The Legionary, the Dog, and the Healing Mud of Dax (France)

A Roman legionary and his loyal dog — a statue recalling the founding legend of Dax as a city of healing springs.

On the Place de la Cathédrale in Dax, in the shade of old olive trees, stands a quietly touching statue: a Roman legionary and his dog. At first glance it looks like just another piece of classical decoration. But behind it hides the founding legend of one of France’s oldest spa towns.

Long before Dax became a destination for bathrobes, wellness programmes and medical cure packages, it was already famous in Roman times as Aquae Tarbellicae — the waters of the Tarbelli tribe. Soldiers, officials and travellers came here to soak in warm mineral springs and coat their aching joints with therapeutic mud from the river Adour.

And according to local legend, it all began with a dog.

The story goes that a Roman legionary stationed in the area owned a loyal dog suffering badly from rheumatism. The animal could barely walk. Believing its suffering could not be eased, the soldier abandoned it on the banks of the Adour. When he later returned from campaign, he was astonished to find his dog alive, playful — and completely cured.

The animal had taken refuge in the warm, mineral-rich mud along the riverbanks. The same mud that is still used today in Dax’s famous thermal treatments.

The miracle dog had done what centuries of medicine would later confirm: Dax’s water and mud truly have healing properties.

Today Dax is France’s leading spa town for rheumatology. Tens of thousands of visitors come every year for three-week medical cures prescribed by doctors. Around the thermal baths grew an entire city economy: hotels, clinics, wellness centres, rehabilitation programmes, and an army of physiotherapists and hydrotherapists.

The statue of the legionary and his dog quietly tells the story of how Dax became a place of healing — where warm springs, river mud and time itself helped wounded bodies walk again.

Sometimes, history begins not with emperors or generals —
but with a limping dog and a soldier who loved him.

Trump, Carney and Europe’s Identity Crisis

ChatGPT’s version of the Europe’s leaders looking for answers as familiar reference points fade — a collective portrait of uncertainty in a moment when Europe’s identity is no longer self-evident.

At the World Economic Forum this year, the most revealing moment did not come from grand declarations or carefully choreographed panels, but from a single, deliberately chosen word. Mark Carney spoke of a rupture — a break in continuity that cannot be repaired with reassuring language about a “rules-based order” or nostalgic references to post-Cold War stability.

Carney’s choice of words mattered. A rupture is not a temporary disruption, nor a crisis awaiting managerial correction. It is a structural break: a point at which underlying assumptions no longer hold. His intervention acknowledged what many European leaders still hesitate to state openly — that the geopolitical environment which underpinned Europe’s prosperity, security, and political confidence has fractured, and that denial has itself become a strategic vulnerability.

In that sense, Carney was the adult in the room. He did not offer restoration narratives or institutional comfort. He did not pretend that existing frameworks could simply absorb the shock. Instead, he described a world in which power is exercised more directly, norms are increasingly conditional, and responsibility is unevenly distributed. Middle powers, he argued, must respond not with moral reassurance, but with coordination, resilience, and strategic realism.

Set against this sober diagnosis stood the political style of Donald Trump, whose recent interventions illustrate the rupture rather than merely describing it. Trump’s renewed fixation on Greenland was not an eccentric sideshow or a failed negotiating gambit; it reflected a political logic in which sovereignty becomes negotiable, territory becomes transactional, and alliances become instruments rather than commitments.

His statements oscillated between boastful deal-making, casual dismissal of territorial integrity, and vague assurances that force would not be used — all without strategic coherence. For Europe, this was not simply embarrassing theatre. Greenland sits at the intersection of Arctic security, climate transformation, resource competition, and the erosion of assumptions that territorial sovereignty remains beyond negotiation. Trump’s handling of the issue exposed how fragile Europe’s assumptions about American predictability and strategic continuity have become.

The same rupture is visible in Ukraine. Russia’s aggression against Ukraine is not just a test of Ukrainian military endurance; it is a test of Western political stamina and credibility. Europe continues to speak the language of solidarity, yet remains painfully aware that the long-term response to Russia’s aggression may hinge on electoral cycles, domestic instability, and political volatility across the Atlantic.

