A Snapshot of Bordeaux
A Snapshot of Bordeaux “Wine is the…
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A Snapshot of Bordeaux “Wine is the…
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Eating Our Way Through Split, Croatia Fresh…
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A Taste of Granada Eating our way…
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The Silent Man A Film by Charlotte…
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Slovenia – Ljubljana What You’re Missing in…
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The London Sky Garden
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The Street Art of Belgrade: If you spend any amount of time in Belgrade, you’ll begin to notice something beautifully subversive happening on the streets
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Top Six Bars In Belgrade: It was 8am, outside a Belgrade café. Zoran, my waiter and unofficial guide to the city, had his arms folded, patiently listening as I fumbled to find the words for a decaf green tea and toast.
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The Devil All The Time Donald Ray…
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he waiters and chef always open the gate with a smile and always know you’ll be back. On the last night as I’m half way up the steps it occurs to me why they might have chosen this lofty base camp for the restaurant – without the exercise of the steps, you would probably have to be air lifted out after every sitting.
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It was 8.30pm. The hinterland when it is too late to drink horchata and too early to get lost in booze and tapas. Cava Siglos just looked too tempting, with its elegant glow radiating out, into Calle de Caballeros. My eyes adjusted to the twinkling delights in front of me as I watched the bar man muttering to himself, uncorking a fancy looking bottle of rioja The first row of spirits was a guided world tour of the history of gin. And above that towered a walled labyrinth of sherry, whisky, everything – all prize fighters of distilled majesty.
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Night hawking in Jalan Alor On LOCATION…
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Temples and The Wytches – two new…
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This month is all about collectives. Bands are for squares. I mean why bother putting an ad for a bass player in your local rehearsal studio when you can recruit the entire town into your band and preside over it like a cult leader? – And – before you dismiss the whole idea and mutter something about the Polyphonic Spree, rest assured that the current trend of sprawling tribes of musicians are decidedly darker than before. Gone is the saccharine pop and gaggle of grinning misfits in robes…
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There is a ten foot marble man levitating on his side. There are Jimi Hendrix paintings on the wall.A hotel reception desk. A bistro and cathedral sized foyer. All of it is drowning under neon blue light, doing nothing to calm the red faced business men in the Cumberland Hotel, pacing around , babbling into their blue tooth devices. It’s taking its toll as I stare at the revolving door, waiting to talk with two thirds of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club about music, death, hope and the most difficult album of their fifteen year career.
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