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Still in Italy with this post, friends. But really can you ever have enough of Italy? I think not.
In September a very dear friend and I spent about a week in Rome staying at the apartment of our lovely, lovely friend, Pamela. Pamela opened her home, heart and refrigerator to us and we are eternally grateful. Having lived in Rome for the last 30 years or so, Pamela has picked up a few tips on how to see Rome as little like a tourist as possible.
Truthfully, when you are in Rome you will be doing touristy things. How could you go to Rome and skip the Colosseum, the Forum and Vatican City? You really can’t. But there are ways to beat the crowds. So on our own journey to Vatican City and St. Peter’s Basilica, Pamela suggested we look into Dark Rome Tours & Walks, which are group tours of a limited size with expert guides that allow guests certain perks. Our Vatican City tour allowed us to cut the painfully long lines, saving us hours and hours of time.
The three-hour tour takes you through the Vatican Museum and into the Sistine Chapel. The groups are 20 people or less and the tour covers everything from ancient sculptures and tapestries to the Raphael Rooms and the Sistine Chapel.
Tours are a bit pricey (around $70 per person), but the amount of time you save being able to skip the lines is well worth it, and the fact that the guides are English speaking and experts in their fields will allow you to walk away from Vatican City with a much deeper understanding, which is more than you could say if you meandered through on your own.
Note: Dark Rome offers other tours in Rome, as well as tours in Florence, Venice and Pompeii.
When returning from any big trip (you know, the kind that takes months of planning and hundreds of dollars), I find it’s often the smallest of activities that are the most meaningful. See? Size DOESN’T matter!
Let’s go back about a month and a half, shall we? The scene is Venice‘s Rialto, one of the most heavily trafficked parts of an overly toured city. Tucked behind an unassuming store front, directly across the street from the frenetic (and pungent) fish market is Pronto Pesce, a local fish market selling local delicacies that were most likely swimming just a few hours prior to your purchase.
I discovered this little gem on (where else) No Reservations. Knowing Tony would never steer me wrong, I knew that this must be a stop on my own itinerary to Venice.
Oh goodness.
The display case, upon first glance, isn’t really all that impressive – especially if you don’t know what it is you are looking at. Fortunately, the people behind the counter speak English relatively well and are more than willing to explain what it is you see before you.
I asked for a sampling of everything. Best decision I have ever made. Smoked swordfish, squid eggs, salted cod spread, sardines, shrimp, shark, tuna. Add to that crusty, rustic bread and tiny glasses of Prosecco, which are filled generously and often. (Prosecco, to Venetians, is like morning coffee and completely acceptable to be consumed before 11 a.m.)
The patrons that wander in and out are undeniably local. Not a Nikon or a fanny pack in sight! If you are on a trip to Venice this is a perfect spot for a light lunch, an afternoon buzz and a peek into what Venice would be like without anyone but Venetians.
Maybe I’m spoiled…but I just can’t get on board with this whole cruise thing (no pun…okay a little bit of a pun). Maybe I just don’t know how to cruise correctly. I don’t know. This has nothing to do with the actual cruise product because Crystal Cruises is the creme de la creme in the industry. This is sailing in true luxury. The food is superb, my stateroom is beautiful, all balconies face the ocean, the gym is 24 hours. It’s just done right. My issue lies with the amount of time that cruise ships spend in port.
When I was growing up we would take vacations that got us in in with the locals. It was boutique hotels or rental houses with kitchens so we could shop at the local markets and eat what the people ate. I’ve road tripped, backpacked and trained across most of Europe. I’ve taken a nine-hour public bus from Mexico City to Zihuatanejo. I’ve hiked and camped in the Andes. So when it comes to cruising, eight hours in a port of call does not cut it for me.
Yesterday I had all of four hours to see Istanbul. Istanbul! This city has been on my list for years! (To be fair, most international destinations are on my list…but whatever.) And how did I see it? Following a tour guide holding up a big goofy sign. And what did I see? Sure, I saw the Blue Mosque (which, by the way, is only known to locals as the Sultan Ahmet Mosque), and the Hagia Sofia (it’s typically closed Mondays but Crystal Cruises paid for a private entrance – that’s pretty cool). But…that was all I saw. No spice market, no grand bazaar, no kebabs, no secret underground late-night belly dancing clubs (I was most bummed about this part). I just want more!
So here’s what I walked way from Istanbul with:
The Sultan Ahmet Mosque was built between 1609 and 1616. Istanbul is home to thousands of mosques, but the Blue Mosque is the most unique because of its six minaret towers. It is affectionately known to tourists as the Blue Mosque because it is decorated with thousands of blue tiles. Turkey is predominantly a Muslim country, and all its people are called to prayer five times daily. During prayer time the Mosque closes, but when it is open it welcomes thousands. You are required to remove your shoes and all shoulders and legs must be covered.
