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Leah Marie Brown  It's that time of year I have come to dread.   For most of the world, the long, dreary march through Winter is nearing its end and the verdant days of Spring lie just on the horizon.   Soon, the snow will melt, the birds will chirp, the flowers will bloom.  Petite princesses in pastel dresses will romp through grassy fields in search of decorated East er eggs.   While the rest of the world is packing away their winter coats and wooly Uggs, I will be bundled in a hideous Arctic Squall Parka, staring up at my gutters, willing the icicles to melt.  (Don't laugh, icicle watching is a favorite pasttime here in Anchorage.  In fact, it's even a competitive event at Fur Rondy , an annual festival to mark the beginning of the Iditarod Dog Sled Race.  I am told icicle mind melting is one of the training exercises performed by the Iditarod Mushers to help them improve their concentration skills.) Anchorage in the Spring  So, while the rest of t

Wishes by Amalia K. Lately, I have been feeling like Life has been getting a little too heavy.  Health concerns.  Numerous professional obligations.  Maintaining my sanity (and eroding authority) while living with two clever, rebellious teenagers.  Facing my fear that no amount of expensive French, caviar-infused moisturizer will be able to reverse the withering affect the dry Alaskan air has had on my skin and hair, that I am destined to spend the remainder of my days looking like the Crypt Keeper in a pink pashmina.  And then there's the endless fretting about when the new season of Mad Men will begin.  Add to that the unbelievable shock and sadness that comes each time I look at a new photograph or listen to a new report about the poor, devastated people of Japan , struggling to rebuild some semblance of a life after last week's earthquake and tsunami. Well, it's a lot for one woman to deal with.  NOT Amalia's work I decided to do what I usually do w

 Leah & Friends in Iwakuni, Japan   I've often wondered what inspired me, a girl of simple origins from an average mid-western town, to travel the world.   Maybe it was the subscription to National Geographic my grandfather gave me for my fifth birthday.  Each month, the magazine would arrive in my mailbox with a little label bearing my name and address.  Truth be known, the label on the outside of the magazine was almost as exciting as the glossy photos on the inside.  Photos of far-away places like Mykonos and Madrid and Mozambique. I remember one issue about the Seychelles.  An article inside explained that archaeologists believed the Garden of Eden was located off the coast of one of the islands.  The article included photos of what looked like a submerged tree with great vines swaying as if on a breeze.  How it captured my young imagination!  Oh to dive below the sea and discover worlds forgotten!  Such daring!  Twenty years later, I would become a certified

Today, a woman who has influenced millions of malleable mademoiselles celebrates her 52nd birthday.  With her quiet but changeable nature, she has shown girls around the world how to try on different personas in their journey towards self-discovery.  Sexy, sassy, sweet, confident, career-driven, demure, domestic.  She's been it all! You might have already guessed that I am not talking about a real, flesh-and-blood woman but a plastic, mammary-enhanced doll-woman.  That's right, I am talking about Barbie!  The doll that has undergone more make-overs (and dye jobs) than Madonna, turns 52 today!  Becoming the most famous plastic woman in history has been no easy feat.  I'll be honest here, I wanted to share with you the heart-warming story of a lonely four year old who received her first Barbie.  I wanted to tell you about how this only child, the product of a broken home, took one look at the little blonde doll and felt less alone in the world.  But the truth is..

(Editors Note: This is the second installment of a two-part article. If you would like to read the first installment, please click here .) The Hospitality of a Comte Chateau de Bouceel Reluctantly, I departed Mont Saint Michel and headed inland.  I had made a reservation to spend a few nights at  Château de Boucéel , an 18th century chateau that operates as a bed and breakfast. I felt a jolt of excitement as soon as I turned down the long, tree-lined drive and again when I gazed upon the impressive chateau with the steeply-sloped mansard roof, curved pediment, and tall windows. The neatly clipped lawn, white painted footbridge spanning the pond, and the charming outbuildings stirred my writer's imagination, but it was what I discovered inside Château de Boucéel that made a lasting impression on my romantic soul. I had barely stepped onto the gravel drive when the front door opened and a tall, nattily dressed man with aquiline features rushed out to help me with my ba