Earth

Sunday, December 31, 1989 | 10:42 PM Times Square, Manhattan, New York City

The cold December air bites at your face, carrying the smell of roasted chestnuts, cigarette smoke, and hot pretzels. Times Square is packed shoulder to shoulder with people waiting to welcome 1990. Neon signs wash the crowd in red, yellow, and blue. Paper party hats bob above winter coats, plastic horns blare from every direction, and somewhere a group of young men starts chanting, "NINETEEN NINETY! NINETEEN NINETY!" A few dozen people join in before the chant dissolves into laughter. A woman in a purple ski jacket squeezes past you, gripping her boyfriend's sleeve. "Sorry, hon!" she calls over her shoulder.

Near Broadway and 46th Street, a vendor in a thick wool cap works over a steaming cart. "Hot dogs! Hot pretzels! Get 'em while they're hot!" A man in a gray overcoat studies the price board. "Three bucks? Jesus Christ, that's robbery." The vendor barely looks up. "Then don't buy one, pal. You're holding up my line." "Whole damn city's full of crooks," the man mutters, turning away. The vendor rolls his eyes, catches sight of you, and lifts his tongs. "How 'bout you, boss? Something hot?"

A little farther along, a cinema's illuminated displays advertise Back to the Future Part II and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Two young women stand beneath the posters, sharing a cigarette. One wears a black leather jacket over a red sweater, her dark hair teased high. "I'm serious, Denise, the first one was better." Her friend blows smoke toward the street. "You say that about every sequel." "Because every sequel stinks!" They laugh, and Denise offers the cigarette back. A man in a camel-colored overcoat shoulders between them and a group of tourists. "Move it, for Christ's sake!" One woman scowls at his retreating back. "Happy New Year to you too, asshole."

Near a crowd barrier, a little girl in a pink knitted hat sits on her father's shoulders, waving a silver party horn at anyone who looks her way. She spots you and gives it an enthusiastic blast, then dissolves into giggles. "Emily, you're gonna give somebody a heart attack with that thing," her father says, adjusting his grip on her boots. She grins down at you and blows it again.

A few yards away, an older couple in matching blue scarves stand close together. "Forty-two years," the husband announces to a younger man beside them, holding up four gloved fingers and then two. "Forty-two New Year's Eves together, and she still makes me stand out here freezing my ass off." His wife smacks his arm playfully. "Oh, hush, Walter. You love it." He slips an arm around her shoulders. "Yeah, all right. I do." The younger man offers a distracted smile, glancing repeatedly at his wristwatch.

A police officer moves along the barrier, waving people away from an intersection. "Keep it moving! Let's leave this walkway clear!" "I've been standing here for an hour!" the young man protests. "Then you've had an hour to read the signs," the officer snaps. He motions you away from the opening as well before turning to another group. Behind him, a television crew adjusts a large camera beneath a portable light. A reporter in a beige overcoat rehearses into her microphone while her cameraman rubs his hands together. "Can somebody find me a coffee? I've lost feeling in three fingers." She laughs. "You wanted the glamorous job, Pete."

A sudden shove ripples through the crowd as several young men force their way toward the front. One bumps hard into a woman holding a paper cup, spilling coffee down her sleeve. "Hey! Watch where you're going!" she shouts. He gives her a dismissive wave and pushes onward. "Yeah, real nice!" she calls after him, inspecting the stain with disgust. A stranger beside her offers a handful of napkins from his coat pocket, and she accepts them with a tired sigh. "Thanks. Some people."

Someone behind you lets out a tremendous sneeze. "Bless you!" calls a woman from somewhere in the crowd. "Thank you!" comes the muffled reply. Another blast of a party horn sounds inches from somebody's ear, followed by an irritated "Knock that shit off!"

Close by, a young man in a New York Rangers jacket studies a folded street map, turning it one way, then another. "Oh, for crying out loud. I think we're on the wrong side of Broadway." His companion, a woman with curly brown hair and a camera around her neck, peers over his shoulder. "Eddie, we're in Times Square. How lost can we possibly be?" He looks up, catches your eye, and raises his eyebrows with an embarrassed smile. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know which way Eighth Avenue is, would you? We've been walking in circles for twenty minutes."

Beyond them, the crowds stretch beneath the city lights. Car horns sound from surrounding streets, and somewhere a radio plays Phil Collins' "Another Day in Paradise" beneath the chatter of thousands of voices. Above it all, the illuminated ball waits atop One Times Square. Midnight is a little over an hour away.

Saturday, July 20, 1985 | 5:16 PM Venice Beach, Los Angeles, California

The California sun hangs bright over Venice Beach, turning the Pacific a sparkling blue to the horizon. Warm air carries the smell of saltwater, coconut suntan oil, and frying onions from food stands along Ocean Front Walk. The promenade is crowded with people in shorts, swimsuits, and sunglasses, weaving between vendors, roller skaters, and tourists carrying beach towels. Somewhere nearby, a portable radio plays Tears for Fears' "Everybody Wants to Rule the World," its bright guitar drifting above the surf.

A young woman on white roller skates glides past you, her yellow tank top fluttering in the breeze. She catches your eye and flashes a quick grin. "Beautiful day, huh?" she calls, rolling backward a few feet before turning around again. Moments later she slips between two pedestrians and disappears into the crowd.

Near the old Venice Pavilion, three boys are taking turns with a battered skateboard. The smallest, a freckled kid of about eleven, crouches and attempts a jump. The board shoots out from under him, clattering across the pavement toward you. "Aw, man!" he groans, scrambling after it. "Dude, you suck!" one friend shouts, laughing. "Shut up, Michael!" The third boy gives the smallest a shove on the shoulder. "My little sister can skate better than you." The boy snatches up his board, his face reddening. "Yeah? Then go skate with her, asshole." He stalks toward the edge of the concrete while his friends keep laughing.

Closer to the water, college-aged friends have claimed a patch of sand with striped towels and a red-and-white Coleman cooler. Two young women lie tanning while a third fiddles with a silver transistor radio. Nearby, a volleyball game is underway. "Yours, Danny! DANNY!" a woman shouts as the ball arcs over the net. A tall young man in blue trunks lunges sideways, misses, and crashes into the sand. His friends howl. "Nice dive, Superman!" The ball bounces toward an older woman reading on a towel, scattering sand across her magazine. "Hey! Watch it, would you?" she snaps. Danny raises a hand. "Sorry, lady!" She brushes grit from the pages, muttering as the game resumes.

A little boy chases a runaway beach ball across the sand, nearly colliding with you before twisting aside. "Sorry!" he squeaks, scooping it up and racing back toward his family. His father calls, "Jason, slow down!" The boy keeps running.

Along the promenade, an elderly man in a plaid shirt and beige trousers sits on a bench, watching the ocean through thick glasses. Beside him, a silver-haired woman in a straw hat tosses bread crumbs to a pair of gulls. "You keep that up, Margaret, they're gonna follow us home," he says. She smiles at you as she tears off another piece. "At least somebody appreciates my cooking." Her husband chuckles and shifts his walking cane against the bench.

A little farther down, a middle-aged couple strolls beneath the palms sharing a vanilla soft-serve cone. The man wears a faded Dodgers cap and carries his wife's sandals. A scruffy terrier trots beside them, lunging whenever the ice cream dips lower. "Give him a taste, Frank." "He had half my hamburger!" "He's on vacation!" "He's a dog, Linda!" She laughs, steals the cone, and lets the terrier have a tiny lick. His tail goes wild.

Behind the beachfront, a sun-faded orange Volkswagen Type 2 bus sits parked behind a pale-blue Chevrolet Monte Carlo, its chrome bumpers catching the light. A brown Ford Econoline van covered in surfing decals pulls up nearby. The driver climbs out wearing mirrored sunglasses and a sleeveless T-shirt. "Come on, we're burnin' daylight!" he calls into the van. "You said that twenty minutes ago!" comes the reply.

Two teenage boys carrying a surfboard angle toward the sand. One catches sight of you, shifts his grip, and gives a quick nod as they pass. "Watch the nose, man," he mutters to his friend.

A roller-skating performer strums a guitar before a loose circle of spectators. Nearby, a teenage girl with a Polaroid camera tries to photograph her boyfriend beside a palm tree. He strikes an exaggerated bodybuilder pose, making her laugh so hard she nearly misses the shot.

