monsoonmartin

The last thing one expects to find in a sleepy strip mall in the middle of Sinking Spring, PA is a dynamic, sophisticated, scrumptious, authentic Italian restaurant.  (One would expect to find a tanning place, a secondhand shop run by a ministry, a used furniture store, and some sort of Asian buffet - anything willing to pay the cut-rate rent on a sliver-sized parcel in a dying shopping center.  But not a really, really good Italian restaurant.)

But that's just what Salute (sah-LOO-tay) Ristorante Italiano is: a truly great Italian restaurant, right here in Berks County.

It's best to make reservations, especially on the weekend - our server told us they get in the neighborhood of 150 reservations on Friday and Saturday nights (that's 150 each night) with no advertising.

That's right: Salute, which opened November 20th (Monsoon's birthday) of 2014, has survived--nay, thrived--on word-of-mouth recommendations only.

So let me add my mouth to this.

(I fully acknowledge that just sounded wrong.  I will rephrase.)

So let me add my words to this mouth-party.

(Maybe I will just move on.)

The place was hopping by 5:00.  All staff members were dressed in crisp black outfits and everyone who greeted us was warm and solicitous.  

The chef is a guy named Peppe Agliano, and if that name sounds authentically Italian, it's because it is.  He is an actual Italian person who is from Sicily, which is in actual Italy.

It's got a fancy outer entrance that, I think, is designed to cut down on the coldness seeping in, but also to make sure you realize that the place you're going into is not your ordinary little shabby strip-mall offering.  It's a proper restaurant (that's what "ristorante" translates to in Italian).  There's even a guy holding the door open for you.  (I think he was employed by Salute.  Maybe he was just a nice, door-holding fellow.)

The food, it was delicioso (delicious)! 

We started with the Mozzarella In Carrozza (fried breaded mozzarella), which was divine.  Best I've ever had.  The server (who was attentive and responsive) brought us a basket of assorted breads (with assorted sauces), which we didn't even have to ask for.  

The main dishes--damn right, they were good.  The Cotolette Di Vitello Alla Parmigiana (veal parm) was the best I have ever tasted.  The pasta it came with was aneletti.  To my knowledge, it was the first times I have ever had it.  It was wondrous.  There were even different sauces on the pasta and veal, which was bold.  (It was even marginally better than that of Mom Chaffee's, which is saying something.)  The Fusilli Alla Carbonara (Mrs. Monsoon's entree) was outstanding, and was presented with an actual fried egg white, which was super fancy.  And the Tagliata Di Manzo (sliced grilled beef), which was enjoyed by the mother-in-law of Monsoon, was a dream within a culinary dream.

And the presentation!  Oh, the presentation.  The most delightful little plates and saucers and vessels.  And around each of our dishes, the chef had "painted" a flourish, as though signing his masterwork.  It was as though the hand of God Himself had brushed the plates in benedictory blessing.

(I have veered into hyperbole.  I will try to rein it in.  But the presentation was impressive.)

We were stuffed, but I insisted that we try the desserts, because by then I knew I was going to write this thing, and I believe in thoroughness above all else.  I suffer for you people.

I had the ricotta pie, which was good but not great.  The thing was drowned in chocolate sauce, which Mrs. Monsoon said was a bit much, but which I relished.  Mrs. Monsoon had the tiramisu (from the Italian phrase meaning pick me up) - she said it was good but not the best she's had - and the MOMM (Mom of Mrs. Monsoon) had the pistachio gelato (she said it was great).

It's not a place that you can go every night, unless you're rich.  Appetizers are $6-$12, entrees are $15-$25, desserts are $6-$8.  So that'll add up.  Well worth the money, but still.

So go there and tell me what you think.

Buon appetito (enjoy the eating of the food)!

Monsoon

My good blog-readers...

I am pleased to announce that your old pal Monsoon has written a letter to the editor of the New York Times, and it has been accepted for publication in the 13 March edition of the Sunday Magazine.  You can check this link and scroll toward the bottom; my entry is headlined "Dislike Button." 

My letter was edited for space due to the new format of the Letters page, so here (for you Monsoon completists out there) is the unexpurgated version:

Editor:
 
I have long enjoyed the Sunday Magazine as the must-read component your increasingly expensive publication.  However, the February 27th issue was, for me, a barrage of bad news.  I understand that Mr. Lindgren, the Magazine's new editor, felt he had to take steps to remake the glossy in his image, eliminating those columns or features he deemed outdated or redundant.  When I read of Deborah Solomon's firing from the Magazine's interview segment, I felt it made sense to rid the magazine of her combative, repetitive, and sometimes misleading pieces.
 
