Postcard #6: At last, winter! Sort of.

Abandoned cabin in winter, Lake Tahoe. © Erin Zaleski 2012

Lake Tahoe has been struggling through one of its driest winters in history, so when the forecast predicted snow on Tuesday, I dashed up to the ski house late Monday night.

On Tuesday I awoke to the winter wonderland I have been craving since December, and by Wednesday I was hitting the slopes at Northstar. Alas, the winter interlude was fleeting. By the end of the week the temperature had increased to a balmy 60f, the snow was melting fast, and hungry bears were roaming the region in search of food.

I snapped this photo off Highway 267 on the way to the Northstar resort. The lonely cabin appears as fragile as this season’s winter.

Media Internships: Opportunity or Exploitation?

Lugging my laundry home during my days as an intern in Paris. Wow, I look miserable!

From my alumni listserv to the the New York Times, journo types have been buzzing about the one-time Harper’s Bazaar intern who recently launched a lawsuit at Hearst for lost wages.

Like most media internships, the Harper’s Bazaar gig, although unpaid, involved  considerable time, energy and hard work–up to 55 hours per week, according to the disgruntled former fashion intern.

I don’t know the specifics of her case, but the lawsuit appears to be a shaky one. Unless she was unaware of the gig’s lack of compensation before she took it, methinks the suit smacks of a bitter underling. One who thought the grunt work would give way to a full-time job, and wound up feeling used and exploited when it didn’t.

Still, the case has unleashed a lively debate among media industry types regarding the ethics of unpaid work. On the one side are those who argue that plum internships pay by way of experience and connections, adding caché to the resumes of industry wannabes that would otherwise be buried in the CV slush pile.

On the other side are those who decry unpaid internships as exploitative, a form of glorified slave labor that preys upon the young and eager.

Having completed a few media internships myself (all unpaid) this debate is particularly fascinating. While some internships were better than others in terms of mentoring and hands-on experience, I never felt taken advantage of. Having come to journalism late in the game (I was already a senior in college when I began to consider it), I assumed that putting in the time and energy to learn the ins and outs of the business was par for the course. My publishing background up to that point was limited to helping edit the college literary magazine. How else was I going to get experience?

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Pictures that Tell a Story: In Remembrance

Zosia at home in New York in the late-1930s or early 1940s

This picture of my grandmother, Zosia Eaton, was taken in New York when she couldn’t have been more than twenty. She had yet to meet my grandfather or to officially change her name to Sandra, which she chose because it sounded more American.  She detested anything that betrayed her Polish roots, and was ceaselessly teased as a child over her given name.

I knew her far too briefly, and was just a young child when she died on January 28 more than 25 years ago at the age of sixty.

Although she was already in her 50s when I knew her, she had retained her striking beauty and old-school Hollywood glamour. The same glamour that had heads turning and party guests whispering anytime she ventured out in New York with my grandfather: “Which movies? Is she? Really?” As a child I was filled with pride and bemusement at the thought  of my Nana being mistaken for a film star.

She had worked at New York Newsday for awhile, and had a talent for writing and painting. She also loved traveling, and often felt confined by my homebody grandfather who didn’t share her passion. Even now, all these years later, I think of her anytime I first set foot in a new country or city that she never made it to.

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Postcard #5: Dry docked

Boat dry docked in Stockholm. © Erin Zaleski 2012

I’m back in the San Francisco Bay Area getting visa stuff sorted before my return to Sweden in a couple of months. I feel a bit like a dry docked boat: tied up, grounded, and impatiently waiting to freely roam the archipelago once more. The upside? Time with family and friends, jogs through the redwoods, skiing at Lake Tahoe, foggy Sunday mornings spent writing and drinking Honey Yuzu tea, Soule Domaine’s ahi, Viansa’s Cabernets and  Shimizu’s Piedmont Roll.

Nordic Lad and I are also making plans for upcoming spring/summer adventures. Boating around the Stockholm archipelago is definitely on the list!

Wanderlust & Domesticity: Mutually exclusive?

Beryl Markham deplaning in Kenya.

Is an interesting, itinerant life incompatible with domesticity?

A year ago I would have said yes without thinking twice about it. And I needed only look to the trailblazers of yore to reinforce my point. Foreign correspondent (and one-time Mrs. Hemingway) Martha Gellhorn died alone and childless. British adventurer Freya Stark never married. Pioneering pilot Beryl Markham divorced three times.  Hardly paragons of domesticity, and I can hardly blame them. Their lives were too dynamic, their spirits too free to be confined by the rhythm and routine that accompany long-term relationships or child rearing.