At a lemonade stand, a young woman in denim cutoffs and a loose white tank top struggles with a cardboard sign slipping from its wooden support. Her hair is tied back with a pink bandana, a pencil tucked behind one ear. "Fresh lemonade! Fifty cents!" she calls. A man in a Hawaiian shirt takes a sip from a paper cup, grimaces, and sets it down. "Fifty cents for this? Tastes like dishwater." She plants a hand on her hip. "Then don't drink it." He shakes his head and walks away, leaving the cup on the counter. She watches him go. "You're welcome!" she calls after him, then picks up the cup and tosses it into a bin.

Catching your eye, she gives a crooked smile and lifts the pitcher. "Hey, lemonade? Made it myself this morning. And before you ask, yeah, it's got actual lemons in it."

Behind her, the beach stretches south toward Marina del Rey. Gulls wheel above the water, someone whistles for a dog, and the guitar player's music mingles with the waves.

Thursday, November 9, 1989 | 11:42 PM Bornholmer Straße, East Berlin, GDR

A roar rises from the crowd ahead of you, swallowing the traffic and the crackle of police radios. Under the yellow streetlights of Bornholmer Straße, hundreds of people press toward the border crossing at Bösebrücke, with more arriving from every direction. Wool coats rub against leather jackets, cigarette smoke hangs in the cold November air, and somewhere among the bodies a bottle shatters against the pavement.

"Die machen auf! Die machen wirklich auf!" a young man shouts, jumping to see over the shoulders ahead. They're opening it! They're really opening it! His friend grabs his arm. "Bist du sicher?" Are you sure? The first man points toward the checkpoint, laughing as another great cheer rolls through the crowd.

The border barrier is raised. People spill across the bridge toward West Berlin, some running, others walking slowly, glancing back at the guards. A pale-blue Trabant rattles through the crossing, its two-stroke engine buzzing beneath a chorus of car horns. A young woman leans from the passenger window, waving and shouting, "Tschüss! Tschüss!" An older man standing near you watches her pass and shakes his head. "Als wär's ein Volksfest," he mutters. As if it's a bloody festival.

A middle-aged woman beside you clutches a brown leather handbag against her chest. "Entschuldigung," she says, catching your attention with a nervous smile. "Wissen Sie, ob man einen Pass braucht?" Excuse me, do you know if you need a passport? Before an answer comes, a man behind her shouts, "Die lassen alle durch!" They're letting everyone through! She turns sharply. "Ja, und morgen sperren sie uns wieder ein!" Yes, and tomorrow they'll lock us in again! The man gives her an irritated look. "Dann bleiben Sie doch hier!" Then stay here! She presses her lips together and turns toward the checkpoint.

Several East German border guards stand beneath the fluorescent lights of their booths. One speaks urgently into a telephone while another waves pedestrians forward. A man in a leather jacket stops before the older guard. "Na? Heute dürfen wir plötzlich raus?" Well? Suddenly we're allowed out today? The guard points toward the bridge. "Gehen Sie weiter." Keep moving. "Dreißig Jahre lang habt ihr uns eingesperrt!" You lot kept us locked up for thirty years! The guard's jaw tightens. "Ich habe gesagt, weitergehen!" I said keep moving! A younger guard nearby watches the exchange, rubbing his hands together against the cold.

A few steps away, an elderly man in a dark overcoat argues with his wife. "Ich hab dir doch gesagt, wir hätten früher kommen sollen!" I told you we should've come earlier! She adjusts her glasses. "Helmut, du hast gesagt, im Fernsehen erzählen sie wieder Unsinn." Helmut, you said the television was talking nonsense again. He opens his mouth, thinks better of it, and looks toward the bridge. His wife laughs, links her arm through his, and pulls him forward.

A teenager in a denim jacket barges through the crowd, knocking against your side. "Entschuldigung!" he calls, already searching the faces ahead. "Katrin! KATRIN!" A girl raises both hands above her head. He grins and squeezes toward her, earning an angry "Pass doch auf!" Watch it! from a woman whose shopping bag he nearly knocks to the ground.

Across the bridge, West Berliners have gathered to welcome those coming through. A woman in a bright red coat offers plastic cups of sparkling wine. Two men embrace so fiercely that one loses his hat. Someone lifts a portable cassette recorder above the crowd, capturing the cheers. An elderly woman stands apart from the celebrating strangers, staring toward the western streets with tears running down her cheeks. When a young man asks if she's all right, she waves him away and searches her handbag for a handkerchief.

Beside a parked Wartburg, a father adjusts his little daughter's scarf. "Papa, sind wir jetzt im Westen?" she asks. Papa, are we in the West now? "Noch nicht, Spatz. Gleich." Not yet, sweetheart. Soon. She points toward the distant cheers. "Und gibt's da wirklich Bananen?" And do they really have bananas there? Her father laughs and lifts her into his arms.

Near the edge of the crowd, two men smoke cigarettes beneath a streetlamp. One wears a brown work jacket stained at the cuffs. "Und morgen?" he asks. And tomorrow? His companion shrugs. "Weiß der Teufel." God knows. The first takes another drag. "Alle reden vom Westen. Und unsere Arbeit? Unsere Wohnungen?" Everyone's talking about the West. What about our jobs? Our homes? His friend looks toward the checkpoint. "Erst mal sehen, was drüben los ist." Let's see what's happening over there first.

A woman with a small camera approaches you, her cheeks pink from the cold. She's in her early thirties, with short brown hair and a wool scarf wound twice around her neck. "Entschuldigung!" she calls, lifting the camera. "Könnten Sie vielleicht ein Foto von uns machen?" Could you possibly take a picture of us? She gestures toward a man standing behind her with a little boy on his shoulders. "Nur eins, bitte. Vor der Grenze." Just one, please. In front of the border.

Behind her, another cheer rolls across Bösebrücke. Car horns blare, people call out to friends, and the crowd continues moving westward beneath the streetlights. The woman holds out her camera with an expectant smile while her husband tries to persuade the boy to look toward the lens.

Wednesday, July 19, 1995 | 12:18 PM Nishi-Shinjuku, Tokyo, Japan

The midday sun hangs over Shinjuku, drawing a shimmer of heat from the asphalt. Humid air carries the smell of grilled fish, exhaust fumes, and soy sauce from restaurants tucked between office buildings. Salarymen in white shirts and dark trousers hurry past shoppers, students, and bicycles threading through the pedestrians. Traffic rumbles beneath distant station announcements and the electronic chirping of a pedestrian crossing.

A young man in a short-sleeved dress shirt approaches you with a stack of colorful flyers. "ランチいかがですかー！" How about some lunch? He holds one out, showing a photograph of curry rice advertised for ¥650. "大盛り無料ですよ！" Extra rice at no charge! An older businessman brushes past, knocking several flyers from his hand. "邪魔だよ！" You're in the way! The young man stoops to retrieve them, muttering "そっちこそ……" Look who's talking... before straightening up and resuming his cheerful sales pitch.

Outside a narrow soba restaurant, a woman in a blue apron rearranges plastic food models in a glass case. A sign advertises chilled tanuki soba for ¥580. Two office workers study the menu. "またそば？" one asks, loosening his tie. Soba again? His companion shrugs. "早いし、安いし。" It's quick and cheap. "昨日も同じこと言ってたじゃないか。" You said the same thing yesterday. They laugh and disappear through the blue noren curtain. The woman notices you nearby and gives a welcoming bow. "どうぞー。" Please, come in.

A bicycle bell rings sharply behind you. "すみませーん、通りまーす！" Excuse me, coming through! A delivery cyclist in a pale green cap squeezes past, cardboard boxes secured to his rear rack. A pedestrian steps into his path, absorbed in a newspaper. The cyclist brakes hard. "危ないなあ！" Watch it! The man glares over his paper. "歩道だぞ、ここは！" This is a sidewalk! The cyclist shakes his head and pedals away, still muttering.

Under a small tree, an elderly man in a gray shirt eats an onigiri on a concrete bench, watching two sparrows quarrel over a crumb. A younger man in a business suit approaches. "ここ、いいですか？" Mind if I sit here? The older man shifts his folded newspaper. "どうぞ、どうぞ。" Go ahead. They eat together in silence while traffic moves past.

