The Brief

To understand how the World Cup went in Los Angeles this summer, look no further than the watch parties.

The city of L.A.'s events — branded "Kick it in the Park" — were neighborhood picnics. People could turn up, put up a camping chair, and watch the game in a local park.

In total, the city reports that at least 35,000 people attended them over the past month. Crowds packed Sycamore Grove Park to see Mexico take down Ecuador on a massive screen. At Echo Park Lake, people watched Lionel Messi score a hat trick in Argentina's opening match.

FIFA's official "fan zones" told another story. They were ticketed, fenced off and sometimes expensive. The one on Venice Beach had some locals in an uproar after organizers promised a free block party and under-delivered.

At another fan zone at the Original Farmer's Market, tickets were cheap but once inside, attendees were left to watch the matches from a hot parking lot. If you wanted a beer, the designated drinking area didn't have a clear view of the screens.

After 39 days of soccer, eight matches at SoFi Stadium and many more events big and small across the region, reviews of the tournament have broadly been positive.

People flocked to bars and public viewing parties. Angelenos wore green with pride to root for Mexico. New fans were, at least temporarily, won over by the beautiful game.

But FIFA, with its high ticket prices to get inside the stadium and branded events, had more mixed reviews, and faced protests, too. Some wondered what their community was getting out of all the hubbub.

A group gathered in Downtown Los Angeles last week to protest FIFA and 2026 World Cup corporate sponsors.

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Libby Rainey

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This balance — enjoying the soccer, but being weary of what comes with it — was a throughline throughout the tournament. So was the sentiment that the World Cup was merely a warm-up lap for the coming 2028 summer Olympics.

" [It's] a tremendous opportunity for us to learn and practice for the '28 Games," said Paul Krekorian, the former L.A. City Council president who leads the city's major events office.

One example of this was public transit. Metro launched a special bus system specifically to take people to and from SoFi Stadium, and it delivered tens of thousands of people there each match. An even larger bus fleet will be needed for the Olympics, which event organizers compare to hosting seven Super Bowls a day for a month.

"The reason we were excited to take on an event like the World Cup before the Super Bowl and the 2028 Games in the first place is because this is where you get the true teaching moments," Metro CEO Stephanie Wiggins wrote in a blog post about the World Cup success.

Metro unveiled its enhanced services during the 2026 World Cup on March 4.

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Courtesy of FIFA World Cup 26 Los Angeles

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Other moments during the tournament hinted at the ways mega-events can go south.

A free city watch party for the Korea-Mexico match at Seoul Park was overcrowded and chaotic when thousands more people showed up than organizers expected.

The Lineage warehouse in Boyle Heights broke out in flames during the World Cup, spewing thick smoke across swaths of the city and surrounding areas. The bad air didn't force FIFA to change plans at SoFi Stadium, but had things gone differently, it could have.

Crowds packed a block party near Mariachi Plaza to watch Mexico defeat South Korea one day after the fire sparked.

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Libby Rainey

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And a community event in South L.A. was disrupted when someone flew a drone to take photos and the FBI, Homeland Security and LAPD descended to enforce a strict World Cup anti-drone policy. The nonprofit involved called it an unintended consequence of having high-security sporting events in Los Angeles.

All those issues — crowds, fires and security — will undoubtedly come up again in the lead-up to 2028. They also mean some people will be happy to bid the 2026 World Cup farewell.

Still, many will miss the tournament in Los Angeles, which brought thousands of us out to public spaces to be together. Many of L.A.'s communities got to celebrate their heritage. And everyone could participate. You could strike up conversation simply by wearing your team's jersey while out and about.

That collective, temporary madness is over now. But it was fun while it lasted.

A couple of years ago, as summer camps began to ban screens, a company called Camp Snap began to sell a screen-free camera that children could take along. The point-and-shoot had the vibes of a 1990s Kodak: just a viewfinder, a flash and no way to see the photos until the camera was hooked up to a computer.

What the company didn't see coming was the demand from adults.

"All of a sudden, out of nowhere, a lot of Gen Z, millennial demographic started buying them," says Camp Snap President Trevor George. "We realized very quickly that, OK, this is way beyond kids at summer camp."

Camp Snap made a screen-free camera for kids to take to summer camps, but adults are now nearly just as big an audience.

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Camp Snap

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Perhaps it was only a matter of time after the cool kids put on low-rise jeans like Britney Spears that photo trends would cycle around too. But they come also as a whiplash —against the era of the smartphone.

Digicams have flooded bars, music venues, festivals and family gatherings. Canon told NPR that sales of the PowerShot, its renowned point-and-shoot, jumped nearly sevenfold from 2022 to 2025. Camp Snap says its sales more than doubled in the past year.

Last year, Camp Snap launched a screen-free retro camcorder too, and it showed up in the hands of celebrities including Selena Gomez and Joe Jonas. One was spotted at Taylor Swift's wedding.

