Do you know what BPC‑157 is? This cryptically named peptide is, according to its proponents, a miracle cure for all sorts of illnesses and injuries. Tom Bartlett remains firmly in the skeptical camp as he investigates exactly what research backs up the BPC‑157 claims. Almost all the studies prove to have a link to Croatian pharmacologist Predrag Sikirić—who is all too happy to meet Bartlett and exalt BPC‑157. But once you know what this is, the question remains: Would you take it?
Amid the sellers of red-light panels and blue-light glasses at Beyond, I stumbled on a company marketing a drinkable version of BPC‑157. Its giveaway sticker read We Prefer Oral Peptides, with the word peptides in much smaller letters because haha sex. The representative behind the counter referred to BPC‑157 as “the soccer mom’s peptide” and nonchalantly squirted some from what was essentially a hand-soap dispenser into a tiny plastic cup, then held it out to me. I hesitated, and the peptide hung in the air, unclaimed. “Are you afraid of it?” he asked. The not-so-subtle subtext was that I shouldn’t be, that taking BPC‑157 was equivalent to trying the dissolvable herbal-tea strips a few tables down or giving the giant quartz bowl a whirl. For the record: We were in a hotel hallway and I was being encouraged—dared, really—to try a drug that isn’t FDA-approved, is prohibited by the World Anti-Doping Agency for athletes’ use, and allegedly works throughout the body via some mysterious mechanism that is not entirely predictable. I was being offered an unspecified dose, although I wouldn’t know what dose would be appropriate, because there are no agreed-upon dosing guidelines. I declined the peptide. The representative shrugged and drank it himself.
There’s a generational shift happening in the funeral industry: Over the past four decades, female enrollment in mortuary programs has increased from 5 percent to roughly 75 percent of recent graduating classes. But why? For the Los Angeles Review of Books, Andie Eisen examines this trend, speaking with three women working in the deathcare field. Some were drawn in by a fascination with death or a formative funeral experience; others by a calling to a higher purpose and a desire to bring intimacy and care to a field long seen as impersonal, commercial, and male-dominated.
When you speak with a mortician, their tone gives away the questions they’ve answered hundreds of times before. Don’t you get scared? No. Morticians are more afraid of doing a bad job. Have you seen a ghost? Sadly, no. Once, a cosmetologist thought a body was shaking, but it was just an earthquake. Do you get grossed out? Not really, but they’re only human, and the medical field can challenge the senses. The questions themselves hint at a broader problem: outside of urban legends and crime procedurals, the average American knows very little about the death industry.
A year ago in tiny Ingram, Texas, a local police officer named Jaron Alexander responded to a noise complaint—a baptism party, it turned out, held by Joanna Martinez and her extended family. Shortly after, Alexander began working in tandem with US Immigration and Customs Enforcement, in an arrangement that has recently doubled the number of local police working with ICE. Within months, six people who attended Martinez’s party had been detained and deported, or else had fled from Ingram. Francesca D’Annunzio and McKenzie Funk grant impressive access to a local cop whose decision to work with ICE has transformed a small town into a claustrophobic nightmare, upending the local economy and fracturing countless relationships.
One family notarized guardianship papers, in case the parents were detained and the children left behind. One woman swore Alexander showed up outside a memorial service and asked people for IDs. Another woman said he detained her and her husband when they returned home from church. Parties dwindled. Invite lists shrank. People began to move away, to Kerrville and San Antonio, and Alexander’s reputation reached as far as La Ceja, a village in the mountains of central Mexico, where an elderly resident said he and his neighbors were familiar with the Texas town’s police. “El Charger negro,” he said, with a knowing nod. He estimated that some 20 or 30 people in the village were recent deportees from Ingram.
Alexander’s fortunes seemed to rise as the Martinez family’s fell. With her husband gone, Joanna Martinez couldn’t afford payments on the trailer they shared. She and their infant and her 4-year-old son moved back into her childhood bedroom in her mother’s crowded home, where several relatives and their children also lived. She tried to stay connected with her husband, Macias, via WhatsApp calls while working as much as she could as a house cleaner to keep afloat. “I can’t lock myself up in my room and just cry,” Martinez says.
In its heyday, Route 66 was a road of opportunities and dreams. Today, it’s a highway of ghosts, a symbol of what once was, although it still attracts visitors. For Current Affairs, Jesse Wright reflects on America’s historic highway in a time of artificial intelligence, when so much land across the country is being bought up, repurposed, and turned into data centers. Wright, who traveled the road from Chicago to Santa Monica, asks: What will these massive centers leave behind?
But what is new, perhaps, is the utter absence of even having been at all. The data centers’ legacy will be nothing. Their absence will be complete. Computer hallucinations leave no room for the dreams of humans. In 100 years, there will be nothing. Nobody will want to spend their vacation touring endless rooms full of rusty server racks.
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Aube Rey Lescure | Longreads | October 29, 2026 | 5,562 words (20 minutes)
When my father proposes a road trip to admire fall foliage along the Yalu River, the natural border separating parts of northeastern China from North Korea, I am skeptical for several reasons. First, it appears his inspiration comes largely from Douyin, the Chinese TikTok, which has been feeding him videos of regional autumnal splendor, with hypersaturated reds that carry more than a whiff of artificial enhancement.
Secondly, I don’t know how to drive, and neither, really, does my father. He would dispute this, as he did earn a driver’s license recently from a shoddy driving school in Dandong, a border town on the Yalu and our ancestral bastion. He’s already bought a brand new car, a Chinese domestic bestseller, for the bargain price of eight thousand US dollars. In the days since owning it, he’d only gotten into one accident (ramming into a neighbor’s parked car, as captured on the compound CCTV).
Thirdly, our visit to northeastern China (my father lives in Shanghai) is largely for the purpose of seeing my grandmother, who is minded by Sanshu, my youngest uncle, and I’m fairly sure neither has heard of a fall foliage road trip in their lifetimes. Furthermore, my grandmother is allergic to most forms of financial expenditure. At home, she plugs the bathtub and gathers water from a faucet dripping at a volume feeble enough to go undetected by the water meter. With that reservoir and a plastic bucket, she flushes the toilet and fools the utility company. Imagine how she will feel about gas money.
Fourthly, at the time he raises this idea, my father is recovering from cancer, one month post-op from the removal of a malignant tumor in his colon. He did not tell me until after the operation.
“We’ll just drive very slowly,” he says.
Weeks before my visit to China, my father had called me from a hospital bed to let me know about the cancer. This was our first phone call in years—usually, our exchanges are constrained to happy birthdays on WeChat or confirming the travel logistics of my infrequent visits. After I arrive in Shanghai, despite his efforts at dissuasion, I accompany him to the Fudan University Cancer Center for a follow-up appointment. The cancer is diagnosed, retroactively, as stage II. The doctor recommends preventive chemotherapy to deter recurrence. My father says no. The doctor recommends chemo pills. My father says no again.
When the doctor notices my increasingly discomfited expression and asks, “Who’s this?” my father says, “This is my niece.”
“It’s too complicated otherwise,” he tells me afterward. I am half-white; he is Chinese. I want to retort that it’s not complicated; I am his daughter. But I bite my tongue.
Since my teenage years, after my parents divorced, a distance had wedged itself between my father and me, further exacerbated by my move to the US at 16 years old. You might say we are estranged. Once or twice in the past decade, he’s given me a stiff hug, but mostly he greets me with a quick wave at airport arrivals, then hurries off to find a taxi. At his home in Shanghai, I dine and go on outings with my stepmother and sister while he sits out most communal activities. We barely make eye contact, him perpetually positioned in front of his computer screen, watching political commentary videos, me mumbling a greeting as I skulk by. The road trip proposition is, for all these reasons and more, preposterous. The two of us, in a car for days, physically proximate despite the emotional Mariana Trench between us? Maybe that’s why the idea also feels strangely enticing.
I am half-white; he is Chinese. I want to retort that it’s not complicated; I am his daughter. But I bite my tongue.
When he feels recovered enough, though his stomach is still bandaged, my father and I fly north to Dalian. Nainai, my 81-year-old grandmother, is unaware of my father’s illness. She knows he’d been hospitalized, but he paid a copy shop man to photoshop a report saying he had a stomach infection, not cancer. (The copy shop is located right outside the hospital, and business is booming.) The first evening we arrive at the apartment my grandmother shares with Sanshu, Nainai cooks a feast of homemade fennel dumplings and pork trotters. This is a special occasion: Usually, she spends her days holed up in her apartment, watching reels of web soaps and fake news on her phone at high volume while Sanshu shuts himself in his room. Her ideal granddaughterly visit would be me sitting next to her at home, force-fed like a foie gras goose during intermissions from the reel-viewing.