Across the street, a music shop has its doors propped open. Spitz's "Robinson" spills from the speakers, mingling with the metallic rattle of a nearby pachinko parlor. Posters for B'z, Mr.Children, and TRF cover the glass beside displays of CDs and cassette tapes. Two high school girls stand beneath the awning, comparing purchases. One holds up a CD triumphantly. "ほら、やっと買えた！" Look, I finally got it! Her friend peers at the cover. "えー、またそれ？" What, that one again? "好きなんだからいいじゃん！" I like it, okay! "でも、二曲目が一番いいよ！" one insists. But the second track's the best! Her friend wrinkles her nose. "えー、絶対三曲目でしょ。" What? It's definitely the third one.

A middle-aged woman carrying two grocery bags passes close beside you with a little boy in a yellow baseball cap. He stops at a capsule-toy machine outside a convenience store. "お母さん、百円！一回だけ！" Mom, a hundred yen! Just once! She sighs. "さっきも一回だけって言ったでしょ。" You said just once earlier, too. When he begins tugging at her sleeve, she jerks her arm free. "いい加減にしなさい！" That's enough! He folds his arms and sulks beside the machine. She adjusts her bags and continues toward the crossing, calling for him to follow.

At the corner, a green-and-yellow taxi waits for the light. A small fan turns on its dashboard, and the driver sips canned coffee with his window rolled down. A businessman approaches. "新宿駅まで、どのくらいかかります？" How long to Shinjuku Station? The driver glances at the traffic. "歩いたほうが早いですよ。" You'll get there faster walking. The man looks at his watch, gives a quick nod, and hurries away. The driver takes another sip, turns up his radio, and waits for the light.

Outside a small kissaten with dark wooden window frames, a woman in her late twenties writes the lunch special on a blackboard. Her white blouse is rolled to the elbows, and a faded pink apron hangs from her waist. Through the doorway come the clink of dishes, quiet conversation, and the rich smell of coffee. A handwritten card advertises a sandwich, salad, and iced coffee set for ¥850.

An older customer emerges, frowning at his receipt. "ちょっと、これ間違ってない？" Hey, isn't this wrong? The woman examines it. "あ、申し訳ありません。すぐ直します。" Oh, I'm very sorry. I'll fix it right away. He exhales sharply. "ちゃんと確認してよ。" Check properly next time. She bows, corrects the bill inside, and returns his change. He counts the coins before leaving.

She watches him go for a moment, then rubs a crooked character from the blackboard with her thumb. Noticing you nearby, she smiles and gestures toward the doorway with her piece of chalk. "暑いですねえ。中、涼しいですよ。" Hot today, isn't it? It's cool inside. She shifts aside to make room at the entrance. "よかったらどうぞ。" Come in if you like.

A train rumbles somewhere beyond the buildings. Restaurant curtains sway as customers enter and leave, a vending machine rattles out a canned drink, and another wave of office workers emerges from the station into the afternoon heat.

Tuesday, October 15, 1996 | 4:27 PM Outside Gare Saint-Lazare, Paris, France

Rain has been falling over Paris for most of the afternoon, leaving the pavement outside Gare Saint-Lazare slick and dark. Commuters hurry beneath black and tartan umbrellas, newspapers tucked under their coats. Car tires hiss through puddles, a bus exhales at the curb, and somewhere inside the station a departure board rattles as its mechanical flaps turn. The air smells of wet wool, cigarette smoke, diesel, and espresso drifting from a nearby café.

To your left, a kiosk displays Le Monde, Libération, and Le Figaro beneath plastic sheeting. A cream-colored Peugeot 405 taxi idles at the curb, its wipers ticking back and forth. The driver leans out his window to shout at a motorist blocking the taxi rank. "C'est pas possible ! Avancez, bon sang !" For God's sake! Move along! The other driver answers with a raised middle finger before pulling away.

Under the shallow shelter of the station façade, a young woman sits curled on a bench, arms folded against her chest. She's in her twenties, with dark hair pinned loosely up and a soft blue dress beneath a cardigan far too thin for the weather. A small leather overnight bag rests at her feet. When a gust blows rain beneath the awning, she hunches tighter and mutters, "Putain de temps..." Bloody weather... An older man standing beside the bench points at her bag. "Vous pourriez enlever ça ? Il y a des gens qui veulent s'asseoir." Could you move that? Some of us would like to sit down. She pulls it closer with an irritated sigh. "Voilà. Content ?" There. Happy? He sits without answering. She glances toward you and gives a rueful little smile before rubbing warmth into her arms.

A few meters away, a busker plays an old acoustic guitar beneath a green umbrella balanced awkwardly over his shoulder. His case lies open at his feet, scattered with coins. A small crowd listens, including a young mother swaying with a sleepy toddler and two students sharing a cigarette. One student catches your eye, shrugs, and smiles. "C'est mieux que la pluie, au moins." It's better than the rain, at least. An impatient commuter pushes between the listeners. "Vous pouvez pas jouer ailleurs ?" he calls toward the guitarist. Can't you play somewhere else? The busker keeps strumming. An elderly woman drops a five-franc coin into his case and gives the commuter a disapproving look.

Near the curb, a couple share an umbrella barely large enough for one person. The man angles it toward his companion, leaving one shoulder of his coat soaked. She tugs it back. "Tu vas être trempé." You're going to be soaked. He laughs. "C'est le prix du romantisme." That's the price of romance. She rolls her eyes and straightens his scarf. A moment later, he steps into a puddle and splashes her stockings. "Oh, bravo, Thierry !" she exclaims, staring down at her shoes. "Merde ! Pardon, j'ai pas fait exprès !" he blurts. Shit! Sorry, I didn't mean to! She marches ahead, shaking water from her shoes, and he hurries after her with the umbrella.

Near a column plastered with concert posters and travel advertisements, a man in his early thirties stands alone with a folded umbrella hanging from one hand. He wears a charcoal overcoat, cream sweater, and leather satchel. He checks his watch, then studies the people streaming from the station. When he catches you looking, his expression tightens. "Quoi ?" What? He holds your gaze for a moment, then rubs his forehead and looks away, returning his attention to the entrance.

A porter wheels a rattling luggage cart across the pavement, forcing two businessmen aside. "Fais attention, bon sang !" one snaps. Watch it, for heaven's sake! The porter answers without slowing. "Je fais ce que je peux." I'm doing what I can. Behind them, two women emerge laughing beneath a shared umbrella, one carrying a bouquet of wrapped flowers. Their heels click briskly across the wet stone toward the taxi queue.

Under the striped awning of a café, a man in a beige trench coat sips espresso while reading his newspaper. A chalkboard lists soupe à l'oignon, croque-monsieur, and café crème. The waiter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, steps outside carrying a tray. "Une table vient de se libérer, si vous voulez," he tells a couple sheltering nearby. A table's just opened up, if you'd like it. They exchange a look, then follow him inside. The man with the newspaper glances at you briefly before returning to his article.

A boy darts out through the station doors chasing a ticket stub skittering across the pavement. He nearly collides with you, snatches it up, and grins. "Pardon !" Sorry! An older woman waiting in the doorway seizes his wrist. "Antoine ! Tu vas finir sous une voiture !" You'll end up under a car! She gives you an apologetic nod. "Mais je regardais, mamie !" he protests, tugging at her hand. But I was looking, Grandma! "Oui, bien sûr. Allez, viens." Yes, of course. Come on. She pulls him toward the station entrance.

Above the entrance, the station's iron and glass glisten beneath the gray sky. More passengers emerge, umbrellas snapping open as they descend the steps. A train announcement echoes faintly from within, followed by the rolling clatter of luggage. The young woman on the bench checks her watch again, the busker begins another tune, and rainwater streams along the curb toward a clogged drain.

Thursday, October 6, 1966 | 3:24 PM Rue Sainte-Claire, Annecy, France

The afternoon sun falls between the old stone buildings of Annecy, warming the cobblestones beneath the arcades of Rue Sainte-Claire. A cool breeze carries the smell of fresh bread, fallen leaves, and coffee from the little cafés along the street. Beyond the rooftops, the mountains rise pale blue beneath scattered clouds. Somewhere nearby, water murmurs through the canals, accompanied by the faint tolling of a church bell.

