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
Putting our car into reverse and backing out of the cottage yesterday, I turned and