In the summer of 1922, F. Scott Fitzgerald sat every day in the sun-dappled studio above the garage of his and Zelda’s Long Island house and laid down the foundations of his novel, The Great Gatsby. He was drawing on life as he saw it around him, in those enclaves on Long Island Sound where the richest people in the world built the biggest mansions they could imagine in which to flout Prohibition. During their time living in Great Neck (West Egg in Gatsby), the Fitzgeralds seldom let a ...
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Not a Religious Experience (But Also, Sort of, Having One)

My plane from New York landed in Tel Aviv on a Friday afternoon, and after settling into our hotel, my boyfriend and I walked pretty immediately across the street and down to the Mediterranean Sea, that body of water that was until then so firmly planted in my imagination as a glamorous playground of the West. There, along with the volleyball players and the sandcastle builders and the matkot games in progress (it’s sort of like paddleball, and wildly popular), a string of cafes had tables ...
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