THE NEW WINTER OUT WEST

1 PIX = 1K WORDS. Ski buddies take advantage of spring's sunny days in Keystone, Colorado.

 

HOW OTHERS SEE US ON APRIL FOOLS DAY AND EVERYDAY UNTIL THE ORANGE CLOWN GOES AWAY

If the King is a fool then his Palace is a circus 

Editor's note: The following speech was delivered by French Senator Claude Malhuret during a French Senate debate on Ukraine and European security on March 4, 2026. Senator Malhuret represents the Department of Allier in central France (biggest city Vichy). 

Mr. President, Mr. Prime Minister, Ladies and Gentlemen Ministers, My dear colleagues, 

Europe is at a turning point in its history. 

The American shield is slipping away. 

Ukraine risks being abandoned.

Russia is being strengthened. 

What is happening in Washington is not merely a change in policy. It is a rupture. The United States, which for eighty years has been the pillar of the free world, now sends a message that shakes all its allies: that its protection is uncertain, that its word is reversible, and that its commitments are conditional. For those who believed that alliances were based on shared values and enduring interests, this is a strategic earthquake. 

The consequences are immediate. 

French Senator Malhuret

Ukraine, which fights not only for its survival but for the security of Europe, finds itself threatened by fatigue, hesitation, and calculation among those who once stood firmly at its side. At the same time, Russia draws strength from this doubt. What it could not obtain by force, it now hopes to gain through division and discouragement. 

Let us be clear: the objective of Vladimir Putin is not limited to Ukraine. It is the dismantling of the international order established after 1945, whose first principle is that borders cannot be changed by force. 

If that principle falls, then no nation is safe. 

What we are witnessing is the return of spheres of influence— a world in which great powers divide territories among themselves, where the law of the strongest replaces the rule of law. 

Europe cannot accept this. 

We cannot remain dependent on a protection that may falter. We cannot subcontract our security. We cannot continue to believe that others will defend our interests in our place. 

The time has come for Europe to assume its own destiny. This means strengthening our defense capabilities, coordinating our strategies, and reaffirming, without ambiguity, our support for Ukraine. 

Because Ukraine’s fight is our fight. 

Its resistance is the front line of our own security. 

If Ukraine falls, it is not only a country that disappears. It is a principle that collapses. And with it, the fragile balance that has preserved peace on our continent for decades. 

History has taught us what hesitation costs. It has taught us that weakness invites aggression, and that divisions among democracies are always exploited by those who oppose them. We must not repeat those errors. Europe has the means, the talent, and the responsibility to act. What it needs now is the will. 

Let us find that will—before others decide our future for us. 

###

Illustration: F. Stop Fitzgerald, PillartoPost.org daily online magazine

THE PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW / GETTING DIZZY JUST SITTING THERE

 CAROUSEL BAR, NEW ORLEANS 

There are bars that serve drinks, and there are bars that quietly rearrange your sense of time. At

Carousel Bar, the difference is not announced. It reveals itself slowly, almost politely, as the room begins to move beneath you.  

Set inside the old bones of the Hotel Monteleone, the bar does not spin so much as drift. Fifteen revolutions an hour, give or take, just enough to unsettle the certainty that you are where you thought you were. A drink ordered facing the bartender is finished facing a stranger, or a mirror, or a couple leaning into a conversation they may not remember in the morning.  

The design is theatrical without being gaudy. A ring of stools, bolted to a slowly turning platform, circles a fixed core of polished wood and brass. The illusion is simple and complete. You are in motion while everything that matters appears still. It is a trick New Orleans understands well.  

There is a certain discipline to the bartending here, a continuity that resists the creeping casualness of modern cocktail culture. White jackets. Measured pours. A manner that suggests the drink matters, but not more than the room. The Sazerac arrives without flourish, the Vieux Carré without explanation. They are not introduced. They are expected.  

What distinguishes the Carousel Bar is not novelty, though the mechanism alone would be enough to earn it a passing mention in guidebooks. It is the way the motion alters behavior. Conversations begin easily, then loosen, then drift, much like the bar itself. You find yourself speaking to someone you did not arrive with, or listening longer than intended. The slow rotation edits the social order in increments so small they go unnoticed until you realize you have crossed into someone else’s evening.  

The room carries its history lightly. Since 1949, the bar has turned without interruption, outlasting trends, hurricanes, and the periodic urge to modernize what never required improvement. Writers have sat here. Politicians have made promises here. Tourists have tried to understand it and locals have declined to explain it. The bar keeps its secrets not by hiding them, but by refusing to slow down long enough for you to pin them in place.  

There is a moment, usually halfway through a second drink, when the experience resolves itself. You are no longer aware of the movement, only of its effect. The room feels alive, but not restless. Time feels altered, but not lost. It is the rare establishment that can offer both sensation and calm, spectacle and intimacy, without choosing between them.  

Step outside into the French Quarter and the city resumes its usual pace—humid, musical, slightly off balance in ways that feel entirely natural. Inside, the Carousel continues its quiet orbit, indifferent to your departure, already carrying someone else toward the same realization.  

In a city built on ritual, illusion, and endurance, this bar does not imitate the culture. It participates in it. And like the best public houses, it does so without ever needing to explain itself. 