But the tale that unfolded in the February 27th issue was one of wholesale attrition.  First, I read that this column would be Randy Cohen's last as the Ethicist, later learning in an online article that he had already been replaced.  Mr. Cohen's elegant, understated responses to ethical quandaries were the first words I read in each edition of the Magazine, and I am already wondering how Sundays will be the same without his work. 
 
Next, I read that this would be the final column for Virginia Heffernan and "The Medium."  As the internet becomes an ever more integral part of our lives--my wife and I often ask one another as we look up a recipe or bit of trivia, "What did we do before the internet?"--it would seem that such a column would be indispensible.
 
Finally, and perhaps most troubling for a high school English teacher and lover of language, was Ben Zimmer's announcement that this would be the final "On Language" column.  Mr. Zimmer performed admirably in the unenviable task of replacing the late William Safire in writing this feature.  In this time of rapid changes in the development of language--the redefinition of what is acceptable, the spectrum of global influences, and so on--makes a column like this essential.
 
Mr. Lindgren's apparent policy of taking a scythe to the Magazine in an effort to improve it and make it more relevant seems to me shortsighted and impetuous.  It's a classic case of throwing out the baby with the bathwater, and neglects to consider the deeply held loyalties and preferences of your readership.

As you can see, the editors chopped my references to Hugo Lindgren, the Magazine's new editor, while tightening up some of my more longwinded tangents.

It's almost spring, and the March 11th opening of Boehringer's, Route 272 in Adamstown, is a most welcome sign of that season's approach.

A note about the pronuncation of this throwback drive-in's name: we have been calling it "BOAR-in-jerz" (rhymes with "Four in Purrs") since have been frequenting the joint; most locals say "BERR-ing-ers" (rhymes with "Herr Ringers"); I have even heard it pronounced "BOW-ringers" (rhymes with "Foe Flingers") and "BAY-rin-jerz" (rhymes with "Day Fin Curs"). 

The German pharmaceutical company Boehringer Ingelheim provides some guidance here: the "oe" construction is an Anglification of the "ö" (o umlaut) in German.  The "ö" is difficult for the typical English-speaking mouth to pronounce, but the proper pronunciation is something close to "BAY-rin-gers" (rhymes with Jay Fingers) or "BOH-ring-ers" (rhymes with "Foe Thing Burrs").  Given the tendency of most Pennsylvanians in this region (of German or Penna. Dutch descent) to swallow the "g" in their pronunciations, I'd say either the locals' version ("BERR-ingers") or the second German version ("BOH-ring-ers") is closest.  Can anyone shed some light here?  Is anyone still reading this?

Well whatever you call the joint, it's fantastic.  Boehringer's is celebrating its 75th anniversary this year, and has just created a Facebook presence so you can "Like" them, keep up with goings-on, and generally rave about the place.

Mrs. Monsoon and I went there today for the first time this season.  Saw some of my students there (two former, one current) and exchanged pleasantries while waiting for our order.  Had my first cheesesteak there (plain, of course).  I wasn't expecting Pudge's (the best cheesesteaks in the history of the world; they're in Blue Bell.  But I had heard they were good, so I gave it a shot.

My good people, it was damn good.  Far better than a cheesesteak from a roadside drive-in has any business being.  The roll was good, the cheese was intermingled nicely with the chopped beef, and the overall feeling I departed with was one of pure gustatory pleasure.  (Of course, the perfect fries and ice cream cone chaser didn't hurt, either.)

Etiquette is key at Boehringer's: order up at the counter, then step back to wait for your food.  The holding open of doors is particularly helpful.  Pay with cash only--credit cards and checks are not accepted.  Some jackwagon trying to pay for his hot dog, fries, and vanilla milkshake with a platinum card can really gum up the works.  Boehringer's is a well-oiled machine, Tucker.  Get with the program.

You can't really go wrong at Boehringer's--hot dogs, burgers, steaks, fries, and homemade ice cream.  And milkshakes!  Oh, the milkshakes.  You have to find just the right green-shirted employee, but I have had a few chocolate-peanut butter milkshakes there that made me forget my name.

