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thedanceronthestreets · 3 years

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PEDRO PASCAL GQ GERMANY - OCTOBER 2020

Original text by Esma Annemon Dil

Fotos by Doug Inglish

Styling by Simon Robins

Translated by @thedanceronthestreets

Intro: A broken tooth could almost have been the reason for our meeting with Pedro Pascal to be cancelled - and with that our conversation about roots, his new movie and times of change.

Interview: It is almost eery how empty the streets of Los Angeles are under the gleaming sun. While Europe is finding its "new normal", people in L. A. are cutting their own hair even without being neurotics. Many of them have not seen their friends in half a year. The pandemic is out of control. So are the reactions to the situation. Inviting someone to a "distance drink" in the backyard can lead to the same consternation as proposing a relationship partner exchange.

All the more of a surprise was Pedro Pascal's immediate confirmation. To the drink, not the partner exchange. He is one of the winners this year - and if Corona had not forced the movie industry to go on a holiday, he probably would not have had the time for this drink. After "Game of Thrones", the series in which his head was squished, followed 2015 the leading role in "Narcos" as a DEA agent on the hunt for Pablo Escobar, and now the leap onto the big Hollywood screen. As of 1. October the Chilean will appear in the blockbuster "Wonder Woman 1984". Furthermore, the second season of the "Star Wars" series "The Mandalorian" will start in October with him as the main character - unfortunately underneath the helmet. But we all seem to be under the same helmet in 2020. It is this man we want to meet, who worked as a waiter in New York a couple of years ago. Whose parents are political refugees that settled in Texas, and one day their son decided to walk into a drama club in high school.

And then the cancellation. While we were preparing the house and garden for Pedro's drink and fashion shoot, which isn't an easy task under L. A.'s restrictions, his management called in with terrible news: Pedro has - no, not Corona - had to receive emergency surgery due to a sore tooth and is now lying in bed with a swollen cheek, making talking or shooting impossible. The sun shines onto empty streets. And our empty garden.

A few days later, he stands in front of the door anyway, no huge bulge in his face, but stitches in his gum. No limousine service that dropped him off, he arrived in his own car and picked up his makeup artist on the way. He helps her to carry in all the equipment and states first and foremost: "I've got time today!" What a star! It does not seem like we are about to ask him how he managed to become a Hollywood sensation, but rather him asking us that question. Pedro Pascal! So, what kind of star is he then?

Pedro Pascal: Sorry for ruining your plans. The operation was a total emergency.

GQ: Really? We were wondering whether the swelling was the result of a secret trip to the plastic surgeon. Apparently, because of the quarantine in Hollywood, their schedules are packed.

Sorry to disappoint you. A few days before our appointment I raced to the hospital with a tooth fracture and the worst pain I've ever felt - a hospital where the severe Corona cases are treated. I was unable to contact any dentists! Right before I parked, a specialist called back. I'll spare you the details of the surgery, gruesome. The pain was excruciating despite the 10 anaesthetic shots. The doctor said I wasn't the only one going through this, a lot of people grind their teeth at night thanks to stress.

What are you most afraid of at the moment?

The way the government is handling the pandemic scares me more than the virus itself. The lack of intelligent crisis management is a moral disgrace. The leadership crisis makes orphans out of all of us - we're left to fend for ourselves.

How have you spent the last few months?

With frozen pizza in jogging trousers in Venice Beach. I live in a rear building that's in the garden belonging to a family. In reality there are enough good takeout restaurants around that area, but for some reason I like salami pizza from the supermarket.

That doesn't exactly sound like the movie star lifestyle. What does it feel like to be forced from top speed to zero?

Considering the things happening in this world, my own state really isn't the top priority. But I would have to lie, if I said I wasn't disappointed. The entire cast and crew of "Wonder Woman 1984" put so much heart and soul into the production. We had so much fun on set. I had hoped to carry this feeling of exuberance around the globe to the openings of this movie.

You are part of a political, socialist family that fled the Pinochet regime in Chile. What do you remember from back then?

My sister and I were born in Chile, but I was only nine months old when we claimed asylum in Denmark. From there, we moved to San Antonio in Texas, where my dad worked as a doctor in a hospital.

Texas isn't exactly considered to be socialist utopia. How well did you settle in?

San Antonio isn't a cowboy city but rather very diverse with large Asian, Afro-American and Latino communities. In my memory it's a romantic place, culturally inclusive. The cultural shock only hit when we moved to Orange County in California later. Suddenly, the environment was white, preppy and conservative.

How were you welcomed in California?

To this day I'm ashamed when I think about how I let my classmates call me Peter without correcting them. I'm Pedro. Even without growing up in Chile, the country and language are part of me. I was quite unhappy in that place. At least I was able to switch schools and visit one in Long Beach, where I felt more comfortable. With its theatre programme, I found my path.

Could you visit your family's homeland as a child?

Yes, after my parents ended up on a list of expats that were permitted to re-enter the country. First, there was a big family gathering, then me and my sister were parked at some relatives' place for a few months while my parents returned to Texas. They probably needed a break from us. They'd had us at a very young age, had a vibrant social life, and my mother was doing her doctorate in psychology.

Was your mother a typical young psychologist that tested her knowledge at home?

You mean whether I was her lab rat? Absolutely. I can remember weird sessions camouflaged as games, where someone would watch my reactions to different toys. Even though I couldn't have been older than 6, I knew what was happening. My favourite thing was to be asked about my dreams. That was always a great opportunity to make up fantastic stories.

Was that your first performance?

Definitely! My strong imagination alarmed my mother, because I'd rather live in my fantasy world than in real life. I didn't like school. I ended up in the "problematic kid" category. At some point the subjects got more interesting and my grades improved. So many children are unnecessarily diagnosed with learning disabilities without considering that school can be daunting. Why is it acceptable to be bored out of your mind in class, when there are more stimulating ways to convey knowledge?

With everything happening in the world this summer: Do you believe that social hierarchy structures are genuinely being reconsidered?

Hopefully. After the lockdown my first contact with people was at the Black Lives Matter protest. The atmosphere was peaceful and hopeful until the police got involved and provoked violence. At least during these times we can't avoid problems or distract ourselves from them as easily as we usually do. It seems that the pandemic provided us with a new sense of clarity: we don't want to go on like this.

The trailer of "Wonder Woman 1984" represents the optimism of the 80s. That almost makes one feel nostalgic nowadays.

That holds true. It's two hours of happiness. Patty Jenkins, the director, managed to make a movie full of positive messages. We shot in Washington, D. C., then in London and Spain - which now sounds like a different time.

Do you miss travelling?

I've only now realised what a privilege it is to just pack up your things and fly anywhere. With an American passport you can travel freely. And that's why the small radius we live in now is kind of absurd. Over the last few years I often retreated in between takes, because I was always on the road and overstimulated. Friends complained about how comfortable I had become. We all took social interactions for granted and realise now how reliant we are on human connection. Now, I wistfully think about all the party and dinner invitations I declined in the past.

In L. A., people spend more time indoors or in nature than in other metropolises. Could this city become your safe haven after New York City?

My true home is my friends. Ever since I was young I've lived the life of a nomad and haven't set roots anywhere. Until recently, my physical home was a place for arriving and leaving and hence I didn't want to overcomplicate living by owning lots of things. The opposite actually: Without having read Marie Kondo's book, I got rid of all the stuff that was unnecessary and lived a very minimalistic lifestyle.

Is there something you collect or could never say goodbye to?

Books! I still own the literature I read during my teen and university years. Recently I found a box of old theatre scripts and materials back from my uni days at NYU. I can't separate from art either, same as lamps or old pictures. Furniture and clothes are no problem though, they can be chucked.

Do you remember any roles that were defined by their costumes?

Yes, "Game of Thrones" comes to mind immediately. During that time I first understood what it means, as an actor, to be supported by a look. I owe that to costume designer Michele Clapton. She developed these very feminine robes and brocade cloaks for my role that looked very masculine when I wore them. I felt sexy in them. And very important were of course Lindy Hemming's power suits and Jan Sewell's blond hair for the tycoon villain Maxwell Lord in "Wonder Woman 1984". Relating to the style, I couldn't really see myself in the role since the shapes and colours of the 80s don't really fit my body. My type is the 70s.

Do you adopt such inspirations into your private closet?

At this point in time, I'll choose any comfortable outfit over a cool look. Sometimes I mourn the days when I defined myself with fashion. It's a bit mad when I think about how, in the 90s as a teenager, I would go to raves; a proper club kid with crazy outfits: overalls, chute trousers, soccer shirts and a top hat like in "The cat in the hat knows a lot about that!" by Dr Seuss. Later in NYC I was part of a group that placed immense value on wearing a certain style. The fact that I only walk around in joggers nowadays is actually unacceptable!

Normally, actors who work on comic screen adaptations become bodybuilders and eat ten boiled chicken breasts per day. You don't?

My body wouldn't be able to handle that. I find it difficult enough to maintain a minimum level of fitness. As of your mid 40s, you suddenly need a lot more discipline. Until the tooth incident happened, I worked out a couple of times a week with a trainer to keep the quarantine body in shape.

What would annoy you the most, if you were your own roommate?

I can be very bossy. I have to gather all my goodwill not to force my movie choice on to everyone else. When I want something, I'm not passive aggressive about it, I attack head on. Also, I can get caught up in tunnel vision: When i feel down, I can't imagine that I'm ever going to feel better again. I have difficulty with seeing the bigger picture when experiencing problems or emotions. Method acting really wouldn't be my thing. That's why I try to only work on projects that feel good and where people encourage and lift each other up.

While you were trying on the outfits you pointed out a lack of self-esteem. How does that coincide with your career?

Isn't it interesting how traits and circumstances go hand in hand? Self-esteem comes from the inside, but it's also influenced by what society believes. We use critical stares from the outside against ourselves. I lived in New York for 20 years, I studied there and worked as a waiter up until my mid 30s, because I couldn't live off acting. It was always so close. The disappointment of always just barely missing a perfect part or opportunity is exhausting. When is the right time to stop trying and what's plan b? That's not just a question actors ask themselves, but anybody who struggles to earn a livelihood - unrelated to how much potential they have or how close their dream may seem. We are beginning to see now how our narrow definition of success is destroying our communities. At the same time, it's becoming obvious that, until this day, your family background and skin colour determine your chances of living a dignified existence.

What are the positives of becoming a leading man later in life?

I have the feeling that I've got control over my life - without the pressure of having to accept projects or be a social media personality. That surely also has to do with the fact that I'm a man. Women are surely pressured to appear quirky at any age.

Life is always a management of risks - especially at this time. For what would you risk losing something?

Usually, if you don't play the game you're not going to win anything. That applies to friendship, love, work, creativity. Anything that really means something to me, is worth the risk.

Wonder woman 1984 will appear in cinemas 01.10. The 800 million dollar earning DC comic franchise is moving into the New York 80s with its sequel. It looks spectacular - only Pedro Pascal with blond hair in a three piece Wall Street suit looks better.

#pedro pascal #gq germany #Gq

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sciencenewsforstudents · 5 years

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New York City — Last weekend, young people around the world rallied behind a common cause: urgent climate action. On Friday, students from some 150 countries skipped school to participate in the largest climate protests ever. These were the high point in a year of youth climate strikes that began with just one teen, Greta Thunberg, now 16, taking action. She sat outside the Swedish parliament again and again (before later speaking to delegates of a United Nations Climate Change Conference in Poland). On Saturday, she and more than 700 other young climate leaders took action once more — here, at the first United Nations Youth Climate Summit.

U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres greets climate activist Greta Thunberg, 16, at the U.N. Youth Climate Summit. CREDIT: United Nations

To kick off the summit, Thunberg addressed the attendees. “Yesterday, millions of people across the globe marched and demanded real climate action,” she said. “We showed that we are united and we, young people, are unstoppable.”

The historic event is the largest-ever convening of youth and young adults on climate at the United Nations. This international body was created to build world peace through diplomacy. António Guterres is the U.N. secretary-general. He credited youth for the recent momentum behind the climate movement.

Students in New York City took to the streets on September 20 as part of a worldwide strike in support of climate action. CREDIT: G. Moran

Guterres was titled the “keynote listener.” That’s because his job for the day was to listen and learn from young leaders. “Indeed, I’ve been more times keynote speaker than a keynote listener. But that is one of the problems of global leaders,” he said. “They talk too much and they listen too little.”

The young climate leaders came with a clear message for world leaders. “Is it really too much to ask you to stop wasting time and walk the talk?” said Komal Karishma Kumar. She’s a young climate activist from Fiji. That’s an archipelago of more than 300 islands in the South Pacific.

“From young leaders all over the world, we are here in our rightful place to demand consequential climate action,” said Kumar.

Explainer: Where fossil fuels come from

She came ready with a list of demands. These included the phasing out of fossil fuels and a boosting of climate education. She also demanded the inclusion of youth in policy decisions. And she called upon global leaders to fulfill their commitments to the U.N. Green Climate Fund. This international agreement assists low-income countries affected by the climate crisis. Fiji is one of those nations.

All of these commitments are necessary to fulfill the goals of the 2015 Paris Accord. At that time, 195 nations agreed to a goal of limiting global warming to less than 2° Celsius (3.4°Fahrenheit). Reaching this goal will be difficult. That’s because much of the world depends on burning fossil fuels such as oil and coal for energy. (And the United States has since withdrawn from the agreement.)

Explainer: CO2 and other greenhouse gases

“It's tricky because at this point our entire economic and social system is based on the energy we use,” Kallan Benson told Science News for Students. “And that energy comes from burning fossil fuels,” she notes. Benson is a 15-year-old organizer with FridaysforFuture in Washington, D.C. She says, “We have to get rid of such a key part of our society [those fossil fuels] in order to solve this crisis.”

Youth are now organizing and calling on those in power to act because they feel that time is limited. The longer it takes to cut greenhouse-gas emissions, the more Earth’s atmosphere will eventually warm.

Youth demand more than a seat at the table

To meet global climate goals, youth activists say they need to be included in solutions. The U.N. Youth Climate Summit is one step toward upping their involvement.

“We appreciate that youth are now at the table where the discussions are being held,” Wanjuhi Njoroge told a crowded U.N. council chamber. “But our voices and our inputs must be allowed to influence these decisions,” she said. Njoroge is a climate activist in her 20s from Kenya.

From left, Monica Skadbor (Denmark), Nanoua Lilivau Ewekia (Tuvalu) and Anfernee Nenol Kaminaga (Marshall Islands) discussed the Kwon-Gesh Climate Pledge with moderator Steve Chiu at the U.N. Youth Climate Summit. CREDIT: G. Moran

Later in the day, Nina Möger Bengtsson, a young climate activist from Denmark, echoed this idea. “We speak up in our local communities. We change our diets. We change our habits. We take to the streets,” Bengtsson told global leaders and fellow youth. “Yet we’re not included in the formal decision-making process.”

Bengtsson pointed to the work Denmark has done to bridge the gap between youth and policymakers. For instance, her country has established a national youth council with direct access to the prime minister.

The summit also marked the launch of the Kwon-Gesh Pledge. The Marshall Islands (southwest of Hawaii) and Ireland initiated the pledge. It asks U.N. leaders to include youth in carrying out goals of the Paris Accord. This pledge is perhaps the most concrete measure to include youth in policymaking.

