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. 

SPACE CADETS / GALACTIC FLIGHT 297 ARRIVING FROM MARS

Some day in the future a passenger liner from an Earth colony on another planet will see this lunar photo bomb arriving back to earth. For now, it is a new image of Earth and Moon captured by the Japanese satellite Himawari-4. This amazing alignment was captured from 36,000 km above pre-dawn over Europe and western Africa. 

NEW RELEASE / TOUGH LOVE: / WHY I WRITE NOIR AND FREE EXCERPT

Dear Reader:

Every writer eventually has to answer a quiet question: What exactly am I writing about? With Tough Love: Modern Noir Romances, my answer is simple enough to say but harder to define. These are romances. But they are not the kind that live comfortably inside the tidy architecture of conventional love stories. Noir romance occupies a different street entirely. The streetlights are dimmer there, the promises less certain, and the characters who wander through the stories know that love is not always a rescue. Sometimes it is the risk itself. 

 

That distinction matters. I am not a male version of a Harlequin novelist. Nothing against the genre, but noir romance moves through a different emotional climate. In these stories the attraction between men and women carries gravity. It has consequences. Desire collides with ambition, loyalty, betrayal, power, and the private compromises people make to stay alive in complicated worlds. The characters may fall in love, but they are also capable of wrecking each other. That tension is the heartbeat of noir. 

The men and women who inhabit these pages are not naïve about romance. Many of them have already been bruised by it. Some have survived marriages that collapsed under ambition. Others have made careers in professions where trust is a rare commodity. Private investigators, lawyers, political insiders, wanderers, and opportunists move through the stories. They know better than to expect fairy tales, yet they still feel the pull of connection. In noir romance, love does not arrive as salvation. It arrives as a test. 

 That is why the genre is not for everyone. Noir romance speaks most clearly to readers who have lived long enough to recognize the shadows behind attraction. Those who understand how complicated intimacy can become when pride, fear, and longing sit at the same table. The characters in Tough Love do not pretend to be saints. They make mistakes. They gamble with their hearts. Sometimes they pay dearly for the privilege.  eBook for sale.

 Still, there is something strangely exhilarating about visiting that territory. Noir romance allows us to explore the emotional edge without necessarily living there ourselves. It is a dramatic visit, not a permanent address. Readers step into these lives for a few pages, experience the pulse of dangerous affection, and then return to their own mornings perhaps a little more aware of how fragile and powerful love can be. 

 Modern readers also face another interesting question while reading short fiction. Are these stories real or reel? Are they slices of life drawn from experience, or are they scenes that might belong on a cinema screen? The answer, of course, is both. Fiction borrows freely from the emotional truths of life while arranging them with the clarity of storytelling. A look across a café table. A phone call that changes everything. A confession delivered too late. Life provides the raw material, and narrative gives it shape. 

 That cinematic quality is no accident. Noir has always shared DNA with film. The atmosphere, the moral ambiguity, the sudden turn of fate. When a reader enters one of these stories, the hope is that the page feels almost like a camera lens. You see the room. You hear the dialogue. You feel the tension that hangs between two people who know they should probably walk away from each other but do not. 

 Endure me here: If you decide to visit the world of Tough Love, think of the experience less as a purchase and more as a small ticket to ride. A brief journey you might take with your morning coffee. A handful of stories where attraction and consequence travel together, where romance is neither innocent nor entirely doomed, and where a few characters manage to survive the experience of loving someone perhaps by the narrowest of margins. 

AN EXCERPT.

 The following glimpse appears in the short story "Transit Lounge" from Tough Love. The choice of the passage came from a recent reader who mentioned she thought it the soul of the work. Of course, I was flattered.  Bon mots from a reader is why we write.  I'm blushing corny as that reads.

 Now the Moscow concourse swam with men pretending not to look. Cameras in every corner. His flight to Stockholm boarding in minutes. Then—impact. 

A boy tumbled against his leg, laughing as only a three-year-old could. Gresham scooped the giggling toddler, who smelled of baby powder. The mother rushed over, eyes grateful, English too polished. 

“Thank you… are you bound for Stockholm?” 

“Yes,” he said, surprised she knew. 

She smiled thin as glass. “Then stay at the Gander Hotel. My friend Annee Kinder works there.” 

He froze. She was gone before he could take a step. The packet in his pocket was gone. 

*** 

At the Gander’s glass doors, he saw her through the window—slim in black silk, tray balanced on one hand. He knocked once, knuckles on the pane. Her head turned. Eyes widened. The tray crashed to the floor. Moments later she was in his arms, breathless, the kiss fierce enough to steal the years away. 