This can be arranged on the road as well, and my father, as eldest son, has his sway: To take his family on a car trip, or “self-driving tourism” as it’s known on the Chinese internet, is the new pinnacle of the Chinese dream. For a family that once subsisted on meal tickets, whose children collected metal to sell at a scrapyard, car ownership still feels like a fantasy. “Don’t you want to see me practice my driving, Ma?” he asks Nainai, and this seems to erode her defenses. Sanshu listens with quiet eagerness. His days as Nainai’s caretaker are monotone in this seaside city, and like my father, he spends most days on the internet, his only portal to a larger world. Now, here was a chance to drive through it ourselves. Finally, Nainai sighs and agrees. “But we have all this food at home,” she adds with petulance.
On the train trip to Dandong, where the car is to be retrieved (from the compound, scene of the accident), we carry plastic bags of grapes, cabbage, steamed taro, sweet potatoes, and corn. The pork trotters are in there somewhere. The train travels north, making stops at rural towns in the waning light of dusk. The land is mostly flat, low hills hazy in the distance. The moon rises in the pale blue sky and the wind turbines are still; herons graze the glassy surface of a low-lying river.
At the train station in Dandong, my father announces he has “booked a leg of lamb.” It turns out he spent the entire three-hour train ride on Douyin, where he learned that a Mongolian restaurant’s leg of lamb had gone viral. He tried ordering it for takeout, but it has to be spit-roasted at the table. He announces our dinner plans to Sanshu and Nainai. “But what about all the food we have with us?” Nainai says, pointing to all the plastic bags. “Why spend money?”
“We’ll eat those later!” My dad commandeers a cab by the roadside as we exit. I can see he wants to start the trip on a high note, with a proper feast. I remember the childhood vacations when he sat pale as a restaurant bill arrived. Once, on Hainan Island for Chinese New Year, we ate instant ramen in the hotel room to save money. This is different. He is trying.
The Mongolian restaurant is in the city center, dingy and depressing. The tables around us fill up: each with a crate of beers next to it and an ashtray for the chain-smokers. I order some er’guotou for $2. The liquor tastes like synthetic ethanol, but goes down well with the roast lamb, which is succulent. I also order a cold salad of jellyfish and cucumber strands in vinegar, as well as Korean cold noodles in a kimchi-gochujang broth. This is a true borderland meal. Nainai sits with arms crossed across from me, refusing to eat a single morsel of lamb. “We’ve got food to eat at home,” she repeats.
Ignoring her hunger strike, my dad announces the plans for tomorrow: We will drive to Donggang, a nearby city, where Nainai will obtain some medicine she’s entitled to from her health insurance. This was, it is revealed, her primary motivation for agreeing to this trip.
After dinner, I hail a taxi, shamefully, to go to a hotel. I tried to convince Nainai to spend the night at the hotel with me, as I’ve booked myself a “superior riverside room.” I feel guilty for acting like I’m too good to stay at the housing project with the rest of my family. The apartment is small, with a single bathroom. There are not enough beds, I say, a wan excuse. “I’m not going to a hotel,” Nainai says. “And you could sleep in a bed with me.”
“Let her go,” my dad says. “She wants to see North Korea.” I am grateful for this diplomatic intervention. On the riverside avenue in Dandong, many hotels, including mine, are high-rises, which offer views across the border to North Korea. (On a review page for my hotel, someone asked: Do the rooms come equipped with binoculars?Sadly, they don’t, was the answer.)
After failing to convince me to take pears and boiled peanuts, my grandma shoves a mooncake my way before I close the cab door. The car drives along the riverside boulevard and its nighttime plaza dance. This is also an area of nightclubs, rent-by-the-hour karaoke, and entertainment centers. Hotels that double as banquet halls. The agricultural bank runs an LED message against border-zone money laundering.
Furuide, my hotel, is past this seedy stretch. When I walk in with my disintegrating REI backpack and tote bag (containing a plastic bag of Korean noodles doused in lamb soup, and the er’guotou), the reception staff eye me with suspicion. I show them my booking number. Since I’d reserved the superior riverview room, it turns out I’m on the top “executive” floor. They dutifully note my visa number, take a picture of the border entry stamp on my American passport, none of it casual. In my room, I find a free unrefrigerated peach yogurt, a little tub of cookies, and four bottles of water.
Someone sets off fireworks outside the window. And there it is, North Korea, across the bank. I can see deep into its dim night from the height of my 28th-floor room. As I stand by the window, I feel bewildered. It is perverse, this voyeurism into the pariah state, and yet I cannot help but look.
Instant coffee, powdered creamer, dense fog outside. I take a deep breath, put on my sneakers, and go down for a morning run along the river. The wind is fierce, and my Spotify running EDM playlist feels wrong—the soundtrack of American college parties. The North Korean shore has been built up tremendously in the six years since I was last here. A curious massive round tower, shaped like a rising moon, dominates the skyline. There are many new white towers nearby: modern condominiums. A lot of them are purportedly just for show, built for the Chinese to see, ghost towers with no lights at night. They call Kim Jong-un “Kim Three Fat” here, and word is that this year he’s come into some fortune shipping North Korean weapons to Putin, funding these real estate flexes. Along the Yalu River, here on the clean, wide promenade, there are panda-shaped binoculars you can use to look at North Korea by scanning a QR code. A little girl runs up to one, but she’s too short to reach the lenses.
The fog begins to recede, and the river sparkles in the sunshine. I shower quickly at the hotel and get a call from Sanshu that they are in the car downstairs, waiting. My father is cleaning the windshield of his grey SUV while blasting a groovy dance-pop Calvin Harris track on the stereo. I’ll come to learn he won’t drive without EDM, though I’ve never known him to be aware of the genre’s existence, let alone listen to it. Nainai is in the backseat propped against three pillows, and hands me a plastic bag of soy milk and fried dough sticks. She doesn’t have her seat belt on. I force her to buckle up. “But why?” she whines loudly. “Why are you tying me up?”
“She won’t want to take the car again if you do that,” my dad says. But I remain adamant. As retribution, she begins sending and reciting a series of voice memos on WeChat to her old medical school classmate: “Your daughter has found a partner? Wonderful! She’s 30 already? They’ll be married next year! Soon you’ll have a grandson in your arms!” She shouts into her phone over the music. I am 31, unwed, and childless, facts she likes to bring up often.
We drive south along the Yalu River. There is a new bridge into North Korea, but no cars driving across it. As we leave town, the compounds morph into fields and factories. On the riverside is a continuous barbed-wire fence. Every hundred meters I’m blinded by a sharp white flash: security cameras. “Foliage!” I point to a red shrub on the roadside. Besides occasional skinny trees, there are only mounds of dredged sand and stones along the road, stray corn stalks lining canals, shipyards clotted with destitute, rotting fishing boats. Men in faded camo pants search for crawfish in the swamp.
Dad drives at about 30 miles per hour, which I learn is his highest speed. Air that smells like fish and shrimp rot gushes through the open windows. We turn onto a small country road and drive through rural development zones before reaching the city of Donggang, where my father’s cousin Yin lives. She is helping us with Nainai’s medicine haul today. My dad parks, half his SUV jutting out into the sidewalk, in front of a hotel advertising “upscale, middle-scale, and low-scale rooms by the hour,” and an LED sign flashing no to drugs Yin and her husband arrive. They haven’t seen me since I was 3. “Lunch is on me,” my dad announces. We buy pounds of crab, clams, shrimp, jellyfish, giant sea slugs. Now, where to cook it?
We drive back to cousin Yin’s compound. It turns out my dad has never driven in a city, doesn’t know how to turn at a large intersection, or park in moderately narrow spaces. He drives with his foot on the brake the whole time, stopping and starting. Eventually we make it to the compound, and he and Nainai immediately park themselves on the couch. Sanshu goes into the guest bedroom to look at his phone. Who is going to help cousin Yin steam all this seafood we’ve invited ourselves to her house to eat? Me, of course.
The shrimp are ready first, then bowls of crabs, and clams and sea mollusks. We eat without plates, mounds of shells amassing in front of us as we hurl crabs at each other: “You eat, you eat.” Yin’s husband is a taxi driver who sometimes works for North Korean organizations that bring laborers to Chinese factories where they process seafood. They live in military-style dorms and are not allowed to mingle with the Chinese. He shuttles them from the factories to the dorms. “Do they prefer China, or do they want to go home?” my dad asks. “Home,” the cousin’s husband says. “They cannot stay here; there’s no future of marrying and settling. They’re not allowed.”
