In Search Of Jesus

And did those feet in ancient time, walk upon England’s mountains green?

Thinking of Jesus, I climbed into the ferry at Fowey Town Quay, paid £2.50 to the captain, and set sail for the distant shores of Polruan which loomed out of green waters some 365 metres away.

The Sicilian

Nothing shall stand between Inspector Montalbano and food.

A favourite fictional detective of mine these days is Inspector Salvo Montalbano. He is Sicilian, the creation of Andrea Camilleri.

On Route 66, A Cowboy Rides Into A Dusty Town

The author wishes to assert that all facts in this story are completely true

It was high noon and scorching when I rode into Oatman. “Feed and water him,” I told the boy who came running to take the reins. “Curry him down with the saddle on.”

Where All Views Are Stunning And Everyone Knows How To Make Good Pasta

Positano, on the Amalfi coast in Italy, is insanely Instagrammable

Positano is a town best enjoyed with a thick wad of cash, a healthy pair of lungs, and excellent knees.

Ullivadas, Uzhunnuvadas, And Bondas

Ah, the pleasures of teashops in Kerala! 

In the Kerala of my childhood, before my people succumbed to the invasion of ‘cafes’, ‘restaurants’ and ‘bistros’ selling everything from bel puri to kebabs to malayalified Chinese, we of the old ate at chayakkadas (tea shops).

No One Was Roasting Reindeer In Oslo  

But they had tacos — well, sort of 

A guy I know well at work has been selling Norway to me for years. Our conversations often go like this.

So Pigs Have Knuckles

In which the author gets intimate with pork knuckle in Old Town Prague

I had never thought deeply about pork knuckles before I arrived in Prague. I never had to. Do pigs have knuckles? Golly. Do they punch each other?

Like Tom In Top Gun With A Hint Of Clint

They wear dark shades even at midnight. They chew gum furiously. They swagger.

Anyone who has ever passed through an airport anywhere in the world has witnessed the swagger of the pilots and the sashay of the stewardesses.

The Death Of A Father

A body starched in white, one future urn

Wet with the bucket of cold water he half-willingly poured on himself, he stands by the body of his father, palms together, naked to the waist, head bowed to the prayers of the priest with a piety he does not feel.

Why I Love Small Airports

Small airports are refreshingly cosy

I believe they are wonderful creations of God, made solely for the purpose of teaching big airports a thing or two about how airports are meant to be.

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