“This can’t be,” Annee whispered. “You found me.” 

And for the first time in years, Tom Gresham let himself believe he had.  

###

The eBook edition of Tough Love: Modern Noir Romances is available for $2.99 through the BookBaby bookstore.   

If you wish to find the book: https://store.bookbaby.com/book/tough-love 

Pre-order Print version:

Pre-Order Paperback. Available May 1 

COFFEE BEANS & BASEBALL / BUY ME SOME ESPRESSO SHOTS AND CRACKER JACKS

Everyone’s favorite dugout espresso machine is back in business. And business is booming. 

 Italy created a stir at the 2023 World Baseball Classic when it housed a Nespresso machine in the dugout. With a little caffeine in their system, the Italians played inspired baseball, advancing out of group play for just the second time in team history. 

 To no one’s surprise, Team Italy brought back its espresso machine as a part of another vast coffee spread in the dugout and clubhouse for the 2026 WBC. 

 “In Italy, we drink coffee about 20 times a day,” Italy manager Francisco Cervelli (pictured above) said during WBC tourney play following his team’s 8-0 victory over Brazil. “It’s a tradition. You’re walking down the road. You see a coffee spot, get some coffee. Then you chitchat, and then keep walking and do the same thing all over and over again. That’s how Italy is.” 

Hit a homer take a shot of espresso

 Cervelli, who became the manager of the Italian national team in January 2025, wasn’t a part of the 2023 WBC. Still, he’s well acquainted with the espresso machine, having managed Italy at the 2025 European Baseball Championship. “It goes everywhere with us,” Cervelli said. “It’s something normal. We got it on the bus. We’ve had it in the dugout, everywhere.” And now it’s a celebration, too. 

THE PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW / ONE COOL PLACE WHERE YOU DON'T WANT TO GET BOMBED

 

Ukraine's Pink Freud – A Cocktail in a War Zone 

GUEST BLOG / By Holden DeMayo, PillartoPost.org Saloon Editor--In the Podil district of Kyiv, down a modest courtyard on Nyzhnii Val Street, there is a bar that sounds like a joke and drinks like a confession: Pink Freud. The name alone hints at the mood inside. Part psychoanalysis, part Pink Floyd mischief, and entirely a place for people who believe that good conversation improves with a glass in hand. 

Pink Freud opened in the early 2010s and quickly became one of Kyiv’s signature cocktail haunts. The entrance is marked by playful portraits of Sigmund Freud painted in pink, guiding visitors through an archway into a courtyard bar hidden from the street. Inside, bartenders practice the art of mixology with almost scientific enthusiasm, arranging their cocktails along flavor axes from sweet to bitter and from light to strong. The effect is part laboratory, part salon, where young musicians, artists, and night owls gather beneath strings of lights and the soft hum of conversation. 

 In peacetime Kyiv, Pink Freud was simply “cool.” Locals packed the courtyard on summer nights, tourists discovered it by accident, and the city’s creative class treated it as a kind of informal clubhouse. Spread across several cozy rooms and an open courtyard, it developed a loyal following and a reputation as one of the city’s most beloved cocktail bars. 

 Then came war. 

Kyiv today is a capital that lives with air-raid sirens and blackout schedules. Yet places like Pink Freud have taken on a deeper meaning. The bar’s lights still come on in the evening when conditions allow, serving cocktails to soldiers on leave, journalists, volunteers, and citizens determined to keep a fragment of normal life alive. In a city under threat, a bar stool and a good drink become small acts of cultural resistance. 

The history of public houses is full of wartime chapters. London had them during the Blitz. Sarajevo had them during its siege. Kyiv has them now. Pink Freud stands as one of those places where the human instinct to gather, laugh, and argue over drinks proves stubbornly stronger than fear. 

In a courtyard behind an old building in Podil, Freud’s pink portrait still watches over the door. The diagnosis, it seems, is simple. Civilization survives because people refuse to stop meeting for a drink. 

THE FOODIST / REVIEWING THE FOOD REVIEWER

 

Tasty Text: If we humans eat with our eyes i.e. what we see and read, then do yourself a treat check the current foodie posts of Axios (and archives, like the one below):

Fort Oak Click, left.

https://www.axios.com/local/san-diego/2025/08/04/fort-oak-new-happy-hour-mission-hills

TRAIN TRAX / LAST BRIT STEAMER ACROSS RANNOCK MOOR

For many visitors, the most famous view of Rannoch Moor comes from the train window. The West Highland Line crosses directly through it, running between Glasgow and Fort William.