Uncertainty in this context is corrosive. It transforms deterrence into hesitation and commitment into contingency. What should function as strategic clarity becomes conditional support. From Kyiv — where Europe confronts the direct consequences of Russia’s aggression — to the strategic Arctic, Europe is forced to reckon with how much of its security still depends on external guarantees it does not control.

What Carney articulated, and what Trump inadvertently reinforces, is that Europe can no longer outsource adulthood. For decades, Europe operated within a system in which American power provided the ultimate backstop, institutions smoothed political shocks, and economic integration substituted for strategic agency. That system has ruptured — not suddenly, but structurally — and cannot simply be repaired.

Europe’s identity crisis lies precisely here. It continues to behave as though continuity can be restored through diplomacy alone, while the world increasingly operates through leverage, coercion, and unilateral action. It still confuses values with power, process with agency, and institutional language with geopolitical capacity.

The contrast at Davos was therefore not ideological, but existential. Trump embodies a politics that accelerates rupture through impulse, spectacle, and transactional logic. Carney acknowledges rupture and insists on governing within it. Europe, meanwhile, hesitates — caught between denial and dependency.

Ruptures do not close themselves. They force choices. Europe must decide whether it intends to remain an object of other powers’ politics, or whether it is finally prepared to act as a geopolitical subject in a fractured world.

That decision can no longer be postponed.

Benidorm in Winter: The Great Boulevard Parade

In winter, Benidorm turns into Europe’s sunniest retirement campus. While the rest of the continent pulls on scarves and curses the rain, thousands of cheerful seniors migrate south and take over the Levante boulevard like it’s their personal catwalk.

Every morning the parade begins. Trainers on, sunglasses ready, they march up and down the promenade with Olympic dedication. The route is always the same: walk, wave at familiar faces, pause for coffee, walk again — and then surrender to the irresistible pull of a sunny terrace.

A beer becomes a wine. A wine becomes lunch. Preferably something that tastes like home: fish and chips, schnitzel, Sunday roast, or a heroic full English Breakfast that would make any cardiologist nervous.

The terraces become open-air living rooms. Conversations float between football results, grandchildren, and the weather back home (“Still raining, of course”). The Mediterranean sun does the rest.

In Benidorm, winter isn’t a season. It’s a lifestyle — best enjoyed one boulevard lap and one glass of wine at a time.

The Quiet Wonder of the Église Saint-Marcel in the valley of the Creuse

Église Saint-Marcel in Argenton-sur-Creuse (France).

A short walk from the Roman site of Argentomagus stands one of the most evocative rural churches in central France: the Église Saint-Marcel. Modest in size but rich in history, it brings together twelve centuries of architecture, devotion, and local craftsmanship — all in a peaceful village setting.

A Brief History

The church once belonged to a Benedictine priory linked to the Abbey of Saint-Gildas. Its oldest parts date from the 12th century, especially the Romanesque chevet with its thick stone walls and sturdy tower. Later additions — chapels, vaulting, and interior decoration — were carried out in the 16th century, giving the building its layered, time-worn character.

Highlights Inside

What makes Saint-Marcel stand out is the concentration of medieval and early-Renaissance artistry:

  • Romanesque architecture: A simple nave, a transept with three small apses, and a striking square tower that may once have had a defensive role.

  • The crypt: A rare survival beneath one of the chapels — atmospheric, intimate, and tied to early Christian worship in the region.

  • Carved choir stalls: Early-16th-century woodwork with delicate misericords showing the imagination of local artisans.

  • A 16th-century fresco of the Notre-Dame de Pitié above a side doorway, one of the few remaining wall paintings in the area.

  • Relics and liturgical treasures, including bust reliquaries associated with Saint Marcel and Saint Anastase, reminders of the church’s long devotional history.

Why It’s Worth a Visit

Saint-Marcel is the kind of place where different eras quietly overlap: Roman presence, medieval monastic life, and village spirituality. The church is never crowded, making it ideal for slow travel — a contemplative stop surrounded by old stone houses and the wooded slopes of the Creuse valley.

Just a few minutes away lies Argentomagus, one of France’s major Gallo-Roman archaeological sites. Visiting both in one day gives you a rare double insight: the world of antiquity and the world that replaced it.

