We have only a little time to please the living, but all eternity to love the dead.
When does a story go from fact to fiction? From recollection to memory to myth?
My Valentine's Day special advocating for early (and age-appropriate) sex ed. How romantic, right?!
An ode to the time of year where there are few odes. The upside of the low season.
How can we rank bookstores? By aesthetics? Coziness? Selection? Notoriety? The cuteness and cuddliness of the live-in cats?
Hipster cafés, cheap vodka, functional public transport. How do I miss thee? Let me count the ways.
My mother never had to be a DREAMer. She never had to justify her presence with a desperate plea to be seen as just a human being, trying to make a good life for herself. She never had to defend her place in the country where she grew up by casting blame on her parents.
I once heard some rosy-cheeked American college students at a hostel kitchen in Prague discussing their various backpacking journeys through Europe on their study abroad year (really fascinating stories, let me tell you; did you know the beer in Munich is really good and Germans are very serious people? Illuminating). While they were comparing notes …
We all deserved better from this election, but no one more so than Hillary Clinton. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah.
David Černy is famous for his weird sculptures scattered around the city of Prague. What do they mean? I, of course, have the answers. (I don't have the answers.)