A cream-colored Citroën 2CV rattles along a nearby street, its driver braking for a woman crossing with a wicker basket. "Vous pourriez regarder où vous allez !" he calls through his open window. You could watch where you're going! She raises her chin. "C'est vous qui roulez comme un fou !" You're the one driving like a lunatic! He shakes his head and drives on. Farther down, a pale green Renault 4 sits parked beside a boulangerie. A man emerges carrying two baguettes, gives you a brief "Bonjour," and continues toward the square.

Beneath the old arcades, a café with pale yellow shutters and overflowing geranium boxes occupies the ground floor of a stone building. Its sign reads Café des Arcades. Four round tables stand beneath a faded red awning. Through the open doorway come the clink of porcelain cups, the hiss of an espresso machine, and Michel Polnareff's "La Poupée qui fait non" playing on a radio behind the counter.

At one table, two elderly gentlemen are playing cards. One wears a gray flat cap and knitted vest, while the other has white hair and a thin mustache. "Tu triches, Marcel," the first announces, tapping the table. You're cheating, Marcel. His companion barely looks up. "À mon âge ? Je n'ai plus l'énergie." At my age? I haven't the energy. "Pour tricher, si. Pour payer ta tournée, jamais !" You've got energy to cheat, but never to buy a round! Marcel snorts. "Alors, paie la prochaine toi-même !" Then buy the next one yourself! Their argument continues over two glasses of red wine.

Near the edge of the terrace, a young woman sits alone with a paperback beside her coffee. She's in her mid-twenties, with chestnut hair held back by a blue ribbon. Her cardigan hangs from the back of her chair, and a leather handbag rests near her feet. She glances up as you come into view, offering a faint smile before returning to her book. At a neighboring table, two older women are watching her. "Elle est encore là, celle-là," one murmurs. That one's here again. "Toujours à lire au lieu de travailler." Always reading instead of working. The young woman turns a page, then looks up over her book. "Je vous entends, madame." I can hear you, madam. One woman stiffens while the other takes a sudden interest in her coffee.

A young waiter emerges carrying three espressos. His sleeves are rolled up, and his white apron bears a coffee stain near the pocket. "Alors, messieurs, qui a gagné cette fois ?" he asks the card players. Well, gentlemen, who won this time? "Moi, évidemment," says Marcel. Me, obviously. His companion throws down a card. "Menteur !" Liar! The waiter laughs, sets down their coffees, and turns toward you. "Bonjour ! Vous voulez vous installer ?" Hello! Would you like to sit down? He gestures toward an empty table beneath the awning. "Il y a encore du soleil ici. Profitez-en." There's still some sunshine here. Make the most of it.

Across the street, a young man with dark curly hair sits on a folding stool beside the canal, a sketchbook balanced on his knees. He wears a rumpled white shirt and paint-speckled shoes. A little girl in a red coat has stopped to watch him, peering over his shoulder.

"C'est joli," she says solemnly. It's pretty.

"Merci, mademoiselle," he replies with exaggerated politeness. Thank you, miss.

She points at the page. "Mais pourquoi la maison est penchée ?" But why is the house crooked?

He studies his drawing. "Ah. Bonne question." Ah. Good question. He tilts his head to match the crooked house, making her giggle. An older man passing with a shopping bag pauses to inspect the sketch. "C'est ça, l'art moderne ?" he asks. That's modern art? The artist looks up. "Non, monsieur. C'est une vieille maison." No, sir. It's an old house. The man grunts and walks away.

Inside the café, an older woman with silver-streaked hair arranges pastries behind the glass counter. A customer in a navy jacket stands nearby reading Le Dauphiné libéré. "Ils parlent encore de Paris," he remarks, folding the newspaper. They're talking about Paris again. She shrugs. "Eh bien, qu'ils en parlent. Nous, on est bien ici." Well, let them talk. We're quite happy here. He scoffs. "Parlez pour vous. Mon fils veut partir à Lyon. Ici, il trouve rien." Speak for yourself. My son wants to leave for Lyon. He can't find anything here. She slides a fresh tray of pastries into the display. "Alors qu'il essaie Lyon." Then let him try Lyon.

A bicycle bell sounds at the far end of the street. A young woman in a mustard-colored sweater rides past with a canvas bag over one shoulder, calling, "Salut, Jacques !" The waiter raises a hand. "À demain, Lucie !" See you tomorrow, Lucie!

A few dry leaves tumble across the cobblestones and settle beside the empty café table. The young woman with the novel reaches for her cup, finds it empty, and lifts a hand toward the waiter. Across the street, the artist erases a line from his drawing, sending little curls of rubber onto the pavement. Inside, the radio gives way to the announcer's voice as the espresso machine hisses again.

Wednesday, April 10, 1912 | 8:47 AM White Star Dock, Southampton, England

The morning air over Southampton carries the smell of saltwater, coal smoke, wet rope, and fresh paint. A pale, overcast sky turns the harbor silver between the piers. Along the White Star Dock, porters push trolleys piled with trunks and hatboxes, dockworkers shout over the clatter of cargo, and horses stamp in the traces of delivery carts. Motorcars rumble past the warehouses, their horns competing with the cries of gulls.

Above it all rises the Titanic.

Her enormous black hull towers over the quay, white-painted upper decks stretching along rows of portholes and gangways. Four buff-colored funnels rise into the morning sky. Men in caps move along the deck rails, looking impossibly small against the great superstructure.

A porter in a dark uniform steers a laden trolley toward you. "Mind your step there," he calls, maneuvering around a family gathered beside their luggage. The youngest daughter stares open-mouthed at the liner. "Is that really it, Papa?" Her father adjusts his spectacles. "Yes, sweetheart. That's our ship." Nearby, a stout gentleman with an expensive leather valise snaps his fingers at the porter. "You there! I've been waiting ten minutes for someone to attend to these cases." The porter glances at his already overloaded trolley. "I'll be with you presently, sir." "Presently? Good Lord, what do they pay you people for?" The porter adjusts his coat and continues toward the gangway.

Near the boarding area, two young women in tailored traveling suits study a folded ticket. "I still think we're absurdly early," one remarks. Her companion gazes up at the ship. "I'd have come at dawn if they'd let me." She catches your eye and offers a quick, delighted smile before returning to the conversation.

A motorcar pulls up nearby, depositing an elderly gentleman in a dark frock coat and a woman wearing pale lavender beneath her traveling coat. Their chauffeur begins unloading a leather trunk. "Careful with that one," the woman instructs. "The blue trunk, especially." He tips his cap. "Certainly, madam." Her husband surveys the ship. "Good heavens. Well, she's certainly large enough." A family carrying their own battered suitcases passes close by, and the woman gathers her skirts aside. "I do wish they'd keep the steerage passengers to their own entrance," she murmurs. Her husband offers a distracted grunt, still studying the funnels.

Farther down the quay, a young man in a brown jacket stands beside a single battered suitcase. He's in his twenties, with a frayed collar and boots polished for the occasion. He watches the boarding passengers, occasionally adjusting his grip on the handle. When he notices you looking, he gives a small, uncertain nod. An older man passing with his own luggage stops beside him. "First time at sea, lad?" The young man nods. "First time out of England, sir." "America, is it?" "New York. My brother's got work for me there." The older man shifts his bag to his other hand. "Well, you'll soon find your sea legs. Best of luck to you."

Two dockworkers pause beside a stack of cargo netting. One wipes his hands on his trousers and jerks his chin toward the liner. "Wouldn't fancy being the poor devil told to scrub all those decks." His companion snorts. "I'd fancy the wages well enough." "You'd fancy sitting on your arse in first class, more like." They laugh, then turn as a foreman calls from farther along the quay. "You two! There's work to be done!" One mutters, "There's always bloody work to be done," before picking up his gloves.

Nearby, a newsboy carrying a tray of newspapers spots you and lifts a copy hopefully. "Morning paper? Daily Echo, penny a copy!" A man brushes past him without looking, knocking several papers loose. "Oi! Watch it, mister!" The boy crouches to retrieve them, grumbling as he straightens the stack.

