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I went for a walk today down a secluded trail lined with towering Oaks and Magnolia trees dripping Spanish Moss.  It was early in the morning and the sun was still partially nestled beneath the horizon.  Its golden rays seemed to be stretching awake, gently punching through the canopy of waxy green leaves. I had driven by the sign to Eden State Park hundreds of times since moving to Florida, but I had never ventured inside the park.  With a full day of writing and cleaning ahead of me, I decided to explore.  I decided the mound of laundry and pages of edits could wait. I parked in the empty lot far from the ranger station, followed the trail signs, and soon found myself in a magical, dream-like world.  The lowest branches of the towering trees arched over the trail, each of them dangling long strands of moss so that I felt as if I were moving through an arbor. With my fearless twelve-pound schnoodle leading the way, I followed the twists and turns of the path, along the bay and d

Usually, when darkness falls, the world becomes muted in shades of gray. Colors become duller, shapes less defined. The din of life dies down and the earth is blanketed in blissful silence.   The opposite seemed to be the case in Strasbourg.   As night fell the colors of the town became more vivid and vibrant. The blue sky deepened to a rich sapphire, the honey-hued bricks of the buildings glowed in the amber light of street lamps. The red tents crowding the main square no longer distracted from the beauty of the streetscape, but seemed to add to it. Indeed, they now beckoned us to come closer, to join in the festivities and indulge in the libations. The air was tinged with the heady aroma of warm spiced wine, fruit filled crêpes, and roasted chestnuts. Streets that had been relatively empty suddenly filled with eager revelers, whose laughter made a joyful noise. Small details that had been overlooked suddenly came into sharp focus. I noticed an old street sign, a black silhoue

I am not the sort of tourist who makes it a practice to visit cemeteries during my travels.  I know some people enjoy haunting the final resting places of the famous, but I do not.  Frankly, I don't see the appeal of wasting my life visiting the dead.  I've been to Paris numerous times, but have oly visited Père Lachaise Cemetery once (I reluctantly agreed to tour it with my mother after extracting a promise from her that we would eat dinner at a Mexican restaurant I'd heard about in the 2nd arrondisement.  My mom nurtures an an ardent belief that when in Rome one should eat as the Romans - even if one craves a burrito!  After eight days of watching her eat goose liver and snails, I was jonesing for some chips and salsa.  But that's another story...).  On a warm September day, we caught the metro to the cemetery, paid a ridiculous amount of money for a map, and then got lost in a maze of graves, tombstones, statues, and crypts.  I watched in bemusement as my mom snap

In my previous blog posting, I explained that a writer friend suggested eighteenth century France was an unromantic setting for novels.   Since I have long been fascinated with that era, it stirred in me a potent desire to alter her opinion.  Today, I would like to focus on one of my favorite 18th century couples Napoleon and Josephine Bonaparte.     They say behind every great man is an even greater woman, so allow me to tell you a bit about Napoleon's Lady.  Josephine certainly lead a romantic life, full of adventure and passion.  Born in the West Indies on the island of Martinique, she was the daughter of a plantation owner. Never wealthy, her family struggled financially.  When she was sixteen, Josephine left her tropical, hurricane-ravaged home to marry a French  aristocrat. It was an arranged match.  As was usually the case, the couple were not in love.  Although she gave birth to two children, whom she adored, it was not to be a happy marriage. As the wife of an aris