Where the bones are buried in Naples
Mary Murphy
March 30, 2015
Modesty aside, I think I have a fairly decent vocabulary. I can’t lay claim to knowing every word in the dictionary but I could make
Modesty aside, I think I have a fairly decent vocabulary. I can’t lay claim to knowing every word in the dictionary but I could make
Pope Francis swarmed by nuns – what a spectacle that must have been. And to think we were there when it was all going on
When I ask an Irish person where they’re from, I get the name of the village. When I ask a Hungarian, if they’re not from
Naples is an eminently walkable city, once you get your bearings, and are quick-witted enough to dodge the vespas and the Clios as they barrel
Grubby, dirty, and graffitied to within an inch of its life, Naples is a city you’ll either love or hate. There are no half-measures. I
Well, that’s St Patrick’s Day done and dusted for another year. For me, anyway. It’s taking me longer and longer to recover from the endurance
I’ve walked the city of Budapest and noted the names of streets and squares without ever really paying attention to whom they’d been named after.
What’s that flower? How old is that church? Are all those cows milking cows? I don’t know, he answered. I don’t know. I don’t know.
‘Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to come into my life?, I asked. He looked at me, a little taken aback.
These last two days have been awash with emails and phone calls and texts and Facebook messages in an attempt to take advantage of Wizz