Beneath a warehouse awning, a dark-haired woman in a navy traveling suit stands with her mother. The older woman adjusts her daughter's collar for the third time. "Write as soon as you arrive," she insists. Her daughter laughs softly. "Mama, I shall still be on the water for days." "Then write from Cherbourg." "I shall write from Cherbourg, and Queenstown, and every port between here and New York if it pleases you." Her mother sighs. "There's no need to be cheeky, Eleanor." The younger woman catches your eye and shares a weary, affectionate smile before taking her mother's hands.

At the gangway, a White Star official checks tickets and directs passengers toward the appropriate boarding areas. "Second class this way, if you please. Tickets ready." A woman in a plum-colored hat searches frantically through her handbag while her son shifts beside her. "Mother, you've lost them!" "Arthur, will you kindly be quiet?" The official checks his watch. "Madam, if you would step aside until you've found them. There are others waiting." She flushes and moves away, still rummaging through her bag.

Above the dock, signal flags stir in the breeze. A low whistle sounds from somewhere aboard, rolling across the harbor. People continue arriving, embracing, calling for porters, and arguing over luggage. The liner remains at her berth, with several hours before her scheduled noon departure.

Thursday, September 18, 1958 | 2:36 PM Central, Hong Kong Island, British Hong Kong

The afternoon sun shines through a veil of haze over Victoria Harbour, turning the water a pale, glittering green. Hot, sticky air carries the smell of seawater, frying garlic, engine exhaust, and incense drifting from somewhere up the street. Along the waterfront, sampans bob between larger vessels while a green-and-white Star Ferry approaches the pier, its engines churning through the water. Passengers crowd along the railing, preparing to disembark.

A bell clangs behind you. "叮！叮！" A double-decker tram rattles toward Queen's Road, its windows filled with commuters and shoppers. A man in a white shirt leans out to shout a greeting to someone on the pavement. Nearby, a black Morris Minor waits for pedestrians to cross. Its driver taps impatiently on the wheel before leaning on the horn. "喂！快啲啦！" Hey! Hurry up!

Outside a street-side food stall, an elderly woman in a faded blue blouse tends a steaming pot of noodles. Customers perch on wooden stools beneath a canvas awning, eating from porcelain bowls. "老闆娘，再加啲辣椒！" a man calls, raising his bowl. Boss, a little more chili! She glances over her shoulder. "你唔怕辣死呀？" Aren't you afraid you'll burn your mouth off? The customers laugh. At the next stool, a man complains about the price. "又加價？上個禮拜都冇咁貴！" Raised it again? It wasn't this expensive last week! She plants his bowl in front of him. "樣樣都貴咗啦！" Everything's gone up! He grumbles but reaches for his chopsticks.

A young woman in a pale yellow cheongsam passes close beside you, balancing parcels against her hip. One slips, and she catches it against her elbow. "哎呀！" She laughs, catches your eye, and gives an embarrassed smile. "差啲跌咗添。" Nearly dropped the lot. Adjusting her packages, she continues toward the tram stop.

Under a building's deep veranda, two older men play Chinese chess on folding chairs. Several spectators crowd around them. One player studies the board while his opponent taps a sandal against the pavement. "行啦，諗到聽日呀？" Come on, are you going to think until tomorrow? The first moves a piece. "急乜嘢啫？" What's the hurry? A spectator leans forward. "行錯啦！" Wrong move! The player slaps his palm against the table. "你咁叻，你嚟捉啦！" If you're so clever, you play! The spectator laughs and steps back while the opponent examines the board with a satisfied grin.

Farther along, a hand-pulled rickshaw stands beside shopfronts crowded with painted advertisements and Chinese characters. Its driver, a lean man wearing a straw hat, wipes his forehead with a cotton towel. He looks your way, raises one handle, and calls, "去邊度呀?" Where to? A businessman in a pressed linen suit interrupts, demanding a ride toward the bank. The driver quotes a fare. "咁貴？搶錢呀？" That much? Are you robbing me? The driver folds his arms. "嫌貴就行路啦。" If it's too expensive, walk. The businessman mutters angrily and marches away. The driver watches him go, then wipes his neck with the towel again.

Near a newspaper kiosk, a young man in a neatly pressed shirt talks excitedly to a friend about work at a garment factory. "有得做夜班，仲有錢加！" They've got night shifts, with extra pay! His friend shakes his head. "咁你咪日日做到夜囉。" Then you'll be working till night every day. The young man grins. "有錢賺嘛！" At least there's money to be made! His friend folds his newspaper. "你遲早做到瞓着。" You'll work yourself to sleep one day.

Beside the kiosk, a woman in her early thirties examines postcards on a rotating rack. She wears a cream blouse, navy skirt, and a wristwatch with a brown leather strap. A Rolleiflex camera hangs from her shoulder. She raises it to photograph the approaching ferry, but a passerby steps directly into her view. She lowers the camera with an irritated click of her tongue. "Oh, honestly..." When she notices you nearby, her expression softens. "Beautiful afternoon for pictures, isn't it?" she says in English, glancing back toward the harbor.

A little boy in a white school shirt darts through the crowd carrying a paper kite, pursued by his older sister. "阿明！返嚟呀！" she shouts. Ah Ming! Come back! He dodges around a bicycle and nearly collides with a porter carrying a crate. "喂！睇路呀！" the porter snaps. Watch where you're going! The boy turns. "對唔住呀！" Sorry! His sister catches him by the collar. "阿媽知道實鬧死你！" Mum's going to give you a proper scolding! He wriggles in her grip as she marches him back toward the street.

From a radio shop comes the bright sound of Cantonese opera, its ornamented singing mingling with tram bells and vendors' calls. A shopkeeper adjusts the aerial of a large tabletop receiver while an older customer watches. "呢部日本收音機好啲？" Is this Japanese radio better? The shopkeeper nods. "收得清楚啲。" Better reception. The customer squints at the price tag and snorts. "咁嘅價錢，梗係要清楚啦！" At that price, it had better be!

At the ferry pier, the gates open and passengers pour onto the waterfront. A worker in a white uniform directs arrivals around a handcart loaded with parcels. He notices you near the entrance. "Kowloon side?" he asks in English, pointing toward the boarding area. "Next ferry soon."

Beyond him, the harbor stretches toward the crowded shoreline of Tsim Sha Tsui. A ship's horn sounds over the water, tram bells answer from the street, and the noodle vendor calls for someone to collect their change.

Wednesday, November 24, 1976 | 3:38 PM Maggie's Diner, Princess Street, Kingston, Ontario, Canada

The windows of Maggie's Diner are fogged around the edges, streaked with November rain. Outside, a brown Dodge Dart rolls past with its windshield wipers squeaking, followed by a city bus that stops with a hiss of brakes. Inside, the air smells of coffee, fried onions, and apple pie cooling beneath a glass dome. Red vinyl booths line the wall, their seats cracked and patched with black tape. Chrome stools face the kitchen, and a transistor radio beside the register plays Gordon Lightfoot's "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald."

"Aw, turn that up, would ya, Mags?" calls an older man at the counter. He wears a navy sweater, a faded cap with a fishing lure pinned to the brim, and heavy work boots. Maggie, stout and gray-haired with thick plastic glasses, reaches over to adjust the volume. "You've heard it four times today, Harold." He lifts his mug. "And I'll hear it four more." A man farther down the counter groans. "Jesus, Harold, some of us are sick of that bloody song." Harold turns on his stool. "Then buy yourself a radio, Len." Maggie chuckles and returns to counting change.

A teenage waitress in a mustard-yellow uniform approaches you with a coffee pot. Her name tag reads Debbie, and a silver maple leaf hangs from a chain around her neck. "Hey there. Coffee? Or you after something to eat? Kitchen's got meatloaf today. It's pretty good, actually." From the serving hatch, a man's voice calls, "Pretty good?" Debbie grins. "All right, Dad, it's magnificent. Best meatloaf in the province." The cook laughs and disappears behind a cloud of steam.

