Notes From All Over

dispatches NOTES FROM ALL OVER

ORLANDO FANS OF HARRY POTTER have been waiting years for this Nobody Beats the Wiz moment: opening day at The Wizarding World of Harry Potter, the massive, $275 million, J.K. Rowling–sanctioned theme park built within the walls of Universal Orlando Resort. The June air is already simmering at dawn as the crowds turn up in droves. By 9 a.m., the numbers exceed HARRY POTTER SWEEPS INTO FLORIDA. 20,000, with more still fl ooding in by car and van and tour bus. Some even come on foot, toting brooms. Thirty ILLUSTRATIONS BY GRAHAM ROUMIEU minutes later, a half-mile line leads to the arched entrance to Wizarding World. “The wait to get inside is seven hours at minimum,” announces a security guard through cupped hands. He then adds, sotto voce: “No amount of magic is gonna make it shorter.” Despite the heat, legions of wannabe wizards and witches are decked out in ankle-length Hogwarts robes, with striped neckties and wool scarves patterned in the crimson and gold of Gryffi ndor. They kill time by hexing each other with homemade wands, comparing lightning scars and round-rimmed black plastic glasses, and quoting passages from the books from memory. Inside is the village of Hogsmeade, an exacting reproduction of the Warner Bros. movie set, complete with crooked chimneys, plastic icicles and snow that seems to mock the Florida heat. And everywhere, ever more lines: bag-toting Potter fans queuing up for Hogwarts Castle (a four-minute ride that chases Harry’s broomstick), Olivander’s wand emporium, Honeyduke’s sweet shop and the Hogs Head (where you can purchase a plastic fl agon of nonalcoholic butterbeer—more refreshing than you might think). “As you enter, please make room for those who follow,” says a monorail driver named Michael, beelining for a butterbeer. “And today please switch out that goblet of fi re for a bottle of water.” —TED KATAUSKIS

dispatches

THE HAGUE

DUTCH TREAT It’s an early June afternoon in Scheveningen, the seaside fi shing district of the Hague, and the promenade along the harbor is teeming with a colorful mix of shanty choirs singing ancient songs of the sea, local families, gaggles of tourists strolling the docks with cameras at the ready and fl ocks of herring connoisseurs awaiting the arrival of the fi rst fi llets of summer—what has come to be aff ectionately called “Dutch sushi.”

Hollandse Nieuwe, or new herring, is a Dutch delicacy fi shed out of the North Sea in and around the month of June—the fi rst time every year that schools of these oily, silver swimmers are fat enough to eat. The townsfolk have made a custom of the fi sh’s harvest and consumption, with the offi cial start of herring season marked by a public auction of the fi rst barrel.

This year’s fi rst keg, which contained just 45 herring, sold for 58,000 euros (nearly $70,000, which works out to roughly $1,500 for each fi sh).

“The fi rst auction is very symbolic,” says Dutch Fish Marketing Board spokeswoman Lisette Wassenaar, adding that this year’s herring has been tasted by culinary experts and a chef and been given a qualifi ed approval.

“It is very good but a little less fatty than last year,” Wassenaar adds, which perhaps accounts for why 2009’s fi rst keg fetched a higher price at 66,000 euros. (The record, set in 2006, is a whopping 75,000 euros.) That may seem extravagant, but proceeds from the fi rst barrel go to charity, and subsequent barrels fetch much less. More modest herring lovers can enjoy a single fi llet of the raw fi sh, lightly salted and dipped in chopped onions, and wash it down with an ice-cold shot of korenwijn, a traditional Dutch malt wine. Total cost? Ten dollars.

—JORDAN HELLER SEOUL After a month of grueling training, Craft Work Koh Seok-hyun is stern-faced as he steps out of the wardrobe room backstage at OGN, an “e-sports” stadium, with freshly applied makeup. He paces nervously. “I have trained for eight hours a day for this,” Koh says. “I’ve studied every aspect of attack.” Then an announcer calls his name, and 5,000 spectators applaud wildly. Koh strides onto the stage, smiling and waving to the crowd. Online, more than three million viewers have logged on to watch him compete in his chosen sport: a science-fi ction videogame called StarCraft.

Once a basement pastime, the game has become a way of life in videogame-crazed South Korea, where such contests are a spectator sport, more popular in terms of viewership and dollars spent than baseball, soccer or any other sport in the country. Koh is among the nation’s most beloved celebrities, and when the 22-year-old takes his seat and offers a thumbs-up, the female fans in the audience shriek as though John, Paul, George and Ringo have just taken the stage at Shea Stadium.