The interior of Église Saint-Marcel in Argenton-sur-Creuse (France).

Rotterdam my City — The Heart Torn Out — Zadkine’s Monument in Rotterdam

Ossip Zadkine’s “The Destroyed City” (1953): the figure cries to the sky, its heart torn away, mourning the loss that once defined Rotterdam.

When the bombs fell on Rotterdam on May 14, 1940, the medieval heart of the city vanished in a single afternoon. The aerial photograph taken shortly after the war shows the shocking emptiness — blocks of rubble replaced by a grid of bare streets, with only fragments of buildings standing like teeth in a broken jaw.

A few years later, Ossip Zadkine gave this loss a body and a voice. His bronze sculpture De Verwoeste Stad (The Destroyed City, 1953) stands near the city’s current center, close to where that lost heart once beat. The figure’s body torn open and twisted, with its arms reaching out to the sky — crying out in anguish, its chest ripped apart, its heart gone. Zadkine, a Russian-born sculptor who lived in Paris, said he was inspired after passing through Rotterdam and feeling the pain of a “city without a heart.”

The monument does not celebrate triumph; it embodies grief. Yet within its contorted form lives a strange vitality — the cry that turns upward, transforming pain into defiance. Around it, a new city has risen: modern, vertical, and full of life. The statue remains as its conscience, reminding Rotterdam not only of what was destroyed, but of the courage to rebuild.

An aerial photo of the city center taken shortly after World War II (1 June 1946, KLM Aerocarto).

Saint Elophe: A Martyr on the Edge of Roman Gaul

The statue of Saint Elophe in the Church of Saint-Remy (Église Saint-Rémy) in Domrémy-la-Pucelle.

If you’re looking at Saint Elophe’s statue in Domrémy-la-Pucelle’s Church of Saint-Remy, you’ll notice his unmistakable emblem: the saint bearing his own head—a “cephalophore.” The image condenses a local memory from the Toul–Vosges frontier, where Elophe (Eliphius) is remembered as a deacon and preacher who spread the new faith among Gallo-Romans in the mid-4th century.

Tradition places his death in 362, during the brief reign of Emperor Julian—nicknamed “the Apostate”—who tried to reverse the Christianising tide and restore favor to the old gods. Though Julian did not institute a formal empire-wide persecution, his policies stripped Christian privileges and emboldened local hostility. In that climate, Elophe was seized and beheaded near the Vair River. The legend says he then rose, took up his severed head, and walked uphill to the place he wished to rest—an image that fixed his cult in the Lorraine landscape.

It’s a striking turn after Emperor Constantine, decades earlier, had legalized Christianity with the Edict of Milan (313), ending the great imperial persecutions and allowing the Church to root itself in towns like Toul. Elophe’s story captures that hinge between eras: from tolerated and rising faith to a sudden, dangerous backlash—followed by a memory that would spread far beyond Lorraine, even to Cologne, where his relics were later honored.

And that statue before you at Domrémy keeps telling it—quietly, clearly, in stone.

A Taste of Lisbon in Bordeaux: L’Atelier des Pastéis

At L’Atelier des Pastéis in Bordeaux.

If you ever find yourself wandering through Bordeaux with a craving for something sweet, warm, and unmistakably Portuguese, step inside L’Atelier des Pastéis. This charming, family-run pastelaria has mastered one thing to near perfection: the iconic Pastel de Nata. And they bake them the way they should be baked — fresh, on site, all day long.

Why this little shop stands out

Freshly baked, all day
The pastéis are made and baked right in the shop, not frozen, not outsourced. The result? Flaky, buttery crusts that crack just right, and a velvety custard filling with that irresistible hint of caramelized sweetness.

A cosy slice of Portugal
The moment you walk in, you’re greeted by a warm, Lissabon-inspired interior. Soft colours, contemporary azulejo-style artwork, subtle Portuguese touches — it feels like a tiny café hidden somewhere in Belém.

Genuine hospitality
Reviewers consistently mention the kindness and warmth of the team. Whether you drop by for a takeaway treat or sit down with a coffee, you’re welcomed like a regular.

