There’s a small brick basement in Philadelphia that is to mystery and horror fiction what the basement clubs of Liverpool are to rock n’ roll and the Beatles. Stories penned here portray drunken insanity, deprivation, axe murders, dismemberment and premature burial. This is, of course, the house of Edgar Allan Poe.
It was pure good fortune that enabled me to arrive in Santo Domingo de la Calzada on the feast day of Saint Dominic. I was hiking west along the Camino Frances, en route to Santiago de Compostela, when I saw people gathering in front of the cathedral for a procession that gradually wound its way through the old town on streets lined with spectators. Young men in medieval costumes performed traditional folk dances at points along the route. Young women in period dress marched together. Men wearing red berets played traditional melodies on flutes. The music and the dances were little changed from medieval times. I felt as if I were observing a cultural tableau dating back hundreds of years.
When I first moved to Portland, Oregon, in the early 1990s, one of my first friends was a man who self-published a high-brow zine about amusement park rides. He eschewed car ownership, although he was happy to ride in mine. When we played Scrabble, he favored long, obscure words over point value. For all of my friend’s quirks, he turned out to be a surprisingly typical Portlander. Those who found Portland too self-consciously hip could laugh at its liberal excesses as immortalized in Portlandia. But these days, Portland has acquired a layer of grit. Homeless camps and boarded-up buildings covered with graffiti dot the whole city. Does the promise of Portlandia live on? For the sake of journalism, I decided to take an unflinching look at my city. Read More
Chances are, wherever you travel, you’ll find an Agatha Christie paperback. With eighty detective novels and story collections to her credit, Christie’s work has been translated into 130 languages and ranks third in sales behind the Bible and Shakespeare. She loved nothing more than going away and was utterly fearless about trying new destinations. Of her “foreign travel books,” she later would write, “if detective novels are escape literature, the reader can escape to sunny skies and blue water as well as to crime in the confines of an armchair.”
Birdwatchers stroll through forests hoping to catch a glimpse of an elusive bird. Plane spotters do the same, only their birds are bigger, louder and arrive on schedule. This isn’t some small group. Plane spotters have an extensive network of members from all over the world. In Los Angeles, their Facebook Group LAX24R, the official LAX Plane Spotting Community, has over 4,200 members, and that’s just one group for one airport. For most people, plane spotting is just a hobby, something they do for pleasure. It’s mesmerizing to watch 330 tons of metal inbound from an exotic destination gliding gently toward a runway, and being able to capture that feeling is immensely satisfying. For others, it becomes a global pursuit for photos that showcase airplanes and airports.
New Mexico is a land defined by its culture of green and red chiles. Chiles flavor the state’s history, cuisine, art and economy. New Mexico’s large Roman Catholic population may be shaped by its Native American, Hispanic and frontier heritage. But when it comes to food almost everyone wants theirs cooked with chiles. Both red and green.
It’s 1:00 am under a brooding Alaska sky in February. The temperature’s a few degrees above zero and there’s no sign of the aurora borealis. I wander back into the pioneer cabin where the others in my party are waiting around for the northern lights to show. Inside, Jack Reakoff holds forth about how to hunt, slice and transport the hides and carcasses of various large Alaskan mammals. He’s even brought laminated, full-color sheets showing himself and his wife posing with their kills and pictures of the chunks of meat these animals become. He segues from the best cuts of moose and bear to his upcoming gig training Special Forces how to safely cross frozen rivers.
“What do you think the most dangerous thing here is?” he asks, peering around the pioneer cabin at my group, a ball of energy despite the hour. “Bears? Moose? No, falling through the ice. Getting wet in cold weather.” The aurora never shows on my second night in Alaska. Still, after a couple of hours with Jack, I’m gripped by the spirit of Alaska and the self-sufficiency necessary to live here.
By Jacqueline Swartz Back in 2020, a pandemic swept over much of the globe. People turned inward and went out sparingly to places where they could be with others, yet physically distanced. No, not Covid. The epidemic this story documents is that of immersive art exhibits that today are moving digital projections of masterpieces into…
Want to learn the real history of Hollywood? Then skip the freak show along the Walk of Fame and head north past the Hollywood Sign to the Valley Relics Museum in the San Fernando Valley where neon costumes and cars tell the history of California’s most fascinating industry.
The Underground Railroad brought thousands of escaped African slaves to Chatham, Ontario during the early and middle decades of the 19th century. Today the town celebrates their suffering and accomplishments with interactive historic parks, helpful genealogical research libraries and Uncle Tom’s Cabin.