Hagia Sofia is an ancient church that was built in the 6th century. It was later converted into a Mosque and today serves solely as a museum. Its dome rises almost 200 feet above the ground and is entirely covered in Byzantine mosaics.
Turkey is a country of two continents. Only 3 percent of the country is in Europe, and the rest sits in Asia. The two sides of the country are split up by the Bosphorus, which connects the Black Sea with the Sea of Marmara. The Bosphorus runs directly through Istanbul, so when staying in the city it is possible to party in Europe one night and in Asia the next…not that I would know, seeing as I missed out on all the wilding.
Today we are en route to Mykonos, Greece…where I’m sure I’ll have just enough time to run off the boat, eat something Greek and wave good bye.
Note: Due to the fact that tomorrow is the 4th of July, and I doubt that any of you will be reading this on your day off, we’ll postpone Name that Skyline! until next Wednesday. Happy Independence Day! Go do something stupid that Washington and Jefferson would frown upon.
I’d like to clear up a few misconceptions that people have on the glamorous lives of travel writers. Contrary to popular belief, life is not one big vacation. When you, reader, go on vacation, no doubt the worst part of the whole experience is the airport. However, at the end of that tunnel, you have a beautiful hotel, no schedule to keep but your own, and usually about a week in which to enjoy your destination.
Travel writers, on the other hand, spend the majority of their time in airports only to get to a destination, follow someone else’s itinerary and turn around to come home in about four days…only to have just enough time to recover, see some friends and get back on a plane to do it all over again. Allow me an example:
Saturday, at approximately 4 p.m. I checked into JFK at the SWISS counter, only to find that I had been granted access to the Business Lounge. What a nice little start to my press trip, I thought. But airports are fickle mistresses. They can seduce you with complimentary cocktails one minute, and the next tear your heart out and leave you for dead sitting on the tarmac like a shmo…which is exactly what happened.
Our aircraft took off down the runway for an ON TIME departure, only after the captain had announced that we’d be getting into Zurich early. The plane sped up, cocking itself at that slight angle before its wheels lift into the air, when suddenly it jolted back to 180 degrees, our bodies thrust forward as the captain slammed on the brakes….So that’s what those flimsy seat belts are for.
“Folks, we’ve had to abort our takeoff due to the failure of one of our engines.”
And so began a two-hour saga while we waited for maintenance to find a staircase so that they could actually get onto the plane to check it out. And even after that, it was discovered that there was no problem with the engine at all. The signal light was broken. So to the back of the taxi line we went, only to take off three hours late.
Of course, I missed my connection in Zurich and so I had to wait on the transfer line, only to miss the next flight to Istanbul. After I eventually did get rebooked, that flight was delayed due to thunderstorms.
Cut to the next scene: Me on a flight to Istanbul with a French child behind me kicking my seat with the force of some kind of small horse, while her mother screeched, “Arrêt!!!” for three hours. Seriously. This is how I commute to work. The normal employee may sit in traffic for an hour, get jostled on a subway, or what have you. This is how a travel writer commutes.
Atatürk International Airport in Istanbul is a shit show. There really is no other way to describe it. I was told that cruise passengers do not need a visa to enter Turkey. That is a lie. Do not attempt to stand on the immigration line without a visa, even if you are a cruise passenger. (I’m attending the Crystal Cruises’ 22nd Annual Sales Gala this week, if you are interested.) Oh, and FYI, the line to purchase a visa can give the Great Wall of China a run for its money in terms of length. Visas into Turkey cost approximately $20, and no, they do not accept Turkish Lira…in Turkey…to buy a Turkish visa. There are ATMs, however, that dole out cash in dollars and euro. But folks, let’s remember that travel writers are still writers. Making writers’ salaries. And unless you’re a former president or JK Rowling, writers’ salaries ain’t much. No worries, though. Visas are $20, and I had $36 in my checking account.
Hello, Istanbul. Twenty-four hours later. No joke. I looked down at my feet in horror as I saw they had swollen to the size of giant hams, and my toes looked like little cocktail weiners stuck into their sides. My ankles had been swallowed by my calves. At a certain point I also realized that that thing I was smelling was me. How’s that for jetsetting glamor?
Now I sit on a cruise ship and will have four hours to take in Istanbul before we ship off to our next destination. Not so much with the cultural immersion when on a cruise. (And this is a conference…so any free time you would normally have is eaten up with interviews, general sessions and sales presentations.)
Look – don’t get me wrong. I love my job. This is the life I chose, and for every 50 horrific issues, there’s that occasional private jet, epic meal or spa treatment. I love this lifestyle, but it is NOT for everyone. So the next time you meet a travel writer and say to them, “I wish I had your job,” really think about it. Do you? It’s lonely, it’s exhausting, it’s hectic and it will make you want to scream 80 percent of the time. That other 20 percent, however, is the reason why this is the only job I will ever have.