Affordable indulgence
A single pastel costs just a few euros, and multi-packs make it even more tempting to bring some home.

Our take — absolutely worth the stop

The pastéis we tasted were everything they should be: crisp on the outside, smooth and creamy inside, and still warm from the oven. It’s the sort of simple, perfect treat that brightens your day instantly.

If you’re visiting Bordeaux and want a quick edible escape to Lisbon, L’Atelier des Pastéis is a must-visit. Delicious, authentic, and full of heart — exactly what a pastelaria should be.

Alfonso VIII of Castile: The Child-King Who Forged a New Castile

Alfonso VIII’s statue in Palencia (Spain).

Few medieval rulers left a deeper mark on Iberian history than Alfonso VIII of Castile (1155–1214). His life stretched from a fragile childhood as a contested child-king to a triumphant adulthood as the architect of a new political order on the peninsula. His reign was long, turbulent, and transformative — and the ripple effects reached far beyond Castile.

Born into Two Powerful Dynasties

Alfonso descended from two formidable bloodlines. On his father’s side, he belonged to the House of Ivrea, the dynasty that had shaped the kingdoms of León and Castile since the 11th century. His father, Sancho III of Castile, reigned only briefly, dying suddenly in 1158 and leaving the young Alfonso, barely three years old, as king.

His mother, Blanca of Navarre, connected him to the royal family of Pamplona, giving Alfonso political legitimacy on Castile’s northeastern frontier. But perhaps even more significant were the alliances forged through his marriage. In 1170, Alfonso wed Eleanor Plantagenet, daughter of Henry II of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine — two of the most influential figures in medieval Europe. This union tied Castile to the transcontinental Plantagenet empire and injected the Castilian court with new cultural and diplomatic currents.

A Kingdom He Fought to Keep

Alfonso’s early life was far from secure. Castile’s great noble houses — the Laras and the Castros — fought bitterly for control of the realm and for influence over the child-king. For years, Alfonso was moved between strongholds to keep him safe, and at one point he was even rumoured kidnapped. When he finally took full command in his teens, he inherited not a stable kingdom but a fractured one.

He spent the next decades imposing royal authority, building alliances, and expanding Castile’s reach. His conquest of Cuenca in 1177 marked one of the symbolic victories of his early reign, securing a strategic stronghold and cementing Castile’s position in central Iberia.

A Royal Family with Continental Echoes

Alfonso and Eleanor Plantagenet had a large family — at least ten children, many of whom played decisive roles in European politics:

  • Berengaria, his eldest daughter, briefly became Queen of Castile in her own right and then ensured the accession of her son, Ferdinand III, the monarch who would eventually unify Castile and León.

  • Blanche married Louis VIII of France; their son became Louis IX (Saint Louis), one of the most celebrated kings in French history.

  • Urraca, Leonor, and Constanza married into the royal families of Portugal, Aragon, and into major European noble houses, strengthening Castile’s diplomatic network.

  • Henry, Alfonso’s only surviving son, succeeded him as Henry I, though his reign was short.

Through these marriages, Alfonso became the patriarch of a web of dynastic ties that stretched across the continent, influencing France, Portugal, Aragon, England, and the future of united Spain.

The Battle That Changed Iberia

Nothing defined Alfonso’s reign more than the Battle of Las Navas de Tolosa in 1212. In a rare moment of unity, he persuaded the often-rival kingdoms of the peninsula — Castile, Navarre, and Aragon — to join forces, bolstered by crusading knights from across Europe. Their victory shattered the power of the Almohad Caliphate, the most formidable Muslim force in Iberia at the time.

This was no ordinary triumph. It ended a balance of power that had lasted generations and opened the door for the great southern conquests of the 13th century. After Las Navas, the Christian advance became almost unstoppable. Córdoba, Jaén, Sevilla — all would fall within decades. Alfonso VIII set the stage.

Why Alfonso VIII Matters for Spain

To understand the shape of medieval Spain, one must understand Alfonso. His reign marked the moment when Castile shifted from a contested frontier realm into the dominant force of the peninsula.