It is unsettling to think of the North Korean women living here as forced laborers, not quite emigrants, not quite immigrants. I know that for a long time, while growing up in this border town, the only North Koreans my father knew were ones rumored to work at restaurants or night halls. They had successfully gone west of the Yalu River, to the comparatively prosperous land of their Communist big brother. He himself had harbored dreams of going further west, leaving China, crossing borders, forging a life for himself in America, which he saw as a beacon of limitless opportunity.
The feast winds down, and my dad clamors that it is time to go. We are not going, I tell him, before we help clean up the mounds of trash we’ve just created on these relatives’ tables. Nainai is happily recording videos of the food and the leftovers, arranging the crab shells and cakes to fit her directorial aesthetic. I know she will mass-send the videos to every contact on WeChat. After a few tussles over us not taking the leftovers (“we already have many bags of food,” I promise cousin Yin), it is finally time for us to hit up the pharmacy. Nainai has 150 renminbi (RMB) to spend on her medical insurance allotment, except not on prescription medicine, only over-the-counter supplements. Still, she is like a child in a candy store. She peddles it all: TUMS equivalent? Caffeine pills? We end up with two enormous tubs of protein powder (which, alarmingly, she keeps calling “milk powder”), a dozen boxes of cough drops, and a jar of honey.
“Enough! Enough!” my dad is shouting. “I don’t want to drive when it’s dark!” It’s 4 p.m., and we left Dandong at 10:30 a.m. At his driving speed, we have a long journey back.
He himself had harbored dreams of going further west, leaving China, crossing borders, forging a life for himself in America, which he saw as a beacon of limitless opportunity.
My dad hooks up a video of hardcore techno from Douyin for our drive back. He meets my amused gaze and explains: “Driving is more epic this way.” I don’t tell him I feel the same about thunderous bass, a soundtrack to so many of my runs. Nainai reveals to cousin Yin, on WeChat, that she’s hidden 200 RMB under a photo frame on their dresser, for the trouble of our lunch. She hates spending money, but is constantly hiding it in others’ houses. In the oncoming dusk, we drive past the same decrepit shipyards, swampy riverside, canals behind barbed wire. “Is your grandma asleep?” my dad asks over the techno.
I look over at her. Her eyes are nearly closed, but her thumb is swiping up the screen in a familiar motion. “No,” I say. “She’s watching reels.”
It is getting deeper into autumn, and the night comes fast. They drop me off the highway by the hotel, stopping illegally as I dart off. Alone in my room, I watch a show on salmon farming in the western borderlands, a movie on old Shanghai mobsters, and a dubbed documentary on “the most lethal animals in Africa.” I watch a giant iguana eat a snake, and a scorpion dissolve a grasshopper with acid. Something, perhaps the magpie I saw this morning, periodically whacks against my window. I drink last night’s er’guotou. Where am I, I think, where am I? I look across the river, but there isn’t much to see in the darkness. A Chinese island called Moon Island—a slim landmass of condominiums, a luxury hotel with a name that translates to Venice Country-Building Hotel, and one viral coffee shop—stands between my line of sight and North Korea. Its bridge is illuminated in bright blue. place of wellness, it says in red neon characters.
On our second day in Dandong, my dad has mapped out an itinerary that will take us into Manchuria. “Can we do that in a day?” I ask shortly after we’ve set off in the car.
“Probably not. We’ll find a hotel.”
“Does Nainai have her overnight medicine?”
Silence. I repeat the question. Finally, my dad says: “Ask your Sanshu.”
“Sanshu?”
He shrugs. “How would I know?”
“How are we going to sleep away if she can’t take her pills?”
“We’re sleeping away?” Nainai looks up from her phone. “Why?”
“A road trip, Ma. The fall foliage, remember?”
We turn the car around, back to the housing project in the Eight-way Ditch neighborhood, so that Nainai can assemble an overnight bag. The apartment is on the 20th floor, with an exposed communal balcony that gives me vertigo looking down. The staircase is blocked with discarded household items, a disastrous fire hazard. Nainai packs a towel in a plastic bag and asks Sanshu, “Three Baby, did you bring clean underwear?”
I dart out of the apartment before the ensuing scene. We drop back down in the elevator and hop into Dad’s car. It’s a gray and rainy day. We set out from Dandong, north along the Yalu River and the sinister towers under construction on the North Korean side. The river is a muddy greenish gray, but the skinny gingko trees along the road are turning gold. We pass by impoverished farm compounds, restaurants boasting North Korean specialties. The river banks are strewn with huge amounts of trash. The roadside eateries are decrepit, mostly empty or closed. There is a sign saying, we collect toads, make toad oil. My dad pulls a rotisserie chicken out of his backpack, and I tear into a thigh as we drive along. He must have bought it this morning, before picking me up from my hotel. My love for rotisserie chicken is a longtime family joke, but not one he nor I have mentioned in over a decade.
The two of us, in a car for days, physically proximate despite the emotional Mariana Trench between us? Maybe that’s why the idea also feels strangely enticing.
We enter an area known for its peach orchards, and the river widens. There are mountains on the other side, terraced fields, not lovely exactly, as the slopes look brown and vegetation poor, but it’s a relief to see what resembles normal nature after the hellish construction. The barbed-wire fence continues all along the river. The only actual North Koreans I see are along a river jetty some miles earlier, many of them laboring in dark clothes. We stop at a rural compound with gates open and three cars but no one around. My dad wanders through an empty banquet hall with tables pushed to the side. We stand outside in the lot. Everyone eats a peach. Finally, we stop by a decent hotel restaurant. There is no one in the dining hall except for a table of cleaning staff, sitting and gossiping. We eat a simple vegetable-heavy meal: shredded cucumber, sour cabbage and pork, salted duck eggs, and a chicken-and-mushroom stew. “I’m craving noodles,” my dad announces. “Simple noodles in clear broth.”
His tone has a childish insistence. The drive has made him hungry. He’s never hungry in Shanghai, where he eats leftovers alone late at night in front of his computer. So we order him noodles, and he slurps them with contentment. When was the last time I’ve seen him content? Maybe when I was 16, when we went to a beach and a wave slapped into him so suddenly he’d let out a peal of laughter and turned to me, bewildered. For a flash, I’d seen the little boy in him. That memory always makes me sad, the rarity of such a glimpse of defenselessness.
After leaving the restaurant, we wind along a narrow road, climbing in altitude, and some orange foliage begins to appear. It’s three in the afternoon when we turn inland, west toward the mountains, toward the Manchurian nature preserve area where we will spend the night. The cloud cover is gray and low, the rain intermittent. There are corn fields everywhere, and little hut-like mounds made from harvested stalks. Fog shrouds the bases of dark mountains. The atmosphere is gloomy and melancholy, but in the car, an EDM remix of “My Heart Will Go On” is blaring, and spirits are decent. My grandmother is off her phone because she’s received a message that she’s used most of her data. I’m directing and co-piloting my dad, and it occurs to me that this—right now—is probably the most we’ve talked in decades: Turn left, turn right, merge onto this state road.
He’s driven a long time now, probably more hours than he’s ever driven since learning, but he is in a good mood. He’s on a road trip in his home province where he grew up in poverty. He’s following open roads, taking his family on an adventure, a foliage tour.
In his 20s, my father met an American missionary who helped sponsor his visa and brought him to Bridgewater, Virginia, where he cleaned the hallways of a community college. He never learned how to drive there. America, it turned out, was not the place he thought it to be. Something had happened during his few years there, a fractured fantasy. After I was born, he returned to China. He never left again. He has, so far, survived his cancer; the operation had removed a 12-centimeter tumor. He paid for lunch, he’ll pay for the hotel tonight, they’ll be the nicest places we can find, which in this area won’t amount to much cost. Within these borders, he can summon a version of infinitude. I feel it, too, this freedom of a loose itinerary, of just driving north along the Yalu River, meandering among these tiny hamlets, chasing the sights of leaves in this bizarre borderland. So much bleakness, and yet when a mountainside is covered in layers of reddening leaves, a spark of yellow, a cluster of orange, there is beauty nonetheless.
We must get on bigger highways to cut west, into the Kuandian Manchu Autonomous County, and the fog gets heavier and the rain denser. I scroll on my phone to find a hotel near the park and show it to my dad, who nods. I plug it into his GPS. As night falls, it seems like the reserve and the hotel will never appear, but suddenly, a sharp left turn, and we enter through a gated kiosk. It is raining hard. At the visitor center, we are able to book a whole villa for less than $200, four rooms, each with our own bed, part of a gargantuan lakeside development. Cheap construction, no gas, water running rusty red out of the taps, waterbugs everywhere. But a whole house just for us! Three floors! We run up and down and up and down, Sanshu is taking a video, even Nainai is curious, wandering, climbing down stairs, opening every drawer. “How much?” she asks, and my dad lies: “400 RMB,” or $65 dollars, past acceptability for Nainai already. But we each get a breakfast voucher, and we have a massive dining table to eat at—no need to consume outside. We’ve brought our plastic bags of leftovers from lunch, the rotisserie chicken, and Nainai produces a plastic shower cap full of steamed taro. There are no plates or cutlery here, so we eat with our hands and out of mugs. A detached house is a foreign structure in these parts, where people are used to narrow apartments in towers. Nainai and Sanshu cannot stop commenting on the scale of the kitchen. There is clear wonder on their faces, and I can tell my father is pleased.