The ambiance is nice, too.  Not inside the place--though there is a sort of controlled chaos that I find strangely calming.  I'm talking about the creekside picnic tables where you can enjoy your food and watch the ducks pad about.  It's like a little park: dogs, fowl, trees, rocks.  It's usually quite comfortable and breezy there, even on a really hot and humid day.  Sometimes the ants can be a little vexing and the bees a little threatening and the ducks a little aggressive, but what do you want?  You're outside and it's lovely.  Eat your butter brickle and stop your frickin' complaining.

It's open Tuesday through Sunday, 11am to about 9pm.

I'd love to hear your favorite Boehringer's memories, stories, foods, etc.  Email me!

Now on to the weather...

Today was nice - a bit brisk, but plenty sunny.  Sitting outside at Boehringer's got a little chilly as highs only reached into the mid 50s.

Sunday will be nice, but a little cooler: mostly sunny and rather windy with highs in the lower 50s (but this high will feel like the lower 40s due to the whipping winds).  Low just below freezing Sunday night.

Monday will feature more clouds than sun and highs in the upper 40s.  Just light breezes on this day.  Overnight lows in the upper 20s.

Tuesday will begin with plenty of sunshine, but clouds will build in late.  Expect milder southeasterly breezes to make the mid-50s high feel even a bit warmer.

Wednesday looks rainy and mild with temperatures in the mid 50s for much of the day.  We'll see showers and drizzle rather than the soaking downpours of last week.

Thursday and Friday will be sunny and milder still--Thursday's high will be in the upper 50s, Friday's in the low 60s.  Maybe an overnight shower Friday into Saturday, but nothing too bad.

Saturday and Sunday look nice: highs in the upper 50s to low 60s, lows in the mid to upper 30s.

Next week looks rainy and cooler.  But it will officially be spring!  So there's that...

Monsoon

Weather-Shieldings,

(Sorry – I’m teaching Beowulf right now and it’s difficult to get it out of my head.)

Last night, went to my favorite movie theater (Penn Cinema, Lititz) for the latest installment in their “Monday Night Movies” series.  I’ve written before about this outstanding theater, which features state-of-the-art screens, Digital 3D, and impressive amenities.  And construction is nearly complete on a new IMAX theater next door to the main building, slated to open in time for the Harry Potter release on Nov. 19^th.

Watching Close Encounters on the big screen reminded me of a time when the movies were about humanity as much as they were about spectacle.  The movie was utterly riveting and genuinely breathtaking, but did not contain one explosion, car chase, or murder.  And yet, given the lack of those elements, it wasn’t tame or simplistic or cloying, like so much Disney fare.  On the contrary, it made powerful statements about who we are, how we want others to see us, and about the power of wonder to cut through even the most entrenched cynicism, the most thickset rationality. 

The experience reminded me of seeing Poltergeist in the early 80s and being terrified by the scene of the mother trying desperately to get out of a pit dug to accommodate an in-ground pool, clawing at the mud in the pouring rain and sliding again and again back into a nightmarish clutch of skeletons.  No one cut off his own foot, there were no meat cleavers to the chest, and no one was disemboweled—and yet it remains one of the most frightening moviegoing experiences of my life.  (The creepy clown in that kid's room didn't help matters, either.  Yeesh.)

Here’s a full-season list of the Monday Night Movies series.  I highly recommend taking the short trip down 222 for one (or more) of these features.  (Email me for easy directions.)

9/13 Gone With the Wind
9/20 Close Encounters of the Third Kind
9/27 Kelly’s Heroes
10/4 Titanic
10/11 Jailhouse Rock
10/18 From Here to Eternity
10/25 The Goonies
11/1 The Shining
11/8 Caddyshack
11/15 The Big Lebowski
11/22 Planes, Trains & Automobiles
11/29 True Grit
12/6 Home Alone
12/13 National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation

So enough about me.  How’s the weather?

Weather narrative: The next couple of weeks will feature highs in the 90s and highs that will barely make it into the 60s; that’s what I call a season of vicissitudes.  The next few days will be increasingly humid and rather hot, with highs at or near 90 throughout the rest of the week.  Watch for isolated thunderstorms on Wednesday afternoon.

