In Jakarta, Indonesia, there is an obscure-looking bar and art gallery that is quietly inviting. I passed it while on my ojek (Indonesian slang for motorbikes), and after it caught my eye, I turned around and went to check out the place. It’s called the Tree House.
The incident made me realize that my ability to live the life I want is entirely contingent on the whims of the American government. But perversely, this has only intensified my desire to stay in New York.