He was a stabilizer: a king who inherited chaos and methodically rebuilt authority. He was a diplomat: his Plantagenet marriage plugged Castile into the bloodstream of European power politics. He was a patron of learning: his foundation of the Studium Generale of Palencia signalled a dawning intellectual ambition. And above all, he was a strategist whose greatest victory reordered the Iberian world.

By the time he died in 1214, Alfonso had transformed Castile from a vulnerable kingdom ruled by baronial factions into a confident, outward-looking power — one whose heirs would eventually create a unified Spain.

A Legacy That Reaches into Modern Spain

Alfonso VIII’s life is a reminder that history often turns on the abilities of a single, determined ruler. His political instincts, his dynastic savvy, and his decisive military leadership reshaped Iberia’s future. Through his daughter Berengaria and his grandson Ferdinand III, his legacy lived on in the union of Castile and León — the nucleus of what would become the Spanish nation.

Alfonso VIII is more than a medieval king; he is a hinge in the story of Spain itself.

Mont-Saint-Michel 

From restless tides a granite crown arose,
 Where Saint Michael’s trumpet through the ocean blows.
 To Aubert, bishop-abbot bold, the angel spoke by flame:
 “Raise me a house where heaven bears my name.”
Through storm and siege his monks obeyed,
 Stone upon stone a sky-bound fortress laid.
 Pilgrims crossed when tides lay low,
 Kings and warriors knelt below.
Vikings raided, Normans came,
 William of Volpiano shaped its frame.
 In Bayeux’s threads the conquest shone,
 Yet Michael’s rock stood all alone.
Empires raged, revolutions roared,
 Monks were scattered, faith implored.
 Victor Hugo’s voice renewed the fight,
 To guard the mount for truth and light.
Through war and shadow, Nazi years,
 The bells still rang through hopes and fears.
 Now sea and sky in wonder meet—
 A timeless crown where earth and heaven greet.

Radegonde: A Frankish Queen Who Chose the Cloister Over the Throne

Saint Radegonde. Life of Saint Radegonde, 11th century. Poitiers Municipal Library.

When Radegonde was born around 520 CE, Western Europe was still reeling from the collapse of the Roman Empire. Gaul was ruled by the Merovingians—Frankish warrior-kings who wielded power through conquest, family alliances, and an often-brutal politics of survival. Amid these shifting frontiers, a young Thuringian princess would chart an extraordinary course that defied the expectations of her age.

Radegonde’s childhood was torn apart when Frankish armies under Clotaire I invaded her native Thuringia. Taken as a war prize to the royal villa of Athies near Soissons, she received a classical Latin education that sharpened her intellect and nourished an early Christian piety. Eventually Clotaire made her his queen. Yet the splendor of the Merovingian court—lavish feasts, precious jewels, and the intrigue of power—never captured her heart. She was known to slip away from banquets to pray on the cold stone floors of her chapel, a silent protest against the violent world around her.

That world turned bloodier still when Clotaire ordered the murder of her younger brother, fearing he might challenge Frankish rule. For Radegonde this was the breaking point. She fled the royal household and sought protection from Bishop Médard of Noyon, who, despite the king’s fury, consecrated her as a nun. Legend tells of a miraculous escape: as Clotaire’s men pursued her near Saix, newly sown oat fields suddenly sprang to full height, hiding her and two companions from view. The episode became known as the “miracle of the oats.”

Radegonde’s choice was more than a personal act of faith. It symbolized a profound shift in early medieval society. Across Merovingian Gaul, Christian monasteries were becoming alternative centers of authority—repositories of learning, wealth, and moral power that could rival kings. From her new foundation at Poitiers, the abbey of Sainte-Croix, Radegonde embodied this spiritual counterweight. She secured from the Byzantine emperor a fragment of the True Cross, turning her monastery into a major pilgrimage site and inspiring the hymn Vexilla regis, still sung in Holy Week liturgies.

Her influence reached far beyond cloister walls. By caring for the sick, feeding the poor, and mediating between warring Frankish princes, Radegonde became a broker of peace in a violent age. Gregory of Tours, the great historian-bishop of the Merovingians, portrays her funeral in 587 as a moment of immense popular devotion, the culmination of a life that had turned royal power inside out.

