The Beat Hotel: American Writers in Paris, 1957-1963
By Matthew Nilsson Standing on the shores of Paris’ Left Bank, tucked away on Rue Gît-le-Cœur, I check my map, look up, and there it is—the Beat Hotel. Scanning the…
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France
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George Sand: Her Majorcan Winter of Discontent
By Joni Rendon Never before-and possibly never since-has a Mediterranean island inspired as much enmity as did the Spanish isle of Majorca for prolific French writer and protofeminist George Sand…
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We Recommend This App: Eat Smart Abroad
Travel is increasingly a competition of access: who know what the locals know? Who knows the secrets of where to eat and visit? It can be exhausting as it is…
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Bookstore Review: le lièvre de mars, Marseille, France
by Johanna Pittman Normally I’m not much of a book aesthete—despite a dislike of electronic reading, I’ve never been drawn above all else to the book as a kind of…
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Hotel du Pont Royal: Paris, France
By Kelsey Liebenson-Morse “There is never any ending to Paris, and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. Paris was always worth…
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Review of Les Miserables: The Movie
By Jessica Ellen Monk Strictly speaking, Les Misérables is not a Literary Adaption; it’s based on the musical, not the Victor Hugo novel. The story has traveled far since it was first…
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Caodai Calling: Victor Hugo’s Vietnam
A traveler to an architectural oddity in Tay Ninh, Vietnam, tunes in to the otherworldy call of a wacky bizarro cult.
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Happy Birthday, Julia: Celebrating the Centenary of a Culinary Icon
by Amanda Festa One of my most vivid memories of childhood is the distinct voice of Julia Child wafting, or more accurately, booming, from my grandmother’s bedroom. Nonni, as I…
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Van Gogh & The Dead in Arles, France
It’s late October, but the sun beats down on my bare head with the ferocity of an August heat wave. I stand at the entrance of Les Alyscamps, Elisii Campi, the Elysian Fields. It is the final resting place of Roman dead in Arles in the South of France. A cloying floral scent weighs heavily in my throat, the scent of thousands of funerals over thousands of years. Tall straight trees line the walkway like sentinels. Or prison bars. I’m alone at the gates to the great necropolis and I’m in the open air, but still I feel suffocated.
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Jim Morrison & Lipstick Kisses at Oscar Wilde’s Pere-Lachaise
by Kevin E.G. Perry “They say, Lady Hunstanton, that when good Americans die they go to Paris.” ~ Oscar Wilde, “A Woman of No Importance” Oscar Wilde was not an American,…
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