There are trains, and then there are trains that seem to breathe. The LMS Stanier Class 5 4-6-0 No. 44871 (above), is one of the latter—a machine of iron and steam that carries not only passengers but memory itself. In the hush before departure, when vapor curls along the platform and the great driving wheels stand poised, she feels less like machinery and more like a living relic of Britain’s romantic age of rail. 

Affectionately known as a Black Five, No. 44871 belongs to a class that once stitched together cities, villages, moors, and mills across the length of the island. Designed in the 1930s by Sir William Stanier for the London, Midland and Scottish Railway, these engines were built not for ornament but for purpose—versatile mixed-traffic locomotives capable of hauling crack passenger expresses one day and heavy freight the next. Yet in their purposeful lines and steady cadence, they acquired something more enduring than utility: they acquired devotion. 

More than 842 Black Fives were constructed between 1934 and 1951, making them one of the most numerous and successful classes of steam locomotive ever built in Britain. But numbers alone do not explain their hold on the imagination. It is the sight of No. 44871 advancing beneath a sky the color of burnished pewter, the rhythm of pistons echoing against stone viaducts, the faint scent of coal smoke drifting over hedgerows—that is where history becomes intimate. 

No. 44871 itself was built in 1945 at Crewe Works and entered service just as World War II was ending. After nationalization of the railways in 1948, it was renumbered 44871 under British Railways, and it continued in regular service right up to the end of steam on Britain’s national network in August 1968. It was one of the last steam locomotives withdrawn from duty. After withdrawal from service, 44871 avoided the scrapyard. It was preserved directly from British Rail stock and spent years at Carnforth, later becoming part of the mainline steam movement when the ban on steam operation was lifted in the early 1970s. 

Over its preservation life it has worn the name Sovereign and has been based at various heritage railways, most recently under the ownership of Ian Riley & Son Ltd. It has operated enthusiast excursions and charter trains over the national network and on scenic routes. 

Ronnoch Moor Station, West Scotland

One of those scenic routes is the West Highland Line in the Scottish Highlands, where 44871 has been photographed and filmed crossing Rannoch Moor and climbing the gradients between remote stations such as Corrour and Rannoch. These steam excursions often form part of heritage rail tours such as the Jacobite service between Fort William and Mallaig and special photography charters. The Moor. Rannoch Moor is one of the last great wildernesses in the United Kingdom — a vast sweep of bog, heather, rock, and lonely lochans spread across roughly fifty square miles of western Scotland. It lies west of Loch Rannoch and stretches into both Highland and Perth and Kinross council areas. There are no towns on the moor. No farms. Hardly a tree. Just open sky, peat underfoot, and water pooled in dark, reflective hollows that seem to hold the weather itself. Geologically, Rannoch Moor is a glacial landscape. 

Geologically, Rannoch Moor is a glacial landscape. 

During the last Ice Age, massive ice sheets scoured and flattened the terrain, leaving behind granite outcrops, thin soils, and poor drainage. Over millennia, peat built up across the surface, creating the boggy ground that defines the moor today. Despite its stark appearance, it is ecologically important. Rannoch Moor is designated a Site of Special Scientific Interest and a Special Area of Conservation. Rare plants such as the Rannoch-rush grow there, along with red deer, golden plover, and birds of prey that favor its open isolation. 

For many visitors, the most famous view of Rannoch Moor comes from the train window. The West Highland Line crosses directly through it, running between Glasgow and Fort William. Engineers in the 1890s faced extraordinary difficulty building the railway across what was essentially floating peat. They laid down a mattress of tree trunks and brushwood to stabilize the track — a feat of Victorian persistence in one of Britain’s most inhospitable landscapes. Geologically, Rannoch Moor is a glacial landscape. During the last Ice Age, massive ice sheets scoured and flattened the terrain, leaving behind granite outcrops, thin soils, and poor drainage. Over millennia, peat built up across the surface, creating the boggy ground that defines the moor today. 

GOOD NEWS MONDAY / BIG BRO SETS OFF ON BENEVOLENT BIKE RIDE FOR HIS 9/11 LITTLE SIS

A Florida father and brother with deep ties to the 9/11 World Trade Center attacks plans to cross the country by bicycle in spring 2026, riding from San Diego to St. Augustine to raise money for the Tunnel to Towers Foundation. 