MEDIA MONDAY / WHAT IS THE MAGA MINDSET / KNOW THY ENEMY

 

PILLAR TO POST.ORG OPINION ESSAY / By Holden DeMayo   

Every so often, a reader of this blog asks a question that deserves more than a quick answer. A few days ago someone leaned in and asked, “What is the MAGA mindset?” The tone wasn’t accusatory or partisan. It carried the curiosity of someone who genuinely wanted to understand what has been roiling American politics for nearly a decade. So I answered the way any journalist with a few gray hairs should—by stepping back and looking at the landscape as it is, not as we wish it to be.   

The MAGA mindset is not a policy sheet, nor a political theory, nor even a tidy ideology. It is an emotional posture—one built from grievance, nostalgia, and distrust. At its heart is a conviction that America has slipped away from its rightful owners, culturally and politically, and that only a blunt-force outsider can wrestle it back. This is politics as reclamation rather than governance. It’s a desire to return to a country that either used to exist or is fondly imagined to have existed.   

To see it clearly, you must understand the loss that fuels it. Many MAGA supporters believe the nation’s institutions stopped listening to them long ago—Washington, the press, the courts, universities, corporate boardrooms. They see themselves as the unseen backbone of the country, people who built their lives on service, work, and modest expectation, only to discover the rules were changed by others. That sense of being left behind hardened into identity. Being MAGA is less about the candidate and more about belonging to a tribe that tells them, “We know what they’re doing to you—and we won’t let it stand.”   

There is also a natural attraction to simplicity. The world has grown noisy: technology races ahead, demographics shift, culture churns. MAGA offers a cleaner script—heroes and villains, patriots and traitors, clarity over the messy compromises of democratic life. That is why conspiracy theories find oxygen within the movement; they reduce complexity into a story with recognizable shapes. And once you distrust the institutions that sort fact from fiction, the only voice that matters becomes the one you’ve chosen to trust.   

Then comes the cultural anxiety. America is changing quickly—faster than many communities can absorb. Jobs globalize. Traditions fade. Familiar anchors wobble. For some, those changes feel like a gradual erasure of the world they grew up in. Donald Trump didn’t invent that unease. He repackaged it, branded it, and gave it a permission slip. Suddenly grievance became patriotic, suspicion became virtue, and the old confidence that tomorrow would look like yesterday snapped.   

Finally, the MAGA mindset depends on its central figure. It is a movement built around a leader who promises not just to represent his followers, but to avenge them. Loyalty becomes the highest measure of belonging. To question the standard-bearer is to step outside the tribe. This is why the movement behaves less like a traditional political coalition and more like a devotional circle—one animated not by platforms, but by faith in a single, unyielding personality.   

You don’t have to praise or condemn it to describe it honestly. You only have to recognize it as a fusion of grievance, nostalgia, identity, and loyalty—an emotional structure far stronger than any policy proposal. Understanding the MAGA mindset matters because it is not disappearing. It will shape elections, conversations, and families for years to come.   

And if we’re going to keep this Republic standing, we owe ourselves the discipline to understand the forces moving beneath our feet—even the ones we disagree with.

And urge all like minded souls we know to vote in every election.  These are not times we can afford to take a vacation from the ballot box.    

Illustration by PillartoPost.org art director F. Stop Fitzgerald.

SUNDAY REVIEW / PICASSO'S BRUSH WITH LAW BEFORE HIS BRUSH WITH FAME

OF COURSE, HE DIDN'T STEAL THE MONA LISA? 

"Je ne sais Pas, mon ami."

Pablo Picasso was, in fact, arrested in 1911 during the investigation into the theft of the Mona Lisa — though he was entirely innocent of the crime. That is if you can accept as receiving stolen property as blameless. 

The painting disappeared from the Louvre on August 21, 1911. Its absence stunned Paris and electrified the international press. For two years the masterpiece was simply gone, and suspicion drifted through the city’s bohemian quarters as easily as cigarette smoke. Picasso’s involvement was accidental and indirect. 

A small-time Belgian thief named Honoré-Joseph Géry Pieret had stolen several Iberian sculptures from the Louvre prior to the Mona Lisa’s disappearance. Those sculptures found their way into the hands of Guillaume Apollinaire, the poet and close friend of Picasso. Some were eventually sold to Picasso, who admired their raw, archaic force and drew inspiration from them in shaping his early modernist work. When Pieret later bragged publicly about his Non-Mona Lisa Louvre thefts, the police traced the sculptures back to Apollinaire and then to Picasso. 

In September 1911, both men were arrested and interrogated. Picasso, still a young Spanish expatriate in Paris and not yet the titan he would become, reportedly broke down under questioning and even denied knowing Apollinaire, fearing deportation or worse. 

Authorities, however, found no evidence linking either man to the stolen Leonardo. They were released. The true thief turned out to be Vincenzo Peruggia, an Italian handyman who had previously worked at the Louvre. He concealed himself inside the museum overnight, removed the Mona Lisa from its frame, and simply walked out with it hidden beneath his coat. He kept it for more than two years before attempting to sell it in Florence, where he was arrested in 1913. 

Picasso’s brush with the scandal remains one of the more curious footnotes in art history — a moment when the future architect of modernism briefly stood in the shadow of the world’s most famous missing painting. 

Picasso, left, before denying he ever knew his friend, Apollinaire.

DOUBLE STOOL PIDGEONS.

