Santa Claus strikes me as being a bit creepy. But I’m getting ahead of myself. After getting over my Bruceville gloom (see previous post), I set out, eastbound, for French Lick, hometown of hated former Boston Celtic, Larry Bird. “The hick from French Lick,” they called him. Still do I guess. Back in the day, …
If the breeze is just right, the aroma hits you just as you’re stepping off Dlouhá Street into Staroměstské náměstí, Prague’s Old Town Square. It’s a savory, intoxicating blend of a wood fire and slowly roasting meat. The smell is reeling me in. And why not? This smell is built into the human’s sustenance DNA. …
The twelfth in a series of occasional posts about tripping along U.S. Highway 395. I’m southbound out of Pendleton, Oregon on Highway 395, a two lane sluice through broad fields of ranchland on either side of this solitary highway. Acres of yellow cheatgrass undulate in a light breeze and a bright morning sun just topping …
The tenth in a series of occasional posts about tripping along U.S. Highway 395. Antelope, Oregon marks the terminus of State Route 293 and the junction with State Route 218, which takes me back to U.S. 97 and the one time, “Wool Capital of the World.” Route 218 is just as isolated as 293 which …
John, author of the site Journeys with Johnbo, leads this week’s Lens-Artists Challenge with the topic, Faces in a Crowd. (Note: Some of my images in this post have appeared previously). “Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or the painter?” ~ Pablo Picasso. I vote, none. The photo, the mirror and …
The ninth in a series of occasional posts about tripping along U.S. Highway 395. Note: This post rated R. It’s six o’clock in the morning and the day didn’t begin as planned – I overslept. Next stop is Pendleton in Northern Oregon. It’s a six and a half hour drive, and I’d hoped to get …
Banner Photo: Dorris, California The eighth in a series of occasional posts about tripping along U.S. Highway 395. Eugene Charles Valla spent four years of his young life hanging onto the edge of his boyhood dream. Valla was 21 years old in 1947, when he was signed to a minor league contract with the New …
Banner photo: Detail of a mural in Oakland, painted in the aftermath of the slaying of George Floyd Tim Scott said it. Nikki Haley said it. Both are running for president and both are out on the campaign trail road testing the lie that’s become a GOP shibboleth. That these two are people of color …
“It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression, ‘As pretty as an airport.” ― Douglas Adams, The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul It’s a constant migration. Every hour of every day of every year. A single year’s migration consists of more than 200 million travelers on …
If I were asked to describe the face of Spain in two words I would offer, “joyful,” and “lighthearted.” During three weeks of traveling throughout the country, whether it was in the metropolis of Barcelona or stopping for an hour in little Plasencia, I rarely saw anger or gloom or pessimism. Okay, sure, there was …
The Life in My Years 