No one else wants to go into the national park tomorrow because tickets cost too much, so I’ll go alone. He brought us all the way here, and I will see some fall foliage. Since the water runs brown, I wash my face upstairs with bottled water, like a princess. The lampshades are a coarse imitation of a Coach handbag’s two-tone, brown-checkered fabric. Downstairs, an imitation fireplace. Outside, a man in a neighboring villa’s yard smoking, staring into the night.
It’s a cloudy, frigid morning, but there it is: fall foliage on the mountains around the artificial lake, right outside my bay window. It’s 7 a.m. and people are already outside, bundled up, posing for photos. We drive bright and early to the visitor center with our breakfast vouchers, just in time as tour buses unload hundreds of other diners. Breakfast is a feast for Nainai: braised tofu, seaweed salad, fermented cabbage, salted duck eggs, sweet potatoes, and hot soy milk, into which I mix a pack of instant coffee. Under duress, I eat the mooncake Nainai gave me two nights ago, while she watches triumphantly. I’m planning for a run in the national park, and since I’m the only one going in, the rest of the family returns to the villa (which Nainai keeps calling “the dorm”). I’m under strict orders to return in two hours—we have to drive back to Dandong and then make the train to Dalian.
Being one of the first visitors in the park, I have the fall foliage all to myself. It’s freezing cold, but the river flows over mossy rocks, and fiery red maples line the banks. The walkway ascends deeper and deeper up the valley, and I’m slow-jogging up the wet leaves. The employees opening up the morning stalls look at me with curiosity. This is it! Fall foliage! Nature! It’s marvelous. Suddenly I feel very proud of my dad and his TikTok vision, his months-old driver’s license. This may not be the most famous national park in China—it’s ranked only 4A, though every display outside the park is a genius advertising sleight-of-hand of striving 5A national park—but it’s beautiful. I run uphill until I have no signal. It’s foggy and drizzly up here. Downhill, downhill then. The scent of pines in the cold air. I’m flying. I make it back to the park gate by 10:30 a.m. The SUV pulls up. I’m ravenous and exhilarated. I hurl myself at the rose cake and red bean bread in the trunk. Then I buckle up Nainai, who cries: “I’m being tied up!” “That’s the whole point!” I shout. This is our bit by now.
I’m directing and co-piloting my dad, and it occurs to me that this—right now—is probably the most we’ve talked in decades: Turn left, turn right, merge onto this state road.
We drive back toward Dandong, this time under a resplendent blue sky, the cornfields and multi-colored mountains a cinematic bucolic backdrop. Sanshu tells Nainai: “Ma, stop looking at your phone, look at the leaves outside!”
“My eyesight has gotten better these past two days,” Nainai says, “because I’ve been looking at my phone less, and the scenery more.”
“Then look!”
“Look at what? I’ve seen enough leaves.”
Basking in the sun, I could doze off. My dad’s driving is smoother and faster now, more confident. There is an ease to the SUV’s rumble. Soon we’re back along the Yalu River, and the hilly shore on the other side is also in bloom with a fall palette. The way back goes by fast. We return to Dandong by 1.30 p.m., up on the 20th floor of the housing project, and Sanshu is dispatched to bring back freshly boiled dumplings, chive and egg filling, from a hole-in-the-wall my dad likes downstairs. A sense of accomplishment hangs around the room, though no one says anything out loud. I eat a glutinous rice zongzi dipped in sugar. I could eat the whole world. Nainai looks on approvingly.
I did have one last wish for this trip, before our borderland jaunt concludes. We drive to the cemetery where my grandfather is buried. He died when I was a freshman in college, and I have never been to his tomb. “Row 14, number 11,” Nainai calls after us. She doesn’t go because it’s considered dangerous for older people to visit cemeteries—they may get pulled in by the ghosts beckoning from the underworld.
We stop by a flower shop at the bottom of the compound, where a young man carefully arranges 11 chrysanthemums. We drive in the brisk, cloudless afternoon to the cemetery up on a hill, semi-feral dogs scampering off the wide paths. It is golden hour when we descend a staircase bisecting rows of densely packed tombstones. My dad and Sanshu, not having listened to Nainai, meander into row 12, searching and scanning each headstone for their father.
I’m carrying the flowers, and I walk straight to row 14, number 11. There he is. Wang Mingjun. I call my dad and Sanshu over. They are in a terrible rush because we have to catch the train, but Sanshu brushes some pine needles off the grave. I set down the flowers, and my dad tells me to kneel and touch my head to the tombstone. I do, feeling the cold black marble. I am his child then. I remember the old, smiling man who waited for me outside school gates when I was small, his face the face of my father and my own. I breathe in deep and start back up the stone stairs after my uncle and my father, who are waiting under the pines.
In the following weeks, back in Shanghai, my father returns to his computer, to long hours staring numbly at internet videos, his SUV parked tightly in a compound up north, thousands of miles away. But something has shifted between us. In the final days of my visit, he brings me plates of peeled pomelo. Sliced apples await on the dining room table. We return to another hospital by bike, and though he mostly doesn’t wait for me at intersections, occasionally he glances back as I pedal to catch up. In the examination room, when the doctor gazes at me curiously and my father opens his mouth, I brace myself.
“My daughter,” he says.
Again I stay silent. And I know what has shifted: the winding road along the Yalu River, a fast-coming bend, a flash of crimson in the hills. When he was a young man, this might have been the essence of what my father dreamed of: open roads, miles and miles of unknown potential ahead. No true destination. Handing his mother a peach, watching his daughter race down a slope, amid splendid leaves, back to her family. I don’t know if I had ever seen him more alive than on that drive.
And I was alongside him the entire time. Carefully reading out instructions for the road as he listened. Navigation, the only mode of speech we shared, unfamiliar but safe.
Turn right, turn left, slow down. It’s coming up ahead. We are here.
Aube Rey Lescure is a French-Chinese-American author and editor-in-chief of the literary magazine Off Assignment. Her debut novel, River East, River West, was shortlisted for the 2024 Women’s Prize for Fiction, the Carol Shields Prize, the Massachusetts Book Award, and the Maya Angelou Book Award, among others. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Granta, Guernica, AFAR, LitHub, Electric Literature, and more. Her essay “At the Bend of the Road” was selected for The Best American Essays 2022.
More than a few readers may squirm as they nibble their way through Sophie Haigney’s latest, about eaters who are rejecting “the usual sources of authority” and tinkering with optimization through unconventional diets—upping their intake of raw buffalo brain, for instance, or swearing off vegetables. But Haigney’s not in it for the disgust or the judgment. Instead, she moves among “dark nutrition” practitioners with a deep curiosity for how they try to manage uncertainty through appetite.
It was like any other absorbing pastime: You could tunnel deep into nutrition, endlessly studying and adjusting your diet, treating your body as an ongoing experiment. When traditional researchers do experiments, they use n to represent the sample size, like the number of individuals tested. Dark-nutrition circles were constantly talking about the “n of one” — the idea that the only way to learn what is good for you is by ignoring broad samples and experimenting on your unique self.
Jim Morrison has endured almost unimaginable loss—first his wife and two young children in a plane crash, then his partner and climbing companion Hilaree Nelson in a Himalayan avalanche. But rather than stepping back from danger, he kept pursuing ever more risky objectives, culminating in the first ski descent of Everest’s nearly unclimbable north face via the Super Direct route. This profile explores Morrison’s perseverance and shows how, for some people, a life defined by extreme risk can never be retreated from.
“It was a profound, transformational moment for me to know that when I found Hilaree, she wasn’t in her body,” Morrison told me. “I dug her out of the snow. I held her in my arms. I screamed, and I cried, but it was just her dead body. She was no longer there, and it was as clear as anything has been in my entire lifetime. I had been haunted so much by my wife and my children, and what state they were in when the plane crashed, and how they were recovered. I had been haunted by these visions of their half-burned corpses. Then contrast that with what I went through with Hilaree. There was so much more finality to it.” Morrison had her body cremated in Kathmandu, at a Buddhist temple.