While I am hardly in the same league as these ladies (who also came of age in a vastly different time) my own views on wanderlust versus settling down boiled down to two choices: Either a stale, stable suburban existence complete with marriage, babies and annual family vacations, or a life untethered. Considering that the idea of a life comprising diapers, station wagons and PTA meetings is about as appealing as eating an entire plate of cilantro and then gauging my eye out with a fork, the choice was a no-brainer.

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My 2011 in Cities

Sunrise over Rome from the window of my hotel. © 2011 Erin Zaleski

Davis, CA

Fårö, Sweden

Incline Village, NV

Lake Tahoe, CA

Malibu, CA

Northport, NY

NYC, New York

Rome, Italy

San Francisco, CA

Santa Barbara, CA

Sonoma, CA

Stockholm, Sweden

Trieste, Italy

Västervik , Sweden

Visby, Sweden

Zagreb, Croatia

Looking forward to even more adventures in 2012 and wishing my fellow peripatetic/wanderlusty/kindred souls the same.

Postcard #4: Back in Stockholm

Sunset in the afternoon. © 2011 Erin Zaleski

First impressions of a late-November in Stockholm in 100 words:

Awaking in darkness. Large black birds with white wing tips dart from tree to tree just beyond the terrace, and by 3:00 daylight is already draining from the sky again. Stockholmers are beautiful—the women are slender with maliciously poreless skin and uptilted fairy-eyes. They flounce down the streets in tight jeans and tall boots and shiny jackets like haughty dolls. Lanterns flicker outside the entrances of shops and restaurants in the afternoon, and cheesy, American holiday music filters out of taxis past midnight. A French grocer in Vasastan. Muesli with filmjölk in the morning, and procecco with jazz after dark.

Friday photo: 10 Years Gone

Afghan school girl by maiaibing2000
Afghan school girl a photo by maiaibing2000 on Flickr.

Those eyes! Like Daniel C. Britt’s Afghanistan photo essay, this one is a reminder that sometimes simple images that evoke a strong, yet fragile beauty are the most powerful.

The Week’s Worthwhile Reads

The United States of Haiti?                                                                    Newly back from Haiti, Pooja Bhatia draws parallels between the beloved “dysfunctional little country” she left behind and the direction her homeland appears to be heading.

“…ensconced back home in the U.S., the Land of Plenty, I see reminders of Haiti everywhere,” Bhatia writes in an article for the Daily Beast. “Our infrastructure is crumbling. The able-bodied and quick-brained can’t find work. The chasm between the super-rich and everyone else has so widened that our elites seem to inhabit a different country.”

Overstated? Perhaps. But she raises some good questions. And I’m always pleased to see pieces that spotlight Haiti–a rarity since the earthquake-induced reporting frenzy died down and the majority of journalists moved on to other crises du jour.

The Amanda Knox Case and Journalistic Neutrality                                Speaking of media frenzies, the wrap-up of the Amanda Knox appeal and subsequent acquittal of the accused had more than 400 reporters descending on poor Perugia, which just wants to go back to being known for its chocolate. More interesting, is the polarization within both the public and the media over Knox’s perceived guilt or innocence. Shades of gray are all but nonexistent in the sensationalized murder case: the Seattle student is either a duplicitous, sexually-charged killer or the the victim of a sexist, arcane legal system.

Oddly, such polarization has crept into some of the media coverage, specifically within the reporting of two high-profile journalists. Rome-based Barbie Nadeau who has covered Italy for Newsweek for a number of years sides with the “guilty” camp, while Nina Burleigh, who moved to Perugia to write a book on the case, believes that Knox was a victim of misogyny at its worst.  

But where is the line between reporter and advocate? asks the New York Times. And to what extent should a journalist allow her opinions to bleed through her reporting?

Snuff, Barf & Amusement Parks: Scenes from the Real Afghanistan 

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Postcard #3: Deliciously Frenetic Weekend in NY

Crowd at Radio City Music Hall. © Erin Zaleski

The blur of people streaming out of Radio City Music Hall perfectly captures all that is mad, frustrating, beautiful, electric, and delicious about a weekend in New York. There were monsoon rains, humidity more fitting for Miami than a late-autumn in Manhattan, champagne at Griffou with a good friend, more drinks in the East Village, ravenous pizza noshing at 3am, a rainy train ride to Long Island’s North Shore, chocolate cake and red gloves in a weathered art studio, Cirque du Soleil, taxi rides with Nordic Lad under a damp, gray sky, a giant, white breast on the wall at Trattoria dell’Arte, a first glimpse of the WTC construction site, the crush of bodies and the blare of sirens, and the sensation of loss and relief as I board the plane to San Francisco.