Anfernee Nenol Kaminaga is a climate leader working to engage youth in climate activism in the Marshall Islands. In a panel discussion about the pledge, he said that the youth he works with want “to be taken into consideration in decision-making models and to not be tokenized.” By tokenized, he means being offered symbolic, but not meaningful representation.

Climate change is impacting youth now

Many young climate leaders at the summit said they were acting to save not just their future, but also their current homes. Some have seen first-hand the ways climate change is already disrupting the environment and affecting people.

Scientists Say: Climate

Kristen Brown, 17, is among them. She lives on the Hawaiian island of Oahu. “Climate change is impacting my home environment through erosion,” she said. “On different parts of the island there is a lot of coastal erosion that is causing the roads to crumble into the sea.” She added, “This is happening right before our eyes.” And erosion is just one of the many impacts she has seen near her home.

In her role as the Hawaii State Logistics Director with the U.S. Youth Climate Strike Hawaii, Brown has been working toward a better future for everyone. “We need to fight for climate justice,” she told Science News for Students. “Climate justice” is a framework for thinking about equality and social issues alongside climate change.

Together with a group of students, climate activist and TV host Danni Washington (right), discussed building a movement that considers a number of social issues, such as gun violence, in relation to climate change. CREDIT: G. Moran

Edgar Sanchez, 14, is working to protect his home of Monterrey, Mexico. “I live in one of the most polluted cities in Latin America. And it’s a problem that I wake up to each day,” he told Science News for Students. “Sometimes I can’t go to recess because it’s just so polluted. We can’t run. We can’t go outside.”

To change this, Sanchez has been giving presentations on the climate crisis. He also has been encouraging more people to carpool. Vehicles are responsible for most of the city’s pollution, he says.

Faatupu Simeti, 24, is working to protect her country of Tuvalu. This low-lying island nation is quickly being engulfed by rising seas. “We are really, really affected by climate change,” she told Science News for Students. As a data analyst for the country’s Department of Climate Change and Disaster, she is working to better assess the island’s vulnerabilities and then to come up with solutions.

While some places are more vulnerable to climate change than others, no place is immune. Even the very ground along the East River, on which the U.N. headquarters sits, could flood due to sea-level rise as soon as 2100.

Josie Benton, 15, is a climate leader from New York City. She points out that in order to make real change, we’ll have to first start acknowledging how dependent people are on the environment. “Nature isn’t this thing that's far off in the distance,” she points out. “It's something that we live with.”

Youth-driven and just climate solutions

Young activists didn’t just demand action from global leaders. They also came ready with solutions and turned to other young adults for solutions. Before a panel of judges, climate leaders under 30 pitched some of their proposals to address climate change and related inequalities through technology.

Brighton Mabasa is an early-career meteorologist. He works at the South African Weather Service, near Johannesburg. He has proposed a weather app for small, rural farmers. These farmers often fail to get the climate information they need. And when they do get it, he said, it is not widely understood. His app works by crowdsourcing data so that farmers can have more accurate, localized data. Farmers can use their smartphones’ sensors to collect information for use by others. In this way, the farmers become citizen scientists.

Tala Aghanwi Nche, a young climate leader from Cameroon, and Danni Washington, a moderator of discussions at the summit, shake hands after discussing how climate change threatens food security. CREDIT: G. Moran

Monika Selina Seyfried is in her 20s and lives in Poland. She proposed an innovative solution to cut the high carbon footprint of data. She’s referring to the fact that the collection, storage and use of data require a lot of energy. DNA, though, is a far more efficient way to store information, said Seyfriend. Her initiative, Grow Your Own Cloud, looks to store the world’s data in liquid DNA.

It’s not just tech solutions that will solve problems triggered by a changing climate. Throughout the summit, youth climate leaders emphasized the need for interdisciplinary solutions to address emerging crises.

“I learned that the climate crisis cannot be siloed into buckets,” Priyank Hirani, 30, told Science News for Students. He’s a computer scientist who has moved into tackling environmental issues in his home nation of India. Water, he notes, has become “an economic crisis, institutional crisis, political crisis.” Today he leads a project, Water-to-Cloud, that builds platforms for monitoring river pollution in India.

“Climate justice is crucial,” he adds. “The communities that are most affected by climate change are often the ones that least contributed to it.” By that, he’s referring to the fact that the greenhouse gases contributing to climate change have come mostly from wealthy countries. Yet low-income nations will feel many of the effects.

Youth leaders made clear that they are not afraid to fight for a world where climate justice flourishes. “I speak on behalf of the organized Youth for Climate student movement of Argentina,” said Bruno Rodriguez, 19. “Our movement understands that power concedes nothing without struggle.”

Youth and young adults from around the world gathered in New York City for the U.N. Youth Climate Summit. CREDIT: United Nations

#science #scied #sciblr #un youth climate summit #climate change #greta thunberg #climate crisis #climate justice #climate strike #Kwon-Gesh Pledge #u.n. green climate fund #paris climate accord #climate activists #climate activism

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whumphoarder · 5 years

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Grand Entrance

Prompt/Summary: "Would you ever write something in which Peter gets carsick with Tony taking care of him?"

Or, in which Tony and Peter attend a science expo just north of the border and Peter vomits his way into Canada.

Word count: 1,869

Genre: Sickfic, whump, hurt/comfort

A/N: Shout outs to @sallyidss for beta reading and being ever so helpfully Canadian, and to @xxx-cat-xxx for all your edits and ideas!

Link to read on Ao3

“I still can’t believe I’m going to be in a room with Søren Thygesen,” Peter says in awe. He’s scrolling through the conference workshop list on Tony’s Starkpad. “Do you think since you’re a speaker too, we can get backstage and meet him? Will he sign my textbook?”

Tony scoffs as he shifts gears on the Audi to overtake a slow-moving semi truck. Peter grins—he loves the rush of the 532 horsepower V10 engine lurching forward. “You have to be the only teenager in this country excited to see a three-hour lecture by an eighty-two-year-old Danish astrophysicist,” Tony remarks.

“A world-renowned Danish astrophysicist,” Peter corrects, looking up from the tablet. “Plus, he’s like the god of clean energy!” At Tony’s raised eyebrows, he quickly throws in, “Well, besides you, of course.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry kid, I’m not feeling threatened by your Scandinavian grandfather.”

“He’s just so awesome,” Peter gushes. “If anyone is going to figure out how to get humans on Mars, it’s Thygesen.” He lets out a long sigh. “I really want to go to the Q&A panel on Saturday, but I don’t know what questions I would even ask.”

“You know you don’t actually have to ask a question to go to a panel, right?” Tony points out for the second time that day. “You can just sit and listen.”

“I know,” Peter groans, “but I don’t wanna waste what might be my only opportunity to ever speak to him.”

Tony snorts. “That’s a good point—he is eighty-two. Probably doesn’t have a lot of science expos left in him.”

Peter whips his head around to throw his mentor a horrified look. “Mr. Stark!” he gasps.

“I’m just saying ...” Tony chuckles. “Toronto isn’t exactly a stone’s throw from Denmark.”

“He can’t die,” Peter says firmly. “He’s Søren Thygesen.”

“What is he, the new Chuck Norris?”

Peter’s brow furrows in confusion. “Who?”

“Never mind. God, you’re young...” his mentor mutters. Tony shifts over to the right lane to take the next exit. “Alright, alright, what about asking him something related to his biosphere project?” he suggests. “Or the new Mars Land Rover design, now that Oppy’s kicked the bucket?”

Peter sticks his lip out in a pout. “Too soon, Mr. Stark...” he complains.

After a brief stop for gas, they pull back onto the highway and Peter spends the next half hour pouring over the tablet, looking up every article he can find related to Thygesen’s Mars exploration research. Most of the journals are written in abstract, theoretical language, but Peter has always been a good reader and he can usually get the gist. Whenever he comes across a term or concept he’s unfamiliar with, he reads the paragraph aloud and Tony helps him work out the meaning.

Peter just forgot one little fact.

He can’t fucking read in the car.

The nausea doesn’t come all at once. It creeps up on Peter—slowly, gradually—until he has no choice but to pay attention. By the time he realizes he’s not feeling well, his stomach is already churning inside of him and a headache is pounding in his temples, leaving him feeling as though his forehead has been stretched too tightly around his skull.

He abandons the Starkpad, shifting his gaze to look out the window and doing his best to take deep, even breaths. Tony flips his blinker on and speeds up to pass another truck. The lurch of the engine is the same, but this time Peter’s expression is more of a grimace.

“Um… Mr. Stark?” he mumbles. “Are we almost there?”

“About ten more miles to the border, and then another eighty or so to the conference center,” Tony replies. “Don’t worry, you’ll see your elderly man crush soon enough.”

“Oh.” Peter swallows hard in an effort to push the queasiness back down. “Like, how many minutes is that?”

“Minutes are not a measure of distance, kid,” Tony retorts.

Peter groans and rolls his eyes, then immediately regrets it as his stomach rolls as well. He quickly locks his gaze back on the horizon. Between carefully measured breaths, he mutters, “I was just wondering if we’re going to stop soon.”

Tony frowns at him. “I asked you twice if you needed the bathroom at the gas station, and you said no. It’s been less than an hour and now you need to go?”

Peter feels his cheeks flush slightly. “Never mind, I’m fine,” he mutters. “Just wanted to stretch my legs, but I can wait.”

“Damn right,” Tony scoffs. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he fishes around on the car’s floor with the other for an empty plastic Gatorade bottle and tosses it onto Peter’s lap. “If you have to pee, use this. I’m not stopping because you suddenly remembered you have a bladder.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Peter huffs. He shoves the empty bottle back in the cup holder before twisting in his seat to press his cheek to the cool glass of the window. “I’m fine, Mr. Stark.”

Fifteen minutes later, Peter is no longer fine.

“Got your passport ready?” Tony checks as the car rolls to a stop behind a silver SUV.

Peter nods, his lips pressed into a thin line. That’s not entirely accurate—the passport is actually in the front pocket of his backpack, which is currently sitting on the floor beside his feet—but he doesn’t feel quite up to bending down to get it at the moment. Beads of cold sweat are dripping down the back of his neck and it’s all Peter can do to keep his stomach in place as they inch their way towards the border crossing.

“I’m thinking we’ll stop for dinner somewhere around the Falls,” Tony goes on. “Have you ever had poutine?”

Peter chances opening his mouth just long enough to breathe out a quick, “Um, don’t think so.”

Tony hums as he follows the SUV forward another couple meters before braking again. “Gotta admit, I was skeptical the first time Rhodey made me try it, but it’s not nearly as gross as it looks. You’d think it would be soggy, what with the gravy soaking into the fries and the cheese curds sort of half melting, but—”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Peter cuts his mentor off. Saliva’s been pooling in his mouth for the past five minutes, but it’s definitely not from the prospect of eating traditional Canadian food. He swallows hard and breathes carefully through his mouth.

A red minivan ahead of them clears the security checkpoint and each vehicle in their lane rolls another car’s length forward.

“Butter tart isn’t bad either,” Tony remarks, braking again. “And Montreal bagels put New York ones to shame. But if you breathe a word of that to anyone, I’ll deny it.”

With a small grunt of acknowledgment, Peter squeezes his eyes closed, silently praying the man will just shut up.

The border patrol officer waves the next car through.

“Alright, passport time,” Tony announces while the SUV ahead of them moves into the inspection zone. He holds one hand out expectantly over the kid’s lap. “Hit me.”

“It’s in my backpack,” Peter mumbles without making a move for it. His ears are ringing and he’s actually dizzy now. For a brief moment, he wonders if it’s possible to pass out from motion sickness. If only he could be so lucky.

Tony frowns, retrieving his own passport from behind the sun visor. “Well, hurry up. We’re next.”

“Right, right…” Carefully—ever so carefully—Peter bends forward to unzip the backpack. He fishes out the passport, but just as he starts to sit back up, the SUV drives off and the border patrol agent waves Tony forward.

Peter’s stomach lurches along with the car’s movement and he burps, tasting the pickles and ketchup from the hamburger he’d had for lunch. Bile is rising in the back of his throat and instantly Peter knows he has mere seconds to prevent a tragedy. His eyes dart around desperately for a cup, a plastic bag, a tissue box, anything. But there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.

In pure desperation, he does the only thing he can think of to save Tony’s custom leather interior.

The moment the Audi rolls to a stop at the checkpoint, Peter yanks the collar of his hoodie up over his mouth and pukes all down the inside.

At the sound of the kid’s gag, Tony whips his head around. “Jesus, kid!” he swears in surprise.

Standing just outside, the border patrol agent—a gangly red-haired kid who looks to be fresh out of high school—is staring wide-eyed at the gasping teenager in the passenger seat.

Tony blinks at Peter, his expression morphing as the initial shock is replaced with concern. “Are... Are you okay?”

Peter gives a small nod and blushes, trying not to move any more than necessary. Inside his hoodie, hot, gross vomit is running all down his front, soaking through his t-shirt. “Yeah, sorry,” he rasps out. “Just… got kinda carsick.”

Tony blinks again. With barely concealed disgust, he reaches over and starts trying to wiggle the passport out from the kid’s grip, but the officer intervenes.

“Uh, it’s fine. You can just pull on through,” the redhead instructs, still staring at Peter as he waves the car forward. “There’s, uh, there’s a rest stop not too far from here.”

Peter flashes the other boy a grateful thumbs up as he pulls the sweatshirt back up over his face and heaves again.

When Peter emerges from the rest stop bathroom, he’s wearing a completely new set of clothes and carrying a knotted plastic Pharmasave bag containing his vomit-soaked hoodie and jeans. In the other hand, he’s clutching the remaining quarter of a package of baby wipes.

Tony is standing in the parking lot beside the car, his arms crossed casually over his chest and a mildly amused look on his face. “Feeling better now?”

Peter gives a half-hearted shrug and deposits the bag and baby wipes in the backseat. Tony passes him the bottle of PC lemon-lime soda he just purchased from the vending machine.

“I’ll rephrase,” Tony tries again. “Feeling better enough to get back in the car? We’re about seventy minutes out from the hotel.”

“Minutes are not a measure of distance, Mr. Stark,” Peter deadpans.

Tony rolls his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

Peter hesitates, opening the soda to take a cautious sip. He’s feeling less sick now that he’s on solid ground and his stomach is blissfully empty, but the thought of getting back in the car still makes him queasy. “Um, maybe in another five minutes?” he mumbles. “If that’s alright…?”

“Sure,” Tony agrees easily. “We can go take a walk by the Falls or something. Maybe pick you up some Dramamine.” His brow furrows in thought. “Although that might knock you out, and your buddy is giving the keynote tonight.”

“I’ll be okay,” Peter assures. “Just need a few minutes.”

Tony huffs out a quick laugh. “Yeah, can’t risk missing Thygesen. Even if you just vomited your way into Canada.”

In spite of everything, Peter grins. “May always said I liked a grand entrance.”

Click here for chapter 2!

A/N: Additional shoutout to @awesomesockes for for helping to invent the exceedingly awesome character of Søren Thygesen, for whom we now hold so many dumb irrelevant headcanons (such as that he holds the Guinness world record for the longest nose hair and can play the didgeridoo).

