I'm at a loss for words, so I hope these pictures speak for themselves. If you click on them, they will appear in a larger format. Aloha! ... read more

A lot of things have kept me up at night but I could never imagine that it might be the huff and stamp of a hundred bulls outside my bedroom window. Morning couldn’t come quickly enough. Looking back over this last paragraph, I fear it is open for misinterpretation. What I meant to say is this: I couldn’t wait for the sun to come up, over the faintly illuminated hills and the vast landscape of olive groves. I could sense a Best Day coming. But before I launch further into hyperbole, let me explain that we are now in the hills of southern Spain, on a ranch famous for raising prize-winning bulls, with miles of rocky terrain between us and the nearest town. Getting straight to the point, I am not a fan of bull-fighting. I ... read more

Last month, I had a conversation with friends where it was jokingly suggested that young children, adorable packages that they are, rarely have anything enlightening to say. We laughed at this good-naturedly since the more truthful among us admit that aside from the sweet whispered confidences, the sticky-fingered confessions, and the occasional outbursts of childish wisdom, there is a lot of ning-nang-nong and the-cows-go-bong that goes on during the course of a day. On the spot, I decided to keep track of anything impressive that my four-year-old grandson had to tell me. My lessons started the very next day. "Don't walk on the grass," I say to Gabriel, on the way to the park. "Why?" he asks. "Because your sneakers will get wet." "So what?" He isn't being saucy. He honestly wants to know. I think ... read more

Ron has been reading Ghost Train to the Eastern Star aloud to me in bed, and I blame Paul Theroux for that all-night train ride from Barcelona to Oviedo, I really do. I lay lonely and claustrophobic in my bottom bunk, which was a bit like a coffin without the amenities. As the old train rattled its way north, my poor bones jiggled from side to side, and my head did that bobble-headed thing you used to see dolls do in the rear window of cars. To top it off, we almost missed our station and hopped off in such an all-fire rush I left behind my Parisian cheese knife and my precious jar of Dutch bee pollen. So I’m taking Paul with a grain of salt, when he says: “Luxury is the death of observation.” ... read more

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