Poet Apollinaire

 After finking on Picasso to the Paris cops and Picasso lying he ever heard of Apollinaire the friendship did not end. It was strained in 1911 during the Mona Lisa theft scandal, when Apollinaire was arrested and, under pressure, mentioned Picasso to police. Picasso was questioned in the presence of a judge. The episode embarrassed and frightened both men, but they continued their relationship afterward. The real separation came with World War I. Apollinaire enlisted in the French army in 1914. Picasso, as a Spanish citizen, did not serve. In 1916 Apollinaire suffered a severe head wound from shrapnel and never fully regained his health. Apollinaire died in November 1918 during the influenza pandemic, weakened by his war injury. Picasso attended the funeral. So the friendship did not end in a quarrel. It faded under the strain of war, injury, and changing lives, and finally ended with Apollinaire’s death. For more on Picasso and Apollinaire sobbing before a Paris judge click: https://inmediaciones.org/la-ultima-historia-feliz-el-robo-de-la-gioconda/ and... https://criminocorpus.org/en/exhibitions/les-prisons-de-guillaume-apollinaire/le-poete-incarcere-reconstruction/ 

COFFEE BEANS & BEINGS / YAK MILK WITH YOUR BREW?

YOU'LL FIND THAT IN CHENGDU, CHINA 

There are coffee shops that chase trends, and then there are places like Charu in Chengdu, China that feel as if they were carried in on the wind from another world. 

Run by Tibetan nomads, this is less a café than a living room of culture, where coffee shares equal footing with craft, conversation, and quiet ritual. The signature yak milk coffee is the draw, rich and slightly wild, with a texture that lingers longer than anything you’ll find in a standard flat white. It pairs naturally with yak yogurt or a plate of handmade momos, turning a simple stop into something closer to a meal and a memory. 

What sets Charu apart is its sense of purpose. Textiles, carvings, and small handmade goods surround you, not as décor but as extensions of the people behind the counter. Travelers to this far Western Chinese metropolis tap on laptops beside locals deep in conversation, and the space hums with a kind of unforced authenticity that cannot be designed or franchised. 

 Charu is a place to get coffee, flavor it with Yak milk and a place to enjoy the surroundings. Here time stands still to a pace that will recall why coffee matters in the first place. 

Interior of Charu coffee house

 

What's Yak milk taste like? 

Yak milk is noticeably creamier and thicker than cow’s milk, almost like a natural half-and-half. It carries a slightly sweet, buttery flavor, but with an earthy undertone that reflects the grasses and herbs of the Himalayas and Tibetan Plateau. 

 The fat content is much higher—often double that of cow’s milk—which gives it that lush, almost velvety mouthfeel. Some people detect a faint tang or nuttiness, especially in fresh milk. When used in traditional drinks like butter tea, it becomes deeply savory, almost brothy, because it’s often churned with salt and yak butter rather than sugar. 

 If you’re used to standard dairy, the first sip can feel intense—denser, fuller, and a bit more “wild”—but many people grow to like it quickly. Where to buy. Realistically, go online find specialty import sites that carry goods from Tibet/China or find Yak ranch sites in Oregon, Colorado or Montana. Finding Yak powdered milk will be easier.

A yak is a species all its own.  Cow and Oxen are also bovines but less wooly

FRIDAY FUNNIES / NEW CANTERBURY TALES 2026

Credit: www.PillartoPost.org online daily magazine

THE FOODIST / UNITED AIRLINES UPCOMING RESTAURANTS IN THE SKY

www.PillartoPost.org original image

United Airlines is teaming up with Chef's Table, the brand behind the award-winning Netflix series, to introduce 10 new, exclusive meal experiences to its United Polaris® international business class menu. 

The airline has enlisted 11 world-renowned chefs from four continents – representing United's seven U.S. hub cities and key international gateways in London, Tokyo and São Paulo – to curate regionally-inspired meals. 

"United's network spans many of the culinary capitals of the world, allowing us to authentically bring together acclaimed chefs from around the globe," said Andrew Nocella, Chief Commercial Officer, United Airlines. "Our collaboration with Chef's Table shows how we've decided to deliver restaurant-quality meals in the sky. Our United Polaris international business class travelers are going to love the new dishes coming later this year." 

 "This collaboration represents a new look at how we can improve the inflight dining experience, by bringing the culinary experience featured on Chef's Table to the skies," claims Justin Connor, President of Chef's Table Projects. "By partnering with United, we are turning a global culinary journey into a reality for millions of passengers. Many travelers around the world will be able to experience firsthand the artistry of these 11 world-renowned chefs on their plates at 35,000 feet. Together we'll create incredible, regionally-inspired meals from takeoff to landing." 

 Starting August 1, United Polaris international business class travelers can taste recipes from Chef's Table culinary talent. Each chef will create complete meal experiences, including an appetizer, salad and entrée, for flights departing from the chef's home city that inspired the recipes. 

United's Super Star (Polaris) Chef Line Up includes:

--Los Angeles – Nancy Silverton, Osteria Mozza A James Beard Award-winning chef and author, is a culinary icon and the co-owner of Michelin-starred Osteria Mozza in Los Angeles, where she brings her passion for Italian cuisine and artisan ingredients to life. 

--Tokyo – Chef Tashi Gyamtso is the acclaimed Tibetan head chef of Jimgu, the farm-driven restaurant featuring menus solely based on what the land provides. Located in Yufuin, Oita Prefecture.

Chicago – Jenner Tomaska, Esmé, The Alston and Petite Edith is a three-time James Beard-nominated chef and co-owner of Michelin-starred Esmé in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood where he blends classical French cooking techniques with artistry, as well as steakhouse, The Alston located in the Gold Coast district, and French-Midwestern bistro, Petite Edith, in River North.

