Say, What? According to Condé Nast Traveler, Silence Tourism is “the latest in detox vacations.” Popular with Hollywood celebs, silent spas offer everything from “naptime” to “forest bathing.” We hope it’s working for you, Mrs. C!

SONIA’S SUCCESS. Entertainment Weekly is calling Trafficked, Sonia Barbaro’s new film about a survivor of sex trafficking, a “mesmerizing study of a woman facing human depravity,” and lauds Barbaro for a “tour de force performance.” Do we smell an Oscar on the horizon? Film premieres this Friday.

Spotted: Defrocked celebrity chef Mario Batali on hand at the Colombian embassy last night to serve his signature nacho meatballs to Rigo Lystra’s guests.

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21

Into the Madding Crowd

Natalie was in the collapsed back seat of a Lyft that, like a disturbing number of DC cars, smelled of food and sweat. But between the prospect of seeing James again and the text she’d gotten from Karima that afternoon—Darling, can’t wait to see you tonight. You’ll be the toast of the town!—she felt like a debutante riding to her coming-out ball.

Did you really just think that? Debu—no. Just no.

She felt like she’d been body snatched by a debutante.

Better.

Thanks to the kidnapping shoot, her FaceTwitSnapGram followers were through the roof: Instagram had doubled to 150,000 and Facebook was up to 850,000. The VOP hadn’t come out yet but the Chief seemed so pleased he’d sent her an email promising “more exciting surprises,” which augured well for her career if not her professional integrity.

The car snaked up Massachusetts Avenue, a broad tree-lined street bordered by massive stone mansions, the Vatican embassy, the vice president’s residence, and the Cosmos Club where, she’d heard, they had a wall of photos dedicated to members who were on the postage stamp. The car started to slow.

“Traffic,” the driver said. “It’s that guy at the embassy. Everyone stopping to see the protests.”

Natalie knew it was a Washington cliché that political reporters resorted to polling drivers and doormen for “public opinion” because it was their only contact with blue-collar Americans, so she was working to resist the urge to ask the driver what he thought of Rigo, when he volunteered.

“I had a guy in the car the other day, from the State Department. He said the Colombians got something on the president. Maybe drugs? Sex with kids? Maybe video of sex with an animal? Something.”

Natalie nodded to be polite. She’d heard versions of this before. The car made a right turn onto a leafy residential street and crawled into a line of brake lights. Lincoln Town Cars and black SUVs with satellite antennae stretched in a line as far as the eye could see in front of them. No one else was in a silver Honda.