Life was terrifying for the majority of Hungarians for the majority of the 20th century. This is the main message of the House of Terror, a museum dedicated to the victims of both the fascist and Communist regimes that occupied the
A sea of red and yellow stretches as far as my eyes can see as throngs of Spaniards and aficiondos alike line the long sidewalks of Gran Vía, Madrid’s main thoroughfare. We quietly stand under the hot sun waving our
Norway Fjord Tours The rail journey has taken me from the deep blue harbors of Oslo past lakes and streams huddled by lush greenery and red bursts from Norwegian cottages so charming they could be home to storybook characters. We trek upwards
As I walk through the wooden doors of the Vikingskiphuset, the roof unfolds into a sweeping oval dome, framing perfectly the restored remains of the Oseberg Ship. I’m taken aback by its power, steming from both its magnitude of size
I’ve said it once. I’ve said it twice. I’ll say it again – I love Marrakech! Before I went on my trip a lot of friends and acquaintances expressed concern for me traveling to this developing nation with just one other
If you’ve been following along on my blog lately, you’ll note one thing is obvious – I love Marrakech, Morocco! Known as the “red” city, the former Imperial City is swimming with a myriad of rich colors, warm people and culture. Here
I just got back to Madrid last night from a whirlwind weekend in Norway, and between the stunning beauty of the Fjords, Oslo’s seaside charm and the warmth of the people I really fell in love. Oh and also – I
With two soft knocks, the aged wooden door of Riad AnaYela creaks open. On this plain, dusty street in the heart of the Marrakech medina, it certainly doesn’t feel as if I’m about to enter one of the most luxurious Riads
Mohamed leads us through the winding streets of the Marrakech medina. We pass under a red archway and wander down a side street, stopping at a small wooden opening in one of the buildings. “This is Jack of All Trades,” Mohammed
Fatiha’s strong hands press into mine as we knead the dough for Khobz, a white bread, to go with the chicken tangine and salads we are preparing for our meal. Her touch is firm and soft. It’s a mother’s touch,