Fic Masterlist

#sick peter parker #mcu writing #spider-man fic #irondad fic #spiderman #my fic #carsick peter parker

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lailannajacobs · 6 years

Text

The Distance

Pairing: Bucky X Reader

Request: Y/N's job involves a lot of traveling, she organizes massive events all over the world. Her boyfriend, Bucky, saves the world, traveling for his missions. She's scared that with the little time they have for each other, he will start resenting her, given that his job is clearly more important. He doesn't even realize that she could ever fear that he could leave her.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: tiny bit of violence

A/N: Thank you anon for the prompt, I hope this is at least a little bit what you were hoping to see! Tried writing this in third person instead, what do we think? Anyways, hope you enjoy!!

Last week was Madrid. This week, England. Next, Tokyo. She had no idea where Bucky was though. It was classified. She figured she might eventually see it on the news but for now, all she knew was that he was risking his life for the world’s safety. Trying not to worry too much about him, she flipped through her guest list binder, skimming the names.

But trained soldier or not, she would always worry about his safety. She couldn’t help it.

She brought her attention back to the list. She had to stay focused. She was in charge of organizing the big reveal of a newfound painting stolen by the Nazis during the second world war. The British Museum had paid heavily for the painting and intended to create a new exhibition celebrating another discovery. They would spare no expense to make sure everything was perfect, which is why they had come to her to organize the unveiling. She was one of the best. But even after years of traveling the world as one of the most renowned event planners, she still felt the pressure of trying to pull off a seamless night.

She should have been doing something more productive like checking in with the catering company to make sure that the hors d’oeuvres were exactly as she had ordered but, phone in her hand, the only person she wanted to call was Bucky.

The last time they had seen each other had been weeks ago. It had been one of those few lucky breaks when they were working jobs in the same city at the same time. It hadn’t been so lucky when they realized they had barely had two days together. They would have had longer if she hadn’t had to jet off to New York. One of them always had somewhere else to be. But at least whenever he left, it was because the world needed him. She only left for glorified parties.

Before (Y/N) had met Bucky, work had been her sole focus, booking jobs left and right so that she never spent more than a couple weeks in the same city. She had been to so many countries it was hard to keep track of where she was. Her apartment had been empty for so long, she doubted it was worth it to keep it, especially that whenever she did have time off, she was usually wherever Bucky was. But she loved her job. She had always believed that these events, no matter how superficial some of them might have been, were perfect for forgetting the world’s horrors, even for one night. Her favourites were the ones that paid tribute to something greater than just one person. They were her hardest jobs because she didn’t dare let anyone down but once they came to life, they were what she was most proud of.

But at the end of the day, she couldn’t help but compare what she did to what he did. He saved the world. How could he think that what she did was worth making their relationship so much more complicated? The longer they were apart, the more and more the thought echoed through her head.

Sure they could call each other or video chat whenever they had time but more often than not, something else got in the way and they were cut short. When it was the sound of an alarm it felt necessary. When it was her assistant asking her what colour she thought the napkins should be it seemed a little trivial.

She never wanted to compromise what she loved for a relationship by giving up her job, which constantly made her wonder if Bucky thought she prioritized her job over him. Did he resent her for that? Logically she knew he wasn’t that kind of guy but if she had already thought about it, what were the chances he hadn’t?

She shook the thoughts out of her head. It was the day before the exhibition. She needed to get to work. (Y/N) stood up and walked to the full length mirror in her hotel room, checked her make-up and smoothed out her dress.

“He doesn’t care that you don’t always have time to see each other.” She lied to the woman in the mirror. She needed to reassure someone. “This is what it’s like being an adult. You just have to deal with it.”

The woman in the mirror smiled. It was obviously forced but at least it was there. Maybe if she repeated those words often enough she would come to believe it.

“Did you hear?” Bucky asked Steve as they ducked behind an empty transport container. “They found a painting stolen during the war.”

They were in a shipyard off the coast of Denmark and, like the few other times James Buchanan Barnes had been to the country, it was cold and muddy. Why more criminals couldn’t hide out on sunny beaches was beyond him.

Steve glanced back as they made there way along the edge of the rusted metal, guns out. “Sure it’s not a fake? I always get weirded out when something like that just appears out of nowhere.”

Bucky smirked. “It’ll be in London, you can see it for yourself. (Y/N)’s organizing the event.”

He couldn’t help but bring her up. Just the thought of her put a smile on his face and right now, soaked through from the rain, he could use something to take his mind off of things.

“Nice.” They paused at the corner, making sure the space was clear before sprinting to the next container. “Do you think you can make it?”

“Depends how fast we get this over with.”

He put a hand on Steve’s shoulder and pointed to the crouched man on the top of a nearby container.

The had been following a trail of goons in the hopes that they would lead to a far right scientist, Ketch, intent on blowing up Leftist political leaders. They hadn’t yet confirmed who Ketch was working with but stopping him was their top priority. Any other information they could gleam was important but not imperative. Getting him alive was even better.

They trailed the man from below, Steve keeping a eye out on ground level while Bucky directed their course. They were two containers from the water when they ran into a soldier. Steve had him in a headlock, chocking the air out of him before Bucky had even taken his eyes off of the figure in black above. They had to be close. If he was lucky, it would be quick and he would be in London before tomorrow evening.

Everything was perfect. For now. This was the part of event planning (Y/N) hated the most. It was the calm before the storm. It was the one moment where everything was going right before, something, sometimes many things, went wrong. Most people assumed that this would be her favourite moment because of how perfect everything was but she hated it. She wanted to get it over with so she could get to fixing whatever was going to inevitably need fixing. Fixing things and planning things, calmed her. Knowing there was a flaw - knowing he probably resented her for prioritizing her job - made her insides twist into knots.

She forced her thoughts back to her job but there was nothing she could focus on. Everything was perfect. All she had to was wait for the guests to arrive. She tried not to pick at the dark red nail polish and smiled at a passing waiter. When the event planner looked worried, everyone under her employ worried too. They had no way of knowing that it was her relationship and not the exhibition that was driving her crazy so she couldn’t let any of her emotions show. Everything needed to be perfect.

She had thought about calling Bucky last night but didn’t. It wasn't like she could anyways. He would never be stupid enough to have his phone on him while doing something that dangerous. At least he had better not be.

It was hard to tell whether or not she was getting in her own head. She wanted to tell herself that she was overthinking things and that it was the distance that was making her inspect every conversation she had had with Bucky while they were apart. She wanted to say that she was crazy. But what she really was, was scared. Scared that every worry running through her mind was real. Scared that he resented her for spending so much time on her job. Scared that it wouldn’t be long before she was single again.

Being single had never bothered her. Actually, she had liked it. She had expected to stay single, getting by with casual relationships. What she hadn’t been expecting was Bucky.

“I don’t need you wandering around the halls wasting my time. The lead chef needs you in the kitchen. Now.” (Y/N) barked, placing a hand on her hip.

This was one of those jobs where nothing seemed to go right. She didn’t need her waiters wandering around the halls, analyzing the paintings. They had plenty of other things to be doing. When he didn’t answer she went to tap him on the back. This was the last time she was hiring this company.

He turned, a strand of chin length hair falling across a stubbled jaw. His lips spread slowly, the corner of his blue-grey eyes crinkling. He cocked his head.

“Oh.” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “You’re not a waiter…”

“No, not a waiter. But I can’t imagine that you’re anything but the boss around here.”

She crossed her arms. “Why do you say that?”

He quirked a brow. “You ordered me into the kitchen like an army general.”

“I did n-” She saw the look on his face. “I did.”

He chuckled and extended his hand in the little space between them. “Nice to meet you general.”

His hand engulfed hers. “Nice to meet you?”

“Bucky.”

Bucky ran his hand over the array of papers strewn across the desk. They hadn’t found Ketch but were in his office, combing through the plans he left behind in his hurry to escape.

“How’d he know we were coming?” Steve asked, flipping through blueprints for something neither of them could really decipher.

Ketch had taken his laptop but Bucky rifled through the drawers hoping to find something they could use to find him. “The fact that we killed a bunch of his body guards probably gave him a pretty good heads up.”

Steve thought about it for a second, pursed his lips and nodded his agreement. They continued their search, hoping to find anything useful. They were about to leave when Bucky spotted it. “Wait!”

Steve froze, a stack of papers in his hand, a brow raised.

He stalked over in a few quick steps and grabbed the stack. Flipping it around he saw the painting he had looked at more than once in the last week.

He raised his eyes to Steve’s, “This is the stolen painting.”

Steve grabbed the papers. His eyes ticked from side to side frantically. “Buck, it’s a fake.”

“What’s a fake?”

“The painting. The painting’s a fake. Britain’s Prime Minister is gong to be there. It’s not a painting, it’s a bomb.” The papers crumpled in his hands.

“That means…”

Bucky couldn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. They were out of the office, Steve barking orders into the coms. London was an hour behind Denmark but the event was already started. They wouldn’t make it in time. His heart hammered in his chest. He gripped his gun but there was nothing he could shoot. There was nothing he could do.

“Somebody call her.”

“Barnes we don’t contact civilians in situations like this. It would-”

“Call her.” He growled into the com.

The sound of laughter and clinking of glasses mixed with the orchestra playing in the corner of the exhibition hall as (Y/N) watched from her spot in the back doorway, a smile on her face. So far, the night was a success. Men and women decked out in their finest formal wear mingled, glasses of champagne in their hands, awaiting the star of the night. It was a celebration. They had recovered another one.

She knew she couldn’t stay here much longer. As much as she might dress and look like one, she wasn’t a guest. She had a job to do. She opened her clutch and reached for her phone but there wasn’t anything in there other than her lipstick, credit cards and cash. She fumbled around in the bag, her heart pounding. On a perfect night she only needed to use her phone a couple of times after the event started. You couldn’t get better than perfect. She needed that phone.

Assuming that she had dropped it on the floor, short of crawling on her hands and knees, there was nothing she could do. She hurried into the kitchen, to check on her caterers before going off to find the Prime Minister. (Y/N) cursed the long red dress she wore, annoyed by its restrictive material. After weaving through the endless crowd, she stopped beside the Minister and some celebrity, and waited for a break in their conversation. She glanced at her watch. As long as she had the painting unveiled in the next ten minutes, everything would be fine, regardless of the lost phone.

“Mrs. Prime Minister, if you could follow me to the painting, we’re ready for you for the unveiling.” She pasted on a smile, one she knew looked more genuine than it felt.

Happy event planner, happy event.

The minister nodded and followed her to the centre of the room where the painting lay roped off. Her assistant, mercifully on time, handed her a microphone to give to the guest of honour. “Whenever you’re ready m’am.”

Before she could step into the roped area, two body guards surrounded the prime minister and whispered something into her ear. The microphone was handed back to (Y/N) and they left without a word, the prime minister in tow. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong. Something worse than what had been on her mind for the past few days.

A museum guard jogged up to her, “we need you to tell everyone to evacuate in an orderly fashion.”

“I will. But wouldn’t an alarm be more effective?” She pointed out. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be the one to disappoint her guests and send them home but she would do it if she had to. After all, she was in charge.

“Alerting the… paparazzi” his eyes darted to the painting. “Is the last thing we need at the moment.”

She nodded and tapped the microphone twice, “Good evening everyone. We’re experiencing difficulties at the moment and would need everyone to evacuate in a quick and orderly fashion.” She took a step towards the crowd. “for everyone’s safety we ask that you do so immediately.”

As people starting filing out, the buzz of their chatter filling the air, a crashing sound sent a jolt through her body. She whipped around. He was in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room. Why was he here? Bucky’s eyes found hers. They were filled with fear. Her heart dropped. He shot towards her. She took a step towards him but a massive boom knocked her off her feet and sent her colliding with something hard.

She couldn’t focus on anything, her ears ringing as she lay dazed on the ground. She was faintly aware of the screaming. Her entire left side felt like it was on fire. Something touched her face but everything was spinning. Somehow she managed to lift a hand to her cheek, only to feel it coated with something sticky. Something was heavy on top of her. She was so tired. She just wanted the ringing to stop. Piercing blue eyes blinked into focus but she couldn’t keep her eyes open. He might have been saying something. She didn’t know. She was so tired.

A slow, constant beeping welcomed her back to the world but she kept her eyes closed even though the pain was mostly gone. A flimsy sheet felt scratchy on the bare skin of her lower legs and arms and did nothing to keep her warm. The only warmth she was aware of was in her hand. She heard mumbling, a deep, familiar voice. She squeezed his hand.

“(Y/N)?”

Though they felt glued together, she managed to crack her eyes open. The room was bright, midday sun streaming through the window, making his eyes look so much bluer than usual. They searched her face and she wasn’t sure what they were looking for but when he let out a long sigh, she figured he must have been satisfied with his search.

She could hardly believe he was here. Where he was supposed to be, she couldn’t remember. She knew it wasn’t supposed to be here. She wasn’t supposed to be here either. She was supposed to be…London. The beeping sped up. He wrapped his other hand around hers and brought the bundle to his mouth. It was an apology and a reassurance in one gesture. His thumb stroked her palm, back and forth until the beeping slowed to what it had been when she awoken. She had a feeling he was waiting for her to speak. She was okay. She would be okay. She would be okay because he had been there.

“Hi.” Her voice grated like sandpaper as if she hadn’t spoken in days. Maybe she hadn’t. How long had she been here?

His lips turned up slightly. “Hi.”

“What happened?”

“There was a bomb…We didn’t think…We tired to call…” He ran his fingers through his hair. Judging by its messy state, he had been doing it a lot while sitting there. “I’m sorry for blowing up your event.”

She tried to shrug but winced at the movement. “That’s okay. I’m okay. It wasn’t important.”

Despite having him here, her earlier fears came rushing back. Was he only here because he felt like he had to be?

“I know it’s not as important as the fact that you’re safe,” Her heart dropped. “But I know it was to you so I’m sorry.”

“Yeah but it’s silly…” She didn’t want him to have to hide the fact that her job was making everything so difficult. She was tired of being scared. Having seen what truly terrifying was, she realized she needed to talk to Bucky. Really talk to him. No matter the inevitable outcome. She had to do it.

He furrowed his brows. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you blame me?” She couldn’t look at him.

“Blame you for what?” He sounded genuinely confused as if it hadn’t been what he had expected her to say.

“You know what.”

“I really don’t (Y/N), what?”

“The fact that we never see each other!” Her shrill voice echoed in the room as she ripped her hand from his. She gulped in a deep breath. She couldn’t do this if she wasn’t thinking straight. “I mean… if I just gave up my job for local ones then we could see each other more often. You can’t tell me you don’t realize it’s my fault this relationship is so hard.”

He stayed silent, almost long enough for her to lift her eyes and tell him that he didn’t need to stay. “Do you blame me?”

The question surprised her. “No but-”

“But it doesn’t matter what I do and it doesn’t matter what you do.” He interrupted, once again taking her hand. “You love what you do. It’s incredible how much you love it. I love that about you and believe me, I would never hate you for it, you need to believe me.”

“You don’t?” She raised her eyes to meet his.

“Never. I’ve seen you work (Y/N). I’ve seen the little smile you get on your face when you know exactly where you’re going to place something I wouldn’t have thought was important or would have forgotten. It puts a smile on my face, even when I’m in the middle of hell somewhere, to think that you’re knee deep in fabrics in your hotel room, in one of my old t-shirts, trying to figure out…whatever it is… I don’t know exactly. If I knew you were bored, but with me, I wouldn’t forgive myself. And honestly, most of the time, I’m glad you’re safe somewhere else.” He rubbed his neck sheepishly.