--New York/Newark – Chef Fariyal Abdullahi is the Executive Chef of Hav & Mar in New York, where a convergence of her travels and Ethiopian ancestry comes to life with an infusion of European technique in the unique flavors of her meals. 

--São Paulo –Chef Manuella Buffara, left, is the culinary force behind Manu in Curitiba, where she cooks with a keen sense of stewardship, elevating the bold, vibrant flavors of Brazilian cuisine with a modern sensibility and responsible agriculture practices. 

 

--Houston – Chef Justin Yu is a James Beard Award-winning chef and the owner of Houston's Theodore Rex, above, a relaxed fine dining restaurant with a French touch. 

--Denver – Chef Penelope Wong celebrates the diversity that has helped shape Denver's food scene, bringing the flavors of her Asian American childhood with memories of her family to her eatery, Yuan Wonton. 

--San Francisco – Chef David Barzelay, a visionary for unpretentious American fine dining, owns the two-Michelin-starred restaurant, Lazy Bear, above, in San Francisco's Mission District, JouJou in the Design District and True Laurel in the Mission. 

--Washington, D.C. – Chefs Isabel Coss (front, center) and Matt Conroy (far right, blue apron) combine French technique and Mexican sensibility into Michelin-starred Lutèce, creating refined seasonal dishes that highlight bold flavors. 

--London – Chef Tomos Parry is the founder and co-owner of three open-fire restaurants in London, including the Michelin-starred Mountain in Soho and the Michelin-starred Brat in East London. Inspired by his Welsh and Celtic heritage, his cuisine combines the traditions, techniques and cooking styles of northern Spain. 

***

* Chef's Table is an Emmy Award-winning documentary series that spotlights the world's most extraordinary chefs who are redefining the culinary landscape. The series is available only on Netflix. 

* United is the world's largest airline network.

 For more information, visit united.com. 

WEDNESDAY WEIRDO / DO WHAT EVER IT TAKES TO GET EPSTEIN OFF FRONT PAGE NEWS

 

TRAVEL TUESDAY / TWO U.S. SAILBOAT LOONIES FIND EXTREME HOPPINESS IN VICTORIA, BC

Fisherman's Wharf Park colorful floating homes reflecting in the water in Victoria, British Columbia 

Another in a year-long series of liveaboard (and off) adventures. 

GUEST BLOG / By Jennifer Silva Redmond, Author of Honeymoon at Sea. 

It’s hard to believe that in my 64 years of traveling the western hemisphere, the last 36 of those years spent on a sailboat and the last 3 sailing in Puget Sound, I had never been to Canada before this month. So, I was thrilled to be heading away from Washington state in flat calm seas, crossing the Strait of Juan de Fuca. 

We motor-sailed toward Victoria, the biggest city on Vancouver Island, and then veered east to end up at Oak Bay, home of the Oak Bay Marina, where we’d reserved a slip. Not only would it make clearing Canadian customs easier, since there was a customs dock right in the marina, but it would be nice to be able to walk around the neighborhood easily by simply stepping off a dock. The people who handled our marina and slip reservations over the phone had both expressed the same reaction when I said it was my first trip ever to Canada: “Amazing!” It really was. 

In spite of the entrance to the slipway being one of the narrowest and trickiest we’d ever seen, Russel managed to maneuver Watchfire into our slip without incident after I tossed a long dock line to a young man from the marina, who was waiting on the dock to help us get in. I was very glad to step down onto the wooden dock and tie up the boat and a few minutes later we were walking over to the customs dock adjacent to the fuel dock in the marina. At the small building we found a telephone marked “Customs” and called in, but after getting the recorded voice twice and being transferred twice, we were disconnected twice. Eventually, we switched to our cell phone, and the call went through perfectly. The customs officials were very clear and welcoming; they simply asked when we’d arrived, requested our boat make and model and its registration number, along with our passport numbers. After that we were given a Canadian Customs report number to post in our boat’s window, and we were legal. 

Oak Bay Yacht Club

That first afternoon we only took a short walk around the marina and the nearby park. Oak Bay looked lush and verdant, set picturesquely on a rocky shore adorned with plenty of trees. We stayed in that night, happy to chill in front of a streamed movie on our TV—one of the perks of being in a marina is having free wifi for our smart TV (we don’t use free wi-fi for our computers, for security reasons). We looked at the free neighborhood maps we’d gotten from the marina and figured out our itinerary. I also emailed one of our old friends, Joni, a globetrotter who now lives in Victoria. She invited us for dinner Friday night, which worked out perfectly as that gave us a few days to take in the sights, as well as provision and do errands, before leaving the marina on the weekend. 

The next morning we did some boat jobs and took nice hot showers at the marina, which felt great after a week of boating with only “sink baths.” The showers operated on Loonies (Canadian dollar coins), with two Loonies equaling a five minute shower —the water continues coming out of the shower head, but gets cold when the time runs out. We boaters are practiced at taking short showers, so we managed, with my final hair rinse having turned ice-cold by the time the conditioner was out of my hair. 

 We were soon headed into the Village of Oak Bay, a short walk from the marina north along the waterfront park and then west along a nice avenue. At each residential intersection we looked down another broad tree-lined avenue of stately homes. The Village itself turned out to be a gem, with dozens of cool shops, a nice choice of rather upscale restaurants, and a food market. We’d only chosen Oak Bay because it looked easier to get into by boat, rather than coming into the busy main harbor of Victoria, with its cruise ships, ferries, tugs, and even seaplane arrivals and departures (not to mention other sailboats and power yachts zipping around!). It turns out that Oak Bay is one of the oldest and wealthiest neighborhoods in Victoria, so it is a great place to window shop. 