Like a chess player, Koh has dissected his opponent’s playing style and crafted his own attack down to the second. To win, he’ll need to build a small army of Zerglings, or alien bugs, and deploy them at exactly the right moment: a mere two minutes, 13 seconds after the game begins. Shortly after that, if all goes well, he’ll swiftly attack his opponent’s human colony.

It’s a risky strategy.

The announcer declares the start of the game. Koh whips his fi ngers across the keyboard like a virtuoso pianist. Three minutes, 16 seconds later, he’s victorious. That’s actually longer than he had hoped but nearly a recordbreaking time nonetheless. As the crowd cheers, Koh high-fi ves his teammates and coach. “I was confi dent,” he says. “But if I failed, I could always just say ‘good game’ and leave it there.” Outside, after the match, a cluster of young women crowd him for autographs. “You’re my hero, Koh!” one says.—GEOFFREY CAIN

dispatches

STURGIS, SOUTH DAKOTA

HOG WILD Every summer for the past seven decades, the pastoral peace of quaint Sturgis, South Dakota, is ceremoniously disturbed by the revving engines of around half a million Harley-Davidsons. This year—the 70th anniversary of the Black Hills Motor Classic, or, for those in the know, the Sturgis Rally—a record number of hogs are expected to rumble in a cloud of dust down Main Street. And the locals don’t appear to mind.

“The truth is, the average rider has changed,” says Terry Rymer, general manager of the Black Hills Harley-Davidson dealership in nearby Rapids City, who’s just parked his black chrome Road Glide in front of Jambonz Grill & Pub. He isn’t the glowering, leatherclad ruffi an portrayed by Marlon Brando in The Wild One, but a soft-spoken man in Nike sneakers. With custom bikes costing as much as $50,000, most of the riders are actually doctors, lawyers or even kindergarten teachers.

“Let’s face it,” says Rymer, “a new Harley isn’t the least expensive motorcycle you could purchase.”

In fact, the average Harley rider is married, in his mid- to late forties, with a college degree and a household income of more than $83,000. And more than 10 percent of riders are women.

“Thirty-fi ve years ago, the demographics of people who were riding were a little bit on the rough side,” admits Jim Entenman, who co-owns two nearby dealerships. “There is a bit of an outlaw image, and riding a Harley is about individualism.”

As if on cue, a group of riders rumbles past fl ying a banner that reads, “Bikers With Briefcases: New York Chapter.” Wearing riding chaps and bandannas, and even the occasional tattoo, they actually bear a passing resemblance to Brando’s wild crew.

“There it is,” says Entenman. “Those guys are attracted to that bad-boy mystique. Any other week of the year, they’re perfectly

normal.”—JEANETTE HURT

LOS ANGELES One Sunday afternoon at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, the three men behind the Low-Hanging art collective Fallen Fruit—best known for mapping the trees growing fruit in public places Fruit throughout L.A.—are putting the fi nishing touches on an exhibit called the “Food Pyramid.” Built from repurposed industrial food bins growing tomatoes, cilantro and jalapeno peppers, the pyramid will eventually yield the ingredients for a fi sh taco feast during the November closing ceremony, including the tilapia swimming in a pond at its base. This monument to the Slow Food movement is just part of EATLACMA, a yearlong collaboration between the museum and Fallen Fruit, which was founded by David Burns, Matias Viegener and Austin Young. It’s their fi rst gig in an offi cial space, and it’s a doozy, with exhibits such as “The Way Potatoes Go,” a potato fi eld growing between two buildings; “Breeding Is Bittersweet,” a tunnel of melons growing on trellises; and “Indexical Strawberry Flag,” pallets of strawberry plants nourished through an elaborate system of IV bags near the main entrance.

They’ve also created a map of the museum that highlights the fruits found in the permanent collection, including works ranging from ancient Chinese ceramics to prints by 20th century Japanese artist Yozo Hamaguchi. According to Viegener, the apple reigns in popularity as a subject for artists, closely followed by the grape.

As befi ts a group whose events are traditionally free to the public, Fallen Fruit skipped the fancy opening night fête in favor of a Sunday picnic on LACMA’s lawn. “This is how it used to be a hundred years ago,” says Burns, happily surveying the noshing crowd, which includes local art luminaries and even the occasional activist/actor (Entourage’s Adrian Grenier stops in for a bite). The nature of Fallen Fruit’s events, Burns adds, keeps the people smiling and the vibe sweet. “It’s impossible to argue about fruit.”—STEFFIE NELSON

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