She could see the sincerity in his eyes. His words eased the tension that had been eating at her for weeks. Their jobs wouldn’t tear them apart. Maybe one day they would drift apart - she prayed that never happened - but if it did, it would be because they became different people, not because they couldn’t make it work.

“Well you know, I was somewhere else but I wasn’t exactly safe.” Her poor attempt to lighten the mood made the corner of his lips tilt slightly. “So you’re okay with this?”

He cupped her face, “It never even crossed my mind that it wasn’t.”

#Bucky Barnes #bucky imagine #bucky x reader #bucky x you #fan fiction #fanfic #MCU fanfiction #bucky fanfic #prompt #writing

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couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name · 7 years

Note

listen... i miss gmw. gimme a lil something something bout the kids' college graduations?? maybe baby penny is sick all over Farkle's diploma and it's ruined for framing and Jennifer can't BELIEVE the AUDACITY of this infant CHILD and maybe joshaya are running late late late late bc whoops impromptu trip to denmark on smthg and the plane was delayed but FSCK WE GOTTA GRADUATE or something. idk. what i do know is that i love ur blog and riarkle, in that order xxxx

You sent this in like maybe a week or so ago and I’ve been ignoring it in fear of becoming Trash once more but I just realized that it’s Riley’s birthday and life is a nightmare so the Trash Is Unleashed™

Okay so Maya stayed in New York for college as we know, but Riley and Farkle fucked off away to some Ivy League out of state

You readers can put them wherever your pretty little hearts desire, I personally like the thought of them in Boston (and I feel like it’d be a nice little circle since Feeny’s from Boston let me live)

But anyway, they’ve stayed as close as ever!!! Time and distance have no power over them!!! We know this!!!

Like we’re talking facetiming, constant texting, a group chat with memes they can’t explain to anyone else, phone calls, they all know what’s up with each other constantly

For the record they are still in touch with Zay, Smackle and Lucas but it’s just like. not CONSTANT communication you know. Like they’re group chat still lives but it’s college + Riley and Farkle have a kid so they’re all busy

But anyway

So Riley’s got her astrophysics and journalism courses aced, Farkle’s fully set to go into politics, and Maya’s art major is done with.

And you know. Our fav ot3 has been together most of their lives. They graduated middle school and high school together and they couldn’t wait to see each other graduate college

But…they were blindsided

No one had ever suspected their colleges would have the audacity to schedule their graduations on the same day

Does Riley pull a Topanga and try to fight her schools dean??? Absolutely

Does it work? Absolutely not

So now the ENTIRE family is stressed, because most of the Matthews consider Maya part of the family, so does Minkus, Shawn can’t see his goddaughter graduate and Josh is left with the delima of “Girlfriend vs Niece”. They’re all freaking out like holy shit

Riley and Maya are just….in Full Dramatics about this

We’re talking waxing Shakespearean sonnets about the Universe™ trying to tear them apart. They make their way back to all that Sun and the Moon symbolism bullshit

After a literal week of this Farkle is TIRED

Wakes up to his four year old telling him “Mommy’s wearing a lot of eyeliner and said the world is a dark and spiteful place that doesn’t want her and Auntie Maya together and that every moment they share is in blatant defiance of fate. What’s that mean?” and this poor guy is just like,,,,,,for fucks sake,

Like obviously he wants to see Maya graduate too!!! They’re best friends!!! But these girls are EXAHUSTING him lmao

So he has a Plan, but he also knows how his Plans usually go, so he just gives tf in and calls his dad to handle it lmao

Meanwhile: Joshua

Who has just been….literally screaming nonstop since this drama unfolded

Riley’s his BLOOD, even though they’re uncle-niece they have more of a close sibling relationship

But he literally has a ring ready and waiting for Maya!!!

And the boy is a fucking Matthews so of course HE’S in dramatic throws about this predicament

He calls Cory for advice and Cory is like “You’re going to Maya’s because you love her and I’m not paying for your fucking flight to Boston” lmao

So it ends up with like. Katy, Shawn, Turner, Josh (+ his four bandmates), and Zay (bc he’s in the city and Broke), and Ava end up going to Maya’s ceremony

With Cory, Topanga, Stuart, Amy, Alan, Eric, Auggie, Smackle and Feeny going to Riley and Farkle’s ceremony

Jack couldn’t get off work and Doesn’t Super Care and Morgan’s in Europe for work so they’re unfortunately off the list

They forgot to invite Lucas didnt want anymore choosing between the girls bullshit couldn’t make the trip because of work lol

So anyway: Farkle’s Plan that was funded by Stuart?

Absolutely got remote controlled robots so they could keep up a video call for both ceremonies

You know damn well what I mean

Cory thinks this is absolutely the funniest fucking thing he’s ever heard of

Eric thinks this is a sign of the impending Robot Wars™

The girls are still massively upset and think Farkle’s a fucking dork but they’re very touched and love him yadayada so this calms them down a bit

But anyway like, we get to the big graduation day and like….disasters, disasters all around

Josh’s Stoner Friend™ keeps knocking into the damn robot and almost breaks it like thirty times in an hour

Eric is giving the robot at Riley and Farkle’s site a wide berth with suspicious eyes

Auggie, Cory and Penny are all suspiciously sick but are trying to power through the ceremony

All the other students and people attending these graduations…..you know these whackjobs are getting looks. Some assholes in the crowd keep throwing stuff at the robots

Shawn and Katy are making a HUGE SCENE crying hysterically we all know they would

Jennifer makes a surprise, dramatic appearance at Farkle’s graduation

We’re talking pulling up in a limo, emerging in slow motion, wearing a glittering black evening gown, elbow length black satin gloves, stilettos and a huge hat with peacock feathers on it, making a show of searching the crowds before spotting him (standing directly in front of her) before throwing out her arms and screeching “My baby-!”

Farkle’s like ‘We literally have not spoken in at least six years will you please get the fuck out of here’

She does not, in fact, get the fuck out of there so Topanga is now on duty to make sure she and Stuart don’t get into a fight and ruin this for the kids asdfgj

Feeny keeps fucking falling asleep bc he’s old and doesn’t care about the guest speakers but he SNORES WORRINGLY LOUDLY

Students aren’t technically allowed to have devices™ out during the ceremonies so Riley and Farkle and Maya are trying so hard to be discrete as the watch the feed from each other’s graduations

They literally end up paying more attention to each other’s graduations than their own lmao

Josh’s bandmates and Zay are all being the rowdiest fucking audience members possible like they’re all those assholes that bring noise makers and scream and clap at random intervals

Stuart and Jen keep shooting each other withering glares and trading insults as Topanga shushes them

Penny, Auggie, and Cory are just feeling more and more like Literal Death the longer this drags on

Maya finally goes up to get her diploma and Katy literally faints

Riley and Farkle start cheering bc yay Maya!!! Until they remember they’re at their own ceremony and there is LITERALLY A SPEECH HAPPENING SO THEY’RE SCREAMING INTO THE QUIET AND INTERRUPTING EVERYTHING

Get glared back into submission but Maya’s laughing at them

Maya’s graduation ends soonish after that but the other one is DRAGGING ON STILL so everyone is like crowed around trying to watch on Maya’s tiny screen lol

When the speech finally ends Smackle’s muttering about how everything said was factually incorrect

Stuart and Jen are still antagonizing each other

Amy and Alan are taking enough pictures to blind people with the flash

So Riley gets called up for her diploma first right

Trips

Hard enough to fall off the fucking stage

Had to be helped back up by memebers of the band

Gets back on stage and gets her diploma

Falls again coming down

Amy and Topanga are s c re a m i ng and Maya is literally crying from the effort it takes to not laugh

Jen’s making obnoxious comments about who her son was ‘trapped’ by and Penny wants to know what that means and Stuart is prepared to stab Jen if she bothers to answer

Riley’s literally off to the side getting looked at by a medic when Farkle goes up for his diploma

He gets it fine enough but coming downstage he’s overcome with the urge to do ‘thank you I am farkle’

he didn’t realize the student that was called up after him was right behind him

punches this kid in the face, he falls

the person behind them falls

a fcucking domino effect of ivy league graduates

Eric is literally crying from laughter watching this. So are his fucking bodyguards like they broke character bc this scene was Too Much

Feeny is back to snoring

The New York crowd is loosing their fucking minds

Farkle’s rushing back to his seat and Jen stands up to get his attention to Yell at him for being embarrassing and

Penny just fucking projectile vomits all over her

She’s SCREAMING

Cory opens his mouth to apologize and explain that she’s been sick and HE PUKES. WHICH SETS AUGGIE OFF

EVERYONES SCREAMING

Listen it was a huge crowd but three people projectile vomiting is gonna cause a STIR

People are rushing away and it’s a whole mess of a scene

The nyc crowd is Alive watching this all unfold

Eventually the ceremony ends and Riley and Farkle lowkey lock theirselves in their apartment for the rest of the night

Everyone thinks they’re just embarrassed but they’re fucking cracking up hysterically like it took two hours to give Penny a bath because they couldn’t catch their breath

At some point they settle down a bit and call Maya and the three of them spend the rest of their night drowning in nostalgia

This is messy as fuck but I’m out of practice anyway

^ me when I think about gmw these days

#gmw #riarkle #maya hart #riley matthews #farkle minkus #asks #molly mumbles #this is So Bad I'm sorry #I had to rush it #bc food #but hope someone enjoyed #lol

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kingspoetrysoc · 3 years

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Interview with Ruth Padel

Ruth Padel is an award-winning poet who teaches as Professor of Poetry at King’s. She has published over 20 books, 13 of which are poetry collections. The King’s Poet’s Karen Ng talks to Ruth about her new collection, Beethoven Variations: Poems on a Life and her experiences as a poet.

How did you first realise you wanted to write poetry?

I enjoyed poetry as a small child and found I knew poems by heart without trying to learn them, so I started writing them. It was natural, like singing.

How much of a relationship is there between music and poetry? Poetry is music! What influence does music have on your poetry? Does it play an important role in your life?

I grew up playing piano, and viola – like Beethoven – and singing. The first money I ever earned was £5 playing viola in Westminster Abbey. There were professional musicians in my father’s family. His grandfather was a piano soloist born in Christiansfeld, south Denmark, who studied at the Leipzig Conservatoire with Beethoven’s pupil Ignaz Moscheles. In 1868 he settled in York, teaching and playing. His son, my grandfather played violin and as headmaster of Carlisle Grammar School established a vigorous school orchestra and a family string quartet, a tradition that my dad continued with all of us. But I’ve also always sung, wherever I’ve lived: whether this was Cretan mantinades with workmen in the archaeological trenches at Knossos, or in more formal settings, in choirs. And – for a couple of evenings, unpaid, in an Istanbul nightclub.

Can you tell us about your new collection Beethoven Variations? What inspired you to write about Beethoven?

Inspired isn’t quite the word – it snuck up on me! I wrote poems for a Beethoven concert, to read between an early and a late string quartet. I focussed on the twenty years of Beethoven’s life between writing the early and the late and it went great in performances. Audiences said the poems deepened their experience of the music, which was wonderful, and a great, unexpected compliment. But I knew the poems weren’t finished, and kept them on the back burner while I wrote two other collections. Writing those – one a poetry narrative called Tidings, the other lyrics on my mother’s death but recalling her life – fuelled me to tackle the story of Beethoven’s life.

I began by visiting his birthplace in Bonn, and wrote the book in 2019, on sabbatical in New York. It helps to put a perspective distance of some kind between the experience and the writing of the poem. I reworked the original poems, responding to his life but also his evolving work, in four sequences like the four movements of a traditional quartet. I whittled these down to twelve poems in each of four sections, thinking of the architecture of a quartet – like Eliot’s Four Quartets – and using my own musical life as an example of someone influenced by Beethoven, by playing him. So I threaded glints of my life through the poems, playing music but also searching for him in the places where he lived. I added an introductory poem, Listen – the thing Beethoven became unable to do, but which is absolutely crucial in playing together – about the way my parents met, through playing music.

Above all I wanted to get across his personality, the vivid counterpoint between his cut-offness – he was ruthlessly focussed on creating – his suffering, the awful deafness, his impatience, rows with everyone and devastated disappointments, and his warmth, liveliness, love of conviviality and jokes.

Behind it all, though, is Europe, his and mine. He grew up in Bonn, in Germany, on a street which dead-ended at the Rhine. He used to gaze at the river through a telescope from the attic, and was fascinated by the largest hill beyond – the Drachenfels – which he eventually climbed. So I crossed the Rhine and climbed that too, and then I followed him to Vienna when he went just as Austrian armies were mustering to fight Napoleon. The Europe he’d grown up with was changing very violently and so was mine. This was the year before Brexit, with right-wing factions – primed against immigration – growing in Austria, Poland, Hungary. The dark rifted history of Vienna, that white imperial city, ancient heart of Europe, along with the holocaust, and psycho-analysis which was born there – all that gets into the poems.

So does the contrast between the glamour, the gilt, creamy spaces and carved stone curlicues of the great palaces of Vienna, owned by rich feudal nobles – many of whom commissioned his best pieces - and the poor dark ordinary homes to which the musicians returned after they played in the glittering halls. A whole hidden history of social injustice, exploitation, and the inequality Beethoven railed against all his life – he yearned and burned for humanity to be free of it – is built into the beautiful architecture he walked through every day, the very fabric of those wonderful cities.

So, it’s a book of poems on a man’s life, someone who was the great artist of hope, the epitome of enormous creativity coming out of suffering. It is in four sections. His life from birth to twenty-two, then to thirty-two when he was making his name, thirty two to forty two, when he said farewell to love and the ‘Immortal Beloved’, whoever she was, then on to fifty-six, when he died. Followed by a prose coda of Life Notes which I wrote just to underpin the poems historically, but they mutated into a prose sequence on their own: a narrative which functions as indirect commentary or supplement to the poems but is also a standalone mini-bio.

You have written biographical poetry before, in Darwin: A Life in Poems. How does the writing process with this type of poetry differ from others? Moreover, as A Life in Poems can be considered a family memoir as well, how did the writing process differ from Beethoven Variations?

I wrote the Darwin book in a very few months, my editor wanted to bring it out on his 200th birthday, February 12th 2009. A lot of the poems incorporate his words in letters and writing. Though the introduction mentions me and my granny, his grand-daughter, I don’t put myself into those poems so it is not really a memoir in that sense. Whereas with Beethoven I bring my own musical life in, as an example of the way Beethoven’s music lives on in all of us..

Can you tell us about influences on your writing and how have your influences changed over the years?

Everything is an influence, but the poets were Kipling, very young, from the Jungle Books, then Tennyson, Keats, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Virginia Woolf, Elizabeth Bishop, Sylvia Plath, Heaney, Charles Olsen, and on. But also the Greek poets, from Homer to Seferis.

You studied Classics and Greek poetry at university. Do the ancient poets influence your writing?

Yes. Especially Homer, Sappho and the tragic poets, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides. I spent twenty years studying them for my PhD and two books, In and Out of the Mind and Whom Gods Destroy: their words and thoughts got into me at every level.

What do you think modern writers can learn from the likes of Sappho and Homer?

Intensity of imagery, the crucial, precise relationship of words to each other, linguistic excitement, and always to address the big things through particulars. How poetry inheres in our relationships – to each other, to the natural world, and to the motivating causes of what happens to us, which might be our own emotions, or the gods. And how your job as a poet is to keep finding new words, the truest words, to explore all that.

