Leading figures of the French Revolution denounced the nobility as descendants of barbarian invaders, and identified the common people as the true heirs of the Celts.
What could have been a more appropriate choice than casting Marion Cottilard in A Good Year or Midnight in Paris to augment those Francestuous elements that have historically enthralled the colonials and the Americans, alike?
Germany is the second most popular migration destination in the world after the United States, and the country in Europe with the highest number of foreign nationals.
Instead of filling a stolen report for his wallet, he filled in an asylum application, and was taken to Dülmen.
Harsson has claimed the Norwegian-Finnish border to be "geophysically illegal." If Finland has to have the peak, the border needs to be readjusted by about 490 feet to the north and 650 feet to the east.
The Croatian, Melik Jesa Dubrovcanin, arrived in India in 1480 and went on to become a Viceroy in Gujarat. The Croatians established a colony, by the name of Ragusan, on the Malabar Coast in north Goa, India.
That which endured the London blitz, was actually defeated by the forces of nature. Later on, in the winter of 1962, snowing slowed down the clock by 10 minutes.
Francis Ford Coppola's The Godfather series can be said to be haunted by mediterraneanderthal daylight (which add that pinkish hue to its cinematography) and migrant oranges (the uncredited characters in its dramatis personae).
“On the inclined plane of immorality, France is descending with an ever-accelerated speed, till it seems to have almost reached the lowest point of depravity.” Such is the witness of a faithful Frenchman. On such principles we cease to wonder that Paris is the centre of intrigues, the patroness of vice, the asylum of all infamy.
A breeze in a nearby museum, the Gallery of Contemporary Art, that had as a centerpiece a Basquiat painting of dirty yellows and reds, with a black anthropocentric figure made of thick lines, an abstraction, a negation of the plump oil-rich bodies of the classic Italian paintings of the main gallery. The only black figure in the building seemed to leap like a jazz fugue note in an orchestra.
I’ve made the trip and am currently sitting in the hotel lobby waiting for everyone to go Chez Leon for our farewell dinner. Over at the bar, a group of Scotsmen slam Guinness on the counter, raving about a run-in with two English men. A literal run-in.
The train weighs lightly on the locomotive and moves like a hurried whisper. The landscape, to my surprise, looks a lot like the American Midwest: parched grass, unfettered trees and thread-sized electric cables tied to giant poles. The grazing cows might have looked healthier, but I couldn’t tell.
Illuminated faces by a golden or amber liquid, spume hung to the lips. Tongue clearing the whole thing. Behind the counter, this is an endless and sped-up video of the day, in a paradoxical slow-motion: steins get filled, two different taps, one for the foam, the other one for the golden brown liquid.
The roundabout was so huge that it made my eyes roll, my head twirl, and then I would twist, a body in need of orientation, before the luggage handle jerked protestingly in my hand. It wriggled on the poorly paved ground, knocking against the slabs here and there like grumpy footsteps.
The River Liffey cuts through Dublin on its way to the Irish Sea, dividing the town into two distinct halves. “South of the Liffey,” reported our Fodor’s guide, “are graceful squares and fashionable terraces from Dublin’s elegant Georgian heyday.” Trinity College, Temple Bar, Grafton Street—all of the city’s most heralded sights are here.