The weekend is looking somewhat volatile, weather-wise.  Saturday looks like the better of the two days, with the just the chance of some passing showers; Sunday may have more widespread showers.  Highs both days will be in the mid 70s, considerably lower than the previous several days.

Next week, after a rainy Monday, we settle in for some weather typical of early autumn: highs in the upper 60s.  By the end of next week, highs will struggle to get into the 60s at all.

The following weekend (the first weekend of October) is looking beautiful.

Beyond the forecast: By mid-October, we’ll see highs only in the low to mid 50s and lows dipping into the 30s…

Monsoon

Back in the early 90s, I was on the Campus Center Board (CCB) at Albright, an organization that brought comedians and recording artists to campus and set up events for the student body.  We got some great young comics, including Jay Mohr (he was great, and I remember him raving about the new Beastie Boys album), Janeane Garofalo (she was rather unpleasant, and stood outside smoking until the last possible moment she had to go onstage), and Renee Hicks (she was bald, apparently by choice).  We also received tons of demos, including one that stood out to me: A Recluse by a Brooklyn-based artist named Armani Spade.

Well.  To say it “stood out” is actually a dreadful understatement; it resonated with me so profoundly that I soon became an Armani Spade evangelist, playing the cassette’s hottest tracks for everyone I knew.  The cassette’s three main tunes—it also includes an extended instrumental piece called “India (Meditation)” that comprises all of side A, and an instrumental version of “More About Your Eyes”—are a mélange of synthesized rhythm and melody lines, potent and poetic lyricism, and unforgettable vocals.  Each song is embedded in this post—though they’re on YouTube, the only video is a still image of the cassette cover. 

(Special thanks to Bill Snelling for converting the songs from cassette to CD for me, so I could share them with the world.)

Allow me to deconstruct each track here.

The best place to start is with the first song on side B, “More About Your Eyes.”  The piece is a study in the tension that exists in the space between desire and attainment, that magnificent limbo from which Spade sings and raps about his amorous intentions.  At 1:21, the song’s energy shifts, underscored by an ominous tone, as Spade raps, “Gettin’ next to you in latitude.”  The climax follows immediately thereafter as he then wills his voice into a previously unattained tonal range and sings, “Listen to what I say! / It feels better this way / Don’t tell me to go / ‘Cause I won’t leave you no / But if I do and I got spare time / I will think about you all the while / Nothing could take my mind from you / ‘Cause you’re all I want to do.”

Once the song has reached these heights and Armani has employed a sophisticated vocal overlay, the listener is left with the pulsing swish of a heartbeat—an afterglow, if you will, befitting the emotional and romantic journey he’s just taken us on.

Though spent by the power of “Eyes,” we have no time to recover before “Could I Get A Little Closer,” which begins with a fierce warning yawp from Spade that announces his passion will not be denied.  Again, the lyrics best lay bare the astuteness of this piece: “I called you up on the phone / To come to my pad, my crib, my home / To talk about the birds and the bees / The chemistry between my bed, you and me / There’s nothing else that you can say to me / ‘Cause I’m lookin’ at your body in a sexual degree.”

The chorus consists of an iteration of the title in harmonized vocal overlay, which is followed by the somewhat more direct plea, “Could I get beside you? / Could I get inside you?”  The song is then dominated by an extended keyboard solo—first in a synthesized xylophone, then in a synthesized saxophone—that fully comprises the final three minutes of the piece.

Thirdly, and lastly--but most definitely not leastly--is a composition called simply “Relax,” whose refrain, “Cool cool out, cool out / Cool cool out, cool out,” will be echoing merrily through your ears for many days to come.  “Relax” is the dance club hit that never was.  It features a jangly riff, throbbing beat, and manic vocals that must be heard to be truly appreciated.  The opening lines here, about the singer’s attempts to initiate a romantic relationship through physical gyrations, are deep and instantly grab the listener’s attention: “I remember when I was at the club / Dancin’ with a girl, tryin’ to get some / Then you walked through the door / My eyes and yours made four.”  Having laid his two eyes on her two, he then proceeds to praise her physical attributes in the most flattering terms: “You’re more than a man could feed on / Skin so smooth, legs so strong.”

Into this fledgling encounter comes an apparently exotropic Cupid, looking simultaneously with one eye at Armani and with the other at Armani’s quarry.  The song concludes with negligee, romance, poor dancing, barely averted fistfights, and a final exhortation to relax.