Do you enjoy translated poetry? When “lost in translation”, can nuances in the original language ever be retrieved – without yourself, as reader, learning the language?

Translations of Anna Akhmatova, or Mandelstam, are among some of the most iconic and influential poems of the twentieth century. Different poets translate differently well. The Greek poet Seferis, for instance, often translates very well, while people are always trying to do Cavafy differently and in a way failing. Yet Cavafy is really the greater poet. It varies. But of course we need to read translations, to expand our sense and knowledge of the possible.

What do you enjoy the most about teaching poetry?

When you see someone suddenly get it, and the poems suddenly burst with real unique life. But also in class, when students work together generously as a team, and start to notice and bring up about each others’ poems points you might have picked up on yourself – but also things you would never have seen and thought of. That’s wonderful – when students say things you would never have got to on your own. When you know they are travelling, they will be ok.

Do you think poetry is sometimes perceived as an inaccessible art?

I addressed the idea of poetry being ‘difficult’ in two books written out of the columns I wrote for several years for a Sunday paper on reading poetry, 52 Ways of Looking at a Poem and The Poem and the Journey. I pointed out that it is not more difficult than we are! We are difficult creatures, our lives are difficult, so is the world we live in. Complex and difficult – shouldn’t our poetry be up to us, in ourselves?

One problem poetry has today, as compared to, say, the 19th century, is that other arts and media have taken over some of the roles it used to fulfil. Film, popular music, TV. But it can still do something nothing else can, offer a memorable, intense new way of seeing the world and your own experience, in distilled, concentrated words that really grip you when you come upon them.

How important do you think writing communities are, in fostering ‘better’ writing? In your experience, is writing helped by discussion?

Yes, yes yes! But also no. Workshops, in which a bunch of you – who trust each others’ judgement and generosity – offer help on each others’ poems, are a wonderful way to grow as a poet and learn how to read and critique as poets, how to see where each poem can work more convincingly. A place to discuss your poems and the principles behind them, and also new work you are reading. That’s the situation we try to replicate in seminars at King’s. But you also have to be on your own with the work, do the thinking, experiencing and writing on your own. The ideal is a dolphin-like progression through the waves. Up with the others in the air, but also down under the water alone.

Does poetry always benefit from constant re-drafting and experimentation?

Yes.

Do you think poets should make a habit out of writing every day?

There’s no ‘should’ about it, if you want to write well, and better, you will.

Do “sentences that sound poetic” or flowery writing always indicate good writing?

No!!! That’s a terrible word, that word poetic. Poets don’t use it. It usually means warm and fuzzy. And facile.

Does a writer need to have natural talent?

Of course. You can acquire craft, but you have to have an ear and an instinct too.

Is practice and growth more important?

Also of course!

What are your thoughts on spoken word poetry?

Its effects depend very much on the presence and voice of the poet-performer, the physical sonic relation with the audience.

Do you a favourite literary journal, or a poetry platform you would like to recommend?

Our King’s poetry journal Wild Court has reviews and essays as well as new poems from international poets, and also supports our event series Poetry And... – which I explained in the Guardian, when we started it, aims to illustrate poetry’s connectivity to all areas of life and learning. We are setting up the next Poetry And... for May 13th: Poetry And Obisidian. It will feature three poets who are among the first alumni of the Obsidian Foundation for emergent Black poets, set up by prize-winning poet Nick Makoha, currently doing a Poetry PhD at King’s. Wild Court is now beginning a slot for King’s work too. Post-graduate from our PhD Creative Writing students, and Undergraduate from students who have completed poetry modules, in consultation with the Editor and Creative Writing tutors. Wild Court aside, Poetry Review with its brilliant series Behind the Poem, Poetry London, Prac Crit and The Scores all have excellent new work.

#Ruth Padel #interviewer: Karen Ng #king's poetry society #Interviews

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trueloveseyeroll · 7 years

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When The Tide Turns (9/16)

Summary: The plan was to go to England, finish the case and head back home in a matter of days. Of course, nothing in Emma’s life ever goes according to plan. Not only does she end up travelling across Europe, looking for a Liam Jones in order to finish her case, she ends up travelling with Liam’s brother - an annoyingly handsome Killian Jones. And she doesn’t trust him one bit.

Rating: T, for language and a bit of violence later on

Beta-reader: thank you Aina ( @forget-me-not-s ) for all your wonderful help!!

Artists: these artists are seriously such talented and amazing people, and they deserve so much praise!!! @theblacksiren - check out her beautiful artwork for chapter 1 here and chapter 7 here! @optomisticgirl created the awesome banner - and soon you’ll get to see the amazing masterpiece created by @fairytalesandtimetravel

Word count: ~5020 (68k+ in total)

AO3

Something was wrong. Emma sensed it the moment she came back from the restroom and saw Killian looking all sullen.

“What’s up with you?”

Killian’s shoulders tensed - he hadn’t even noticed her presence before she spoke.

Something was definitely wrong.

“I, uh, received a rather unexpected phone call.”

So he’s finally the one on the phone and I don’t get a chance to eavesdrop? Emma thought a little bitterly. She wasn’t as annoyed with his eavesdropping as she had been earlier, but she still wished to get even with him.

“Good unexpected?” She tried, sitting down in the booth.

“Depends on how you look at it,” Killian answered, rather vaguely. Emma waited for him to elaborate. “It was a woman named Elsa. From Norway. It seems she knows a thing or two about my dear brother.”

“Seriously?” Emma exclaimed, wondering how that could be considered bad news. “That’s great! What does she know?”

“A lot,” was Killian’s reply. “She invited us to her home in Norway, thinking it was best to talk face to face.”

“That doesn’t sound suspicious at all.”

“It’s peculiar,” Killian agreed. “But it faces us with a decision to make, Swan; journey to Denmark to find the spyglass or further north to visit Elsa?”

Emma thought of it for a moment. Mary Margaret’s text from before popped into mind; she had written that the latest record of Liam was a ticket for a ferry from Denmark to Norway... well, at least they had the right countries in mind.

“Elsa,” Emma decided. “I want to know what this is about, and anyways, it’s easier with an actual address instead of just ‘Denmark’ and ‘mermaid statue’.”

“Point taken,” Killian nodded. But Emma could still sense something bothering him.

“Did she say anything else than just ‘come to Norway, we need to talk’? Like, say how she knows about Liam? And knows your phone number for that matter?”

“She was quite brisk. I have no clue how she got a hold of my phone number, though now I won’t be able to stop wondering, so thank you for that, Swan,” Killian paused. “But she did say she’d known him for the past six years. As in he’s been in Norway for the past six years.”

“That fits!” At Killian’s questioning stare, Emma explained her sudden epiphany. “Mary Margaret wrote that the latest record they had of Liam is from six years ago - when he took the ferry from Denmark to Norway. If he’s been in Norway since then, that’s why there aren’t any more traces of him! Also,” Emma remembered as she spoke, “aren’t the latest letters you have from Liam from Norway? I mean, it all fits!”

“Aye, I suppose you’re right.”

Emma almost felt like getting another drink - to celebrate of course. It all pointed to Liam being in Norway. Maybe that’s why Elsa asked them to come without further explanation. Perhaps Liam was too shy to come forth himself?

Emma grinned, thinking that by this time tomorrow, she might finally have the signature she needed to go back home.

And Killian would have his brother back.

“I should probably call Regina and give her an update on the next travel plans.”

Across from her, Killian still seemed to be contemplating something. “But what about the spyglass? And the pegasus sail,” he added belatedly, confirming Emma’s suspicion that the pegasus sail was a load of bullshit.

“What about them?” Emma asked.

“Was our plan not to find them?”

“I thought our plan was to find Liam,” Emma countered.

“Aye, but weren’t we going to do that through the objects?”

Emma just stared at him for a moment, unable to understand his fixation with those objects. “Don’t you think talking to a living person who’s known about Liam’s whereabouts for the past six years will be a bit more helpful than a couple of thingies?”

Killian had no good answer for that.

“If Elsa turns out to be a dead-end, Denmark will be our back-up plan and we can continue this treasure-hunt-thing,” Emma offered.

He nodded, slowly raising his eyes from the table to meet hers. The spark she had grown so used to seeing was back. “So, Norway...?”

Emma groaned. “That definitely sounds cold.”

Killian tried bullying Emma into buying a proper winter coat. And warmer boots as well.

(“It’s not bullying when it’s for your own good, Swan.”

“Oh yes, every tyrant’s favourite motto.”

“Then I must be a terrible tyrant for wanting to keep you from freezing to death.”)

She gave into buying a grey beanie and a warm sweater. But a new coat and a pair of boots sounded like an overkill. They weren’t going to be in Norway for long after all, and heating did exist up north, right? It wasn’t like they were going to live in an igloo.

Her head hurt ever so slightly the morning after their trip to the bar, but she didn’t let it show. She was a bit more snappy than usual when Ingrid called, though that could have had a lot more to do with Ingrid persisting that Walsh was the right guy for her. No matter how many times Emma said she just wasn’t feeling it anymore.

They spent most of the day just walking through the city, taking things slow. At one point Emma thought she saw two people she’d seen earlier as well - a woman with wavy red hair and a guy with a red-woollen hat - but then they were gone. She blamed the headache.

At some time around six in the evening, their plane took off, giving Emma the chance to lean back and relax for a few hours. And tease Killian for his dislike of flying. He was quieter than usual, not rising to tease Emma back as much as she would’ve liked. Odd as it was, Emma found herself missing it. The casual back-and-forth, the easy conversation they had had last night... even the occasional flirting.

But Killian didn’t seem in the mood for it, and Emma was rather terrified of how much that affected her.

“You know, if you stare any harder at that chair you’re gonna drill a hole through it.” Her voice was soft and teasing, breaking Killian from his spell. Liam would probably have called it brooding, and it amazed Killian that after nine years, he could still hear his brother’s reprimanding in his head.

Killian shifted in his seat, trying to look more relaxed. Swan had let him get the aisle seat this time, leaving her to sit in the middle. He knew she knew he wasn’t acting entirely like himself, but he hoped she chalked it up to his dislike of flying.

“Is everything alright?” Emma asked, and he was forced to meet her gaze, giving her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Aye, everything’s fine, love.”

The look she gave him clearly stated that she didn’t believe him, but that he could tell her once they’d landed and were alone. He had no doubts she’d pester him until she was satisfied with his answer. A trait he admired in her... but he truly wished she weren’t so good at spotting his lies.

For now, she let the matter rest and he returned to staring at the back of the chair in front of him.

What the bloody hell had he gotten himself into?

Killian had been in many dire situations for the past decade. Had reached the bottom and somehow managed to dig his way even deeper. But he’d also had a few breaths of good air and good times - of actual hope. Now it just seemed that all his life had been a race, leading up to this very point and he’d been too wrapped up in his own head to notice that everything was closing in on him.

From the moment he had learned who Swan was, he knew she brought risks with her. Risks he had been willing to take. Up until now at least.

He looked to the side without turning his head, sensing that Emma was deep in her own thoughts. How had this woman managed to turn everything upside down in only a few days? First keeping him afraid that she already knew the truth - or some of it at least - to fearing that she’d somehow figure it out. And now his greatest worry was what she’d do when he finally told her. Told her everything.

He just had to find the right timing. With both of them a bit tipsy, it hadn’t seemed right to tell her last night. He should’ve told her that morning or during the afternoon, but things had seemed so easy between them for once, he didn’t want to ruin it. The plane was hardly the right place, and once they’d made it to Arendal where Elsa lived, they’d both be too tired...

He was the captain of making excuses, he knew that.

But he would have to tell her soon. Soon as in before they met with Elsa, or he would lose his chance to tell Emma on his own.

They landed in Kristiansand around nine in the evening. Dinner had been served during the flight, so Emma and Killian could focus on finding their way out to Arendal. Fortunately, it wasn’t far away. There were buses, and they could walk from the end terminal to the inn. It wasn’t the shortest of distances, but if they took a taxi at the office’s expense Regina was surely going to have Emma’s head once she returned to New York.

Emma’s boss had already made it pretty clear that if Elsa had no useful information that was worth the trip to Norway, Emma’s journey was over. She wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Of course she’d be disappointed if she didn’t get to finish the job. They seemed so close to finding Liam now, it would suck big time if they never actually found him. And deep down, Emma could let herself admit that she’d actually enjoyed working this case, frustrating as it was. She enjoyed being ‘out in the field’ or whatever. Not just behind some desk, working cases for various upscale or downscale businesses. To be honest, her job as it was wasn’t really what she’d planned for when she studied law. But working for Regina gave a sense of security. For a time it felt like she’d had it all together - a well-paid job, an apartment, a boyfriend…

Maybe it was time for her to figure out what she actually wanted.

At least this mysterious Elsa seemed promising for the case. Emma didn’t want to get her hopes up, but she was definitely impatient to meet the woman. She wouldn’t have minded doing so at ten o’clock when they reached the inn, but Killian had insisted they get some sleep first and meet her in the morning. Other than that, he hadn’t said much during their travel from Barcelona to Arendal.

Emma had let him dodge her questions on the plane. They were surrounded by strangers; maybe he didn’t want to talk with so many ears around. She’d given him the same excuse on the bus. But sooner or later he would have to pull himself together and tell her whatever it was he was keeping from her, or she’d have to force it out of him.

In the end, it worried Emma to see him so silent. So... broody. She found herself wanting to know what was going on his head for reasons other than curiosity and distrust. The thought made Emma shake her head at herself; Killian had been untrustworthy from the start. He’d always been keeping things from her and for some reason she had let him. But now she was actually worried about him?

It’s probably for the best that this case ends soon and I can go back home and never have to think about him again.

By the time they reached their inn and each had keys to their respective rooms, Emma had had enough.

“What’s going on with you?”

Killian looked up from placing the key in the door lock to his room. Emma’s room was two doors further down on the other side of the hall, but she stopped next to Killian, intent on answers.

“What do you mean, love?”

From the tired tone in his voice and the lack of conviction, Emma could tell he knew exactly what she meant.

“You’ve been brooding all day and barely said a word.”

A cocky grin spread on his lips, hiding his weariness. “I knew you cared for our verbal sparring as much as I, love. Worry not; I can make it up to you in any way you please.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Emma said, ignoring his comment.

“Is it just me, or have we had this conversation before?”

“We wouldn’t ever have to have it if you just told the truth for once.”

The humorous spark in Killian's face faded away, the initial exhaustion returning. "It's been a long day, Swan. Could we continue this discussion in the morning after I've had a chance to sleep?"

"What, so you have the time to make up some new lie?" Emma glared at him. Truthfully, she was pretty tired herself, the grogginess clearly showing.

Killian didn't answer straight away. Normally, that would have been answer enough for Emma, but there was something else going on here. Something in the way Killian's shoulders had dropped and the usual teasing spark had disappeared gave her pause.

"I need but a few hours of rest, Swan. And I reckon you do as well." He turned to unlock and open his door. He gave Emma a nod before going in, bidding her goodnight.

Emma didn't return the sentiment. She glared at the closing door, thinking about pushing her way in to his room, demanding real answers. But the door clicked shut and Emma hadn't moved an inch.

She couldn't explain why it unsettled her so much that he'd just evade the question and walk away. It just felt wrong. Killian didn't strike her as the guy to walk away from any kind of fight or confrontation. He wasn't the type who turned away and shut the door behind him.

