Over the hills, under the moon - and off the beaten path

Walking into the massive Boros bunker in Berlin's Mitte is like walking into an ancient, alien tomb. This forbidding concrete monolith, built by the Nazis in 1942,  is now the home of an eccentric private art collection.  Inside the building's almost anthill-like network of  underground corridors and crypts, numerous swirling shapes and colors spark the walls into lurid illuminations.   A flood of phantasmagoric images washes over the senses - kinetic sculptures twisting with reptilian menace, multimedia installations flickering with layered meanings. Each new room opens like a portal into a new creative artistic mind - and the story about the building is as exciting as the art which is  displayed inside it. During the war, the bunker sheltered several thousand  civilians from the massive, nightly bombings that hit Berlin. In 1945 the Red Army repurposed the building for prisoners of war and it later became an East German warehouse. After the wall tumble...

We started our travels in 2024 at our house in the Ardeche mountains of Southern France. And - we had four absolutely miserable weeks!!! While Northern Europe experienced a lovely spring, we stayed mostly indoors,  covered in duvets, while persistent rain and even sludge beat against our windows. Well - this is now rainwater under the bridge. And plenty of it! We survived - and, eventually, we escaped  - and yesterday we arrived in a sunny, warm Berlin, where our new neighbors  were hanging out in some of Kreuzberg's many outdoor cafes. ----------------- o ----------------- Today we used a lovely Ascension day to make our own ascent onto what is probably one of the weirdest places you can visit in all of Berlin - the top of the Teufelberg mountain far out in the Grunewald forest. This rubble mountain turned Cold War listening post turned graffiti wonderland is a palimpsest of the last 80 years of German turmoil and rebirth. The approach to Teufelberg is unassuming - a...

Our village of Antraigues looks so peaceful from afar, but this weekend it sprang to life as the center of the annual Ardeche chestnut festival drawing neighbors from all over the surrounding Cevennes mountains. Crisp autumn air and the scent of woodsmoke greeted us as we walked out from our townhouse and into the square just as the festivities were beginning.  Villagers mingled happily, voices rising in laughter as they awaited the evening's revelries. Tables groaned under the weight of honeyed figs, freshly cooked chestnuts, wheels of soft cheese, and loaves of crusty bread.  The rich aroma of roasted meats drifted from fires crackling nearby, while children scampered about, their delighted shrieks echoing off ancient stonewalls. As darkness fell, an air of celebration took hold under the light of the full harvest moon.  Friends clustered together, clinking gla...

The ceaseless patter of autumn rain against the terrace has become the soundtrack to our mornings here in our village of Antraigues.  Ensconced in our townhouse we've settled into the worn sofa by the oil stove, a steaming cup of coffee at hand and books piled high on the side table. As the wind rustles through the changing leaves outside, we luxuriate in having nowhere to be but right here.  These quiet hours tucked away indoors while the world dampens seem a rare gift to be unwrapped slowly.  No distractions, just a pile of books waiting to transport us to other times and places. The morning light fades to a dreary afternoon gloom, urging us to turn on the lamps earlier than usual.  The warm glow from our lit candles  casts shadows across the cracking plaster walls, and the scent of simmering pot au feu, drifting in from Ritas  kitchen, hints at the pleasures of the evening meal to come. For now, I turn the page, taking comfort in the fa...

We have a house in the Ardèche region of southern France, and on our many visits,  we have explored the surrounding countryside, crossed its rivers and mountain passes, and visited its many beautiful, medieval villages.  We were actually beginning to feel confident that there were no major discoveries left for us in the area. The other day we were proven wrong! A local friend told us that there actually lie some hidden remnants of an ancient capital city just a few kilometers from our house. The more than 2000-year-old ruins of what was once the center of the Gallo-Roman country of Helvia lie atop the Jastre mountain, with no road signs or tourist brochures giving any indication of their existence.  They lie concealed by wilderness and have been lost to common memory for centuries. This we had to explore, and like two modern-day Indiana Joneses, we decided yesterday to climb the mountain and try to find this apparent ghost city. It was ...