My Dad gave me a photo of himself to take with me as I set off at the age of seven to my tough Rhodesian boarding school.

Mother liked to pretend that my name was a family decision. I was the third child born to Donato and Carmella Petruccelli of Davenport, Iowa

I had heard other women liken having a baby to passing a grapefruit, perhaps even a watermelon. This one was more akin to a pineapple.

I walked the main Camino de Santiago, known as the Camino Frances, in portions lasting around a week each, as my time and energy permitted

Grenada, post-invasion, 1984. Twelve degrees latitude. Thirty degrees centigrade and humid.

I was flailing in the frigid currents of the San Francisco Bay, fighting, kicking, slapping at the water to stay afloat.

Our house was forever alive with animal instinct. We grew up surrounded by a veritable menagerie, some more memorable than others...

With the author coming to the end of her third and, without a doubt, final renovation project, she reflects upon those men, the constructors

Having decided to take my adopted son to Paris for a week-long vacation, I went to Airbnb.com and quickly hit upon what seemed a charming

Not long after our brother Craig died, my aunt and I were standing in the kitchen, drinking champagne.

No, I don’t remember your name. I left it in Ivor’s notebook translated from phonetic Arabic next to details of the assault on Brega. I didn’t find your fami...