Radegonde’s story reminds us that the early Middle Ages were not merely an age of swords and dynasties. They were also an age when women, through the Church and the new monastic networks, could carve out spaces of autonomy and moral authority. In a world where kings ruled by might, a captive queen transformed her captivity into freedom—and in doing so became a saint whose influence outlasted the empire that once claimed her.

The casket of Saint Radegonde in the Church of Sainte-Radegonde in Poitiers.

Further reading

  • Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks

  • Ian Wood, The Merovingian Kingdoms, 450–751

  • Jo Ann McNamara, Sainted Women of the Dark Ages

  • Pauline Stafford, Queens, Concubines and Dowagers: The King’s Wife in the Early Middle Ages

The Venice Art Biennale – Where the World Comes to Imagine

Visitors of the Venice Art Biennale of 2011.

Every other years, Venice transforms into a living map of contemporary art. The Biennale, founded in 1895, stretches across the city — from the historic pavilions of the Giardini to the vast halls of the Arsenale and countless palazzi scattered along its canals. It’s not a single exhibition but a city-wide conversation, where artists, curators, and visitors explore what art can still say about the world.

Each edition has its own theme, but the real magic lies in the contrasts: quiet installations beside theatrical spectacles, digital dreams across from centuries-old frescoes. National pavilions show pride, politics, and poetry side by side. Venice itself, half sinking and half eternal, adds its own commentary — a reminder that beauty and fragility often walk together.

The Biennale isn’t about answers. It’s about curiosity — about stepping into rooms that challenge, delight, or disturb, and leaving with more questions than before. In a city built on reflections, that seems perfectly fitting.

Egeria of Hispania: Travels of a Woman in the Late Roman Empire

Egeria on the road — a Spanish stamp from 1984 commemorating the 4th-century pilgrim from Roman Hispania, whose letters describe her long journey (381–384) through the eastern Mediterranean in search of biblical places and lived faith.

In the late fourth century, when the Roman Empire was changing shape and Christianity was becoming its spiritual backbone, a woman from the far western edge of the known world set out on an extraordinary journey. Her name was Egeria. She came from Roman Spain—probably from Gallaecia (Galicia)—and she left behind something rare and precious: a first-hand account of her travels across the eastern Mediterranean and the Holy Land, written in her own voice.

Egeria did not travel as a princess, nor as a pilgrim escorted by armies. She travelled as an educated, determined Christian woman, curious about places, rituals, and people—and confident that she had every right to be on the road.

A Woman Who Could Travel

Egeria’s letters, often called her Itinerarium or travel diary, show that travel in Late Roman Spain was not reserved for men alone. Roads were maintained, hostels existed, and letters of recommendation opened doors. Egeria moves with surprising ease through a vast territory: from Constantinople to Jerusalem, from Mount Sinai to Mesopotamia, from Egypt to Asia Minor.

She travels slowly and attentively. She asks questions, listens to local guides, and records what she sees. Her tone is calm and practical. There is no sense that she feels she is doing something improper or dangerous simply because she is a woman. On the contrary, she writes as someone fully entitled to be where she is.

This alone makes her text remarkable.

Travel with Purpose, Not Escape

Egeria is often called a pilgrim, but her journey is more than a religious checklist. She does not rush from shrine to shrine. She wants to understand how places connect to Scripture, how local Christians celebrate feasts, how liturgy differs from one city to another.

When she reaches Jerusalem, she stays for a long time—not days, but years. She carefully describes Holy Week, Easter, and daily worship. Her interest is almost anthropological. She observes how religion is lived, not just where it is anchored.

This kind of travel requires time, resources, and social support. Egeria never explains exactly who she is, but it is clear that she belongs to an educated Christian elite—possibly a woman in a religious community, possibly of noble background. What matters is that her society allowed her enough freedom to travel, write, and be taken seriously.

Spain at the Edge, Not the Margin

Although Egeria writes mostly about the eastern Mediterranean, her Spanish origin matters. She refers to her homeland as distant but fully part of the Roman-Christian world. Spain is not a backwater in her eyes; it is simply far away.

Her letters were meant to be read back home, by a group of women she addresses as dominae sorores—“lady sisters.” This suggests a network of educated women in Roman Spain who were eager to learn, read, and imagine the wider world through her words.

