The lead story — from Issue 07
At 6:40 the train leaves Myrdal for the coast, and the Hardangervidda does its slow, snowy theatre.
Behind the medina walls of Marrakech, a courtyard of zellige and orange trees teaches the art of doing nothing.
Snow falls on the roofline. Inside, the water is 42 degrees and the village is silent.
A walking essay on azulejos, the sea, and the city that put its walls in writing.
Twelve hours, two drivers, one thermos of coffee: the bus line that crosses the emptiest land in Europe.
On the crossing to the Outer Isles, the timetable is a suggestion and the weather is the authority.
One room, a wood stove, and two thousand metres of weather: a night alone in the Austrian Alps.