Okay…so it’s not really 80…but it is a substantial amount. I realize not all of you live in New York, so my posts on the New York restaurant scene can become a bit tired. Should you find yourself in these necks of the woods, here is where you can go to get some tasty snackage.
As a woman, of course I like a little romance. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. But really, there is a limit to how much I can take. Making out under the Eiffel Tower while some Parisian artist sketches it in charcoal and then it rains and someone on a bicycle passes by and tosses me a bouquet of roses, for example. That would be a tad too much.
Italy is another destination where the romance has certainly been overhyped and overplayed to the point where many “romantic” activities have become just as trite as giving a dozen roses on Valentine’s Day. Fortunately, Lonely Planet (yeah, I’m really giving them free advertising this week) has rounded up a list of alternatives to exhausted Italian romance.
Note: Stay tuned for my own epic Italian journey in September. Can you wait that long? I can’t.
When the clock strikes noon, office workers all across America step out of their humdrum cubicles and walk to their take-out lunch spot of choice for day-old sushi or a salad. In Sweden? They step out for pulsing beats and disco lights. They call it: Lunch Beat.
According to Gawker, Lunch Beat began in June 2010 with only about 14 people and has since grown exponentially. Monthly Lunch Beats break out in Stockholm attracting hundreds, and the craze is quickly spreading across Europe.
‘The first rule of Lunch Beat is that you have to dance,” Daniel Odelstad, organizer of Lunch Beat Stockholm tells Gawker. The concept is alcohol-free, but, sandwiches are provided. (It is lunch, after all.)
I have to be honest. The idea of dancing without a social lubricant (or really, dancing at all) sounds about as comfortable to me as reliving that time in seventh grade when I wore my new shoes to school and tripped going up the stairs and all of the eighth graders saw me (moment of silence). So if I went to Sweden you could find me clutching the wall in terror while my comrades busted moves. However, for those of you who actually like wriggling around in public to house beats, this sounds pretty fantastic.
Check out the full article here. And for more interesting factoids on Sweden, watch this video courtesy of the Daily Show.
http://fliiby.com/embed/340955/kbeoyaki0z/?width=640&height=480
For a travel writer, I think I’m a little off the mark. On the surface it looks like what I do is epic and core-shaking, but truthfully I just go where I’m told, do my thing and come home. No tales of hookers, drugs or illicit affairs in this girl’s history. Core remains perfectly in tact. But once in a while I come across a destination that has the ability to push me outside of my comfort zone and leaves me inexplicably altered – even if just for a little while. Accessing what is foreign is the crux of what travel is about. For me, that destination is Berlin.
The thing I love most about Berlin is that it is a city in which anything can happen, which seems fitting. For so long Germany was divided and its people oppressed and has only come into its own in the last 20 years. It makes sense that every night in Berlin is an adventure, because it is a city that has been simmering with anticipation of a new dawn. Four years ago I found myself dancing with Brits in a bombed-out building that had been converted into graffiti and gallery space as well as a club. The night took a turn toward a street cart serving currywurst (a typical Berlin snack of some kind of sausage with ketchup and curry powder) while I debated European politics with some locals as the sun came up. Nothing is typically ever as good as the original, but my second trip to Berlin didn’t fail to please.
With just one night to go, the group of Brazilians and myself seemed to grasp the finality of the situation. For me, anyway, I would probably never see these people ever again and though we all had limited interactions because of the language barrier, something about this experience forced me to live out a different side of myself, and I was sad to let that go.
The fine people at Visit Berlin (the city’s tourism board) had put together a program of restaurant-hopping and bar scouting. It’s not really the same when you show up at chic European hotspots in a minivan, but whatever. You do what you have to do. From the brasserie at the Ritz-Carlton, Berlin to the tricked-out vegetarian Cookies and Cream to Uma, a posh lounge where pink champagne flows freely, I was able to see the city with sophisticated flare, unlike my first visit which put me at a hostel in bunk beds while the guy next to me, clearly hopped up on cocaine, babbled on and on about Bratislava while only wearing underwear. But I digress…
The night ended at Felix – one of those “Euro” clubs that blast American music and douse the crowd in foam and flames. I love a good scene of club-rats behind their velvet ropes guzzling vodka tonics and wearing sunglasses inside. Some things translate across all cultures. I busted out my limited “white girl” moves, dressed like a soccer mom compared to the borderline naked Euro glam look that the locals sport, and by 2 a.m. I called it quits, grabbed my writer friend, and headed back to the hotel.
Half drunk, half exhausted, we stumbled past the Holocaust Memorial in silence. As we wished each other to have nice lives I realized that it has never bummed me out this hard to be saying good bye. And the odd thing is I barely even spoke to these people but I didn’t want it to end. They were wonderful. Despite language barriers and cultural differences, all you really need is the right energy, the right city and an order of randomness to bring people together. That, my friends, is Berlin.