Volume 2 of #パリに咲くエトワール# is released today in Japanese bookstores! I usually color my drawings digitally, but for this occasion, I created a watercolor illustration of Chizuru and Fujiko! I must have been influenced by Fujiko's passion! 😉🔥 #パリエト#

Keiko Fujimori was sworn in as Peru's president, becoming the latest in a string of conservative leaders elected ‌across Latin America by voters frustrated by crime, weak economic growth and political instability

My coworker Fujimoto stayed with a family in Pennsylvania for a week last month. On the first night, he was cold. In the hallway, there was a little box on the wall with a glowing number. 68. Fujimoto is Japanese. In Japan, we use Celsius. To him, 68 degrees is the temperature of a bath that kills you. He was confused. He was cold. He pressed the button. 71. He went back to bed, warm and innocent. At 2:14 a.m., he heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Slow. Certain. It was Rick. The father. 56. Boxers. One sock. He was standing in front of the little box, staring at it like it had betrayed his family. "Who touched the thermostat?" Fujimoto opened his door, stepped into the hallway, and bowed deeply. "It was me. I am very sorry." Rick looked at him for a long time. "Son. Do you pay the electric bill in this house?" "No, sir." "Then we have a problem." From the bedroom, his wife: "Rick, leave him alone." From another room, his daughter: "Dad, it's three degrees." Rick, without turning around: "Three degrees is how it starts." He pressed the button three times. 68. He went back to bed. Nobody said anything else. Fujimoto did not sleep. The next morning at breakfast, Rick explained the rules to him. Calmly. Like a priest. The thermostat belongs to Dad. 68 is a number our forefathers chose. If you're cold, you don't touch the thermostat. You put on a sweater. If you're still cold, you put on a second sweater. "What if I am still cold after that?" Fujimoto asked. Rick put down his coffee. "Then you're not wearing enough sweaters." After breakfast, Rick went upstairs, came back down, and handed him something. His own college sweatshirt. Faded. Soft. Penn State, Class of 1992. "Here. You're one of us this week. You're cold like one of us." Fujimoto wore it every day. On the fifth night, at 2 a.m., Fujimoto got up to use the bathroom. He looked at the little box on the wall. 70. He turned around. Rick was standing in the dark at the end of the hallway, holding a glass of water. They looked at each other. Rick said, very quietly: "Don't tell my kids." That is when Fujimoto understood how it works here. An American father does not say "I love you." He says, "Put on a sweater." And then, after you fall asleep, he turns it up two degrees. On the last day, Fujimoto tried to give the sweatshirt back. Rick pushed it back into his hands. "Keep it. Japan's gonna be cold." Fujimoto came home to Tokyo. He has a two-year-old son. Last week, his son grabbed the remote for the air conditioner and pressed every button. Fujimoto heard a voice come out of his own mouth. Deep. Slow. Certain. "Who touched the thermostat?" His wife stared at him. He told me, "That is the moment I knew. I had become an American dad." He was wearing the sweatshirt.

🇵🇪 Peruvian President Keiko Fujimori CREATES a joint police-military command to CRACK DOWN on organized crime. The Unified Command brings police and armed forces together for raids, arrests, and prison control. Across the region, more governments are turning to military force when police struggle to contain gangs. Writer: Lucas