Spring! You have returned your sunshine and its adolescent grace with your crisp mornings and mild afternoons, freshly-cut grass and the scent of lilacs now lacing the city breeze . . .
There’s nothing quite like rolling out of bed, cool water on your face to wash the sleep away, a hot pot of coffee, and turning on Fleetwood Mac. Saturday rolled in like a Prague fog today, calm and slow, a steep blowing from the hills of The Castle.
Sitting on a call with Istanbul midday yesterday, I saw the flicker of my phone out of the corner of my eye. “Hey! I am getting my blood drawn on Friday,” the husband wrote in a text, . . .
I was standing in the midst of a dying garden of hydrangeas and bittersweet when my mother-in-law emerged from the 19th-century Czech farmhouse carrying a crate of apples she received from a neighbor’s orchard. . .
In the unforgettable words of Mr. Beauregarde from “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory”, “Violet, you’re turning violet, Violet!” has begged me lately, have I been that grating, consuming purple little
Putting our car into reverse and backing out of the cottage yesterday, I turned and realized the back seat was covered with mushrooms. The cushions were actually rendered invisible in
After almost 1,000 kilometers, I have finally returned to the city homestead; Prague. A birthday rendezvous on the sun-blanched shores of Croatia, dappled with Germans and Italians and pastel umbrellas.
Summer is still in full swing here in Prague and, with seasonal blueberries and raspberries filling the forests and markets, I can’t think of a better way than to pair