We visited a bank to inquire about changing money (we’d gotten a couple hundred Canadian dollars from our bank, but that wouldn’t last long in this neighborhood!). it turns out that bank tellers don’t change foreign money, only their ATMs do. I was able to figure out which bank was in my debit card group and withdrew a stack of the gorgeous and colorful bills. I’d almost forgotten how fun it is to spend pretty money. 

For lunch we happened upon the Penny Farthing Tavern (above) on Oak Bay Road, a tudor-themed building in the heart of the village, and a great choice. I had some of the best fish and chips ever and Russel had a tuna poke that was to die for, with fresh edamame and a delicious dressing. We also discovered Fat Tug IPA from locally owned Driftwood Brewery, thanks to the friendly bartender who gave us a taste of it after asking if we were okay with extreme hoppiness. Yes please! We strolled home to the marina quite full, and quite happy with our choice of home base. 

Joni had mentioned the Night Market happening in Oak Bay Village that night, so we took a lie-down break and headed back over to the village about 5pm to check it out. The village looked even more welcoming, with dozens of booths set up all up and down the main street, selling everything from candles to small batch whiskies to fresh morel mushrooms—I bought a whole pint box for $12! The sun was still high in the sky, being June in British Columbia, but it still had a festive night time air, with music being played in a couple of locations and tables set all over the courtyard of the Cork and Bottle, with unique wines and spirits to taste. 

We met a couple with a brewery in Victoria and exchanged some IPA appreciation. After we tasted and raved about their new lower alcohol IPA, a dank brew by the name of Kush-tastic, the boss-lady gave us a gift card to use at their brewery. 

The next morning we were on the city bus crossing over to Victoria proper, which looked pretty overwhelming—I was not prepared for it to be such a big city! I was reminded of San Francisco, especially in the downtown business district where we got off the bus. Of course, we had to see the big tourist sights, so we walked a few long city blocks to the waterfront on the inner harbor—the docks were bustling with activity, jammed with international racing vessels fresh off a big regatta. 

The Government Building had a big Welcome sign written in flowers across the front gardens, and the Empress Hotel (Pictured, above) sat in her regal glory just across the busy multi-lane avenue. We walked into the Empress to check it out; the dining rooms are all gorgeous, but we didn’t have any appetite so we kept walking. 

Needing a destination, we headed up Government Street toward the renowned Munro’s Books (above). I recognized a few stores, like Lululemon and of course, Starbucks, but most shops seemed to be one-off or maybe Canadian chain stores. All in all, it felt very European, but also familiar, in an odd way. Munro’s Books was charming and bright and rather cramped, jammed as it is with brilliant things to admire, not to mention a million books on every subject, including a huge selection of Canadiana, which I loved browsing through. 

Back out in the sunshine, we decided to visit Chinatown, just a few blocks farther uptown. We walked through Fan-Tan Alley, ate purple yam pastries at a cute cafe, admired all the curios and gorgeous fabrics in the shop windows, and perused the historic alleyways and avenues with their fascinating architecture. Having wandered a block past the last street sign decorated with Chinese designs, we turned back toward the waterfront. 

And where should we find our hungry and thirsty selves? Right across the street from Herald Street Brew Works, the very place whose owners we’d met the previous nice, that we knew made great beer and served pizza—and we had a discount card, too. We slaked our thirst, filled our tummies, bought a couple cans for another day, and soon got back on the bus, riding towards Fisherman’s Wharf, right where we’d be dining the next night with friends Joni and Glen. 

We quickly checked out Fisherman’s Wharf, a sweet family theme park of a place that felt all-too-familiar and touristy, before heading back to Oak Bay on the return bus. The stop in Oak Bay was at Windsor Park, home of the free scented garden—the flowers and herbs were a treat for the senses. Back at the boat we collapsed. We’d logged over 5 miles and were wiped out; at every stop that day we’d seen the cheery double-decker red British buses that do hop-on-hop-off tours, which might have been an easier, if pricier way to go. Next time we visit, maybe we’ll do that. 

 In case you wonder, we didn’t go to Butchart Gardens while we were in Oak Bay, we took the long way around the peninsula from bay to island to bay, in order to visit the famed gardens by boat. They are located next to an inlet that lets sailors moor and dock and enter through the back gate, so at this writing, that final visual delight is yet to occur. 

Author Jennifer Silva Redmond with Empress Hotel in background

Our final night was spent at the gorgeous harbor-side apartment of Joni and Glen, who wined and dined us in splendor. We toasted with champagne, had a delicious spread of hummus dips and crackers, then a dinner of Thai fish curry served over jasmine rice with baby bok choy, with a crisp white wine; the fresh seafood with Asian flavors made it the perfect “Victorian” dish. All this, while cruise ships docked and disgorged passengers seven floors below us, seaplanes (mainly from mainland Vancouver) zoomed past the windows, and the city sparkled and glimmered in the golden light of the setting sun. 

Interior of the Penny Farthing

A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER BEFORE THE WORLD TURNED A FOUL ORANGE

The student, faculty string ensemble from the Escuela de Arte Benny More in Cienfuegos, Cuba play for U.S. tour goers.  It was an honor to be at the school among the students, faculty, artists, art work and music.

