Slipstream

A couple nights ago, I walked from downtown Las Vegas to the north end of the Strip. I’d been driving for a couple days, and a long stroll seemed the perfect way to shake off my road burn, especially on such a clear and balmy desert night.

I left my hotel and headed down Fremont Street toward Las Vegas Boulevard. Fremont throbbed with loud, drunk revelers carrying supersized beers and giant cocktails brimming over from clear plastic containers shaped like footballs. (more…)

At a small café in San Francisco’s Mission District, wedged between a taqueria and dry cleaner, Grace has been serving eggs and hash browns and coffee for about a hundred years.

She stands at five-feet-four, minus a couple inches for her perpetual stoop. When she walks, she never lifts her feet off the floor. It’s more a sleep-walker’s shuffle—a mix between indifference and the result of a stout, squat body that no longer wants to move. (more…)