by Brooke Hardwick
My days begin watching a woman whittle ginger and end with a pair of mischievous twins waiting for the bus to China.
In between these bookends I cross paths with a long list of people. They, like me, are performing the rituals of their day. The only difference between us is that we don’t speak the same language. Read More
In the 17th century a steady stream of English gentry would don heavy linens, fill their wallets with Daddy’s money and make an educational rite of passage through Europe.
The Hotel Palazzo Murat, nestled in the green culdera of Positano’s bosom is the sort of place they would end up, and so it seems, have I. Read More