Who are you kidding, Emma? Everyone's gonna turn away and shut the door behind them at some point.

After all, Killian was the same guy who had snuck out in the middle of the night to explore a cave in search of something he'd never bothered to tell Emma about had she not caught him red-handed.

She stood in the hall for a few seconds, glaring at the closed door before she turned around and found her own room.

He'd better have answers for her in the morning.

Emma sighed, placing her suitcase by the bed before pulling off her beanie and jacket and falling onto said bed. As much as she wanted to be angry with Killian, she understood him. He was definitely right about her needing some rest. And she knew the need to avoid certain questions, thoughts and feelings all too well, having shut some doors behind herself too.

Emma sat up to pull off her boots, wondering what would happen in the morning. What would Killian have to say for himself, what would this Elsa have to tell them?

And then it finally dawned on Emma; they were meeting Elsa tomorrow; a woman who knew about Liam - had known about him for the past six years. Who knew what she had to say about him? Hell, Killian's brooding all day had probably been focused on that very question.

If Emma knew that in less than a day she might find out what had happened to her parents, she probably wouldn't have been in the most conversing mood either.

Before Emma got the chance to think more about this newfound understanding of Killian, her phone rang from her jacket. She was grateful for Mary Margaret being the one on the other end, rather her than her mother. Or Regina.

Mary Margaret's reason for calling was less pleasant than she could have hoped for though.

"So, Ruby and I are out for a late bite of lunch at that cute café near her work, you know? The one with the amazing red velvet cake."

"Yeah?" Emma answered, wondering why her friend was calling to update her on a late lunch.

"Well..." Mary Margaret hesitated. "We kind of ran into Wash."

"And?”

"Well, we saw him at least, but I don't think he saw us. He was kinda busy... kissing some other woman."

"Oh." In that moment, 'oh' was the only word Emma could think of saying. Her brain took a while to understand the meaning of Mary Margaret's words. But even when it sunk in -Walsh was kissing another woman - Emma still had no other words than 'oh'. It didn't really hurt. It didn't really feel like anything at all.

"I'm so sorry, Emma, I really hate having to tell you this over the phone, but I just thought you needed to know as soon as possible, and like, I don't really know what's going on with you two lately, maybe you've broken up or something, but I just really thought you needed to know. Also because Ruby's offering to punch him for you and she'll only not do it if you tell her not to do it-" Mary Margaret's rambling was cut off by Ruby taking the phone.

"I'm serious, Ems. You want me to punch him, just say the word. I can give him a kick to the nuts if you want, too."

A slight smile ticked on Emma's lips at Ruby's words. "No, it's fine, Ruby. I'm not sure he's worth the hassle."

"So you're fine with it?" Mary Margaret asked, confused. Emma could just imagine her two best friends fighting to get the best hold on the phone.

"Yeah, I mean, I sort of broke up with him a few days ago. Or well, not explicitly. It was on the phone, and I said I just needed a break until I come back to New York."

"And that makes it okay for him to kiss someone else? Who is he, Ross Geller?" Ruby sneered, referring to Friends.

"Well, my plan was actually to break up with him once I get back, unlike Rachel. I guess he just decided to make things easier for the both of us." The truth of her own words surprised Emma. Walsh kissing someone else didn't really hurt - it just made things easier.

"Still makes him douchebag of the year if you ask me," Ruby said.

"I won't argue with you there.”

"Oh Emma, I really wish you weren't alone in Europe - is it Norway now?" Mary Margaret asked.

"She's not alone, she has that Killian-dude," Ruby butted in.

"Yeah, it's Norway, and yeah, I'm not entirely alone. And I'll be back soon, guys."

“Hopefully not before you and Killian have a chance to create a bit of friction up there in the cold,” Ruby said, the salacious smirk clear through the phone.

“Ruby, for all you know, Killian could be a fifty-year old man with a beer belly and a terrible smell,” Emma said, trying to shut down her friend’s depraved thoughts.

“I bet you still wouldn’t mind creating some friction with him,” Ruby said. “Come on, Ems, what kind of friend would we be if we hadn’t made an extensive background check on your travel-buddy? And if he’s as hot as he was three years ago in the picture we found of him, I’m telling you: climb him like a tree.”

Emma was glad Ruby couldn’t see the faint blush in her cheeks. She would never have heard the end of it. “Aren’t you and Mulan still going out?” She tried diverting Ruby.

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m telling you to climb him,” Ruby said.

“Isn’t it funny that he used to work at Mr. Gold’s company, though?” Mary Margaret asked.

What? Emma’s blood ran cold. “He used to work for Gold?”

There was an awkward pause before Mary Margaret answered. “He didn’t tell you?”

“No. He didn’t. Must have slipped his mind,” Emma said, wryly.

“Oh. That’s odd.” And suspicious, Emma added to Mary Margaret’s comment. She berated herself for not having done a background check on Killian herself. And her previous anger towards the truth-withholding bastard resurfaced.

“Sounds like a heated discussion’s coming your way,” Ruby remarked. “Angry sex is always great, you know.”

“Ruby!” Mary Margaret chided. Emma could faintly hear her one friend slapping the other’s arm.

“You guys, thanks for calling me, seriously. But my head’s kinda hurting, and I’m really exhausted.”

“Of course, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, fully understanding. “If you need us, we’re only a phone call away. And we can still punch Walsh for you if you want.”

“Yeah, just say the word, Ems. And please take a video of it if you punch Killian too - or whatever you end up doing.”

“I’m going to spare you for more of Ruby’s terrible humour now. Sleep well, Emma!”

“I’ll see you soon.”

Emma ended the call, slumping against the headboard of the bed. Somehow, she felt more exhausted than before, even with her blood boiling beneath her skin.

It might not hurt, knowing Walsh had moved on before they’d even properly ended the relationship, but it still stung. How could he propose to her, beg for her to come back to New York and then kiss someone else in less than two weeks? What the hell was he thinking? What had she been thinking, dating the guy for eight months? She could only be happy she hadn’t said yes to his proposal without seeing his true colours first.

And then there was Killian. Why hadn’t he told her that he had once worked for the guy currently trying to buy his family’s business? Didn’t that seem like a relevant fact to him?

She pulled her boots back on, grabbed her room key and stormed out of the door to ask Killian that very question.

Her fist raised to knock on his door, Emma found herself hesitating though. She was angry as hell - at Killian and at Walsh - but she couldn’t bring herself to knock.

She went back to her room and grabbed her jacket.

Emma wasn’t in the mood to yell at Jones. She wasn’t in the mood to talk.

She was in the mood for a drink, and that was exactly what she was going to get.

Killian hit his forehead against the door after closing it. He had squandered a perfectly good chance to explain everything to Swan and taken the coward's way out instead. 'Just need a bit of rest'. Killian all but scoffed at himself. He knew very well he wouldn't get much rest this night.

Pushing away from the door, Killian pulled the strap of his satchel over his head and left it on the nightstand. He took his leather coat off on his way to the bathroom, hanging it on a hook by the door. Turning on the cold faucet, Killian washed his hands and splashed some water in his face. The reflection in the mirror was a poorer sight than usual. Sure, he was a handsome fellow but that wrinkle in his brow, etched like a permanent scowl wouldn't do his looks much good in the long run.

He should just talk to Emma. Pull himself together, straighten his back, march over to her room and tell her what he should have told her days ago.

No. He said he would tell her tomorrow when the both of them had enjoyed some rest and could see things in a clearer light. No need to disturb her now.

His reflection wasn't convinced.

Killian grabbed a towel, drying off his hands and face. He went to grab a toothbrush and some toothpaste from his satchel, intent on going to bed; even if he knew he wouldn't fall asleep any time soon. He ended up pacing the room instead, his hands ruffling through his hair and trying to massage some of the kinks out of his shoulders. His mind was a constant back and forth, much like his steps through the room. Go over to Swan's room and tell her now, or wait until morning.

More than once he made it to his door, ready to open it and march down the hall, but then Emma's face flashed through his head. Would she be angry? Would she want to stay after he told her everything or would she leave? Would she even believe him?

It could have been minutes or hours for all Killian knew. He never made it to brushing his teeth or changing his clothes. He could have checked the time, but he didn't want to give himself another excuse. No, he was going to tell Emma everything, and he was going to do it now. Whatever the consequences, whatever she ended up thinking of him, Killian could be happy knowing he had done the right thing.

Determined at last, Killian left his room, made it to Emma's in quick strides and knocked on her door.

She didn't answer.

"Swan?"

Killian knocked again. "Swan, are you in there? I, uh, I've had a change of heart about the ‘sleep first, talk later’."

Still, Emma didn't answer. He listened for any signs of her even being there, but he heard nothing.

Realization dawned on Killian, his raised fist slowly falling to his side.

Emma was gone.

Her glass was empty after a few seconds, and then slammed on the bar top. It felt good, but not entirely as satisfying as Emma had hoped. At least it took off the edge.

“Rough day?” the blond bartender asked. From the smile in his eyes, Emma guessed she was far from the first woman he had seen down a drink in one go. Even if she was the first American he had ever seen in his bar - which he gladly told her about when she ordered her drink.

“Rough week,” Emma answered. She asked for another glass, planning on drinking this one a bit slower. The bartender supplied and didn’t comment on Emma’s answer or ask further questions. Just the way Emma wanted it.

A minute later, a sparky redhead joined the bartender behind the counter, saying something to him in Norwegian. She kissed his cheek and he left through a back door, a huge smile on his lips. Emma grabbed her glass and drank a few more mouthfuls.

The redhead turned to Emma after dealing with another customer, her smile brighter than any Emma had seen in a long while.

“Er alt ok?”

Emma contemplated pretending she hadn’t heard and continue to stare at her glass, but she looked up anyways. “Sorry, I don’t speak Norwegian.”

Somehow, the redhead’s smile turned even brighter.

“Oh, you’re American! That’s so exciting - we don’t often get tourists here, especially not from America. What brings you here?”

Emma wished she had chosen not to look up.

“Work.” Curt and simple, that was all she could muster at the moment.

The bartender seemed to take the hint (fortunately) and simply nodded. “Well, I hope you have a pleasant stay!” She began turning to the next customer and Emma drank a sip in relief.

She was too quick to celebrate though.

“Wait, you’re not one of them here about Liam, are you?”

Emma’s eyes shot up to meet the bartender’s. “You know him? Liam Jones?”

The redhead smiled, bright and exciting as ever. “Yeah, he’s been living in my sister’s spare room for the past six years.”

“Your sister’s Elsa?”

“Yes! Oh right, I’m Anna, hi! You must be Emma then, right? Elsa said Killian mentioned an Emma - Emma Swan!”

Emma tried to smile. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it looked more like a grimace. “Yeah, that’s me. So, uh, do you know Liam well?”

“Yeah, he’s a great guy!” But then Anna’s face fell, her hands wringing the towel she held. “I really, really hope he’s okay. It’s terrible what happened.”

Emma’s brows stitched together. “What happened? He’s not here in Norway anymore?”

Anna looked at Emma with a hint of confusion in her eyes. “No, he sailed away in that storm a month ago. Didn’t Elsa say that? I thought she called Killian when it happened...” Anna picked up on Emma’s expression that clearly said this was news to her. Especially the part about Elsa having called Killian a month ago.

“I guess he never told me,” Emma said. It seems there are a lot of things he never told me.

“Oh.” Anna paused, looking about as awkward as Emma was beginning to feel frustrated with a certain Jones. “Well, I really hope we get some news on Liam soon, even if it’s probably too late now. But well, there’s always hope, right?” Anna tried for a smile again, but Emma could see the worry in her eyes. The redhead looked at Emma’s newly empty glass. “Would you like a refill?”

Emma shook her head. She slid off the stool, slipped her wallet out of her jacket and pulled out her credit card. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I’d better head back to my hotel before it gets too late.”

And murder Jones the second I see him.

How could Elsa have called him a month ago to say Liam had sailed off in a storm and clearly never come back? How could Killian have known that Liam was last seen in Norway for an entire month - if not more?

Why the hell had he never thought to tell her?

Emma’s blood was boiling once again, and this time she wasn’t going to hesitate for one second before knocking on his door. She’d kick it open if she had to.

#csbb #my writings #when the tide turns #cs fanfic #cs ff #chapter 9 #some angst ahead....#:)))

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fincore · 7 years

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The case for light jets in Europe

Article from EVA Magazine, EBACE Edition by Slobodan Vuckovic, founder and CEO of AirDB a member of Fincore

The business aviation industry in Europe employs some 160,000 highly skilled workers, generating around $12.5 billion in annual revenues. Yet Europe accounts for only 14% of the global annual sales of business aircraft. Why? On one level, the reason is simple. European companies up and down the scale are hugely reluctant to be seen to be buying corporate aircraft. That reluctance hardly fits with the fact that the European economy is one of the world’s strongest.

One of the more obvious reasons why European management teams find it tough to justify the capital expenditure required for a corporate jet is Europe’s unique geography and the superior nature of the European rail and road networks. So many business trips, even across borders, can be easily accommodated by taking a high speed train or driving 300 kilometres or so.

But there’s another reason. European politics tends to be centre left, with a leaning towards socialism – the kind of political environment that fosters the (mistaken) view that private jets are the playthings of billionaires and tycoons and rock stars. For the ordinary hard working European businessmen and women, using private jets is all too often seen as laying themselves and their company or brand open to getting hammered in the media.

However, as those of us in the industry know, there is a huge gulf between this faulty public perception and the actual reality of business jet usage by companies. According to the NBAA fact-book, only 3 percent of all business aircraft are owned by Fortune 500 corporations. The overwhelming majority of the remainder, some 85 percent, are owned by small and medium size companies. Moreover, in excess of 70 percent of passengers aboard business aircraft are non-executive employees and more than 60 percent of business jets and turboprops are used to reach remote locations that are not on a scheduled airline route.

A typical business aviation mission is 4 passengers on a 600-800 nautical mile business-related trip. The vast majority of city-pairs in Europe are under 1,000nm apart and a private jet offers the opportunity for a really time efficient connection. Only a handful of the most frequently connected city-pairs are over 1,000nm. One thinks here of London-Moscow (1,350nm), which is still considerably closer than the US equivalent of New York-Los Angeles (2,150nm), or Miami-San Francisco (2,250nm), or the capital cities of two Latin American neighboring countries such as Brazil and Colombia – (Brasilia-Bogota - 2,000nm).

This shorter journey distance has made Europe the showcase market for light-jets. Ironically, none of the 4 to 8 passenger aircraft that are suited to 1,000 nm business trips are manufactured in Europe.

This is despite the fact that Europe is the leader in the commercial aviation sector, since it is home to Airbus, and is the leader in helicopter technology where it has Finmeccanica helicopters (AgustaWestland) and Airbus helicopter (Europcopter). It is also, of course, able to boast the military fighter-jets Eurofighter Typhoon, Dassault Rafale and Saab Gripen. Europe also has leading OEM jet engine manufacturers in Safran/Snecma/CFM International, Rolls-Royce and IAE.

The shining star of European business aviation industry is Dassault, manufacturer of Falcon business jets. However, the smallest Falcon carries up to 10 passengers and costs close to $30 million – not exactly light jet territory! On the plus side, the two the most successful high-performance single turboprop business aircraft, namely the Pilatus PC-12 and Daher TBM900, are designed and manufactured in Europe and Pilatus will shortly be delivering the first PC-24 light jets, which could represent a real breakthrough for the European market.

