“What drew you here?” asked the friendly woman at the desk at the Beothuk Interpretation Centre when we arrived at opening time that morning in June.
Visiting Þingvellir, spelled Thingvellir in English because the Icelandic letter Þ is pronounced like th in English, was one of the highlights of our trip.
“You’ve got to come hear this,” I said, phoning Magellan and asking him to meet me at the Power Plant to hear Forty Part Motet as
In Bhutan in the back seat of a Santa Fe SUV, our bodies gently swayed from side to side, kneaded by road bumps. “Massage roads,”
When I read Alex Kerr’s book Lost Japan back in 1996, I fell in love with the idea of visiting Chiiori. Never, never ever in
A traveller’s nightmare. 1990. Bari, Italy. A guy with a knife slits the strap on my “man-purse.” Jumps onto the back of a motorbike. Disappears
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