There is a writer — Paul Theroux — who once took epic railway trips. His books Old Patagonia Express and The Great
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It is Saturday, early, and I’m sitting in our gray-painted library in our gray-painted house on 9th Street. The room comes with
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It is Saturday, early, and I’m sitting in our small, gray-painted library. This morning, I’ve got my coffee and an English muffin
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It is Sunday morning and it’s brisk. Not cool enough for a small, tastefully laid fire; but cool enough for coffee sipped
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It is Sunday and it is brisk. This morning I have my coffee — Honduras Honey — and a newspaper entirely focused
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It is Wednesday, 6:30 a.m., and I’m on a wooden deck, with complimentary coffee, waiting for the sun- rise above the blue-tinted
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