Seattle, Washington. The American Dream is here. Somewhere.
Perhaps it's my perfect cappuccino. Maybe it's the menu at this cafe, with three mentions of "vegan." (I chose an item that included cheese, not "vegan," and the plate melded the goodness of potatoes, eggs, shitake mushrooms and spinach into a single serving with no explanation as to why these ingredients, individually excellent, belong together.)
It's Saturday. Outside the window a man passes by with an upbeat gait, cradling a new, old-fashioned record. Another man stands across the street wearing billboards, waving and bouncing and announcing a furniture sale.
Dickens and Shakespeare had it easy. In the real world good guys are always flawed, bad guys are always good people, winners are always missing something and victims are always trying to improve their situations. No quantity of metaphors and adjectives can describe what somebody truly feels. The saddest moments in journalism come when I remember my sources are human beings.
Did you know: digital cameras, from $100 to $10,000, only capture one colour per pixel?
Today's cameras produce vibrant pictures from monochrome sensors. Here's how.
It's election season in Tanzania, and there's a new bus station somewhere near the middle of nowhere.
A shiny new bus station in Nyaka Kangaga, Tanzania.
I can't figure out how many people need this bus station. Nyaka Kangaga doesn't even appear on the census. The biggest nearby census-polled town, Heru Ushingo, counted about 60,000 people back in 2002. (And how many of them can vote? The number probably fluctuates wildly with Burundian refugee migrations.)
I've uploaded pictures of my summer abroad. Between my take-off from Montreal and my return four and a half months later, I took 4,675 pictures. Fear not, though: I've only published 50 in this album.
Freedom, not democracy, is the basis of our society.
Stunt biker (London)
Hundreds of years ago, political figures commissioned art. Now, they tolerate it. Artists spray-painted London's South Bank when doing so was illegal, and amateur skateboarders kick-flipped in before their parents could buy elbowpads. All the politicians had to do, when asked, was set up lights and tell the cleaners not to bother scrubbing.
I'm going home.
Flying away makes me examine my experiences. I reflect and reflect until I worry the mirrors inside me will shatter from over-thought.
Welcome to Old Taxi Park. It's the heart of Kampala.
The first thing to know about Old Taxi Park is that a measly 18mm camera lens can't fit it all in. If I point it to the left, I can capture hundreds more minibus taxis my first shot missed.
Every once in a while in East Africa, you stumble across a seemingly-absurd sign. They're usually in cities, but I saw one in a village this week.
In a village near Mbarara (Uganda), there is something called "goat technology".
Warning: this entry is graphic, but it's not illustrated and it's not happy. I suggest you skip it if you don't like morocity. Morose-ness. Whatever.
I've promised myself I'd keep pristine memories many times: my first kiss, my first visit to a refugee camp, my first near-death experience, and just last week, my closest view of a death.
But even this latest one is blurring already, just like all my other memories.