Estamos activa’os!” Bad Bunny tells me when I meet him and his three-person crew at a Michelin-starred restaurant in the East Village on one of the first cold nights in November. He’s buried in a big black puffy coat, scrolling through his phone; a single curl is braided and looped through a little plastic bead that hangs over his left eye. The only noticeable remnant of Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio’s larger-than-life alter ego is his nails, which are decked out in an immaculate green manicure. ¶ There’s a brief silence and some stifled laughter around the table. It’s painfully obvious that the energy levels at the moment are extremely low—decidedly not activa’o. Martínez Ocasio looks like a bored, tired kid dragged to a family function. “Well, we’ll get there,” he assures me, taking a sip of white wine.
Bu hikaye New York magazine dergisinin November 22 - December 5, 2021 sayısından alınmıştır.
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Bu hikaye New York magazine dergisinin November 22 - December 5, 2021 sayısından alınmıştır.
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