A fresh look in the sea of smartphone photos

Jaden Williams, 16, first picked up a point-and-shoot in his yearbook class. The photos "felt more genuine," he says. Soon enough, he was noticing digicams all over TikTok and among friends. Last month, he requested — and received — one for his birthday. He uses it alongside his phone.

Jaden Williams says these are some of his favorite photos that he has taken with his new digicam lately: a selfie and a sunny snap of his dog, Chase.

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Jaden Williams

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"If I'm about to take pictures of food or something, then I might use my phone," says Williams, from North Carolina. "But if I'm out with friends or at a party, I might use the camera for a more, like, warm vibe."

The turn-of-the-millennium digital photo is hard to mistake: a bit grainy, sometimes fuzzy, overexposed in the center with a blinding flash, often date-stamped in red or orange. A nostalgic haze gives photos the feel of an instant memory.

"The brightness and also the crispness of the photo — but having that blur and grain somehow added in as well — makes the photos look very flattering," says Katie Coyne, 24, from New York.

She'd bought a digital camera for a safari vacation but lately has lent it to her younger sister, Gwen Coyne, who lives in Philadelphia. They both find the vintage blur refreshing in the sea of hyper-sharp smartphone photos.

Katie and Gwen Coyne love the wistful, hazy aesthetic of digicam images. These show palm trees in the Dominican Republic, Gwen out with friends and a wine tasting in South Africa.

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Katie Coyne

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"I feel like iPhone cameras look just so ... sometimes it looks a little too real," says Gwen. She recently brought the digicam on a trip, where she photographed palm trees against the sky and the ocean. "And I don't really know how to put it into words, but it gave such a vacation vibe."

The sisters think that for the vast majority of people on social media, the digicam is purely a trendy aesthetic. First came the 1970s-style Instagram filters, then the revival of Polaroid-style photos, now this.

But for many people, it's also a rebellion against their smartphones.

Part of the great disconnection

Christina Berkett, 34, has been carrying her point-and-shoot to avoid her phone.

"I think you get caught up in the digital world, where — OK, I'm pulling out my phone to take a photo and then I see a notification or I'm checking my email," says Berkett, from New Jersey.

Wedding photographer Christina Berkett is filming more ceremonies using an old-school camcorder, though she often holds it sideways for the smartphone-friendly vertical view.

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Christina Berkett

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And with a digital camera? "You put it in your bag, you don't think about it, and then at the end of the night, you go through all the photos and kind of relive that moment."

This makes the digicam trend a small part of a growing movement of people un-phoning or de-phoning their lives. Camp Snap's George sees it as an analog reboot after decades of internet-connected everything, from watches to washing machines. eBay told NPR that it's seeing a surge of searches for old-school tech like iPods, CDs and Walkmans.

Berkett, who's a wedding photographer, says couples are printing real-world photo albums. They still request iPhone video footage for social media content, but many also pay extra for her to film ceremonies or speeches with an old-school camcorder — like she's someone's aunt, just a guest.

"They want it to feel like it's a home video," Berkett says. "I don't think they want something that's grainy. I think they want something to feel real."

She does hold the camcorder differently from how her parents once did when they made home videos. The device sits on her palm flipped to its side, so that the video Berkett films is vertical rather than horizontal — because most people will still watch it on their smartphone.

Copyright 2026 NPR

For a few brief months earlier this year two Conlons graced the stages of L.A.’s two great arts and entertainment institutions: the LA Opera and the LA Galaxy.

“It's so funny to see that, as I come in you're leaving,” said Sebastian Conlon to his great-uncle James Conlon on a conference call set up by LAist last week.

Sebastian was drafted last year by the LA Galaxy from the University of Kentucky and moved to the LA area in January. Three months later, in April, his great-uncle James Conlon waved his baton for the last time as music director of the LA Opera, a post he’d held for 20 years.

“Since [Sebastian has] been here, we've tried to see each other, tried to have him come over to the house,” James Conlon said.

“I wanted to get to a game. He wanted to get to an opera. None of it ever happened because he's so busy and I've been so busy, as always,” he said.

And now the elder Conlon has put many of his belongings in storage and is moving to New York, although he intends to keep a connection to L.A.

The conversation had equal parts family reunion across generations and a heartfelt discussion that led both Conlons to find common ground in what may be seen as wildly disparate professions.

United in passion

Sebastian grew up hearing stories from his grandfather of James Conlon’s conducting in Italy, Germany, Chicago, and L.A.

“My grandfather is Uncle Jimmy's brother,” Sebastian said.

“Yes, my family calls me Jimmy," James acknowledged. "And they're not only allowed to, they're supposed to.”

“I actually hated being called Jimmy when I was a kid, but I couldn't do anything about it… when I finally grew to a certain age I became professionally known as James,” he said.