On my birthday—one of those markers that sneaks up on you and then lingers—I found myself stepping off a tour bus in Cienfuegos, Cuba, along with twenty fellow travelers and a pair of patient guides who had mastered the art of moving a small crowd through a large country without ever seeming hurried. The bus sighed as it came to rest, doors folding open, and we spilled out into the warm, slightly salted air of a coastal city that carries itself with quiet dignity. 

There was nothing ceremonial about the stop. No banners, no speeches, no sense that anything had been arranged for our benefit beyond the courtesy of being allowed in. 

Ahead stood a low, practical building—the Escuela de Arte Benny Moré, though at that moment I did not yet know the name I would later struggle to recall. It looked less like an institution than a place where work happened every day, the kind of place where talent is shaped rather than displayed. 

Inside, the air shifted. The light softened. Hallways filled with red, white and blue clad students of all ages, opened into rooms where the walls carried the marks of many hands—paintings, studies, attempts, corrections. This was not a gallery. It was a living workshop. 

Somewhere deeper in the building, music was already in motion. We were guided into a modest room, the kind that in another life might have been a classroom or meeting space. A handful of chairs, music stands set without ceremony, a piano waiting quietly at the back. 

And there they were: a small string ensemble, students and instructors together, already poised in that half-second of stillness before sound begins. No announcement. No introduction. Just the lift of a bow. And then—music. It was not polished for an audience, which is to say it was real. The kind of playing that carries both discipline and hunger. A violin leaned into a phrase as if testing its edges. The upright bass grounded the room with a steady, human pulse. The piano threaded through it all, less a soloist than a quiet conspirator. You could hear instruction inside the performance, and performance inside the instruction—the two inseparable. 

We sat in a loose semicircle, travelers who had expected to observe and instead found ourselves listening. Really listening. Even our group, not known for silence, seemed to understand that this was not something to interrupt with commentary or cameras. It was a gift offered without fuss, and accepted the same way. I remember thinking—not in words, but in the way a thought settles—that this was among the best birthday celebrations I've received outside of family. No one in that room knew it was El Jefe's birthday. No one needed to. The moment didn’t belong to me; that was precisely why it felt like it did. 

When the final note dissolved, there was a pause—not the polite pause before applause, but the natural one that follows something complete. Then we clapped, of course, because we are who we are. The players smiled, a little shyly, as if surprised by the reaction to something that, for them, was simply part of the day’s work. 

We filed back out the way we had come, returning to the bus, to the road, to the rest of the itinerary that would soon blur with the others. But that room in Cienfuegos has held its shape in memory longer than most places I have deliberately tried to remember. Years later, the name of the school slipped away before returning again, as names do. The music, however, never left. Sadly, as the world has turned a foul orange, I wonder if the school has endured. I'm sad to follow up.

JUDGE RULES PENTAGON RESTRICTIONS ON PRESS ARE UNCONSTITUTIONAL

A federal judge tossed parts of the Pentagon's restrictions on news outlets, saying they violated the First Amendment, in a lawsuit brought by The New York Times. 

The judge ordered the press passes of seven journalists for The New York Times to be restored. 

GUEST BLOG / By Erik Wemple, The New York Times reporting from Washinton DC--A federal judge today ruled that the Pentagon's restrictions on news outlets violate the First Amendment and issued an order tossing parts of the department's policy, handing a victory to The New York Times, which filed suit in December over the restrictions. 

Judge Paul Friedman, of the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia, also ordered the Pentagon to restore the press passes of seven journalists for The Times. They had surrendered those passes in October instead of signing the policy, which empowered the Pentagon to declare journalists "security risks" and revoke their press passes if they engage in any conduct that the Pentagon believes threatens national security. 

A spokesman for The Times said the ruling "reaffirms the right of The Times and other independent media to continue to ask questions on the public's behalf," adding that "Americans deserve visibility into how their government is being run, and the actions the military is taking in their name and with their tax dollars." 

The Justice Department did not immediately respond to requests for comment. The Pentagon policy took effect in October and drew condemnations from numerous mainstream outlets for penalizing newsgathering methods long protected by the First Amendment. Dozens of journalists who had press passes to the Pentagon turned them in rather than sign the new policy. The Defense Department then welcomed a new set of credentialed media members, most of them pro-Trump commentators or influencers. 

At a March 6 hearing in the case, Judge Friedman signaled his frustration with the rules. A Justice Department lawyer representing the Defense Department, for instance, drew an animated response from the judge when he argued that journalists don't have First Amendment protections when they solicit the "disclosure of unauthorized information." 

"Why not? Why not?" Judge Friedman replied, adding that department officials can simply refuse to answer such inquiries from journalists, but there is "no proscription" on journalists asking questions. 

Judge Friedman had also appeared skeptical of a provision in the policy declaring off-limits certain journalistic tip requests. Though the Pentagon drew a bright line delineating prohibited tip requests from problematic ones, Judge Friedman said, "I don't understand that argument. I hope that the government can explain it." 

It is unclear whether the government will appeal the ruling. In the March 6 hearing, the Justice Department asked that the court send the rules back to the Defense Department for refining - so that the Pentagon could "rehabilitate the policy" - rather than vacate the disputed provisions. 

PillartoPost.org illustration by F. Stop Fitzgerald

SPACE CADETS / WHO DECIDED THE EQUINOX & SOLTICE DATES?

