Jialu Chen
Jialu Chen
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O Christmas Tree
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At Broken Arrow Nursery, a 24-acre Christmas tree farm in Hamden, CT, Richard Jaynes GRD '61 and Burton Jaynes GRD '88 spread holiday cheer all year round.
New restaurant to take over old Rudy’s lot
The owner of Rudy’s, Omar Ipek, said Tuesday that the new Elm Street restaurant is the result of months-long process to kick out his business. A Main Garden representative said the landlord is planning to open a new restaurant and may sue Ipek over alleged property damages.
Chen: Taking the time to travel
There’s this idea that travel should be about having adventures. Travel should provide, as Tatsuya Ishida once philosophized, “NEW EXPERIENCES! LIFE-AFFIRMING SOUL-STIRRING EXPERIENCES!” This is what I was looking for when I set off this summer to traipse for 45 days around China’s lonely grasslands, meditative lakes and daring cliffs. But my travel — despite all its novelties and surprises — developed a comforting rhythm of its own.
The best little whorehouse in New Haven
The solid sheets of white plastic, smooth and impenetrable like the back of a Polaroid photograph, stuck to the windows of the private room where the mama-san, a heavily painted older woman with thick pouting lips, brought him. He’d darted in an hour before midnight. According to the police report, the Mama-san extracted a $60 entrance fee from him. A young Korean woman with plucked eyebrows and dark hair streaked with blond entered the room. Her name was Sung Yeon Kim and she was 28 years old. She told him her name was Bonnie.
I Bought a Bra
Wallace Prize - First Place Nonfiction
The average American woman owns six bras. Most are the wrong size. Professional bra fitter Jeniene Ferguson has worked to change this for twenty-six years, one bra at a time.
The Inc cometh again
Should you choose to take refuge in William L. Harkness Hall on a Tuesday evening, between the hours of 7:00 to 9:00 p.m., the building will mostly greet you in much the same way it always greets you. Your feet will slip into the sandy steps of worn stone, your muscles will heave against the heavy wooden doors, a comfortable gush of warmth will greet your frozen cheek. But your ears will perk up to something unpredictable, an eerie sustained note from an electric violin cutting through the thick, musty air, ricocheting off the wood panels walls, joined shortly by delicate drops of sound from a flute, then by the sound of a car scraping against a road and suddenly, inexplicably, a beat that sounds like a cross between a garbage can and a French horn hurtling at you, quickly and fiercely, so insistent that you may forget to breath and find yourself gasping for air.