Having been so affected by this man’s music, I embarked on a more than 15-year crusade to find him, and/or more of his tuneful output.  Using clues from his cassette cover (his Brooklyn address, the people he thanked, etc.), I finally tracked him down in 2009.

As it turns out, Armani Spade is just his stage name; his given name is Walde Murray.  In a few brief conversations, I learnt much about how Walde became Armani.  For some reason, he was surprised (but delighted) that someone wanted to talk about his music.

A Recluse was the most professionally recorded piece he did; all else that exists are snippets and unfinished songs.  He can see the other songs’ potential, he said, but to someone else it might sound like nothing.  “Somebody could look into Stephen King’s book and they see scratches and scribbles and things, even in a verbal sense,” he explained.

He told me that he writes “straight out, from the inside out,” eschewing any pattern or methodology.  “You write it in such a way that you amaze yourself, or somebody else comes along and says, it’s not much there,” he said.  “But then, something came out of it.”  He likened his songwriting style to that of the late King of Pop, Michael Jackson.  Recently, Jackson released an album of unfinished songs that illustrated the need for a good producer to “draw out” the music’s potential.  “Let’s use a real bass guitarist, or a real piano-ist [he or she might say],” making magic from “unrefined work.”

Armani Spade received “great responses” to the cassette when it was released.  However, he had no luck taking his tracks to radio stations and asking them to play his music.  “If it had been a known star,” he observed, “it would have been played.”

Walde Murray has spent the past nine years in the US Army, which does not afford him the time or resources to continue his music dreams.  While it’s important to “follow your heart,” it’s also important to make a decent living, he said.  However, when he retires to the reserve, he plans to renew his pursuit of music stardom, as he is still formulating ideas and writing songs.  “I’m keeping my head into the up-to-date stuff” as a way to stay in tune with modern musical sensibilities, he said. 

“I need to keep my eye on the ball,” he said, “and the ball is music.”

Monsoon

If, as Jean-Paul Sartre wrote, hell is other people, then people in their hordes and crowds and maundering packs of listlessness must constitute a new circle in Dante’s Inferno.  Trying to have a meaningful museum-going experience amidst the sweaty multitudes is a nearly fruitless pursuit.  Dodging visor-and-fanny-pack-bedecked tourists, restless adolescent Boy Scouts and their harried scoutmasters, giggling imps, and fusty society ladies can take all the magic out of taking a look at some nice-assed art.

Seeing a large wooden track for homemade model cars bisecting a portrait gallery in the Smithsonian (it was some sort of Scouting and crafts weekend) was as disheartening as it was shocking. 

Surely a museum of that magnitude can be appreciated by patrons of all ages simply on the basis of its cultural and artistic merits without being turned into a Night at the Museum come to life.  Judging from the Scouting chaos, the little girl who almost knocked over a statue (prevented from doing so by my alarmed yawp, after which her parents ushered the stunned toddler from the gallery), the disinterested tweens texting obsessively, and the brazenly loud cellphone conversations carried on unapologetically in front of artistic treasures, the answer to that question is a resounding no.

But truly and sincerely, the Newseum was well worth the effort of enduring the inappropriateness, insensitivity, lack of museum etiquette and just plain presence of other people—teeming, snorting, prating, obstructing, farting, shuffling people.

As a person who teaches a journalism elective course, has worked briefly in journalism, and harbors a long-standing interest in the field, I have been excited about the Newseum since it was reported in its planning stages.

The Newseum is on Pennsylvania Avenue between 5^th and 6^th Streets, and is open 9 to 5 daily (closed only on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Day).  Unlike the Smithsonian museums, which are free, it costs $19.95 for adult admission.  Let me hit some of the highlights of this museum; my recollections are by no means intended to be exhaustive, though by the end of this post you may feel much as I do when my mother says “to make a long story short” well into a longwinded saga.

Into the façade of the Newseum is etched the so-called Establishment Clause from the First Amendment, and the length of the building is lined with the current front pages of newspapers around the country and (on the sixth floor) world.