Egeria is not writing for male authorities. She is writing to women like herself.

Practical, Curious, and Unafraid

What makes Egeria so modern is her voice. She writes in simple, clear Latin, closer to spoken language than to classical literature. She explains things patiently. She admits when she is tired. She notes when roads are difficult, when guides are helpful, when places are disappointing.

She climbs mountains because she wants to see where Moses stood. She visits remote monasteries because she is curious about how people live there. She asks bishops to explain things to her—and expects answers.

This is not passive devotion. It is active engagement with the world.

Freedom Within Limits

Of course, Egeria’s freedom was not universal. She could travel because she belonged to a specific social, religious, and economic class. Enslaved women, poor women, or women outside Christian networks did not enjoy the same mobility.

But within those limits, her journey shows what was possible. Late Roman Spain was part of an empire where women could own property, move independently, correspond across long distances, and participate intellectually in religious life.

Egeria’s letters quietly challenge the idea that ancient women were always confined, silent, or invisible.

Further Reading

  • Egeria. The Pilgrimage of Egeria: (A New Translation of the Itinerarium Egeriae.) Translated with introduction and notes by Anne McGowan and Paul F. Bradshaw. Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2018.

Meeting Paco in Elche (Spain) — and the Secret Life of Spanish Names

Paco (Francisco) in front of his truck in Elche (Spain).

In Elche I met Francisco … or rather — I met Paco.

Paco runs a car transport business with an autotransporter, collecting and delivering vehicles all over the region. Friendly, practical and endlessly cheerful, he agreed to have his picture taken. He explained that although he is officially Francisco, he prefers to be called Paco, and immediately he explained me all about teh Spanish naming conventions.

“Officially, I’m Francisco,” he said. “But nobody calls me that. I’ve always been Paco.”

In Spain, that is perfectly normal.

Behind Paco’s name lies a long tradition that reaches deep into Spanish history, shaped by religion, monasteries and medieval writing habits. Spaniards don’t just have one name — they often live with two: a formal one for documents, and a familiar one for real life.

The hidden history behind Paco

The name Francisco comes from Saint Francis of Assisi, founder of the Franciscan order. In medieval monasteries he was referred to in Latin as:

P.A.C.O. — Pater Comunitatis (Father of the community)

This abbreviation was written in manuscripts and later spoken aloud as “Paco”. Over time, Paco became the recognised familiar form of Francisco — not a nickname, but a name with its own history.

And what about Pepe?

The same happened with José.

In religious texts Saint Joseph was often called:

P.P. — Pater Putativus (the “putative” or supposed father of Jesus)

Read aloud, P.P. became Pepe — and Pepe remains the traditional everyday name for José across Spain.

A country of double names

For centuries Spanish children were named after saints: José, Francisco, Juan, María, Antonio. These names carried dignity and tradition. But in daily life, people preferred warmer, more personal forms. So a parallel naming system emerged: formal on paper, familiar in conversation.

Some of these everyday names sound nothing like their official counterparts — yet every Spaniard instantly recognises them.

A few classic examples

Men

  • Francisco → Paco, Pancho, Curro

  • José → Pepe

  • Manuel → Manolo

  • Antonio → Toni, Toño

  • Ignacio → Nacho

  • Joaquín → Quino

  • Fernando → Nando

  • Guillermo → Guille

Women

  • Josefa → Pepa

  • Francisca → Paca

  • Dolores → Lola

  • Concepción → Concha

  • Rosario → Charo

  • Mercedes → Merche

  • Encarnación → Encarna

  • Guadalupe → Lupe

So Paco from Elche is not an exception. He is part of a centuries-old tradition where names carry both formality and familiarity — depending on who is speaking, and how well they know you.

On his business card it says Francisco.
But in real life, he is Paco.

Rotterdam: Where Words Work as Hard as People Do

Rotterdam, the ECT container terminal.

In Rotterdam, language is rarely decorative. It’s a working tool—sharp, efficient, and stripped of unnecessary polish. The city’s direct way of speaking is often noted by visitors, sometimes mistaken for bluntness. But this tone was forged at the docks, not in drawing rooms.