At a window booth, two young women in bell-bottom jeans and knitted sweaters have spread textbooks across the table. One, with curly red hair and enormous round glasses, gestures with a crumpled napkin. "I'm telling you, if I fail this exam, my mother's gonna make me move back home." Her friend takes a bite of toast. "Susan, you said that about the last one." "And I nearly failed!" "You got an eighty-two!" Susan throws up her hands. "Exactly! It's getting worse!" Her friend sets down her toast. "You know, some of us would kill for an eighty-two. I studied all weekend for a sixty-four." Susan starts to answer, then picks at the edge of her napkin. "Yeah. Sorry, Claire." Claire shrugs and returns to her toast.

Near the entrance, a man in a tan corduroy jacket sits alone with The Kingston Whig-Standard. He's in his thirties, with dark hair and a few days' stubble. "You getting the usual, Peter?" Debbie asks, topping up his coffee. He barely lifts his eyes from the newspaper. "Grilled cheese." "Thought you might try something different today." He folds the paper sharply. "Debbie, for Christ's sake, just the sandwich." She pauses with the pot in her hand. "All right, Pete." A moment later he rubs his forehead and looks toward the kitchen. "Ah, Deb? Sorry. Been a rotten day." She gives a small shrug. "Coming right up."

The door swings open with a jingle from the brass bell. A young woman in a green wool coat steps inside, cheeks pink from the cold, clutching a damp shopping bag. "Christ, it's miserable out there." She notices you nearby and smiles apologetically while wrestling with her umbrella. "Sorry, am I dripping on you?" She shakes it once over the rubber mat and heads toward an empty booth. "Debbie, sweetheart, please tell me there's still pie."

"Apple or cherry!"

"God bless you."

At the counter, Harold has begun telling Maggie about a fishing trip on Lake Ontario. "Biggest bloody pike I've seen in fifteen years," he insists, spreading his hands apart. Maggie studies the distance between them. "Funny, Harold. Gets bigger every time you tell it." Len snorts into his coffee. "Last week it was a trout." Harold points at him. "Nobody asked you, Len." Maggie slides a fresh cup across the counter. "Drink your coffee, both of you."

A man in a dark work jacket enters, rubbing rain from his thinning hair. He studies the occupied stools, then looks toward your side of the counter. "This seat taken?" Before anyone answers, he pulls out a stool farther along and sits heavily. "Coffee. Black." Maggie glances over. "Hello to you too, Mr. Henderson." He grunts, fishing a packet of Export A cigarettes from his pocket.

Behind the counter, a hand-lettered chalkboard lists coffee for 35 cents, a burger and fries for $2.25, and pie for 65 cents. Cigarette smoke hangs beneath the ceiling lights, and an abandoned crossword sits beside an overflowing ashtray. Through the rain-streaked windows, the shops along Princess Street are beginning to glow, their reflections stretching across the wet pavement.

Debbie pauses beside you again, pencil hovering over her order pad. "So, what'll it be, hon?" The radio gives way to a commercial for a local furniture store. Behind her, somebody in the kitchen drops a pan with a tremendous clatter, followed by her father's voice: "I'm all right! Nobody come looking!"

Wednesday, October 17, 1894 | 2:35 PM Carlisle Indian Industrial School, Carlisle, Pennsylvania, USA

A cold October wind moves across the grounds of the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, scattering yellow leaves over the gravel paths. Beyond the iron fence stand rows of brick buildings with tall windows, broad porches, and neatly maintained lawns. The air smells of damp earth, coal smoke, and freshly cut timber from the workshops. Somewhere beyond the schoolhouse comes the repeated strike of a hammer against metal. A bell rings, sharp and insistent, and a line of boys in dark, military-style uniforms begins marching across the grounds.

"Eyes forward! Keep your places!" calls a tall instructor in a black coat, pacing beside them. One boy, perhaps twelve, turns his head toward the sound of a wagon passing along the road. "Thomas! Do you require another lesson in attention?" The boy faces forward. "No, sir." "Then behave as though you've learned the first one." The instructor turns to the others. "Company, halt!"

Near the main entrance, a white-painted sign identifies the institution as the United States Indian Industrial School. A horse-drawn wagon waits beside the gate, its bed stacked with sacks of flour and wooden crates. The driver, a broad-shouldered man with a reddish beard, argues with a school employee over a delivery receipt. "I brought what your office ordered." The employee taps the paper. "And the account says twelve sacks. You've brought eleven." "Well, count 'em again if you like. I loaded twelve this morning." He catches sight of you nearby and rolls his eyes before climbing into the wagon to check.

Across the grounds, several girls in long, high-collared dresses carry baskets of laundry toward a service building. One of them, a tall girl of about fifteen, pauses when a smaller girl struggles to keep her basket balanced. "Here, give me some," she says quietly, shifting a bundle into her own. The younger girl smiles. "Thank you, Mary." An older woman standing near the doorway claps her hands. "Girls! We have work enough without all this dawdling." The taller girl adjusts her basket and answers, "Yes, ma'am." Both continue toward the building.

On a bench near the schoolhouse, two boys sit with spelling books open across their knees. One, with closely cropped dark hair, is sounding out a sentence in English. His companion, an older boy with a narrow face and a missing front tooth, listens before interrupting. "That's not what it says, Joseph." "Then you read it." The older boy takes the book, squints, and hesitates. Joseph grins. "Thought so." They both laugh until a teacher appears in the doorway.

"What's so amusing?"

"Nothing, Miss Carter."

"Then I trust we'll hear the lesson correctly this afternoon."

The boys lower their eyes to the page. As she walks away, Joseph nudges his companion with one elbow.

A short distance away, a younger child stands beside a woman in a severe gray dress. The boy's uniform jacket hangs loosely from his shoulders, and his hair has been cut short. He is holding a small cloth handkerchief, rubbing its embroidered corner between his fingers.

"Speak plainly, William," the woman says.

"Iná..." the boy whispers. Mother...

"English. You know the rule."

He rubs the embroidered corner of his handkerchief between his fingers. "I want my mother."

The woman straightens his collar. "Your mother sent you here to be educated. You must learn to conduct yourself properly." She takes him by the shoulder and leads him toward the schoolhouse. He turns his head once toward the road before passing through the doorway.

Near the fence, a man in a dark suit and bowler hat stands speaking with a younger teacher. He carries a leather portfolio, and a gold watch chain hangs across his waistcoat. "Remarkable progress, I must say," he remarks, watching the marching boys. "They look quite respectable." The teacher adjusts his spectacles. "Most have come a very long way, Mr. Whitcomb." "Well, that's the whole purpose, isn't it? Give them a proper Christian upbringing." The younger man watches the line of boys turn toward the dining hall. "Yes, sir," he answers after a moment.

A girl of about sixteen approaches along the path carrying a stack of exercise books. Her hair is pinned neatly back, and she wears a dark blue dress with polished black shoes. She notices you near the entrance and slows. "Are you looking for the office?" she asks, glancing toward the administration building. Before she can say more, a woman calls from the porch, "Anna! Those books belong in the classroom." Anna turns her head. "I'm taking them now, ma'am." The woman folds her arms and waits.

Beyond the school grounds, a wagon rattles along the road toward Carlisle. A few children gather beside the schoolhouse steps, their voices rising briefly before another bell sends them inside. Near the entrance, Anna adjusts the books against her hip and looks toward you again, waiting for an answer.

Sunday, December 7, 1941 | 8:04 AM Aiea, overlooking Pearl Harbor, Territory of Hawaii, USA

The Sunday morning air is warm and humid, carrying the smell of saltwater, flowering trees, and breakfast cooking in the houses along the road. Beyond the rooftops, Pearl Harbor glitters in the sunlight, gray warships lying at anchor across the water. A delivery truck stands outside a grocery store, its rear doors open, while Hawaiian music plays from a radio behind the counter.

A tremendous boom rolls across the harbor. The grocery windows rattle, and a flock of birds rises from the trees. A man in work trousers steps out onto the pavement, cigarette between his fingers. "What the hell was that?" he asks. Another explosion follows, farther away. The younger man beside him shades his eyes. "Sounds like they're practicing with the big guns." The first man frowns. "On a Sunday?"

A woman in a flowered house dress emerges from the grocery with a paper bag. "Frank, what's all that racket?" He points toward the harbor, where a dark column of smoke rises beyond the buildings. "Something's caught fire down there." She looks toward the ships. "Oh, Lord. Hope nobody's hurt."