Also positive is the fact that over the last few years, with the slow recovery from the global economic downturn, small and mid-size business leaders across Europe are starting to show a greater interest in business aviation. The message that in Europe, a small, hard-working team of executives can fly on a light jet to a meeting and be back home in the same day - at the cost not far from what they would pay for first-class commercial tickets. And of course, with a single flight they can reach customers in remote locations, avoiding wasting time in commercial hub connections, where the main airport is often a long way from their destination.

Business aviation is all about productivity and connectivity. And there are a lot of choices for European business travellers.

Interestingly, the airplane that was once hailed as the potential king of the four passenger, 600-800 nautical mile business trip, the Eclipse EA500, has been upgraded and reborn as the One Aviation EA550. The aircraft has now been certified for European commercial operations and has a purchase price under $3 million. Add to this a cost per flight hour of under $900 and it is a very attractive proposition as a business aircraft. The first EA550 registered for Europe charter operations is already flying, with two others registered privately. It will be interesting to see how the EA550’s relatively size-challenged cabin is accepted by European business travellers.

However, the true business aircraft poster-boy for the European market is undoubtedly the Cessna Citation Mustang, which can take four passengers 700 nm in 2 hours at the cost of $1,000 per flight hour. In the US the Mustang is mostly used by pilot-owners as a private/business aircraft but in Europe it is fast becoming the aircraft of choice for a new generation of charter companies. Austrian GlobeAir, for example, flies a fleet of 12, the UK-based Blink, which straps itself as Europe’s air taxi service, has a fleet of 10, while the Spanish charter company, Sun Aviation has a fleet of six.

The Mustang is officially still in production even though only 8 were delivered during 2015. The replacement/upgrade for the Mustang is the $4.7 Million Citation M2 - delivering more speed and more cabin space, with a private lavatory and more range. It’s been a year now since the first M2 joined the European charter market. Since then a few more have been registered, going to Denmark, Italy, Luxembourg and Switzerland respectively. They are part of a total of 41 M2s delivered worldwide (mostly in the US). In addition, Cessna delivered 56 of the CJ3+ and CJ4 light jets.

M2’s main competitor, and the Mustang’s, is Embraer’s Phenom 100E. Offering even more cabin space than the M2, and with the same long-range speed, it costs less per flight hour. However, only 12 Phenom 100E were delivered in 2015 as Embraer shifts its focus toward larger aircraft. In 2015 Embraer delivered 70 of the 100E’s big brother, the Phenom 300.

While Cessna and Embraer are concentrating on the higher end of the light jet market, the new very-light-jet about to burst on the scene is the long-awaited HondaJet. This is a clean-sheet design, fully composite airframe with a brand new GE-Honda jet engine and a completely original look thanks to its over-the-wing engine mount. After 13 years in development the HondaJet is finally being delivered to customers. With an acquisition price of $4.5 million it slots neatly in between the Phenom 100E and Cessna’s M2, but offers more cabin space and a longer range, with considerably less fuel burn. The cost per flight hour is a very economical $1,135, which is not bad for the fastest aircraft in the category.

Charter operators in Europe have expressed great interest in the model and the first European registered HondaJet was delivered in April. With Honda’s bold promise to deliver 100 units annually and the latest expansion of the Honda Aero engine plant in Burlington, NC ( with a current production capacity of 200 engines annually), it probably will not be long before we can expect the development of a bigger HondaJet with a cabin for 6-8 passengers.

Hondajet’s 13 years in development sounds unreal compared to the Swiss manufacturer Pilatus’ success in delivering a brand new light-jet in only 4 years, from clear-sheet design to the initial deliveries. Pilatus surprised the aviation market at EBACE 2013 with the announcement of the PC-24 and by the following year Pilatus had pre-sold the entire 3 years’ worth of production. If testing and certification are on schedule, deliveries will start in 2017. The $9 million jet is capable of flying nearly 2,000 nautical miles with acabin large enough for 6-8 passengers, making it the first European light jet (as opposed to very-light-jet).

2016 started as the year of HondaJet, but we have another very light jet coming to market later this year. The $2 million Cirrus Vision SF50 can accommodate a 4 passenger 600-800 nm mission at a cost of only $660 per flight hour. This is a very impressive proposition made possible mostly by the aircraft’s composite lightweight airframe powered by single jet engine mounted on the top of the fuselage. It will be ideal for European customers interested only in private operation, as was noted above, single-engine aircraft are not as yet allowed to be deployed for commercial operations.

However, European regulators are considering lifting this restriction and if they day, then 2016 could be a truly historical year for European business aviation. Not only would business travellers and charter operators be able to benefit from the new Cirrus Vision single-jet’s low cost per flight hour, but European made single-engine turboprop aircraft would also be able to be used for charter operations. They could access smaller airports in remote locations and fly 4-8 passengers at an even more competitive cost per flight hour. Such a change would be a tremendous boost for business ownership of light jets across the whole of Europe.

The original article published in the EBACE edition of EVA Magazine

#aviation #vlj #lightjet #bizjet #hondajet #cirrus #cessna #mustang #m2 #pilatus #pc12 #pc24 #sf50 #embraer #phenom #EA500 #EA550

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democratsunited-blog · 6 years

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Democrats' love of socialism is a losing strategy – but they foolishly follow it anyway

https://uniteddemocrats.net/?p=6960

Democrats' love of socialism is a losing strategy – but they foolishly follow it anyway

In the last century, socialism and communism proved to be bankrupt ideologies that crippled economies, impoverished millions, destroyed personal freedom, brought dictators to power, sparked wars and turned millions of people into refugees fleeing their home countries to seek freedom in the U.S. and elsewhere.

Nations in Eastern Europe abandoned the failed ideologies. The Soviet Union broke up. And even Russia and China were forced to adopt some free market practices to improve their economies and the lives of their people.

But today, the hottest trend among some far-left Democrats is to embrace socialism – calling it “Democratic socialism” to make it sound more appealing.

Going off the deep end like this is a sure-fire losing strategy for Democrats, because the farther left they go the more Americans get left behind. It’s a safe bet that voters are more likely to support the party of Lincoln than the party of Lenin.

Sen. Bernie Sanders of Vermont – a self-described Democratic Socialist who nearly captured the Democratic presidential nomination in 2016 – now touts Denmark and Sweden as his models of socialism. But it wasn’t too long ago that he and others praised Venezuela as a beacon of the socialist dream.

Today Democrats are loath to mention Venezuela, where the economy is in freefall and almost 90 percent of the people are living in poverty. But many nevertheless loudly praise the socialist ideology that is responsible for much of Venezuela’s troubles.

Following in the footsteps of Venezuela would be the quickest way to turn the American Dream into the American Nightmare.

Sanders is far from the only Democratic Socialist around. Look no further than Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, the 28-year-old U.S. House candidate strongly supported by the Democratic Socialists of America. She defeated fourth-ranking Democratic Rep. Joe Crowley of New York City in a primary victory that took the nation by surprise.

Ocasio-Cortez recently said: “Right now, we have this hyper-capitalism. … What that means is profit at any cost. Capitalism has not always existed in the world, and it will not always exist in the world.”

Sounds an awful lot like a recent graduate’s way of summing up this principle from Karl Marx’s “Communist Manifesto”: “What the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave diggers. Its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable.”

Maybe next Ocasio-Cortez can adopt Marx’s famous call to action as her campaign slogan: “Workers of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains!”

Stunningly, despite Ocasio-Cortez’s embrace of socialism, she has been welcomed into a Democratic Party that has at least rhetorically tried to distance itself from socialism. Democratic National Committee Chairman Tom Perez says that Ocasio-Cortez “represents the future of our party.”

Meanwhile, a Morning Consult/Politico poll revealed that a shockingly high 35 percent of Democrats say “it’s somewhat or very important” to replace House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi, D-Calif., with a socialist.

According to The Associated Press: “There are 42 people running for offices at the federal state and local levels this year with the formal endorsements of the Democratic Socialists of America.” The number of formal, dues-paying members of the Democratic Socialists has skyrocketed from 6,000 to 45,000.

The Associated Press story went on to say of the Democratic Socialists: “Members during public meetings often refer to each other ‘comrades,’ wear clothing featuring socialist symbols like the rose and promote authors such as Karl Marx. The common association with the failed Soviet Union has made it difficult for sympathetic liberals to explain their connection.”

Indeed, the lurch of Democrats toward socialism has been well underway for some time. Consider the following list put together by my colleague, Rapid Response Director for the Republican National Committee Michael Ahrens:

Single-Payer Health-Care

When Bernie Sanders first offered a single-payer health-care bill in 2013, he didn’t have a single co-sponsor in the Senate. Today one-third of Senate Democrats and two-thirds of House Democrats have endorsed the radical plan.

Democrats endorse government-run health-care despite the empirical evidence of its failure. In Canada’s government-run system, wait times are now more than double what they were 25 years ago, with the average Canadian waiting to see a specialist for approximately five months.

According to one study: “63,090 Canadian women may have died as a result of increased wait times (in Canada) between 1993 and 2009.”

The story of the United Kingdom’s socialized medicine system is no different. The National Health Service in Britain recently reported its worst accident and emergency wait times on record. According to the BBC: “It is estimated there are up to 9,000 deaths in hospitals each year caused by failings in NHS care.”

And yet, single-payer health-care is the rallying cry of Democrats.

Free College

Though Bernie Sanders had zero co-sponsors for his free-college plan in the past, today he has seven co-sponsors of his legislation, along with several potential 2020 Democratic presidential contenders.

Democrats ignore the failed free-college experiment in the United Kingdom, which increased inequality and depleted student resources, therefore leading the British to reintroduce tuition. Democrats likewise ignore that “college-attainment rates were higher in G-7 countries that charged tuition than in those that did not.”

Government-Mandated Wage

Once again, Sanders’ five co-sponsors of a government-mandated wage from 2015 ballooned into 30 co-sponsors.

Democrats who sign on to this plan do so at the behest of low-income workers. As the Washington Post noted, a “very credible” study on Seattle’s $15 minimum wage law revealed that “the average low-wage worker in the city lost $125 a month because of the hike in the minimum” and the resulting number of employers who cut payroll, stopped hiring, or let employees go.

Universal Basic Income

Once relegated to the far-left fringe, universal basic income (where the government gives cash payouts to its citizens) recently received its biggest endorsement yet, this time from President Obama.

Obama’s suggestion that we “consider new ways of thinking … like a universal income” came on the heels of Finland’s basic income program failure, with the country announcing it would not be continuing its two-year experiment.

Experts note that a universal basic income would come with a $3.6 trillion price tag each year, requiring a doubling of the federal budget at a time when our country holds $21 trillion in debt.

Single-payer health-care, free college, a government-mandated wage, universal basic income, government-guaranteed jobs (another recent proposal) and the increasing acceptance of these radical ideas among Democrats signify a slow and troubling creep toward socialism.

What the Democrats neglect to mention is that paying for all these “free” goodies would require massive tax increases. And there aren’t enough rich people to pay for all the freebies without raising taxes on the rest of us.

As the late British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher so wisely said: “The problem with socialism is that you eventually run out of other peoples’ money.”

Kayleigh McEnany is the National Spokesperson for the Republican National Committee. She has a J.D. from Harvard Law School and BSFS from Georgetown School of Foreign Service. She also studied at Oxford University, St. Edmund Hall. Kayleigh is the author of the book “The New American Revolution: The Making of a Populist Movement.”

Read full story here

#Democrats

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newstfionline · 7 years

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‘Like Being in Prison with a Salary’: The Secret World of the Shipping Industry

Longreads, Jan. 21, 2017

The following is the opening chapter of Rose George’s new book, Ninety Percent of Everything

Friday. No sensible sailor goes to sea on the day of the Crucifixion or the journey will be followed by ill-will and malice. So here I am on a Friday in June, looking up at a giant ship that will carry me from this southern English port of Felixstowe to Singapore, for five weeks and 9,288 nautical miles through the pillars of Hercules, pirate waters, and weather. I stop at the bottom of the ship’s gangway, waiting for an escort and stilled and awed by the immensity of this thing, much of her the color of a summer-day sky, so blue; her bottom is painted dull red, her name--Maersk Kendal--written large on her side.

There is such busyness around me. Everything in a modern container port is enormous, overwhelming, crushing. Kendal, of course, but also the thundering trucks, the giant boxes in many colors, the massive gantry cranes that straddle the quay, reaching up ten stories and over to ships that stretch three football pitches in length. There are hardly any humans to be seen. When the journalist Henry Mayhew visited London’s docks in 1849, he found “decayed and bankrupt master butchers, master bakers, publicans, grocers, old soldiers, old sailors, Polish refugees, broken-down gentlemen, discharged lawyers’ clerks, suspended Government clerks, almsmen, pensioners, servants, thieves.” They have long since gone. This is a Terminator terminal, a place where humans are hidden in crane or truck cabs, where everything is clamorous machines.

It took me three train journeys to reach Felixstowe from my northern English home. On one train, where no seats were to be had, I swayed in the vestibule with two men wearing the uniform of a rail freight company. I’m about to leave on a freighter, I said, but a ship. They looked bewildered. A ship? they said. “Why on earth do you want to go to sea?”

Why on earth.

I am an islander who has never been maritime. I don’t sail or dive. I swim, although not in terrifying oceans. But standing here in the noise and industry, looking up almost two hundred feet--higher than Niagara Falls--to the top of Kendal, I feel the giddiness of a Christmas morning child. Some of this is the rush of escape. Some is the pull of the sea. And some comes from the knowledge that I am about to embark to a place and space that is usually off-limits and hidden. The public is not allowed on a ship like this, nor even on the dock. There are no ordinary citizens to witness the workings of an industry that is one of the most fundamental to their daily existence. These ships and boxes belong to a business that feeds, clothes, warms, and supplies us. They have fueled if not created globalization. They are the reason behind your cheap T-shirt and reasonably priced television.

But who looks behind a television now and sees the ship that brought it? Who cares about the men who steered your breakfast cereal through winter storms? How ironic that the more ships have grown in size and consequence, the less space they take up in our imagination. The Maritime Foundation, a charity that promotes seafarer matters, recently made a video called Unreported Ocean. It asked the residents of Southampton, a port city in England, how many goods are transported by sea. The answers were varied but uniformly wrong. They all had the interrogative upswing of the unsure.

“Thirty-five percent?”

“Not a lot?”

The answer is, nearly everything. Sometimes on trains I play a numbers game. A woman listening to headphones: 8. A man reading a book: 15. The child in the stroller: at least 4 including the stroller. The game is to reckon how many of our clothes and possessions and food products have been transported by ship. The beads around the woman’s neck; the man’s iPhone and Japanese-made headphones. Her Sri Lanka–made skirt and blouse; his printed-in-China book. I can always go wider, deeper, and in any direction. The fabric of the seats. The rolling stock. The fuel powering the train. The conductor’s uniform; the coffee in my cup; the fruit in my bag. Definitely the fruit, so frequently shipped in refrigerated containers that it has been given its own temperature. Two degrees Celsius is “chill” but 13 degrees is “banana.”