In 1993, an audience member at the Citizen Cup tennis tournament stabbed Monica Seles, then a 19-year-old phenom who was then dethroned from the top of the world tennis rankings. The attack, writes Terrence Doyle, “was a physical manifestation of a logic that has since become our default: the idea that an athlete is not a human to be witnessed, but a data point to be managed, edited, or deleted.” I briefly mentioned Doyle’s disturbing essay a week ago, but it has stayed with me since: a worrying meditation on the ease with which athletes are abstracted into mere data sets. It deserves your deeper consideration.
Perhaps the most profound shift is the collapse of our ability to trust what we see. In 1993, we had the tape. We saw Parche reach over the rail and thrust his blade into Seles’ back. We agreed on the wound. Today, that on-the-ground truth is being eroded. We’re being told by powerful forces to disregard the evidence of our own senses—to see every physical trauma as a narrative threat or a potential deepfake.
Leo Kim’s piece is an ambitious mix of race‑track reportage, personal reflection, and theory‑driven critique. It braids together one night at a small Indiana speedway, the rise and collapse of Anderson’s auto industry and unions, and an abstract meditation on tech, AI, and “speed.” It poses a compelling central question—whether every technology invents its own kind of disaster—but does demand close attention to follow its dense imagery.
The dust doesn’t bother me much. By this point in the night, the round-and-round whirling of cars, combined with the alchemical mixture of exhaust, burnt rubber, and patriotic beer, has lulled me into a Midwestern trance. It must be the flatness that makes this region such a perfect catalyst for this kind of delirium. When Baudrillard drove through the expanse of the US, he wrote about speed as an erasing force whose “only rule is to leave no trace behind.” He was right to sense speed as a primal impulse in this unfurling stretch of country. Movement in the Old World is slowed by its narrow roads, latticed cities, and contested borders; it struggles to overcome the glacial pace of History. Drive a hundred miles and you’re bound to run into something. Not so in the Midwest. Nothing here interrupts the flow. There are no mountains to break the wind, no densities of skyscrapers to bisect the sky, no ravines to stop the sprawl. Everything moves towards terminal velocity. It is a landscape built for vortices and accelerating feedback loops: for flows of capital, weather, ideology, and machinery to intersect and (r)evolve into novel forms.
Editor’s Note: Passages is a members-only monthly newsletter about life-changing encounters with stories. Each edition of Passages features a short essay in which one of our favorite writers explores their own life as a reader. Our first contributor, Maggie Shipstead, is an accomplished travel writer whose most recent novel, Great Circle, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the Women’s Prize for Fiction.Join Longreads today to receive Passages in your inbox, along with our weekly Top 5 story recommendations and other member perks.
When I was a kid, my mom called the stack of books on my nightstand a “smorgasbord.” People use a lot of food language when they talk about reading. We devour; we gulp. I like to “graze” as a reader, moving through multiple books simultaneously, dipping in and out according to my mood. Romantic metaphors, too, come in handy, alluding to the vagaries of appetite and compatibility and taste. I would say that I’m still not a monogamous reader. I play the field; I read around.
The current count of books I’m partway through is eighteen: eight print books, eight e-books, and two audiobooks. There’s some nonfiction in there: Into the Ice by Mark Synnott, Boom by Michael Shnayerson, and the audiobook of Entitled by Andrew Lownie, which, if you need to be convinced that Prince Andrew is one of the most odious people on the planet, boy do I have the book for you. The majority of my docket is taken up by novels, though. A galley of Emily St. John Mandel’s new book Exit Party is on my nightstand, as is Ian McEwan’s What We Can Know. (Bad title! I hate titles that are unmemorable strings of nonspecific words!) I’m in a race to finish Venetian Vespers by John Banville before Libby, the public library app, takes it back for maybe the fourth time. The Banville is short and enjoyable but has been a victim of the smorgasbord approach, never quite seizing priority. Also on my Libby shelf are, among others, Lovers XXX by Allie Rowbottom, The Original by Nell Stevens, and Villa Coco by Andrew Sean Greer. On my Bookshop.org app, I have The Remembered Soldier, a magnificent novel by the Dutch writer Anjet Daanje that is very long and that I ended up (happily) buying because I didn’t want to race Libby’s loan period.
I wasn’t an early adopter of e-books, partly because my first novel was published in 2012, at the height of e-book doomerism, when everyone was saying print books were soon to be a thing of the past and e-books were the enemy. (Interestingly—at least to me—the ratio of print copies to digital has gone up for each of my three successive books, with only that first one selling more e-books than physical.) The Kindle launched in 2007, but I didn’t have an e-reader until 2013, when I got a Kobo in a gift bag. I liked it, but the process of acquiring e-books and getting them on the device was cumbersome, and, anyway, within a year I left it on an airplane.
During the pandemic, I found myself meandering back toward e-books. I’d had an iPad for a while but didn’t really know what to do with it until a friend told me about Libby. Somehow I’d forgotten libraries existed, and I didn’t have a card for the Los Angeles system, even though I’d lived in the city for six years by then. I signed up for one online, downloaded the app, and everything changed. I didn’t even have to leave my house, which I wasn’t supposed to do anyway.
That feeling of absorption is one I crave, and I’ve experienced it many, many times, courtesy of books of all different genres and the whole spectrum of high- to low-browness.
I’d never lost the habit of reading in bed at night, but my intake of books had slowed dramatically over the years, probably starting in college. I was an English lit major, so reading was work. Then writing became my job in my mid-20s, and that professionalism wore away any playfulness that was left in reading. I’d gotten timid and precious in my choices, only buying books I felt confident I would enjoy but then often not enjoying them after all, at which point they would linger, stubbornly material, in my house until I rounded up a box or two to donate. With Libby, I could be capricious again. Every time I came across an intriguing mention of a book or someone recommended one, I placed a hold. I would then immediately and completely forget about the hold until, days, weeks, or months later, some vaguely recalled title appeared on my iPad, a gift from my past self. Something about the convenience and low stakes of Libby got me reading like I hadn’t in years. I became a filter-feeder, opening my maw to take in books indiscriminately, unbothered by the ones that must be spat out. In 2020 I read 60 books; last year I read 92. I started but didn’t finish dozens more.
The dream, though, even for a nonmonogamist like myself, is The One, the book that makes all others disappear, that enchants you completely and exclusively until the last page boots you back out into the world. That feeling of absorption is one I crave, and I’ve experienced it many, many times, courtesy of books of all different genres and the whole spectrum of high- to low-browness. Last week it was the audiobook of Patrick Radden Keefe’s London Falling. In January it was a re-read of Ariel Levy’s memoir The Rules Do Not Apply. Lately I’ve been immersed in Michelle Huneven’s back catalog. Possibly the most delicious experiences of The One emerge from a perfect alchemy of time, place, and book, like when I found an orange and white Penguin edition of The Secret History in a used bookshop in Bali in 2011 and, having somehow never heard of it, bought it on the basis of the title alone. Or when I read Persuasion on my phone in a tent in the Swedish Arctic. Or when, traveling alone in New Zealand, I read all the Twilight books in rapid succession, and upon finishing the last one, felt like I’d woken up in a bus stop, disheveled and hungover and utterly mystified as to how I’d gotten there.
The One is not singular but takes infinite forms. There is no heartbreak when you move on. In fact, the pleasure is additive. A writer friend reminded me of this once when I was expressing disgruntled envy about the reception of someone else’s book. “No one ever finishes a good book and says, ‘Now I’ll never read another book again,’” she said.
Free love prevails at the smorgasbord. And, I mean, there’s a title.
Three Reading Recommendations
In 2017, before a total solar eclipse made a nice long arc over the continental US, I read “Total Eclipse” by Annie Dillard for the first time. I’d had no plans to bestir myself to go see the eclipse, but I pretty much finished the last paragraph, bought a tent and some welder’s glass to look through, got in the car and drove from LA to Oregon. The eclipse—and you have to be in the path of totality—remains the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen. Conveying the power of natural phenomena is extremely difficult, and Dillard’s writing elicits both the visceral shock of seeing a total eclipse and the necessity to witness one with your own eyes.
Look, call me unexciting, but I would be pretending to be someone I’m not if I didn’t include a New Yorker piece. How to choose, though? I love an unsolved/unsolvable mystery, so should I pick Douglas Preston’s piece about the Dyatlov Pass incident? Or pretty much anything by PatrickRaddenKeefe? Or perhaps the 2009 profile of Caster Semenya by Ariel Levy that changed my understanding of gender and biological sex? I think because I can only pick one, I’ll go with Levy’s “Thanksgiving in Mongolia,” which you’ve either already read and been undone by or everyone you know has already told you to read and for some reason you haven’t. Her alchemy of experience into writing is somehow both raw and polished and hits with the force of a train.
