, we were on the shoulder of Glacier Highway, and I was striding toward the finish line as best as I could with numb toes.

“There they are!” exclaimed the other runners; they cheered us on as the man and I pushed to the end. Not only had they not forgotten about me, they were waiting. A single thought spooled through my head — I am not alone in this world — and I choked back tears of gratitude.

That night, at 4 a.m., I woke up — sans alarm — just a few minutes ahead of my solar return. Lying there in the dark, I listened for, then heard, the raven’s call, which I’d grown to love while in Juneau. I looked at the phone again, and the time had passed. My solar return was over.

After returning to Florida, I framed and hung the yellow race bib on the wall as a talisman, like the Libyan desert stone I’d bought before the trip, as a reminder of how far I’d traveled and how far I’d come. And three weeks later, just like that, my divorce was final. I had faced my fear of being alone.

Oh, and a couple of months after that, an editor — from a university press — made me an offer for my book.

Don’t expect much, if anything, from John Kerry’s visit

by adminin Politics, Writing

New York Times Room for Debate, March 27, 2013

The previous secretary of state, Hillary Rodham Clinton, thought that making efforts to resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict were, as one Israeli news media outlet put it, “a waste of time.” Clinton delegated the task to George Mitchell — a sure sign that she did not expect to leave a legacy in the Middle East. Mitchell failed.

So why should current Secretary of State John Kerry’s efforts yield fruit?

Because Obama came and gave an ego-stroking speech to the Israelis, peppered with Hebrew — confirming, yet again, Palestinians’ suspicions that the United States is not an impartial broker in the peace process? Or should we expect Kerry to make headway with the most right-wing government Israel has ever seen? With a government that includes Naftali Bennett, who openly rejects the idea of a Palestinian state and calls for annexation of Area C? With a government that has approved construction in Givat HaMatos — severing East Jerusalem, the future capital of a Palestinian state, from the West Bank? What headway will Kerry make in a country that refused to cooperate with the United Nations’ fact-finding mission on the illegal settlements that pose a threat to the two-state solution that he will try to broker?

Israel is calling for talks with no preconditions, which is itself a precondition. The Palestinians have already balked at the idea of negotiating while Israel continues building the settlements that eat up Palestinian land. What will Kerry do?

Let’s pretend that Kerry, miraculously, gets Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu on board. Peace accords will still have to be approved by the Israeli Knesset. And, barring a miracle, this pro-settler, pro-expansion Knesset makes that unlikely.

Last week, students at the Palestinian university where I teach were abuzz about Obama’s visit. Even if most of that buzz was in opposition to the president’s trip. But Kerry’s visit, and his attempts to restart a doomed peace process? Talks that simply buy Israel more time to do as it pleases with Palestinian land, that let Israel continue to impose a cruel and inhumane blockade on the people of Gaza, that allow Israel to go on arresting children, to continue detaining Palestinians without charge, to keep on depriving the Palestinian people of their human rights — inalienable rights that no human should have to negotiate for? It’s barely on the radar.

Why would Israel budge?

by adminin Politics, Writing

The New York Times, March 8, 2012

Might Israel attend the meeting about a nuclear weapon free Middle East in Finland? Certainly. Just like it has “participated” in the peace process–with no real intention of making concessions. In both cases, there are no consequences for Israel sticking to its agenda. So why would Israel budge?

Israel won’t sign a nonproliferation treaty because that would mean giving up its military edge in the Middle East. Obama’s speech to AIPAC suggests that the US will ensure that Israel remains the regional powerhouse

And this question has arisen before, in 2010, when Netanyahu and Obama were already in office. The US supported the initiative; Israel, of course, rejected it.

What’s changed since then? Little to nothing. If anything, Israel has only become more defiant. Last year, Obama called for an Israeli-Palestinian peace deal based on 1967 borders. But 2011 saw Israel increase settlements in the West Bank as well as demolitions of Palestinian and Bedouin structures in the West Bank and East Jerusalem. The United Nations reports that the rate of demolitions in 2012 is already higher than it was last year.

But, for me, where it gets really interesting is that the US initially wanted Israel to sign the non-proliferation treaty, back in the late 1960s, and Israel wouldn’t. This is a reminder that the six decades of friendship Obama spoke of earlier this week weren’t always so friendly. Some argue that Israel’s refusal to sign this treaty may have given Iran the incentive to go nuclear. It’s similar, perhaps, to how Israel had a hand in creating Hamas. Israel wanted a rival to Fatah; instead, it got, as the Wall Street Journal says, “unintended and often perilous consequences.”

Speaking of Israel creating its own boogeyman, a pre-emptive strike on Iran might actually push Iran to accelerate its nuclear program, as it has been argued was the case with Israel’s 1981 strike on Iraq—creating exactly the scenario Israeli leaders fear the most.