Trade carried by sea has grown fourfold since 1970 and is still growing. In 2011, the 360 commercial ports of the United States took in international goods worth $1.73 trillion, or eighty times the value of all U.S. trade in 1960. There are more than one hundred thousand ships at sea carrying all the solids, liquids, and gases that we need to live. Only six thousand are container vessels like Kendal, but they make up for this small proportion by their dizzying capacity. The biggest container ship can carry fifteen thousand boxes. It can hold 746 million bananas, one for every European on one ship. If the containers of Maersk alone were lined up, they would stretch eleven thousand miles or nearly halfway around the planet. If they were stacked instead, they would be fifteen hundred miles high, 7,530 Eiffel Towers. If Kendal discharged her containers onto trucks, the line of traffic would be sixty miles long.

Trade has always traveled and the world has always traded. Ours, though, is the era of extreme interdependence. Hardly any nation is now self-sufficient. In 2011, the United Kingdom shipped in half of its gas. The United States relies on ships to bring in two thirds of its oil supplies. Every day, thirty-eight million tons of crude oil sets off by sea somewhere, although you may not notice it. As in Los Angeles, New York, and other port cities, London has moved its working docks out of the city, away from residents. Ships are bigger now and need deeper harbors, so they call at Newark or Tilbury or Felixstowe, not Liverpool or South Street. Security concerns have hidden ports further, behind barbed wire and badge wearing and keep out signs. To reach this quayside in Felixstowe, I had to pass through several gatekeepers and passport controllers, and past radiation-detecting gates often triggered by naturally radioactive cargo such as cat litter and broccoli.

It is harder to wander into the world of shipping, now, so people don’t. The chief of the British navy--who is known as the First Sea Lord, although the army chief is not a Land Lord--says we suffer from “sea blindness” now. We travel by cheap flights, not ocean liners. The sea is a distance to be flown over, a downward backdrop between takeoff and landing, a blue expanse that soothes on the moving flight map as the plane jerks over it. It is for leisure and beaches and fish and chips, not for use or work. Perhaps we believe that everything travels by air, or magically and instantaneously like information (which is actually anchored by cables on the seabed), not by hefty ships that travel more slowly than senior citizens drive.

You could trace the flight of the ocean from our consciousness in the pages of great newspapers. Fifty years ago, the shipping news was news. Cargo departures were reported daily. Now the most necessary business on the planet has mostly been shunted into the pages of specialized trade papers such as Lloyd’s List and the Journal of Commerce, fine publications but out of the reach of most, when an annual subscription to Lloyd’s List costs more than $2,000 a year. In 1965, shipping was so central to daily life in London that when Winston Churchill’s funeral barge left Tower Pier to travel up the Thames, it embarked in front of dock cranes that dipped their jibs, movingly, with respect. The cranes are gone now or immobile, garden furniture for wharves that house costly apartments or indifferent restaurants.

Humans have sent goods by water for four thousand years. In the fifteenth century BC, Queen Hatshepsut of Egypt sent a fleet to the Land of Punt and brought back panther skins and ebony, frankincense and dancing pygmies. Perhaps Hatshepsut counts as the first shipping tycoon, before the Romans, Phoenicians, and Greeks took over (she was certainly the only Egyptian queen who preferred to be called king). Shipping history is full of such treats and treasures. Cardamom, silk, ginger, and gold, ivory and saffron. The Routes of Spice, Tea, and Salt, of Amber and Incense. There were trade winds, sailor towns and sails, chaos and color. Now there are freight routes, turnarounds, and boxes, and the cool mechanics of modern industry, but there is still intrigue and fortune. Maersk ships travel regular routes named Boomerang and Yo Yo (from Australia and Yokohama), or the Bossa Nova and Samba around South America. There are wealthy tycoons still, Norse, Greek, and Danish, belonging to family companies who maintain a level of privacy that makes a Swiss banker seem verbose. Publicly listed shipping companies are still a minority. Even shipping people admit that their industry is clubby, insular, difficult. In this business, it is considered normal that the official Greek shipowners’ association refuses to say how many members it has, because it can.

Maersk is different. It must be, because it is letting me onto a working ship, usually barred to ordinary citizens. Even Maersk officers are no longer permitted to take family members to sea because of concerns about safety from pirates. But Maersk is known for risks, at least in the places where its name is known at all, which is in shipping and Denmark. I find Maersk fascinating. It is the Coca-Cola of freight with none of the fame. Its parent company A. P. Møller– Maersk is Denmark’s largest company, its sales equal to 20 percent of Denmark’s GDP; its ships use more oil than the entire nation. I like the fact that Maersk is not a household name outside the pages of Lloyd’s List; that it has an online store selling Maersk-branded T-shirts and cookie tins called Stargate, after the company symbol of a seven-point star, white on a background of Maersk Blue, a distinct color that can be created from a Pantone recipe. The star has seven points, goes an employee joke, because they work seven days a week. For much of recent history the company was run by Arnold Maersk McKinney Møller, son of the founder, a pleasingly eccentric patriarch who worked until he died in 2012 at age ninety-eight. Mr. Møller was known for his firm control of his firm; for walking up five flights of stairs to his office, although when he reached ninety-four he allowed his driver to carry his briefcase; for being one of only three commoners to receive Denmark’s Order of the Elephant; and for driving around Copenhagen in a modest car although he was one of the two richest people in Denmark. The other inherited Lego.

Reuters, in a profile of Maersk, describes it as “active primarily in the marine transportation sector.” Behind that “primarily” are multitudes. Founded in 1904 with one ship named Svendborg, Maersk--through its subsidiary Maersk Line--now operates the largest container shipping company in the world, with a fleet of six hundred vessels. It also has the vast and dizzying interests of a global corporation. It is active in 130 countries and has 117,000 employees. It is looking for and drilling for oil and gas in Denmark, Angola, Brazil, Greenland, Qatar, Algeria, Norway, Iraq, the United States, and Kazakhstan. If you have visited Denmark, you have probably shopped in a Maersk-owned supermarket. You can save in a Maersk-owned bank. The list of its companies and subsidiaries is twelve pages long, double columns. Its revenues in 2011 were $60.2 billion, only slightly less than Microsoft’s. Microsoft provides the software that runs computers; Maersk brings us the computers. One is infamous. Somehow the other is mostly invisible.

This is remarkable, given the size of its ambition. Maersk is known for its experiments with economies of scale. Its E class ship (according to an internal classification system) Emma Maersk, built in 2005, excited the industry partly because she could carry at least fifteen thousand containers. Triple-E class ships, expected in 2014, will carry eighteen thousand and be able to fit a full-sized American football field, an ice-hockey arena, and a basketball court in their holds, if they care to. Emma was envied by naval architects and engineers, but her arrival in Felixstowe in December 2006 also caught the public imagination. With her 150 tons of New Zealand lamb and 138,000 tins of cat food, she carried 12,800 MP-3 players, 33,000 cocktail shakers, and 2 million Christmas decorations; she became SS Santa, come to call.

SS Santa demonstrated more than industrial hubris. She also proved how little an ordinary citizen understands about shipping. For two weeks afterward, Felixstowe received calls from people wanting to know if she was still in port. She had come and gone in twenty-four hours. I have met well-meaning men--and too few women--in boardrooms across London and New York who complain about this ignorance. They want a more visible image for an industry that in the UK alone employs 634,900 people, contributes £8.45 billion in taxes, and generates 2 percent of the national economy, more than restaurants, takeaway food, and civil engineering combined, and only just behind the construction industry. They despair that shipping draws attention only with drama and disaster: a cruise ship sinking, or an oil spill and blackened birds. They would like people to know the names of the Wec Vermeer, arrived from Leixões and heading for Rotterdam, or the Zim Genoa, due in from Ashdod, not just Exxon Valdez and Titanic. They provide statistics showing that the dark days of oil spills are over. Between 1972 and 1981, there were 223 spills. Over the last decade there were 63. Each year, a shipping publicist told me, “More oil is poured down the drain by mechanics changing their engine oil than is spilled by the world’s fleet of oil tankers.”

Yet the invisibility is useful, too. There are few industries as defiantly opaque as shipping. Even offshore bankers have not developed a system as intricately elusive as the flag of convenience, under which ships can fly the flag of a state that has nothing to do with its owner, cargo, crew, or route. Look at the backside of boats and you will see home ports of Panama City and Monrovia, not Le Havre or Hamburg, but neither crew nor ship will have ever been to Liberia or Mongolia, a landlocked country that nonetheless has a shipping fleet. For the International Chamber of Shipping, which thinks “flags of convenience” too pejorative a term (it prefers the sanitized “open registries”), there is “nothing inherently wrong” with this system. A former U.S. Coast Guard commander preferred to call it “managed anarchy.”

Danish-owned Kendal has also flagged out, but to the national registry of the United Kingdom. On her monkey deck she flies the Red Ensign, the British maritime Union flag. This makes her a rarity. After the Second World War, the great powers in shipping were Britain and the United States. They had ships and supplied men to sail them. In 1961 the United Kingdom had 142,462 working seafarers. The United States owned 1,268 ships. Now British seafarers number around 24,000. There are fewer than one hundred ocean going U.S.-flagged ships. Only 1 percent of trade at U.S. ports travels on an American-flagged ship, and the U.S. fleet has declined by 82 percent since 1951. Who in western Europe or America now knows a working seafarer? At a nautical seminar held on a tall ship--a proper old sailing vessel--in Glasgow, a tanker captain told a story that got laughs, but it was sad. When online forms offer him drop-down options to describe his career, he selects “shipping” and is then given a choice. DHL or FedEx?

Two men have descended from Kendal to fetch me. They look Asian and exhausted, so they are typical crew. The benefits of flagging out vary according to registry, but there will always be lower taxes, more lenient labor laws, no requirement to pay expensive American or British crews who are protected by unions and legislation. Now the citizens of rich countries own ships--Greece has the most, then Japan and Germany--but they are sailed by the cheap labor of Filipinos, Bangladeshis, Chinese, Indonesians. They are the ones who clean your cruise cabin and work in the engine room, who bring your gas, your soybeans, your perfumes and medicine.

Seafaring can be a good life. And it can go wrong with the speed of a wave. On paper, the seas are tightly controlled. The Dutch scholar Grotius’s 1609 concept of mare liberum still mostly holds: a free sea that belongs to no state but in which each state has some rights. The United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) is known as the umbrella convention. Its 320 articles, excluding annexes, aim to create “a legal order for the seas and oceans which will facilitate international communication, and will promote the peaceful uses of the seas and oceans, the equitable and efficient utilization of their resources, the conservation of their living resources, and the study, protection and preservation of the marine environment.” Nations that have ratified the convention (the United States has not, not liking its deep-sea mining stipulations) have a right to a twelve-mile boundary from their coastline and also to a two-hundred-mile “exclusive economic zone.” Beyond that is the high sea. The International Maritime Organization, a UN agency, has passed dozens of regulations and amendments since the 1940s to regulate ships, crews, and safety, more than most other UN agencies. The International Labour Organization looks out for seafarers’ rights. For boundary disputes there is an International Tribunal on Maritime Law.

But the sea dissolves paper. In practice, the ocean is the world’s wildest place, because of both its fearsome natural danger and how easy it is out there to slip from the boundaries of law and civilization that seem so firm ashore. TV crime dramas now frequently use ports as a visual shorthand for places of criminal, suspicious activity. I don’t know why they don’t just go out to sea. If something goes wrong in international waters, there is no police force or union official to assist. Imagine you have a problem while on a ship. Who do you complain to, when you are employed by a Manila manning agency on a ship owned by an American, flagged by Panama, managed by a Cypriot, in international waters?

Imagine you are a nineteen-year-old South African woman named Akhona Geveza, fresh out of maritime college, the first in your family to reach higher education, the household earner and hope. In January 2010, you go to sea as a deck cadet--an apprentice navigator--on a good ship run by a good company, the Safmarine Kariba. Six months later, your shipmate reports to the captain that you have been raped by the Ukrainian first officer. He summons you and the officer to his cabin the next day. But you don’t turn up, because you are already dead in the sea off Croatia. The Croatian police subsequently concluded Akhona had committed suicide. She had been in a relationship that was “consensual but rough.” An internal inquiry by Safmarine also concluded suicide and found no evidence of harassment or abuse. And that, according to sea law, was all that could be demanded.

Reporters from South Africa’s Sunday Times then interviewed other cadets from the same maritime school. They found two had been made pregnant by senior officers, two male cadets raped, and a widespread atmosphere of intimidation. A female cadet said embarking on a ship was like being dropped in the middle of a game park. “When we arrived,” another said, “we were told that the captain is our god; he can marry you, baptize you, and even bury you without anybody’s permission. We were told that the sea is no-man’s-land and that what happens at sea stays at sea.”

Other workers and migrants have hard lives. But they have phone lines and Internet access, unlike seafarers. They have union representatives, a police force, all the safety nets of society. Even in space, astronauts are always connected to mission control. Only 12 percent of ship crew have freely available Internet access at sea. Two-thirds have no access at all. Cell phones don’t work either. Lawyers who fight for seafarers’ rights describe their clients as moving targets who work in no-man’s-lands. They describe an industry that is global but also uniquely mobile, and difficult to govern, police, or rule. They are careful to say that most owners are scrupulous, but for the unscrupulous ones there is no better place to be than at sea. For the International Transport Workers’ Federation (ITF), a global union representing four million seafarers, the maritime and fishing industries “continue to allow astonishing abuses of human rights of those working in the sector… Seafarers and fishers are routinely made to work in conditions that would not be acceptable in civilized society.” If that sounds like typically combative union rhetoric, ITF will point to, for a start, the $30 million they recovered in 2010 of wages unpaid to seafarers who had earned them, and the year before was the same.

In 1904, the great Norwegian-American seafarer unionist Andrew Furuseth--known as Lincoln of the Sea for his cheekbones and achievements--was threatened with prison for violating an injunction during a strike. “You can throw me in jail,” he responded, “but you can’t give me narrower quarters than, as a seaman, I’ve always lived in; or a coarser food than I’ve always eaten, or make me lonelier than I’ve always been.” More than a century on, seafarers still regularly joke that their job is like being in prison with a salary. That is not accurate. When the academic Erol Kahveci surveyed British prison literature while researching conditions at sea, he found that “the provision of leisure, recreation, religious service and communication facilities are better in U.K. prisons than… on many ships our respondents worked aboard.”

The International Maritime Organization once published a brochure about shipping entitled “A Safe and Friendly Business.” Shipping has certainly become safer, but in this safe and friendly business, at the moment I embark, 544 seafarers are being held hostage by Somali pirates. I try to translate that into other transport industries; 544 bus drivers, or 544 cabdrivers, or nearly two jumbo jets of passengers, mutilated and tortured for years. When thirty-three Chilean miners were trapped underground for sixty-nine days in 2010, there was a media frenzy. Fifteen hundred journalists went to Chile and, even now, the BBC news website maintains a special page on their drama, long after its conclusion. The twenty-four men on MV Iceberg held captive for a thousand days were given no special page and nothing much more than silence and disregard.

The men from Kendal are ready to go. They advise me to hold the gangway rail tightly. I have traveled plenty and strangely on land: to Saddam Hussein’s birthday party in Tikrit, to Bhutanese football matches blessed by Buddhist monks, down sewers and through vast slums in great cities. I look at the gangway, leading up four stories of height, my portal to thirty-nine days at sea, six ports, two oceans, five seas, and the most compellingly foreign environment I’m ever likely to encounter. Lead on, able seamen. I will follow.

#Ninety Percent of Everything #Rose George #shipping #Maersk

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