Rotterdam is Europe’s largest port, a place built on movement and timing. Ships must be unloaded and reloaded as fast as possible, often within hours. The crews, dockworkers, and crane operators come from dozens of countries, speaking as many languages. There’s little time for nuance or ceremony. Orders must be clear, warnings unmistakable, responses immediate. In this world, words are like ropes and winches—tools that make things happen.

That linguistic economy has seeped into the city’s character. Even beyond the port, Rotterdammers tend to speak plainly, preferring action over ornament. It’s not rudeness but pragmatism—communication shaped by urgency and teamwork among people who might only meet once.

Contrast this with rural or agricultural communities, where language is part of long-term relationships. There, speech is softer, tuned to coexistence over generations. In Rotterdam, by contrast, speech is transactional and situational—designed for efficiency, not diplomacy.

Linguists and sociologists studying port cities have observed similar patterns elsewhere: directness as a form of linguistic adaptation to high-intensity, multicultural environments. When trust must be built in minutes, clarity becomes the highest form of respect.

Further reading

  • Johnstone, Barbara. Linguistic Individuality and Regional Speech Patterns.

  • Coupland, Nikolas. Style: Language Variation and Identity.

  • Labov, William. Sociolinguistic Patterns.

  • Hymes, Dell. Foundations in Sociolinguistics: An Ethnographic Approach.

The Castle of Vitré

Rising above the Vilaine River in western France, Château de Vitré looks every inch the classic medieval fortress: high slate roofs, round towers with sharp conical caps, and massive granite walls that have witnessed nearly a thousand years of history. Its first stone castle was built around 1060, when the lords of Vitré needed a stronghold on the eastern frontier of the independent Duchy of Brittany.

During the 13th century, as conflicts between Brittany and the French crown intensified, the fortress was enlarged with the great gatehouse and round towers we see today. It became a keystone of the duchy’s defense. In the 14th century’s Breton War of Succession (1341–1364) the castle endured sieges and shifting alliances, holding fast as rival claimants and French armies struggled for control of Brittany.

By the 15th century, under the powerful Laval family, Vitré turned from a pure military post into a noble residence and a diplomatic stage. The Lavals—some of the richest nobles in Europe—hosted glittering feasts and negotiated marriages and alliances inside its walls. Local legend still speaks of a “Lady of Vitré” who wanders the ramparts on foggy nights, mourning battles and loves long past.

In later centuries the castle adapted to new realities. After Brittany was formally united with France in 1532, it served as an administrative center and, during the French Revolution (1789–1799), even as a prison. When romantic interest in the Middle Ages surged in the 19th century, Vitré’s fortress was carefully restored and opened to visitors.

Today its towers and halls house a museum that presents medieval arms, Renaissance furnishings, and the story of Brittany’s long struggle to keep its identity. Standing on the battlements, with the town’s tiled roofs below and the river curling beyond, you can feel how this granite sentinel once guarded a frontier—and how it now preserves the memories of nearly a millennium of French and Breton history.

The Moment I Missed — and Didn’t

The bier in the streets of Venice (generated with AI).

Anyone who walks around with a camera knows this feeling.

You carry certain images in your head—scenes you saw clearly, moments that would have made an extraordinary photograph, if only you had been a second faster. But you weren’t. The camera was still in your bag, or your hands hesitated, or reality simply moved on. The moment vanished. The image, however, never does. It stays etched on your retina.

This time it happened in Venice.

Walking through the city as a tourist, drifting between alleys and canals, I was suddenly overtaken by something utterly unexpected: a bier mounted on bicycle wheels, pushed briskly forward. A body lay beneath a white shroud. A priest followed, visibly struggling to keep up with both the pace and his companion.

It passed in a flash.

I am convinced that more than half of the tourists around me didn’t even register what they had just seen. There were no sirens, no solemn procession—just a fleeting, almost surreal interruption of the Venetian rhythm. And then it was gone.

I never raised my camera in time. But the image lodged itself firmly in my mind.

Later, unable to let it go, I turned to AI to reconstruct the scene as faithfully as possible—not as a replacement for the photograph I failed to take, but as an attempt to give form to a moment that refused to disappear.

Some photographs are never taken. But that doesn’t mean they are lost.