By Jacqueline Swartz Returning to Athens after more than a dozen years seemed like an emotional Odyssey. Would it still be the city I knew so well? Would I be able to appreciate the creative unpredictable, even when it turned infuriating? Would the people I knew from years of writing dispatches for Canada’s leading publications…
By David DeVoss The PyeongChang Olympics may be over, but that no reason to stop thinking about Korea. Indeed, now’s a great time to start planning ahead for warmer months. By all means head back to PyeongChang, which is beautiful with or without snow, but check out Seoul before you do. Every Asian capital has…
Kurdistan’s Rough Road to Freedom By David DeVoss Kurds in northern Iraq control their own land, maintain their own military, and share a common culture and language. They also have an overwhelming desire to separate from Iraq and become an independent state. But can a de facto nation become a real country if it isn’t…
Things to Love About the Luberon By Jacqueline Swartz My first encounter with a Luberon local is in downtown Cavaillon, the town that serves as the hub of the Luberon. Settling in with my coffee at a bakery café called Maison Auzet, I am introduced to a robust, white-haired man. Gerard Auzet is a retired…
It was a foggy June day in the year 793 A.D. when several longboats with dragon’s-head prows silently appeared out of the fog bound for the Lindisfarne monastery off the Northumbria coast. Howling like wolves, the Vikings methodically set about the business of slaughter. Some monks were killed midway through their prayers. Others were felled trying to defend their hand-lettered vellum books. Those who failed to die quickly suffered “the blood eagle,” a terminal torture in which a man’s lungs were ripped from his chest and allowed to flap like crimson wings until the screams subsided. And then, just as quickly as they had come, the Vikings disappeared into the cold gray mist of the North Sea, taking with them golden chalices, silk tapestries and intricately carved triptychs while leaving behind a legacy of fear. For the next 300 years, nobles and clergy alike ended their nightly prayers with the whispered supplication: A furore Normannorum libra nos, Domine – “From the fury of the Northmen deliver us, Oh Lord.”