Word: houres
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...buzzing brasserie, the Press Room (so named because it occupies part of the site that housed a now-defunct Chinese newspaper). With its neighbor M1NT, a private members' club, the Press Room has formed a promising enclave of gentrification in a hitherto overlooked part of Central district, luring happy-hour drinkers in their suited scores. The sociable manager, Matthew Siegel, beckons me from a packed bar out onto the street and down to a quiet doorway some meters yonder. It reminds me of going for a cigarette in the old days, but this time the pleasures are more sublime...
...Harvard School of Public Health (HSPH)--the folks behind the designated-driver campaign--are pushing to get the smokes off the screen. "Some movies show kids up to 14 incidents of smoking per hour," says Barry Bloom, HSPH's dean. "We're in the business of preventing disease, and cigarettes are the No. 1 preventable cause...
...Kurds' tenuous relationship with Arab Iraq is even more combustible some 47 miles south, in Kirkuk. The city is less than a two-hour drive from Arbil, but the road trip into the other Iraq is a spooky one. To the left, there's a chain of forts left over from the Iran-Iraq war, crumbling masonry monsters that look as if they were built to World War I specifications. The Hamreen Mountains to the right are practically deserted save for a series of sentry posts silhouetted along the ridge line. And waiting straight ahead at the gates of Kirkuk...
...iron-bar tank, with no food and only a few sips of water, my skin was flaking and my clothes were slipping off. A prison blanket had given me lice. The water I had palmed from a rusty tap in the shower had given me diarrhea. Under a 24-hour strip light, I hadn't slept more than a few minutes at a time. And I stank. So many men had passed through Cell 6 that they had left their smell on the walls, and while I was making my own stink, the walls were also passing theirs onto...
...there was no guarantee I would avoid being interrogated again by Mugabe's secret police. I jumped in my rental car and, calculating that the authorities would expect me to head south to South Africa or west to Botswana, drove 373 miles north to Zambia. An hour after nightfall, the road became muddy. It seemed to be raining. A rumbling filled the air. I looked left, and there, silver in the moonlight, framed between two cliffs, was Victoria Falls...