Recently I was reminded of this piece by Alexandra Paul, “Stalked: A Baywatch star’s 13-Year Nightmare,” when I happened to interview her twin sister, Caroline. It’s a harrowing personal account of being stalked for many years, and also includes meaningful practical advice for how to protect ourselves in this age of frightening access. I’d always had deep ambivalence about not responding to a horrible poison pen DM I got on my wedding day, and Paul’s essay granted me total certainty that not engaging had been the right move all along.
Maggie Shipstead is the New York Times-bestselling author of three novels and a short story collection. Her novel Great Circle was shortlisted for the Booker Prize and the Women’s Prize. She is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the recipient of a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts, and the winner of the Dylan Thomas Prize and the L.A. Times Book Prize for First Fiction. Her travel writing and essays have appeared lots of places. She lives in Los Angeles.
If there’s a Wikipedia page about yourself, you must be famous—some kind of celebrity—or an expert in your field, or a figure who’s made a prominent contribution to human history or culture. But what happens when that page is nominated by Wikipedia editors for deletion? In a quirky tech story for Wired, Duncan Fyfe reports on the strange experience of being told you’re just not notable enough.
There is, when you look for it, a careless and cocky tone that can creep into the verdicts of Wikipedia editors who have been doing the job for a long time. “This guy is a nobody. Delete him.” “I’ve got more followers on Instagram than he does.” “All we have here are stand-up comedy, opinion columns, being a guest or collaborator on some non-notable podcasts … This is more or less every twentieth person who lives in NYC.”
When Snigdha Poonam received a strange email from an organization seemingly interested in discussing a book she published seven years ago, she was intrigued, but apprehensive. As it turns out, her suspicions were well-founded. Poonam, after investigating, discovered she’d been the target of an author scam. Little did the grifter know, that Poonam has spent the last 10 years reporting on fraud. Game on!
This was undoubtedly a scam. Genuine book clubs don’t ask for money from authors. But who was behind it?
Had these individuals actually read my work, they would have wanted to stay away from me. I have spent the last 10 years reporting on transnational fraud. My first book, Dreamers, closed with a chapter on fake call centers in India; my second, Scamlands, traveled to other low-income countries in Asia to portray an invisible empire that thrives on inequality, technological change and the erosion of trust.
Along the way, I met and interviewed the scammers whose labor keeps this empire running. For some, fraud was a route to upward mobility; for others, an act of revenge against the privileged. Though I have formally emerged from this underworld, I can never delete a scam email without wanting to know more.
For Emergence Magazine, James Bridle writes about artificial intelligence; carpentry and chair-making with ChatGPT; and Enzo Mari, a famed Italian furniture designer from the 1950s and ’60s. Bridle asks: “What if we used AI for something actually useful?” They offer an interesting take on AI, and why the extractive way we’re using it is far from satisfying.
What we have here is, quite literally, a chair designed by someone who has read a lot about chairs but never actually sat in one. They know what a chair should look like, what it should do, the mechanics of how one is put together, the physics of holding you up. But they have no embodied experience of the world, no history with chairs or any other object, no physical memory. They don’t know how it feels, not merely to sit in a chair, but to encounter one in the world, to place it among other things in a home, to live with it, to be around it every day as one goes about the mundane business of life. This is the idea of a chair brought to life; but things—objects, beings, relationships—are not mere ideas, and you certainly can’t get every aspect of them from books. The chair is low stakes, but, once again, you wouldn’t want to run a society, or a culture, or a planet this way.
When Russia invaded Ukraine, it was summarily booted from one of the world’s greatest—or worst, depending on your taste—pop-culture celebrations: Eurovision. When Israel launched its genocidal campaign in Gaza, it was allowed to keep competing. And it’s done very well. Lisa Borst goes into the pulsing belly of the gaudy Eurovision beast to interrogate the competition’s politics:
One word that comes up a lot in attempts to describe the Eurovision aesthetic is “camp.” In a blog post for the London Review of Books, Andrew O’Hagan pronounced that Eurovision 2009 was “the biggest, campest carnival yet.” The following year, Anthony Lane, in The New Yorker, characterized the contest by its “reliable deployment of camp, whether sly or unwitting.” I’d brushed up on my Sontag before heading to Vienna and thought I’d prepared for artifice, for schlock, for the pileup of off-kilter theatricality and post-disco schmaltz that inspired Carl Wilson, in Let’s Talk About Love, to label Eurovision the “Cheeseball Olympics.”
But as the hook to “Ferto” lodged itself further in my head and Eurovision’s physical presence continued to intrude, it was becoming harder to see all this as properly winking, witty, and “disengaged, depoliticized—or at least apolitical,” as Sontag puts it in her second Note on Camp. What was emanating from the Stadthalle seemed closer to “kitsch,” that nice German loanword for camp without wit. Kitsch is politicized and shaped by residual history; its precondition, Clement Greenberg wrote in 1939, is “the availability close at hand of a fully matured cultural tradition” whose familiar formulas could be recycled by reactionary regimes toward the aim of mass appeal.
Gus Garcia-Roberts follows Belfi Rivera, a Major League Baseball prospect from the Dominican Republic, through an unregulated recruitment system that exposes young athletes to a network of predatory figures (and at least one former World Series MVP and prominent Fox Sports analyst). It’s a system that operates in plain sight and has for years, but Garcia-Roberts’s superbly reported narrative, which centers on Rivera and his vulnerable family, make those operations positively harrowing.
As a child, Belfi never cared for baseball. He started playing at 7, he told me, because a local coach would drag him from his house and cuff him on the head if he tried to escape to a nearby river to be with his friends. But even as a young boy, he understood the sport likely represented his family’s one shot out of grinding poverty. During that video call in 2021, it seemed that he had clinched it.
But in two and a half years, the $1.8 million Belfi was promised would be almost all gone. Carmona received $630,000, which represented his 35% commission. But more than $950,000 went to someone who had no hand in teaching Belfi how to play baseball. His name is Santo Caraballo, one of the most notorious moneylenders profiting from Dominican baseball. His business partner is a national hero and, 10 years after his retirement, still a commanding figure within Major League Baseball: David Ortiz, known universally as “Big Papi.”
Leave it to Arundhati Roy to deliver a scorching, dizzying essay on the perils of artificial intelligence that references Greek mythology, Francis Ford Coppola, the Bible, India’s industrial history, and Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! Plus, Emily Dickinson features in the lede:
The auguries are raining down hard. Think or Sink. Comply or Die. Look Up or be Left Out. And so, with these not-so-gentle threats, it has come to pass that the Age of AI—Actual Idiocy, Actual Super Idiocy, Recursive Snowballing-Idiocy—is upon us. Heck, I’ve already used two dashes in this opening paragraph. That, as they say, is a tell. So, perhaps I haven’t written this essay at all. You’d have to use an AI app to check if it’s actually AI, and whether I’m really, or not really, or only partially me. You can no longer use your instincts. You have to use the App. Now that AI owns the em dash, what will future generations make of Emily Dickinson and her love of them? Has she been fed to the machine, too? Will they love her less? Are we being gradually locked out of language? Does it matter anymore?
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Kristin Idaszak | Longreads | October 22, 2026 | 3,741 words (13 minutes)
The city of the dead is the obverse of the society of the living, or rather than the obverse, it is its image, its intemporal image. For the dead have gone through the moment of change, and their monuments are the visible sign of the permanence of their city.
—Philippe Ariès, Western Attitudes Toward Death
Shortly after I graduated from college, my best friend sent me a postcard from the Sedlec Ossuary, a Catholic chapel formally named the Cemetery Church of All Saints in Kutná Hora, a town about an hour east of Prague. The postcard depicted the chapel’s interior: a chandelier of bones flanked by two towers of skulls. On the back she wrote, “The chandelier alone contains all the bones in the human body. Thanks to the plague, we have this work of totally weird art!”
Immediately I started planning my own trip to Kutná Hora—a place made prosperous by silver mining but famous for its bone church—and arrived with the zeal of a pilgrim. Today the town has 20,000 residents, but in its 14th-century heyday it boasted almost four times as many souls. The late Middle Ages was a tough time to be alive, between the Black Death, various crusades and holy wars, and famine—not to mention the labor conditions of silver mining. Kutná Hora was also a popular place to die, and all the villagers wanted to spend eternity at the medieval Sedlec Abbey. After one of the crusades, an abbot had brought back a handful of soil, supposedly from Golgotha, and strewn it on the abbey grounds. Burial in that soil was believed to grant quicker access to heaven, which led to an overcrowded cemetery. The solution? Build a subterranean chapel to house the remains. And then a half-blind monk, in the wake of a terrible plague, exhumed the victims and used them to redecorate.
