Wherever we go, construction follows.
In Prague, the sanders and jackhammering would start early in the morning, the shrill sounds and jagged beats insinuating themselves into our dreams and ushering us into consciousness.
In London, the incomplete, wood-covered rooms of The Collective, a “co-working/co-living” space were laid bare with potential; the other common areas — a Tea Room (with fake plants); a Library (its wallpaper designed to look like bookshelves) — appeared like cardboard cutouts of places they sought to represent, the way the entire building, in its corporatized attempts to facilitate relationships, engendered only a theoretical sort of intimacy.
In Portugal, the Pink Street Hotel where we stayed had no doorknobs and a dearth of mirrors; its spartan and nonconformist furnishings sublimated its incompleteness into a kind of boutique hipness (Brooklyn warehouse parties and certain Chicago restaurants come to mind). Here, the sounds of construction on the second floor...