Sebastian grew up in the Washington D.C. area and rose through the ranks of college soccer, finally arriving in L.A. as a goalkeeper. He’s in his early 20s. His uncle James Conlon, who grew up in New York, is in his mid-70s.

As they chatted, they realized there were several things they had in common. They’d both been very focused on their current professions from an early age and were united through the passion for what they do. Both carry out their work in full public display.

“We're on a stage doing something that is connecting with other people. And you, Sebastian, are in a highly popular art form,” James said.

James Conlon talks before a performance of the LA Opera.

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Sebastian agreed with the description. “There's nothing that tops the feeling of being on a field, on a seven o’clock game, and you have 4,000 or 5,000 fans screaming your name and chanting," he said.

“I think that's one way to put us together: it's just that love for what we do and sharing that love to other people.”

Ironically, both have felt soccer fans’ passion first-hand.

“I was conducting in Paris in the opera the night that France won the World Cup [in 1998],” James said. “I could remember the screaming from outside the theater was so loud that we knew that France had won. I mean, that's a night I'd never forget."

L.A. advice

The intensity of practice for the Galaxy, L.A.’s most successful Major League Soccer team, has not allowed Sebastian to see much of L.A. since he got here. When he asked his great-uncle for recommendations for places to eat, James suggested the city's Italian restaurants, which, he said, reminded him of his Italian grandmother.

Sebastian Conlon was drafted by the LA Galaxy in 2025.

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Courtesy Sebastian Conlon

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But he encouraged him to roam and experience all the city has to offer.

"The kind of energy that I found in L.A. is a similar energy to what I found in my native city, New York, but also cities I have lived in or spent time in, like Paris, London, Madrid and Rome," James said.

"I don't think you'll ever be bored here, Sebastian, never. I mean, 20 years, I wasn't bored for one minute. Loved it all," he said.

Both Conlons agreed to finally make an IRL meeting happen as the elder Conlon steps into the next stage in his professional classical music career, and the younger Conlon carries out his work on the MLS team.

Sebastian will now also have the responsibility of holding up the family name in L.A. as his great-uncle has done for two decades.

Gift-gifting is a sign of respect, admiration and gratitude. In Korean culture, traditional gift-wrapping — or bojagi — is just as important a gesture. One Korean American artist in Los Angeles is sharing the gift of this artform in free classes this month.

Bojagi is both the name of the technique and the name of the square piece of cloth used. The artform goes back centuries, popular across society from the royal courts to regular people, according to the Embroiderers’ Guild of America. And bojagi wasn’t just used for gifts, but for carrying goods, packing food or other household items.

“In Korea we didn’t have luggage-type of carriers when Westerners had it. So, people just used a big piece of fabric and wrapped up things when they go travel,” said Ellen Lee, an L.A. based bojagi artist.

Kitchenware wrapped in bojagi.

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Angela Kim

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Even as the artform evolves, its meaning has stayed the same.

“In Korea, people believe when you wrap something with bojagi, we really, truly believe we put our loving and caring heart in there too,” Lee said.

On Mondays this month, Lee is teaching free bojagi workshops at the Pio Pico Koreatown branch of Los Angeles Public Library. This series of workshops has just sold-out, but a waitlist is open, and plans are in the works for her to conduct these bring these workshops back to the library in the future.

The art of bojagi.

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Angela Kim

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Learning the craft

Lee moved to Los Angeles in 2000 from South Korea, and after college, returned to the country to learn the art of bojagi.

In 2019, she moved back to Southern California start her private workshops and online business, Nossi. Lee has also been using her skills to wrap gifts for businesses and Korean American celebrities.

Lee acknowledges that all cultures have their own gift-wrapping traditions and meanings. She said she is most appreciative of the art form’s tactile quality. “Wrapping up something precious with fabric can be just human natural love language,” she said.

A gift in and of itself

The technique is sustainable — not only could the cloth be reused, it’s a keepsake in and of itself. “When you give a gift, when you wrap the gift with bojagi, the whole thing can be a gift. You don’t waste anything,” Lee said. The wrapping can be used again for another gift, a keepsake or even a handkerchief.

In her workshops, Lee touches on some Korean history to Korean Americans and non-Korean participants, like the different techniques used by the royal court from centuries ago.

The hydrangea (suguk) knot in bojagi.

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Angela Kim

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A bojagi sculpture made by Lew.

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Angela Kim

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There isn’t just one bojagi way to wrap. It’s dozens of ways. The most popular ones are named after nature like the hydrangea (suguk) knot and lotus (yeonkkot) knot. Historically, the bojagi fabric was made of natural materials such as hemp or silk. Today, people also use synthetic fibers like polyester.

No matter what, it’s a tradition that has endured.

“In Korea, people believe when you wrap something with bojagi, we really, truly believe we put our loving and caring heart in there too,” Lee said.