The roar of approaching engines grows rapidly louder. Three aircraft sweep across the harbor, flying low enough for their shapes to stand out against the hills. One banks sharply, revealing red circles on its wings. The younger man takes a few steps into the road. "Hey, those markings..." Before he finishes, a succession of sharp cracks comes from across the water, followed by another explosion.

A sailor in a white undershirt and navy trousers rushes from a parked Ford sedan, clutching his uniform shirt. "What's going on?" he demands. Frank points toward the smoke. "Some sort of accident at the base." The sailor watches a plane descend toward the ships. "That's no accident." A second aircraft passes overhead, its engine drowning out his voice. He ducks, then runs toward the intersection. "Anybody going to the Navy yard?"

Across the street, a middle-aged Japanese American man with neatly combed black hair and wire-rimmed spectacles steps out of a small provisions store. He wears a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark suspenders. A teenage girl emerges behind him, still wearing a shop apron. "Papa, should we close up?" He watches smoke spreading over the harbor. "Get your mother. Tell her to come downstairs." She hesitates. "What about the windows?" "Leave them. Go on." She hurries inside while he pulls the shop door partly shut.

A truck brakes at the intersection. Its driver, a Filipino man with oil-stained sleeves, leans out. "What's happening down there?" The sailor runs toward him. "I need to get back to the base!" "They're shooting?" "Looks that way!" The driver stares across the harbor. "Shooting at what?" A distant burst of gunfire answers him. "Get in, then!" he shouts, reaching across to unlock the passenger door.

An older Hawaiian woman in a faded blue dress comes down the steps of a nearby house carrying a small boy. "Makoa! Come get your brother!" A young man appears in the doorway. "Grandma, what's happening?" "Get everybody inside. Away from the windows." He takes the child from her arms and hurries back into the house. She turns toward the road and calls to a neighbor, "Mrs. Wilson! Take your children inside!"

Another aircraft passes low above the rooftops. Its engine rattles the windows, and a sudden burst of gunfire sends several people running toward the grocery. The woman carrying the paper bag drops it, scattering oranges across the pavement. Frank catches her by the elbow. "Come on, get inside!" She stumbles after him while the younger man crouches beside a parked car, staring upward.

Near the corner, two young women stand beside their bicycles. One holds a small radio, turning its dial with trembling fingers. "I can't get anything," she says. Her companion looks toward the harbor. "My brother's on the California." "We don't know what's happening yet, Alice." "Look at all that smoke, Ruth!" Alice pushes her bicycle toward the waterfront. Ruth catches the handlebars. "Alice, stop! What good's going down there gonna do?" Alice pulls against her grip. "I need to know!"

Inside the grocery, a customer argues with the proprietor. "Those are Japanese planes! I saw the markings!" The proprietor shakes his head. "You're telling me Japan's attacking Hawaii? How'd they get here?" "I don't know how they got here!" The man's voice rises. "I know what I saw!"

Outside, the sailor climbs into the truck, still struggling into his shirt. The driver calls toward you and the others near the road. "Better get under cover! They're coming back around!" He slams the truck into gear and pulls away.

Across Pearl Harbor, antiaircraft fire bursts around the diving aircraft. Smoke drifts inland, carrying the smell of burning oil. A sharp metallic clatter comes from the grocery roof, and someone inside screams. The man from the provisions store steps outside again, sees people running toward the storefronts, and calls, "There's room in here! Come inside!"

From the harbor comes another heavy explosion. The grocery's front window shivers in its frame, and the radio inside crackles beneath a man's hurried voice. Frank crouches beside the woman who dropped her groceries, shielding her head as fragments of glass fall from a broken pane above them.

"Everybody down!" he shouts.

Friday, October 25, 1957 | 7:18 PM The Blue Comet Drive-In, Wichita, Kansas, USA

The evening smells of gasoline, hot asphalt, and hamburgers sizzling on a griddle. On Wichita's outskirts, a red-and-turquoise neon sign flashes BLUE COMET DRIVE-IN above rows of parked cars. Chrome gleams beneath the lights. The Everly Brothers' "Wake Up Little Susie" spills from the jukebox, competing with car radios and revving engines.

Near the front, a cherry-red 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air stands with its hood raised. Bobby, a lanky blond boy in a WICHITA EAST varsity jacket, gestures proudly at the engine. "She's got more pep than anything your old man drives, Ricky." Ricky, broad-shouldered in rolled-up jeans, snorts. "Then how come I smoked you down Douglas last Saturday?" "Aw, applesauce, you got a head start!" "You stalled it, genius!" Betty, perched on the fender in a blue cardigan and ponytail, laughs. "You boys oughta charge admission for all this jawing." Bobby drops the hood. "Wanna see what she can do?" "I'd rather see you pass algebra."

A Ford Fairlane pulls in beside them. Eddie tumbles out of the back seat, laughing. "Old Henderson nearly popped a gasket when he caught us behind the gym!" The driver straightens his leather jacket. "Caught you smoking. Leave me out of it." Eddie shrugs. "The old square's got it in for me anyway."

Dottie, a carhop in a pink uniform and white paper cap, glides past on roller skates with a tray of burgers and malts. She hooks it onto a Plymouth's window. "Two cheeseburgers, cherry Coke, vanilla shake. Which wise guy wanted extra pickles?" A boy inside raises his hand. "Figures," she says. "You look like trouble." She spots you nearby. "Hey there! You ordering something? Kitchen's still hopping."

At a picnic table, Carol, Nancy, and a girl in cat-eye glasses pore over a movie magazine. Carol points at a photograph of Elvis. "Would you look at him? Dreamy." Nancy rolls her eyes. "My mother says he's ruining the country." "Your mother thinks chewing gum ruins the country." The girl in glasses snaps the magazine shut. "Could we talk about something besides boys for five minutes?" Carol grins. "Sure, Marlene. How's your date with Danny?" "I said besides boys."

Across the lot, Ray sits on the hood of a battered 1949 Ford, grease beneath his nails. June stands beside him with two root beers. "You coming to the dance tomorrow?" she asks. He fiddles with a transistor radio. "Dunno. Gotta help my old man at the garage." "You said that last week." "Cars keep breaking down." June sets his drink beside him. "You could just say you don't wanna take me." Ray looks up. "Aw, nuts, June. I never said that." She waits, arms folded, while he turns the radio off.

A boy in a spotless letterman sweater leans against his father's Buick Roadmaster. "Look at that heap," Don says, nodding toward Ray's Ford. "I'd be embarrassed to drive it." The blonde girl beside him takes a sip of soda. "At least he built half of it himself." "What's that supposed to mean?" She gives him a long look. "You tell me."

At the service window, Lou the cook bellows, "Dottie! Order twelve's getting cold!" She wheels around. "Then make sure it's the right order this time!" Two boys whistle at her as she passes. "Cool it, Romeos," she calls. "Your mothers know you're out?" One boy colors while his friend howls.

Near the entrance, a middle-aged couple survey the lot from their Chevrolet sedan. "Half these children ought to be home studying," the woman says. Her husband watches Bobby start the Bel Air. "That's a mighty fine motor." "Harold." He straightens in his seat. "Terrible racket, though."

A boy pedals between cars, shouting, "Hey, Bobby! Heard you're taking that crate out to the strip tonight!" Bobby grins. "Who told you?" "Everybody!" Ricky steps closer. "I'm coming too. Somebody's gotta show you how it's done." Betty looks between them. "Somebody's gonna have to explain it to your fathers."

The jukebox clicks, and Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock" kicks in. Carol catches Nancy's hands and dances beside their table, almost bumping a customer carrying fries. "Watch it, you crazy dames!" he snaps. Nancy laughs and shifts aside.

Bobby turns toward you, one hand resting on the Chevrolet's warm hood. "How 'bout you? Know anything about engines, or are you one of those squares who thinks a car's just for getting to church?" Betty raises an eyebrow. "Don't mind him. He thinks he's James Dean with a driver's license." From behind them comes the deep rumble of another engine turning over.

