The Atlantic drops its paywall!

Fans of the journal The Atlantic will be thrilled to learn that the magazine has decided to open up the site to non-subscribers. This includes free access to the archive going back to 1995, plus some access to even earlier articles.

This is great news. Upon looking at the site, however, I can't find the old Forums section. Did The Atlantic  do away with them at some point?  The old poetry forum was for many years a vibrant place for on-line poets to post works and engage in discussion. But I guess when they put up the paywall, everyone went away. Imagine that!

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Quebec's Ice Hotel. You've got to be kidding me!

Photo credit: Etolane

This past weekend, I traveled to the Quebec City area to do some skiing. Aside from the fact that the weather was so cold that we might as well have had sandpaper on our boards, it was great to get outside.

Our first skiing stop was the Station Touristique Duschesney. I've always known it as a great place to ski, though I haven't been there in years. But in recent times, it has also been home to Quebec's so-called "Ice Hotel." We drove past this curiosity as we were leaving Duschesney in search of our chalet for the night.

Now I remember as a kid always loving fireplaces. But my grandfather never had a fireplace in his home, though he possessed just about every other amenity a house could have. When I asked him why he didn't have one, he replied  that during his childhood in England, the only source of heat most houses had was a stove that constantly had to be supplied with coal. So the idea of a fireplace as a luxury was anathema to him.

I think most Canadians must feel a little bit the same way about the ice hotels, of which there are apparently several around the world. When you spend a good 4 months out of the year making major efforts to keep warm, the idea of paying good money (and lots of it--rates start at about $600/night for two) to sleep in a glorified igloo seems like an idea for people with more money than brains.

That night, the temperature in the Quebec City region dropped down to about -30 degrees Celsius. I fear the poor saps staying in the ice hotel that night may have resorted to burning wads of cash to keep warm.

I wonder what my grandfather would have said.

Rio

Rio

In the movie of your memory
Rio envelops you like twilight
sneaking up slowly until night
falls and you are lost.

Lost in the aroma of roasting meat and passion
fruit juice, of piss and sweat, lost
in Christ’s eternal, concrete blessing.

But the truth is an abrupt assault,
a stunning cacophony of brake squeals,
unmuffled engines, taxi horns, the ubiquitous
dual roars of football fans and the Atlantic.

Rio intoxicates you, suddenly, with bittersweet
lime and sugar, orchid scent and warm sea air,
azalea and bougainvillea blossoms.

Bathes you in skeletal yearning, entices with the sense
that any thing can be, that music is all you need. Only
frigate birds and vultures indicate your peril,
but no one here looks at the sky.