The effort, titled “A Ride to Remember,” is being led by Patrick McGarry, who says the ride is both a personal act of remembrance and a fundraising mission. 

According to the event site, McGarry aims to raise $100,000 for the foundation, which supports first responders, Gold Star families, and catastrophically injured veterans, and was created to honor firefighter Stephen Siller, who died on Sept. 11, 2001. 

McGarry recounts watching the attacks unfold from Montana, more than 2,000 miles away, and learning that his sister Katie was trapped at Windows on the World. He also describes working on the 95th floor of the South Tower during the 1993 World Trade Center bombing, an earlier attack that left him with memories he says were rekindled on 9 11. 

The coast to coast ride, which began yesterday, is meant to turn grief into action and keep faith with a pledge to “Never Forget” loved ones, colleagues, and the firefighters and police officers who died. 

 Information, updates, and the donation link are posted here (cut and paste): https://www.aridetoremember2026.com/ 

THE PUBLIC HOUSE REVIEW / A PUB SO FAR AWAY, YET SO HEAVEN SENT

GUEST BLOG / By Holden DeMayo, Saloon Editor, PillartoPost.org--'Tis indeed, yes indeed that I should find a pub just like The Old Forge Lodge inside the Pearly Gates with a table waiting for my eventual arrival. I mention the Old Forge because there are pubs you happen upon while wandering through a town, and there are pubs you must decide to visit before the day even begins. The Old Forge Lodge in Inverie belongs firmly in the second category. The small village sits on Scotland’s Knoydart peninsula, and reaching it requires either a long walk across the surrounding mountains or a sail or a ferry ride from the fishing port of Mallaig. The Old Forge Lodge sits at the edge of the map, making it one of the most isolated public houses in the land. 

Village Inverie, home to the Old Forge, faces west across Loch Nevis to the open waters of the Sea of the Hebrides and the stone cold North Atlantic beyond that.  Have another pint to warm up.

Step through the door and the geography fades behind the warmth of a proper Highland pub. The building faces the small harbor where fishing boats and visiting sailboats rest against their moorings. Inside, timber beams, soft lighting, and a bar crowded with whisky bottles give the room the quiet confidence of a place that has been doing its job for a long time. Boots from the trail stand beside sailing jackets draped across chair backs. 

Despite the attention it receives from almost too many travelers, the Old Forge Lodge does not behave like a curiosity. It functions first as Inverie’s local pub. Residents stop in for a pint. Walkers arrive after a day in the hills. Sailors wander up from the pier looking for supper. By early evening the room begins to hum with conversation that drifts easily from table to table. 

Behind the bar, shelves of auld sod whisky read like a tour of Scotland’s distilleries. Island malts sit beside Highland classics, and the bartenders pour them with the relaxed assurance of people who know their bottles well. For those inclined toward beer, the taps rotate through local ales and craft brews that suit the salty air outside. 

The kitchen keeps its focus on what the surrounding waters provide. Mussels arrive in generous bowls fragrant with garlic and herbs. Langoustines, when available, are served simply so their sweetness carries the plate. Fish and chips comes out crisp and golden, the flaky white fish paired with thick chips and a wedge of lemon. 

Heavier appetites are rewarded with Highland staples such as venison stew, the sort of dish that feels right after a long day outdoors. The cooking is straightforward and satisfying, matching the character of the village itself. 

What gives the Old Forge its character is the company. Walkers compare notes on the long routes across the peninsula while sailors discuss conditions in the Sound of Sleat. Locals greet one another across the bar. Visitors soon find themselves part of the conversation without much ceremony.  Aye, is that a red headed lass along the planks? How's that for local color?

As night settles over the harbor the windows darken and the mountains become silhouettes beyond the village lights. Inside, the room grows warmer and livelier. A fiddle might appear. Someone begins a song. Glasses clink softly along the bar. Luck be with us the practicing bag pipe lass is joining us for a howl. Pray she puffs on key. 

The Old Forge Lodge works for the simplest reason possible. It is a village pub doing exactly what a village pub should do: serving good food, pouring proper drinks, and giving people a place to gather at the far edge of Scotland. 

Pints all around! 

The Old Forge sits to the far left of this frame; the windows are the same as the main room off to the left and above and beyond are the Highlands of Scotland, just a not so wee walk from Mallaig.  And "Och, will someone pick up the ringing phone at the end of the road, will ye?"  You can't miss the red phone booth behind the hedge.

Did someone say pints all around? This cold one is for you.  Hurry up take the picture.  It's warmer inside by the window.  Dinner is on.