During the winter holidays, the wealthier expats rented casas brancas in Búzios. Janie had been there the year previous, with another American girl named Ginny and her family. She and her friend ate platters of boiled, garlicky shrimp, their fingers burning from peeling the shells.
How much do you want to bet that if a female writer penned a story about a woman who traverses her neighborhood from swimming pool to swimming pool it would be deemed “domestic”? Instead, John Cheever wrote “The Swimmer,” and it’s celebrated as a classic of American literature.
Twice in my life I have heard God’s voice, made witness to His shattering majesty. The first time—don’t laugh—was spring break of my junior year of high school, on a camping trip I took with a couple of guys who shared my enthusiasm for LSD. Thanks to the South Beach rave scene, you could pretty much always get cheap, decent acid in Miami in the nineties.