October 27, 1985 |
My hometown was a serious city, sadly bereft of architectural folly. For most of the year its traditional facades and graceful streets were a source of civic pride, but the end of October always rendered its aesthetic conventions curiously deficient. At the time, my childhood Halloweens seemed entirely adequate; I completed a satisfactory tenure as trick-or-treater, masquerading alternately as Gypsy, princess, pirate, witch and vampire.
December 18, 1985 |
Several years ago I was telling Mrs. Fontaine, who lived in the bungalow next door, what I had heard about a house up the street, that its original cobblestone chimney had been replaced by a brick one. "Who told you that?" she demanded. "Mr. Wright over on Arbor." She laughed in scorn. "Why he's a newcomer." "He is? I thought he'd lived here a long time." "Heavens no. Only been here 25 years."
December 13, 2002 |
What I remember most about the place isn't the neatly aligned wood-and-brick cottages or the well-tended gardens, or even the colorful mosaic tiles that gleamed in the autumn sunlight. What I remember most are the eyes of the children that reflected needs beyond one's ability to measure.
November 1, 1987 |
"The view from my front door is so lovely," a woman here told me, "I don't have to go to the films." I had an image of what I wanted--a small village on Ireland's west coast where I could spend a few days, a village picturesque but not overrun with tourists, a village full of character and characters. Furthermore, because I knew I would be tired by the time I landed at Shannon Airport, I wanted a destination I could reach easily within an hour or so by rental car.
March 30, 1990 |
For rent, Easter Week: 3-bedroom party house with view, patio and fireplace. Only two house rules: no opium smoking in elevators and guests must bury their own dead. --1960 classified ad for a Balboa rental Sleep? Who could sleep? There was too much cruising to do, too many parties to go to, too much dancing, too many knockout girls, too many cute guys, too much sun, too much beach, too much surf, too much music and noise and laughter and pure screaming fun.
May 3, 1987 |
There's one thing better than being a tourist in Britain and that is being a guest, to be treated as a friend while gaining an insight into how your hosts live and spend their leisure hours. Friends in London, for instance, is just what the name implies. A group of well-organized people under the direction of Mary Bailey will take over all of your vacation planning from the moment you arrive--or before you leave home.
August 20, 2006 |
WE stood, soaked and shivering, under the awning of a roadside bar. The vibrant colonial city of Salvador was two bus trips and a ferry ride behind us, and the nearest town was miles away. As the rain crashed around us, we were beginning to wonder whether the speedboat that was to pick us up for the final leg of our journey would show.
August 7, 1991 |
A decade ago, many people considered Jack Bailey the best of men. He was praised as a humanitarian who had aided thousands of Southeast Asian refugees, hailed as a hero who had given desperate people a chance to live. One missionary called him "the most genuinely compassionate man I ever met." Then that Jack Bailey seemed to all but vanish, sinking into the murky realm where Americans haunted by Vietnam try to raise the dead--the presumed dead, that is.