We began on the concourse level, one of the highlights of which was the largest hunk of the Berlin Wall outside Germany (including guard tower), which was supplemented with many informative placards and interactive touchscreens.  (The Newseum, like most museums, integrates new technologies and media into its exhibits; however, unlike in many other places, the incorporation of these tools is seamless and overwhelmingly effective.)  Another concourse highlight was the changing exhibit “G-Men and Journalists: Top News Stories from the FBI’s First Century,” which included powerful artifacts relating to the Oklahoma City bombing, the DC sniper case, the Branch Davidian compound siege, the fight against hate groups, and the Unabomber case (including Ted Kaczynski’s actual cabin).

From there we were whisked up a hydraulic glass elevator, past the gigantic LCD monitor and up to the 6^th floor, which wasn’t great.  (This is the recommended path for exploring the Newseum—concourse, then 6^th floor and work your way down—and we followed it.)  From the 6^th floor we could see down to the 4^th floor, which is dominated by a 9/11 exhibit that focused too much on the outrage of the American people and not enough on journalism’s role in covering the attacks. 

The 5^th floor, though—once we got there (it was a little difficult to figure out how to access it)—was staggering.  Visitors are just overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of information: News History traces the history of news-gathering in the US from its earliest examples through its transformations and milestones and vicissitudes.  The room is dominated by rows of drawers containing glass-encased newspapers and magazines, chronicling not only the story of us as a people, but journalism as a field.  Ringing the room are interactive pieces focusing on various major topics—satire, plagiarism, Watergate, tabloids, the publishing barons, etc.  All contain a masterfully conceived admixture of actual artifacts, news items, video clips, and more.  There are also several small theaters on the outer edge of the room—and, in fact, throughout the entire museum—showcasing issues in journalism, exploring ethics and news values, discussing photojournalism, etc.

My only complaint for the 5^th floor was that the lighting was too dim to read beyond the headlines, and the arrangement of the drawers at knee-level and in vertical columns meant that closer examination—to say nothing of sharing material with another museumgoer—was impractical.  But really, these are comparatively minor quibbles.

The 3^rd floor was a’ight: stuff about Edward R. Murrow, internet news, and a memorial to journalists killed while covering the news.  It should be noted that throughout the Newseum are actual pieces of journalistic history that go beyond the newspapers and typewriters: news vans and helicopters, studio cameras, satellite dishes, and the like.

Friends, on the 2^nd floor, I became a child again.  The 2^nd floor is home to the Interactive Newsroom, where one can queue up and become part of an actual “newscast”!  To be honest, the opportunity was seized mainly by children, but I could not resist even the fleeting fulfillment of a longtime dream: to be a weatherman.

The results:

Mrs. Monsoon can be heard near the end of the video laughing loudly at my inexplicable antics: the saucy delivery, the tentative, pointless gestures, and just the obvious glee I took in being in front of the camera.  Your comments are, always, welcome.

Finally on the first floor are the 4D theater (skipped it), the gift shop, and one of the most moving exhibits I’ve ever seen.  The gift shop has lots of what you would expect—key chains, magnets, pencils, shot glasses, and more emblazoned with the Newseum name.  It also has some great DVDs, mugs that read “Not tonight dear … I’m on deadline” and—the pièce de résistance —a book called Correct Me if I’m Wrong.  This slim volume collects the best selections from the Columbia Journalism Review’s popular feature “The Lower Case,” which reproduces unintentionally funny headlines and press blunders.  Some examples—which are also printed on tiles in the Newseum’s bathrooms—include:

Nuns forgive break-in, assault suspect

Crack in toilet bowl leads to 3 arrests

Literarcy week observed

Parking lot floods when man bursts

Drunk gets nine months in violin case

Farmer Bill Dies In House

…and my personal favorite…

Johnson Teacher Talks Very Slow

The first floor is also home to the permanent exhibition of Pulitzer Prize winning photographs.  All of the winners are reproduced in small prints, but there are 30-40 enlarged photographs, each with a bit about the context of the piece and a reflective comment from the photojournalist responsible for the image.  I had not seen some of these photographs, but even with the ones with which I was familiar—the execution of a Viet Cong prisoner in Saigon, the iconic image of a firefighter carrying an injured infant after the Oklahoma City bombing, the famous photo in the aftermath of the Kent State massacre—seeing them in a gallery setting, presented not just as photojournalism but really as art, was profoundly affecting.  Many museum visitors were moved to tears by some of the photographs.  I marveled at how impactful, how intense a photograph can be—far more moving and eloquent, in many cases, than a video of the same event, or an eyewitness account. 

Not to be missed, and never to be forgotten.

Monsoon