Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
The albergue looks like a mountain chalet. We are snugly situated deep within the Fonfaraón Mountains, which climb high into the Spanish sky, separating us from an entire civilization below the cloud line.
Here atop the world, the mountain peaks look like incarnations of the Appalachians, with a fuzzy, green carpet-like texture, rounded edges, and swooping valleys that gather pools of fog like a white lake.
We will be hiking this today.
The village of Tineo is bathed in thick morning fog. The impenetrable miasma is smothering the Sierra de Tineo mountains like a damp dishrag.
The miasma is really spectacular. I have always wanted to use the word “miasma.” But I’ve never had a reason to use it until now. I’ve gone for many, many years with a burning passion to use this word, just like actual authors do in actual classic literature, but alas, I’ve never had the opportunity. Until today. But now that I’ve used “miasma,” I don’t feel any elation inside. In fact, I feel nothing. It was not the exuberant vocabularial experience I was hoping for.
“Take time, pilgrim,” the old Frenchman said. “Take time to stop and smell every flower, not just some of them.”
He was old. If not in body, in soul. What little bit of white hair he once possessed had vanished. So had some of his teeth.
A rooster crows as day breaks over the surrounding Cantabrian Mountains. He crows every few moments, singing an anthem to morning, his voice ringing throughout the tiny village of Cornellana.
I am in a bar, drinking morning joe. My bartender is working his buns off.
Our first day walking the Camino. We leave our inn at Oviedo a little after daybreak. There are no people on the streets. No cars. Only one stray dog, dutifully cleaning his privates, and one old man hosing down a section of street in front of his shop while smoking a cigar the size of …
We find a table in the old Spanish café and order two cafés con leche. I order our breakfast by repeatedly tapping the menus and saying in English, “Uh, I’m sorry, I don’t know this word…”
My waitress finds my ordering technique amusing.
Our Father, which art in heaven, hi. How are you doing? How’s the family? Have you made any progress on that request I made earlier about Florida Powerball?
2:16 p.m.—We step off the plane in Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Airport, and it is pure chaos. People crowd this ginormous public space like ants swarming a fallen Tootsie Pop. This place is like Black Friday at Walmart, only with less exposed thong underwear.
When Americans think about Iran, the story usually begins in 1979—angry crowds, burning flags, and a stern cleric named Ayatollah Khomeini taking control of the country. But that snapshot hides something important. Iran—historically Persia—is one of the world’s oldest civilizations. Its history stretches back thousands of years, and the country that emerged after 1979 is not the inevitable outcome of Persian history. In many ways, it was a political accident born from revolution, miscalculation, and a brutal consolidation of power.
Savannah. The sun is not up. The city is dark and foggy. I am the first one awake in my hotel. I am always the first one awake. I don’t know why. As a kid, I could sleep until Carson came on. Now I get up before the rooster clears his throat.
My darling bride — of 46 years, 4 months, and 13 days — and I recently returned from our two week vacation in Greece, and we saw many amazing and beautiful places.
Our little white van rolls into the Walmart Supercenter in Raleigh, North Carolina. My wife and I step out and stretch our muscles in the parking lot.
“Sandwiches?” my wife says.
“Yep,” I reply.
A journey through Alaska’s rivers, glaciers, and skies is a living reminder that the God who shaped such majesty also cares deeply for us.
Nature’s beauty evokes a deep emotional response that many interpret as a connection to God. That divine connection was evident on a recent trip to the Dakotas.