An ossuary is any repository for human remains, but it’s also the term for a holy site that serves this function. Another name for this kind of church is charnel house, which to me evokes the image of an abattoir. Death historian Philippe Ariès connects the term to the French idiom une vieille carne, translated as an old nag or a tough piece of meat. It’s apropos: These buildings enshrine human remains as décor in macabre, otherworldly, electrifying memento mori.
Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude.
Four months later, I found myself in the Czech Republic. A coat of arms made out of bones greeted me when I arrived at the bone church. Upon closer inspection, the heraldry included a skeletal bird, its slender beak playfully pecking out a long-disintegrated eye from an empty socket. As I descended the stygian steps from the ticket kiosk, I took in the pyramid of bones that guarded the four corners of the room.
The chapel seemed to exist in a perpetual gloaming, the air hushed and cool. The sheer presence of so many human remains disoriented me; they surrounded me on every side. Forty-thousand bodies’ worth of bones. Probably more. My brain buckled at the magnitude. The remains took on an animated quality—not in a Halloween-y, top hat–wearing, dancing skeleton sense; nor in an eerie, horror movie sense; but in the sense that each one radiated a life force.
I loved it. I loved being surrounded by skeletons and weird art and death.
Death and the afterlife fascinated me. I devoured stories of women who visited the underworld and returned—Alcestis, Eurydice, Persephone—and philosophers and poets who broached the subject—Nietzsche, Camus, Dante. Thanatos, my favorite philosophy professor called it. The death drive. But I had no sense of the fragility of my own body. My knees did not yet make those alarming soft pops; the permanent ache had not settled into my shoulder; my heart wouldn’t sputter erratically in my chest for another decade. The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.
I’d like to tell you that my visit to the Sedlec Ossuary changed everything, that after my trip I appreciated life’s transitory nature. Or that it gave me a premonition of what lay in store for me, my own brushes with death that were to come.
It did not.
While I was underground, I felt temporarily transported and transformed—or at least, I had a flicker of understanding: I sauntered into the chapel with the hubristic notion of a young artist that my words would become immortal. The bones confronted me with the truth. My legacy would be deposits of calcium and protein and collagen. My art wouldn’t endure, but these nameless victims of plague and famine and war—they did. It humbled me.
But I left the ossuary’s insights with the dead. In my early 20s, I didn’t need the bone church to convince me to suck the marrow out of each day. I went to grad school, became a playwright, got married, traveled to all seven continents. Somewhere in there, I relegated the bone chapel to memory.
In the summer of 2020, I got sick with a life-threatening cardiac arrhythmia called ventricular tachycardia. I had so many episodes of VT I lost count, and any one of them could have ended in cardiac arrest. These events were indescribably painful and frightening. They enervated me, sapping me of my strength, vitality—eventually my will to persevere. My life became very small.
Mortality was no longer an abstraction: I was scared of what would happen to me when I died. Of how much it hurt. Of the nothingness of bones.
In the years that followed my initial descent into illness, I rarely left home. At the time I lived in a two-bedroom apartment, a third-floor walk-up. Climbing the stairs could, unpredictably, trigger a cardiac event, and so unless I had to leave for work, I spent most of the time in my living room. I can close my eyes now and return to that place. I’d painted the walls a shade of cornflower blue I grew to loathe. The television tottered precariously on an ancient table. Cherry-stained bookcases lined the wall. The top of the bookcase displayed a golden Japanese fan with a cloud tree painted on it. Next to it stood a penguin pitcher I bought on my honeymoon in Tierra del Fuego. Three vintage-style travel posters advertised Antarctic destinations: Beagle Channel, Lemaire Channel, Paradise Harbor.
That room was the real ossuary.
One of my favorite Greek tragedies is Euripides’ Alcestis, in which the eponymous heroine journeys to Hades in her dying husband’s stead. The god Apollo tricks the Fates so that her husband, the king, can live if he can find someone to take his place in the underworld. There’s an exchange I think about a lot: “Possible to say she is both alive and dead,” her servant reports, and the chorus leader, understandably confused, asks, “How could someone die and keep on living?” This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.
The play takes a strange turn when Heracles arrives amid his twelve labors. During a supremely awkward evening of drunken revelry at the palace, he figures out what’s going on and hustles to the graveyard to wrestle death and bring Alcestis back.
I didn’t have a demigod to save me. But I didn’t want to be lost and gone.
The allure was intellectual and emotional, certainly not embodied. Like climate change or menopause, I understood mortality conceptually, but it didn’t feel real.
Sitting in my apartment day after day, surrounded by artifacts from the world I used to inhabit, was slowly killing me. I was afraid of things that had caused my VT, which meant I was afraid to go to the grocery store. I was afraid of taking a yoga class. I was afraid to simply be outside if it was really hot out. Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.
I formulated a drastic plan to return to the land of the living. I took time off teaching and planned a sabbatical to travel and write. I couldn’t hide in my house if I rented it to someone else, if I jetted to the other side of the world. Instead of crossing the River Styx I ferried myself across the Pacific Ocean, and then the Atlantic. The final stop on my sabbatical was leading a study abroad in the Czech Republic, to attend an international scenography and performance festival. The ossuary didn’t really fit into the rest of the itinerary, but I wanted to give my students the experience I’d had all those years ago.
Though contemporary visitors can experience ossuaries as disturbing or revolting, they didn’t start out that way. In The Empire of Death: A Cultural History of Ossuaries and Charnel Houses, Paul Koudounaris traces their proliferation in Europe during the 13th century as a storage solution to the medieval Christian problem of where to keep the dead safe for their resurrection. There were more bodies than places to put them. Death preoccupied the medieval imagination. After the Bubonic plague, medieval artists began portraying its grotesque physicality: images of rotting corpses, poetic descriptions of worm fodder. You get the sense they would’ve painted the stench if they could. Is it any wonder that these decomposed cadavers eventually became the artistic medium itself?
Dozens of bone chapels sprang up across Europe by the 17th century, in a confluence of theology and aesthetics that seems morbidly inevitable. During the Counter-Reformation, Catholicism leaned into opulent and lavish Baroque art. It also leaned into corporal mortification, the kind that now shows up in mass-market thrillers as a fetishization of pain and suffering.
The appetite for gaudy-verging-on-gauche bone art swelled when the Romantics arrived on the scene in the 19th century. Gothic literature supplanted the medieval Ars Moriendi; a secular touchstone of this cultural moment is Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Today, the Sedlec Ossuary has benefitted—or suffered from—the kitschification of gothic art, popping up in surprising places like The Young and the Restless and the “uninvolving and cliché-ridden” vampire B movie Blood and Chocolate.
Romanticism also marked the rise of a phenomenon now known as “dark tourism,” which refers to the practice of visiting sites associated with disaster, war, atrocity. Malcolm Foley and J. John Lennon coined the term in 1996, in reference to tourism spawned by John F. Kennedy’s assassination. Scholars often point to concentration camps and Chernobyl as the field’s quintessential sites. Yet it’s a concept as old as tourism itself, dating back to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, in which a group of pilgrims travel to the site of Thomas Becket’s murder. During the Grand Tours of the Romantic era, visits to places like the Paris catacombs (an underground labyrinth containing the bones of some six million people) and Pompeii (mass grave by way of volcano) came into vogue as a way to cultivate the Sublime.
It can’t be an accident that this coincided with the proliferation of ossuaries. I have to believe not everyone went to charnel houses for the sake of holy contemplation. Prurience is not an invention of the digital age, even if we have elevated it to new heights (or denigrated it to new social media-inflected nadirs). I imagine gentlewomen in whalebone corsets and dilettantish young men titillating their companions with stories of the macabre.
The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity. Before I got sick, I went to Auschwitz as well as Hiroshima. The power of these sites is undeniable. They serve as monuments to some of modern history’s darkest moments and have been carefully transformed into vehicles for education, reflection, and solemn commemoration. I went because it felt important to bear witness to the horrific crimes against humanity that occurred there. But I’ve also participated in dark tourism less consciously, and perhaps you have, too. I’ve seen an Ai Weiwei art installation at Alcatraz, toured the Colosseum where murder was a matinée, peeked into the bakeries and brothels of Pompeii, strolled through Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh. I skipped Hell’s Museum, which a friend recommended in Singapore, and wish I’d skipped a ghost tour of Savannah, Georgia—what made it haunting was the way the city’s bloody history of enslavement and oppression was repurposed as entertainment for partiers carrying to-go cups of watered-down vodka.
The counterargument is self-evident: It leaves these sensitive sites vulnerable to exploitation. The suffering of one group commodified as a cocktail party anecdote for another. The exit through the gift shop.
This is how I felt—alive but dead. Already in Hades. I’d escaped my fate, like the king, but my true self, the intrepid, curious, wonderstruck version of me? She was in the underworld with Alcestis.