Ancient Mayans

They don’t teach you this in school, or if they do, it arrives dressed in diagrams and Latin words and leaves before it can settle into the bones.   

We are told the seasons begin on December 21, March 21, June 21, September 21. Dates clean enough to memorize, tidy enough to print on a wall calendar. It gives the impression that someone, somewhere, made a decision. A committee perhaps. A royal decree. A bureaucrat with a pen and a fondness for symmetry.   

But no one decided anything.   

The Earth did.   

Not by intention, but by posture.   

Our planet leans. Not dramatically, not enough for us to feel it underfoot, but enough. About twenty-three and a half degrees. A slight tilt that changes everything. It means that as we circle the Sun, we do not face it evenly. We arrive at it, then withdraw, then arrive again from the other side, like a dancer who never quite squares her shoulders.   

Around June 21, the Northern Hemisphere tips forward, offering itself to the Sun. Light lingers. Evenings stretch. People stay out longer than they should, convinced time has loosened its grip. This is called the summer solstice, though it feels less like a term and more like a permission.   

Six months later, around December 21, we lean away. The light thins. The day folds in on itself. The same streets feel narrower, the same lives more interior. That is the winter solstice. No decree, no announcement. Just the quiet recognition that the Sun has stepped back.   

Between those extremes come the equinoxes, in March and September, when the Earth, for a moment, neither leans toward nor away. Day and night reach a kind of temporary agreement. Balance, not as a philosophy, but as an accident of geometry.   

Among the periodic builders of Stonehenge

Ancient people noticed this long before we named it. They stood in fields and watched where the Sun rose, where it set, how far it wandered along the horizon before turning back. They marked stones, aligned temples, built entire belief systems around a pattern they could not control but could depend on. Not because they were primitive, but because they were paying attention.   

We, on the other hand, prefer our versions neater. Meteorologists begin the seasons on the first of the month. December 1. March 1. It makes the ledgers cleaner, the charts easier to read. And there is nothing wrong with that, except that it replaces the sky with a filing system.   

The older method—the one tied to solstices and equinoxes—still carries a faint sense of wonder. It reminds us that the calendar is not entirely ours. That somewhere beneath our schedules and deadlines is a slower, older rhythm, indifferent to our preferences.   

Early Nile River civilizations

So when December 21 comes around, nothing has been decided. No switch is flipped. No season officially begins in the way a meeting begins.   

The Earth has simply reached a point in its long, patient arc where the light changes.   

And if you’re paying attention, you change with it. 

Ancient Asian Civilizations

FRIDAY FLICKS / IS THIS A GREAT PHOTO OR WHAT?

Sometimes a photograph says more about an era than a whole shelf of history books. 

This one certainly does. The image shows two young actors walking arm-in-arm across a cobbled studio street, laughing like a pair of college students who’ve just slipped away from class. The woman throws her hands up to adjust her hair, smiling her world class smile. The man beside her looks at her with amused affection, a pipe in his hand and one arm casually around her waist. 

The pair is Ingrid Bergman and Leslie Howard, photographed in the late 1930s when Bergman arrived in Hollywood to make the English-language version of Intermezzo. 

Howard, already an established star, was cast opposite the young 23-year-old Swedish actress who was just beginning what would become one of the most remarkable careers in film history. 

Nothing about the top image feels staged. Unlike the very posed shot at the end of this blog.  Most likely both images are the work of Selznick studio photographer Ernest Bachrach, one of the best Hollywood lensmen of his era. 

Howard wears high-waisted trousers and a striped shirt, looking every bit the relaxed European gentleman. Bergman, in wide-leg slacks and a belted blouse, radiates the natural warmth that made audiences fall for her almost immediately. Behind them are stacked barrels and rough paving stones that suggest a studio backlot dressed up to resemble an Old World street. 

But the setting hardly matters. 

What makes the photograph unforgettable is the sense that the camera caught something real. Not actors posing, but two people enjoying themselves. Howard’s amused glance and Bergman’s open laughter feel spontaneous, as though the photographer simply happened to be there when a small moment of joy passed by. 

Hollywood publicity stills of the 1930s were usually choreographed with precision. This one feels like a candid snapshot of youth, charm, and the easy chemistry that sometimes happens when the right actors meet at the right time. Nearly a century later, the picture still carries that lightness. 

And looking at it today, the only sensible reaction may be the simplest one: Is this a great photo, or what? 

THE PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW / MAKING THE ROUNDS IN WASHINGTON DC

Inside the centuries old Willard Hotel, this circular bar has long served as one of Washington’s quiet centers of gravity. Its design is deceptively simple. The circle keeps everyone visible, equal in distance if not in influence, and that geometry has made it a natural meeting ground for people who prefer to talk without ceremony. It is a room built for continuity, not interruption. 

 The Willard itself has carried a cosmopolitan elan since the nineteenth century, when it stood as the capital’s most sophisticated address—part hotel, part salon, part waiting room for power. Abraham Lincoln arrived here before his inauguration, moving quietly through its corridors at a moment when the country was anything but calm. Ulysses S. Grant returned often enough that his presence became part of the hotel’s folklore, the bar serving as both refuge and magnet for those seeking his ear. 

Writers such as Mark Twain added a different register—wit and observation layered over politics and ambition. What distinguishes the Willard is not merely its history, but its ease with it. The place never hardened into a museum. It remained open to the passing moment—foreign diplomats, visiting financiers, campaign operatives between stops—each adding a current note to a long-running composition. The Round Robin bar reflects that sensibility. 

