Emily Urquhart

Many years ago, I created an online dating profile that eschewed potential mates who read mysteries. I was in my twenties, living alone in Toronto, and working a low-rung job in journalism while dreaming of more illustrious roles: foreign correspondent, Europe-based art critic, anything that might land me in New York City. The exact wording of my post is lost in the digital…

There is a bend in Galt, Ontario, that I think of as Olive Kitteridge Corner. As I turn the wheel of my car, I’m always reminded of the moment in Elizabeth Strout’s novel when Olive steals a shoe from her miserable daughter-in-law’s closet, knowing that the search for the misplaced loafer will drive the woman…

From nearly every vantage in Lisbon, you can see water. If you can’t see the ocean, you can smell its brine or hear it in the cries of seagulls overhead. It is a city steep with hills, and these can be exhausting if you have your two small children in tow, as I did when visiting Portugal this…