It would be a neat narrative if the newest wave of dark tourism had gained traction after the pandemic, when there was a momentary reintegration of death in our day-to-day. In actuality, it flourished before COVID spread, before ambulances drove through empty city streets and bodies piled up in overcrowded mortuaries, before corpses were stashed in refrigerated trucks in New York City because the morgues were beyond capacity. And now, when those months and years have receded like a bad dream and no lessons were learned, it’s hard to attribute a newfound reverence for mortality to this renewed appetite for dark tourism.
I never thought about what I was doing as morbid. I gravitated to many of these attractions unconsciously, often because I wanted to understand history—and history is littered with corpses. But I think back uneasily to the casual way these sites were slotted into my itineraries. I remember the okonomiyaki place I went to after the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, the hole-in-the-wall with the cheerfully ursine line cook, but not how I possibly could’ve been hungry.
The impetus for this flavor of tourism isn’t monolithic. Some dark tourists are processing their personal or ancestral experiences, some are genuinely curious, some don’t even realize they’re doing it, and some are rubberneckers. Regardless of motivation, one effect of present-day dark tourism under global capitalism is the Disneyfication of death.
The first months of my sabbatical were rocky. Fear dogged me through the streets of Sydney, Mumbai, Athens. A few weeks before I went back to the Czech Republic to lead my study abroad, I went to another bone chapel, in a small town east of Lisbon called Évora. Visitors flock to Évora for its prehistoric megaliths and Roman temple to Diana, but I’d driven across Portugal to see the charnel house. My GPS misled me through the hot, dusty town, and I circled around the temple and its remaining Corinthian columns—which seemed dropped into the town square like an abandoned film set—until I found the Capela dos Ossos.
The 17th-century Capela has more bling than Sedlec, from azulejo tiles to ceiling frescoes, with skulls where cherubs might usually repose. (Other charnel houses put the Capela to shame in their ostentation, such as the skeletons at the German Basilica of Waldsassen wearing jewel-encrusted gold costumes, which were originally posed with chalices with dried blood at their feet.) The chapel is crammed, floor to illustrious ceiling, with bones stacked horizontally, so only the knobs show. Lined with osteological columns, the architecture echoes the ruined temple to the pagan goddess in the town beyond. Before you even enter there’s a Dantean inscription: Nos ossos que aqui estamos pelos vossos esperamos.
We bones that are here await yours.
I found the inscription strangely comforting as I entered the inner chamber. The first interpretive sign explained the function of a bone chapel as a memento mori: “It is expected to serve as a consolation to some and news to others.”
Lucky them, I thought.
I appreciated the aesthetics of the Capela dos Ossos, but it lacked the Hadean quality that engendered my near-mystic experience at the Sedlec Ossuary. Afterward, I continued on my sabbatical still mistrustful of my body, still afraid to move through the world.
Finally I reached a breaking point. I could drop dead in the peanut butter aisle, or I could drop dead seeing the world. Staying at home wouldn’t save me. The threat resided inside my own chest.
But when I got to Prague, something shifted. It didn’t happen all at once. I didn’t walk into the bone chapel and have an epiphany. A logjam loosened in my psyche. Shepherding a group of young adults in a foreign country, I couldn’t hide in the hotel or confine myself to strictly prescribed routes and routines. For many of them it was their first trip overseas, and overwhelmed, they looked to me for guidance.
At 7 a.m. one morning, 20 students piled onto a bus to Kutná Hora. On the drive, I strove to impart my love of bone churches: Ossuaries aren’t morbid (okay, well, they are, but they’re not only morbid); they highlight the brevity of our lives to help us live more intentionally. But in a kind of punk rock way. Carpe fucking diem. The students were curious but respectful. Some found it moving, others creepy.
When we arrived, the bone chapel was different than I remembered. Tentatively, I descended into the brightly lit space below. In the open area of the chapel, monitors now played a video of renovators handling the bones. The video explained a restoration project to shore up the building’s structural integrity and preserve the skeletons. The foundation is unstable and has started sinking since it was built sometime in the 14th century. In the Baroque period the Czech-Italian architect Jan Blažej Santini-Aichel redesigned the ossuary as it exists today, and it wasn’t until the 1860s that a carpenter named František Rint created the bone art, including the famous chandelier and the Schwarzenberg coat of arms that reproduced the heraldry of the local aristocrats.
That wasn’t the origin story I’d learned years ago, about the monk and the plague—was the monk even real? The crepuscular lighting and gloom were gone. Where was the ambience? How could you commune with the dead like this?
Behind me, another busload of tourists arrived, and another, and another. Tourists overran the chapel, their guides speaking into little microphones in various languages while they snapped photo after photo. At the entrance, the lone employee said in English, no photos allowed. Everybody ignored her.
Snap.
Desensitized, they gawked without seeing.
Snap.
No photos, repeated the ticket taker.
Snap.
The scores of tour groups weren’t part of my memory.
The contemporary case for dark tourism—sometimes called thanatourism—is that it refutes any attempt to forget or whitewash history. It’s one of the few ways we can meaningfully encounter death and atrocity.
Through a side door I climbed the stairs into an outdoor cemetery. The videos of the restorers kept replaying in my mind. It’s one thing to envision an apocryphal monk constructing pyramids of bones, it’s another to watch footage of archaeologists cleaning them and then putting them back in the pile. One of my students was minoring in archaeology and, as we strolled through the cemetery, she told me that ethical and legal restrictions governed archaeologists’ handling of human remains. It was obvious once she said it, but I hadn’t thought about it. The videos had close-ups of hands in nitrile gloves cleaning the dirt off the bones. Afterward, the bones were soaked in lime solution, which is also how Rint first prepared them in the 1860s. His chlorinated lime solution is the reason the Sedlec Ossuary’s decorations have remained relatively white over the years, while bones in other ossuaries have browned with age. The archaeologists also have the benefit of video mapping to help them rebuild the pyramids once the bones are cleaned and restored.
It must take incredible dedication for these archaeologists to put themselves in this proximity with death. To sustain that intimacy day after day—I know the cost.
I resented the crowd of tourists I’d left thronging the chapel. More than that, I felt a sense of superiority. Now that I was ready for the ossuary to transform me, I’d found an atmosphere that was more carnivalesque than sacred.
But as I meandered among the headstones in the fresh air, it occurred to me: Did I really think that none of those tourists had ever lost a parent or child or partner, ever grieved, ever had a near-death experience of their own? Did I really think my proximity to death, my awareness of its phalanges drumming on my shoulder, had given me some privileged access to the charnel house’s true meaning? To the contrary, after I got sick, I guarded my life like a dragon hoarding a treasure pile in a dark cave, and it moldered away, unspent. Those bones had more vivacity than I did.
For the medieval peasants whose skeletons limned the walls, death was a prolonged nap until everyone woke up during the rapture. There was a fluidity between death and the afterlife. These days it seems so much more final. (Per Ariès, once it was tame and now it is wild.) Much has been made of the deathbed’s move in modern society from the home to the hospital: out of sight, out of mind. Ossuaries thrust mortality squarely in your line of vision. They ask that you regard death as a transition, not a terminus. Not something to guard against hyper-vigilantly, but a natural part of a cosmic continuum.
It was time to live again.
Going back to the Sedlec Ossuary was not some purifying rite. It was an ordinary day. The tourists streamed past me, discussing where they were going for lunch. The students had moved on, browsing for trinkets at the shop across the street. I recoiled at the kitschy skull mugs and shot glasses, but when I got home, I wished I had a memento mori to put next to the penguin.
After Heracles brings Alcestis back from the underworld, she’s silent for the remainder of the play. Still sacred to the god of the dead, she cannot speak until three days have gone by, Heracles explains. I think there might be other reasons she stays silent. Maybe she preferred it down there. Maybe she left some irretrievable part of herself behind. Maybe she found the light above a little too harsh, the music too loud, the colors too saturated; found herself attracted to dusk, to intertidal zones, lintels, liminal spaces. Or maybe she has nothing left to say.
When I got home, I went through my old photos. I couldn’t figure out if my memories of Sedlec were real until I found a photo of myself, painfully young, standing in the semi-dark underneath the chandelier, its bones glowing white—either from the camera flash or an out-of-frame light source. I look half-happy, half-haunted, like I’m about to say something, but I can’t remember what.
Kristin Idaszak is an internationally produced and award-winning playwright and essayist whose recent work explores the intersection of ecology and chronic illness. She is a 3Arts Awardee, two-time Playwrights’ Center Jerome Fellow, and the former Shank Playwriting Fellow at the Goodman Theatre. She received the Kennedy Center ACTF Paula Vogel Playwriting Award and the Jean Kennedy Smith Playwriting Award. Her essays appear in The American Scholar, Fourth Genre, HowlRound, and elsewhere.
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