You can arrive from anywhere and feel, within minutes, that you are part of an ongoing conversation rather than a newcomer to it. That is the cosmopolitan quality the photograph captures without stating outright. The room is local in address, international in temperament. It belongs to Washington, but it is not confined by it. 

People come here because it works: the light is right, the service understands pace, and the setting allows for a kind of exchange that does not travel well into more formal spaces. Look again at the image and the appeal becomes clearer. The bar is not crowded, not empty, simply ready. It has been ready for nearly two centuries, and that readiness—steady, unadvertised, quietly assured—is what continues to draw people back. 

And, the young lady?  A model posing for one of the numerous press or publicity images taken over the years.

RETRO FILES / TIMELESS DESIGN / SODA FOUNTAIN HASTINGS NEBRASKA, 1943

In 1943 in small town USA, the corner drugstore was a beehive of activity. It was part pharmacy, part lunch counter, part neighborhood newsroom. 

In Hastings, Nebraska, Jones Pharmacy stood among the dependable businesses that gave Main Street its rhythm during the war years. Jones Pharmacy opened its doors each morning to farmers coming in from Adams County, railroad workers finishing overnight shifts, and housewives making quick stops between errands. 

The bell on the door announced every arrival. Behind the counter a pharmacist in a white coat measured powders, counted tablets into small envelopes, and mixed cough syrups in glass bottles sealed with cork. Like most small-town drugstores of the era, Jones Pharmacy also had a soda fountain. 

Teenagers gathered there after school for cherry phosphates, root-beer floats, and thick chocolate malts spun in metal mixers. For many young people in Hastings, the stools at the counter were the closest thing the town had to a social club. 

Downtown, Hastings, Nebraska, 1943

The year 1943 placed the store squarely in the middle of wartime America. Ration books were folded into wallets and purses. Headlines about the Pacific and European fronts were discussed between sips of coffee. Local boys serving overseas appeared in photographs pinned to bulletin boards or printed in the Hastings Tribune. 

Drugstores played an important practical role during the war. They carried medical supplies, vitamins, shaving kits, and small comforts that families mailed to soldiers abroad. 

Many also sold stamps and handled telegrams, making them informal communication centers for the community. In a place like Hastings, establishments such as Jones Pharmacy anchored daily life. 

While the world beyond Nebraska was being reshaped by war, the drugstore counter remained a place where neighbors exchanged news, teenagers flirted over milkshakes, and the town’s pharmacist quietly dispensed remedies with the steady assurance people relied on. 

Today's photograph of Jones Pharmacy captures a moment when the American drugstore served as both medicine cabinet and meeting place. In 1943, in the middle of the country and the middle of a world war, it was one of the small institutions that helped glue everyday life together.

TUESDAY TRAINS / THE FOUNDING OF THE ORIENT EXPRESS

 

Gare l'est Paris late 19th century

GUEST BLOG / By Clive and Vera Stunning, PillartoPost.org Travel Writers--Few trains have carried the mystique of the Orient Express, yet its origins were practical and entrepreneurial rather than romantic. The train was the creation of a Belgian businessman, Georges Nagelmackers, who believed Europe’s expanding railway network deserved the same comfort and continuity already appearing on American railroads. During a trip to the United States in the early 1870s, Nagelmackers encountered the Pullman sleeping cars that allowed passengers to travel long distances overnight in comfort. European railways, though extensive, still forced travelers to change trains frequently and endure cramped compartments. Nagelmackers returned home determined to introduce sleeping cars and coordinated international service across the continent. 

Early Euro rail sleeping car

 In 1876 he founded the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits, a company designed to build luxury railway cars and operate international services linking the capitals of Europe. His boldest idea was a train that would run from Paris to Constantinople, the great city at the crossroads of Europe and Asia. 

 The first Orient Express departed Gare de l’Est in Paris on October 4, 1883. Its passengers included journalists, diplomats, and curious travelers eager to experience the new service. The journey crossed France and Germany, passed through Austria-Hungary, and continued toward the Balkans. At the time the route was not yet entirely continuous by rail. Passengers finished part of the trip by steamer across the Black Sea before reaching Constantinople. 

 

Even in its earliest form the train introduced a level of Parisian elegance and comfort rarely seen in European rail travel. The sleeping cars were finished in polished woods and brass fixtures, with attentive stewards attending to passengers throughout the journey. Dining cars served full meals on porcelain plates accompanied by French wines. Long-distance rail travel suddenly acquired a measure of elegance. Within a decade the route was improved and extended until a complete rail connection linked Paris directly with Constantinople (which became Istanbul in 1930). 

The dark blue Wagons-Lits carriages became a familiar sight across Europe, moving through the valleys of Bavaria, across the plains of Hungary, and into the Balkans. The train quickly attracted an unusual clientele. Diplomats, aristocrats, spies, journalists, and adventurous travelers shared the same narrow corridors and dining tables. News and intrigue traveled almost as quickly as the locomotive itself. 

 Boarding the Orient Express meant stepping into a world that stretched across a continent. A traveler might leave a Paris platform and, several days later, step down beside the domes and minarets of Constantinople. Few inventions of the nineteenth century captured the imagination of travelers quite the way that blue train did. In the decades that followed, the Orient Express became one of the most recognizable trains on earth, but its reputation began with a simple idea: that Europe’s railways could be joined together into a single elegant journey from the Atlantic edge of the continent to the gateway of the East.