Monday, March 12, 1945 | 9:19 AM Weteringplantsoen, Amsterdam, German-occupied Netherlands

A cold wind moves through Weteringplantsoen, carrying the smell of damp brick, coal smoke, and rubbish piled beside the park. Dirty snow clings to the gutters. Several bicycles stand abandoned against a wall, their owners among the civilians gathered along the pavement. A military truck idles nearby. German soldiers push more pedestrians into the crowd, rifles in their hands.

"Hier bleiben! Alle!" one shouts. Stay here! Everyone! A woman holding a paper parcel tries to move past him. "Mijn kinderen zijn alleen thuis. Alstublieft..." My children are home alone. Please... He shoves her back. An elderly man steadies her by the elbow. "Kom maar hier," he whispers. Come over here. The soldier turns toward you, fixes you with a hard stare, and points his rifle at the pavement beside the other spectators. "Stehen bleiben!" Stay where you are!

Near the truck, ten prisoners stand in a line. One wears a torn overcoat, another has a stained bandage around his forehead. A younger man in a thin jacket rubs his hands together against the cold. Behind them, armed men take their positions across a strip of muddy ground.

A boy in an oversized school coat clutches his mother's sleeve. "Mam, wat gaan ze doen?" Mum, what are they going to do? She pulls his head against her side. "Kijk naar mij, Henk." Look at me, Henk.

An officer steps forward. "Als Vergeltung für den Mord an einem Angehörigen der deutschen Besatzungsmacht werden dreißig Gefangene erschossen!" In reprisal for the killing of a member of the German occupation forces, thirty prisoners will be shot! A man beside him repeats the announcement in Dutch. "Dertig gevangenen worden doodgeschoten. Als vergelding." Thirty prisoners will be shot. In reprisal. Someone near the back of the crowd says, "Dertig?" Thirty? A woman begins praying under her breath.

The young prisoner raises his head. "Mama!" he cries. "Mama!" The mother holding Henk presses a hand over his ear. An order rings out. The rifles rise, and the first volley cracks across the park.

POWWWHH!

The prisoners fall among the refuse, dark blood pooling around them. A man in the crowd bends forward and vomits. The woman with the parcel stifles a scream, her shoulders shaking.

A soldier notices an onlooker turning away. "Hinsehen!" Look! He strikes the man's shoulder with his rifle butt and pushes him back toward the others. Another ten prisoners are led from the truck. One stumbles over the curb and falls to his knees. "Alstublieft, ik heb twee kinderen!" Please, I have two children! A guard hauls him upright. A second volley sounds. From behind the crowd comes a short scream, followed by the slap of a hand against someone's mouth.

A young woman in a woolen scarf grips an older woman's hand. "Die man... is dat Willem?" That man... is that Willem? The older woman squints toward the bodies. "Ik weet het niet, lieverd." I don't know, dear. "Hij heeft dezelfde jas." He has the same coat. The older woman holds on as the final prisoners are marched forward. Two of the men briefly clasp hands. A guard forces them apart. The officer calls another order. The third volley follows.

For a moment there is only the idling truck and the sound of someone sobbing. One soldier lights a cigarette. Another bends to collect spent cartridges. The dead remain beside the rubbish heap. When the officer gestures toward the road, the crowd begins moving. The woman in the scarf sinks onto a low step. "Ik moet weten of hij het was." I have to know if it was him. The older woman crouches beside her. "Ik blijf bij je." I'll stay with you.

The woman with the parcel stands where the soldier pushed her. "Mijn kinderen," she says again, staring down the street. My children. The elderly man offers his arm. "Ik breng u naar huis." I'll take you home. She takes it, and they walk away together. Henk keeps asking his mother why the men were shot. She holds his hand and leads him across the bridge.

A shopkeeper comes out carrying a folded blanket. He starts toward the bodies, but a soldier swings his rifle toward him. "Zurück!" Back! The shopkeeper retreats into his doorway, still holding the blanket. The truck pulls away, leaving dark tracks on the wet street.

A woman approaching with an empty saucepan stops at the edge of the park. The pan falls from her fingers and strikes the stones. She bends to retrieve it, but her shaking hand knocks it over again.

Friday, October 21, 1927 | 9:36 PM The Blue Lantern, South Side, Chicago, Illinois, USA

Cold October rain darkens the pavement along a South Side street. A yellow taxi rattles past a chestnut vendor's cart, and an elevated train clatters somewhere beyond the rooftops. Between a tailor's shop and a shuttered storefront, a blue lantern hangs above a narrow stairway. Cornet notes and laughter rise from below. At the basement door, a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit shifts a toothpick between his teeth as he looks you over. "Evening. Looking for somebody, or looking for a drink?" A woman's voice calls from inside, "Aw, let 'em in, Charlie! We need customers!" He glances over his shoulder. "Mind your business, Rosie." Then he holds the door open with one polished shoe.

The room is warm with cigarette smoke, fried onions, and spilled liquor. Amber lamps shine over red leather booths and tables crowded around a small dance floor. Behind the bar, unmarked bottles stand beneath a chalkboard reading TONIGHT'S SPECIAL — CHICKEN DINNER. A pianist, cornet player, and drummer are halfway through a lively number. "Eddie, you're rushing again!" the pianist calls. The cornet player lowers his horn. "I'm rushing? You're playing like your train's leaving!" "I'm hoping you're on it!" The drummer laughs and counts them back in.

A waitress in a fringed green dress threads between the tables with two cocktails. Her black hair is arranged in finger waves, and a mole sits beside her mouth. "Frankie, if table six wants more of that gin, tell 'em we've run dry. Fella says he can't feel his tongue." The bartender, a thin man with rolled sleeves, polishes a glass. "Maybe he oughta quit drinking it." "That's what I said. Called me a smart aleck." "Well, Rosie, he ain't wrong." She nudges him with her elbow, notices you, and smiles. "Find yourself a seat, honey. I'll be around."

In a corner booth, a young woman in a silver-beaded dress tugs at the glove of her companion, whose plain navy dress has a mended cuff. "Come on, Clara. One more dance." "I gotta be home by eleven." "Your father's asleep by ten." Clara gives her a look. "My father's got a shotgun, Evelyn." Evelyn laughs, but Clara pulls her glove free. "I'm serious. He came looking for me Tuesday." The other girl reaches for her purse. "All right, all right. We'll find you a cab."

Three men play cards beneath a hanging lamp. One, in a broad-brimmed fedora, places two chips beside his whiskey. "Twenty, Lou." The heavyset man opposite throws down his hand. "Every Friday, Sal. Every damn Friday you take my dough." "Maybe you're lousy at poker." "Maybe I oughta break your fingers." Sal grins. "There's the Lou I know." Their third companion quietly folds his cards and walks to the bar, leaving his glass unfinished.

Near the bandstand, a young Black woman in a burgundy dress holds a folded sheet of music against her hip while a white man in a stiff collar smokes a cigarette. "You promised me two songs, Mr. Collins." "I said I'd see what I could do." "You said Tuesday I'd have two." He exhales toward the ceiling. "Look, sweetheart, folks came to dance." The pianist turns on his stool. "Let her sing, Collins. They're here to hear music, ain't they?" She looks toward the stage, waiting. Collins taps ash into a saucer. "One number. Then the boys get back to work."

A glass shatters at the bar. A man in a gray overcoat has another fellow by the lapels. "You calling me a liar?" "Get your paws off me!" Charlie comes through the crowd, takes the man's wrist, and pulls his hand away. "Take a walk, pal." "You know who I work for?" "Then go tell him about it." The man stumbles toward the stairs, cursing. An older woman in a brown cloche hat watches from her booth. "Every time I come here, somebody's making a spectacle." Her companion sips his whiskey. "You said that last Friday, Mabel." "And I was right then, too."

The piano strikes up again. The singer in burgundy moves toward the bandstand with her music, and a few dancers step aside to let her pass. At the back of the room, Lou shoves his chair in with a scrape and heads for the door while Sal gathers the chips. Frankie sweeps broken glass into a dustpan. Rosie slips past him carrying another tray, and two men at the bar argue about whose turn it is to pay.

Frankie sets the dustpan aside and catches your eye. "What'll it be? Whiskey, gin, or something that might actually taste good?" He rests his elbows on the bar. "And if anybody asks, we're serving coffee."

Name an Era, a location on Earth, and any other details you'd like for me to include, and I will paint a detailed starting scene for you to begin your journey.