Memory Is, Of Course, A

Going To Europe As A Budding Cook Opened My Eyes To Food In A Different Way. When I Got To Italy, The First Thing I Did Was Put My Little Basil Plants In The Ground And Watch Them Turn Into Big, Healthy Bushes.

The Dream Lover-what A Bold, Insightful, And Enticing Novel. And How Vigorously Elizabeth Berg Brings Us The Iconoclastic Life Of George Sand. Berg Writes With Such Intimacy And Compassion That I Think She Must Have Some Shared Ancestral Dna With Sand. I Savored Every Page.

Splendid To Arrive Alone In A Foreign Country And Feel The Assault Of Difference. Here They Are All Along, Busy With Living; They Don't Talk Or Look Like Me. The Rhythm Of Their Day Is Entirely Different; I Am Foreign.

Where You Are Is Who You Are. The Further Inside You The Place Moves, The More Your Identity Is Intertwined With It. Never Casual, The Choice Of Place Is The Choice Of Something You Crave.

Travel Releases Spontaneity. You Become A Godlike Creature Full Or Choice, Free To Visit The Stately Pleasure Domes, Make Love In The Morning, Sketch A Bell Tower, Read A History Of Byzantium, Stare For One Hour At The Face Of Leonardo Da Vinci's 'madonna Dei Fusi.' You Open, As In Childhood, And--for A Time--receive This World. There's Visceral Aspect, Too--the Huntress Who Is Free. Free To Go, Free To Return Home Bringing Memories To Lay On The Hearth.